Um, so I'm having difficulty with finding a cover for this story... If anyone wants to draw something or help me out it would be much appreciated :)
But anyway, please leave a review to tell me what you thought of the chapter! :)
"Be careful, Bumblebee." Prowl called tiredly, glancing over to where the yellow youngling was climbing on top of chairs in the rec. room, balancing precariously on the seats as he clambered from one to another.
"Oh, he's just playing." Smokescreen said airily, smiling in the same direction. He turned his attention back to Prowl and the corners of his lips turned down slightly. "How have you been coping? You look awful."
Prowl shot his brother an irritated look, "I am aware of that. And I have been coping perfectly fine, thank you very much."
"Hmmm. SIC of the Autobots. That's a big responsibility, Prowl. And you're trying to raise a youngling on top of that! No one would be able to handle that stress."
"I am dealing." The newly instated SIC's voice turned stiff. "And Bumblebee is a very well-behaved youngling, usually. I rarely have any trouble with him."
"Good." Smokescreen glanced over to Bumblebee again. After a moment, his optics turned misty and he seemed to stare at nothing in particular. "I just.. It was my fault that Rumble left, really."
With a cool shake of his head, Prowl looked down at his hands on the table. "We have discussed this before, Smokescreen. He was of a very unstable mindset, and he simply snapped. It was not your fault he decided to leave, and blaming yourself for it is illogical."
The younger Praxian glanced away, guilt written across his features. "If blaming oneself is illogical, how come you're doing it?"
"I am not."
"What kind of idiot do you take me for? I'm your brother. I can see that you're blaming yourself, and I can see that it's eating you up inside. I just think-"
Smokescreen was cut off abruptly when a sleek silver frame appeared right by their table. After a mild start, Prowl realised it was not Jazz, as had been his first illogical thought, but Spectrum. The Head of Special Ops smiled cheerfully at him. "Hello, fellows. May I sit?"
"Yeah," Smokescreen sighed, getting to his feet, "I was just leaving. Talk to you later, Prowl."
There was a brief silence as Spectrum sat in the seat that Smokescreen had just vacated. A huge beaming smile spread across his face. "Hello." He repeated, "I haven't spoken to you in a while."
"Since yesterday, I believe." Prowl replied dryly, his optics glued to his adopted charge as the youngling wobbled on his stubby legs, arms windmilling to keep him balanced on the table he was standing on. "Bumblebee, be careful!" He sighed when Bumblebee just gave him a carefree smile and kept climbing on the furniture.
Spectrum cleared his vocaliser in an attempt to regain Prowl's attention. "Yes, I believe you're right. How has Bumblebee been doing?"
"Quite well." Prowl said. A single doorwing twitched, revealing for a split-second the extent of the Praxian's exhaustion. "I am still grateful to you for minding him yesterday-"
A shake of Spectrum's head sent little tiny rainbows through the air as light refracted off of his iridescent silver paint. "Not at all, I was delighted to mind him. You were run off your feet, you couldn't have been expected to take care of a youngling as well."
A tiny smile of pure gratitude tilted Prowl's lips up, and he inclined his head. "Thank you."
"No problem. Anyway, I was going to ask you if you wanted to go for energon with m-"
A loud crash sounded from the middle of the room, and seconds later a piercing wail split the air. Prowl was on his feet in an astrosecond, and was already halfway towards Bumblebee, who was lying in a heap where he had fallen off the table. The tactician knelt down and scooped the youngling into his arms, "Shh, hush. It's alright. Did you hurt yourself?"
Coolant tears, fat and round, slid down Bumblebee's cheek struts, leaving shiny streaks in their paths. He nodded, sniffling. "I-I hurt m-my leg."
Prowl barely withheld a sigh when he caught sight of a small, shallow cut on Bumblebee's knee, which was leaking bright blue energon. "It's only a little cut, don't worry. We won't need to see Ratchet over it. Didn't I tell you to be careful climbing on those tables and chairs?"
A fresh round of sobbing began and Bumblebee buried his helm in Prowl's chassis. The older mech stood with Bumblebee wrapped in his arms and started towards the door, murmuring reassurances to him the entire while. Before Prowl could reach the door, however, Spectrum had ran over to him. "Is he okay?" The saboteur asked, looking concernedly at Bumblebee.
"Yes, he is fine. It was the shock of falling more than anything." Prowl glanced down at the youngling in his arms, who was still weeping and holding his cut leg.
Smiling a sympathetic sort of smile, Spectrum pulled out a glowing little energon confectionary and held it out to the minibot. "Because you're so brave after such a big fall, I think you should have an energon goodie."
Bumblebee blinked his teary optics, before reaching out hesitantly and taking the goodie. He offered the Special Ops mech a tentative, albeit teary, smile as he popped the goodie into his mouth before burying his face in Prowl's chassis again. Prowl smiled tiredly at his comrade. "Thank you."
"No problem. I was going to ask you if-"
"Do you mind if we kept this until tomorrow?" Prowl interrupted, optics on Bumblebee. "I am anxious to get Bumblebee to berth. He is exhausted."
"Ah. Yes, of course." Spectrum offered a forced smile, and waved them goodbye.
"My leg hurts." Bumblebee whimpered, his hands clutching at his guardian's neck as they left the rec. room. The bleeding had slowed, and the energon was half-congealing over the cut.
"You should not have been climbing on the tables." Even to himself, Prowl's voice sounded cold.
Bumblebee shrank into himself as they approached their door. "I'm sorry."
"It is alright." Prowl inwardly beat himself up over being so stoic to the little one, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out how to express his emotions the way he knew a youngling needed to see.
They were both silent as Prowl keyed in the code to his quarters, and remained quiet as they walked in. "Sit on the couch." He instructed, setting Bumblebee on his feet and pushing him lightly. After retrieving the first aid kit, he settled in front of the youngling and applied a small field patch. "There. Better."
Bumblebee smiled contentedly. "Better." He agreed, curling back up to Prowl. "Ready for recharge now."
"Good." The tactician breathed, carrying the little 'bot to his mini berth and setting him down. "Recharge well."
"I will."
...
"Ah hate mah paint." Jazz glared down at his body.
Deadlock didn't even glance up from his highgrade. "Yeah, it's not the nicest."
"Do yo' have paint?"
"No."
"Fantastic." The saboteur muttered grumpily, glaring at himself. "Ah'll have t' ask Swindle."
"Ask me what?"
Jazz couldn't even bring himself to be surprised that Swindle had been listening to them from across the rec. room. "Ah want paint."
"Hmm." Swindle grinned. "I can probably swing that. Any particular colours?"
There was a pause as Jazz looked down at himself and examined his flaking silver paint. There were deep scratches and many paint transfers from fights and... other activities. "Black and white."
"Huh." Swindle looked at him dubiously. "Seriously? Bit boring for you, isn't it?"
"No. Tha's wha' Ah want."
"Look, I've a whole load of silver paint. It's good stuff, too. Stylish, y'know? It shimmers and stuff-"
"No." Jazz said immediately; the image of Spectrum's iridescent paint had been called up in his processor, and now it was stuck there. "Ah'd rather kill mahself."
The Combaticon sighed. "I don't have any right now, but I'll get some by the end of the week."
"Good." Jazz looked back to Deadlock, who looked faintly amused. "Wha'?"
"Shimmery silver paint is usually worn by pleasure-bots." The Decepticon shrugged. "Thought it was funny."
"It ain't." Jazz muttered, looking away.
..
It was exactly a week later that Jazz had his new paintjob. He regarded himself in a mirror curiously. It looked different, but... It reminded him of Prowl. That thought made him smile absently. "Cool." He murmured to himself.
"It'll be expensive." Swindle called casually from the other side of the Combaticon's room, where he was lounging on his berth.
Jazz rolled his optics behind his visor. "The usual price?"
"That should suffice." The con-mech smirked as the saboteur climbed up on his berth and crawled towards him. The smirk turned into a grin as Jazz straddled his hips. "Ah.." His hands went immediately to the saboteur's codpiece.
A small sigh, but Jazz allowed Swindle to have his way with him. It was, after all, simply a price.
...
"Watch it!"
Jazz ducked and weaved through his fellow Decepticons, laughing at the ones that got shot as the Autobots fired at them. Megatron had decided to stage yet another attempt to take control of Altihex, but as these things always happened to work, the Autobots had shown up to 'save the day'.
With another laugh, Jazz leaped over a dying 'con and kept running. He didn't know where he was headed, and he barely even noticed the mechs his daggers struck. Whether they were 'bots or 'cons seemed irrelevant.
Until, of course, the sound of someone roaring "SOMEONE CALL PROWL!"
The saboteur skidded to a stop, his daggers inches away from an Autobots face. He ignored the flinch of the other mech and whirled around to seek whoever had shouted. His gaze fell upon a green mech, holding a familiar looking Praxian.. "Smokescreen?"
The Autobot he had nearly stabbed in the face blinked, following his gaze. "Frag.." He breathed, before sprinting away from Jazz and towards the injured Autobot. "Smokey? What happened?! Hey, we need a medic!"
Slowly, Jazz drifted over towards the small group that had gathered around the injured psychiatrist. Tilting his helm curiously, he gazed at the smoking mess of what had once been Smokescreen's doorwings. "Tha' looks painful."
Almost instantly, several guns were pointing at the Decepticon's head.
Jazz regarded them mildly. "Are ya gonna shoot meh?"
"Walk away." A massive flier said calmly. "We don't want to hurt you, but-"
"Shut up, Skyfire." One of the other Autobots, also a flier, hissed. "We should just shoot him."
"If ya do, Smokey here'll bleed out in three minutes." Jazz announced calmly, smiling widely. "Want meh t' save him?"
"No, we don't! We have a medic! Just go!" The smaller flier pleaded.
"Ya mean First Aid, right? 'Cause Ah presume Ratchet is back at Iacon." Jazz enjoyed the look of shock on their faces. "Yo' li'l trainee medic is five minutes away. Smokescreen won't last tha' long."
The green mech, whom Jazz had identified as Hound, lowered his weapon. "Help him."
Grinning, Jazz crouched down next to the unconscious Praxian. He pulled out a blowtorch and a sheet of field repair metal from his subspace. "Sorry, bud. This ain't gonna be pleasant."
"He's unconscious." Hound pointed out.
"Yeah, he'll still feel it. Doorwings are delightfully sensitive." Jazz's grin spread, before he recalled what he was doing. "Well, obviously not in this situation." He delicately began to perform very basic field repairs around the doorwings, and from there he stopped the bleeding in the back and shoulders. After a while, he sat back on his haunches and shrugged. "He'll be fine."
"Who are you? Are you one of us?" Skyfire asked suddenly, gazing at the Decepticon uncertainly.
Jazz just stared at him. "No." He said at last, turning away. He had barely gone three steps before someone shouted from behind him.
"Ironhide, WAIT!"
A blinding pain hit the back of Jazz's neck, and his vision shortened out as his processor fell into stasis.