Shooting the Breeze 3b

Slash.  Don't like?  Don't read.

He adored his visor.  He loved it.  It made it possible for him to be amused and husky and possessive, all without a single mech in the room being aware of anything but what the rest of his face displayed.  Controlling one's optics was hard.  Controlling the rest of the face was one of the first things he remembered knowing how to do.

Right now he was slipping a quarter cup of high grade into Prowl's mug as the Datsun spoke.  Jazz got a naughty sense of mischievousness when he took advantage of the tactician's current state of buzzed, because by his readings, Prowl was certainly not sober, drawing his hand back before the movement could be marked by anyone.

The auras of the others were giving off enough of their own overcharged energy, their bodies attempting to disperse the concentrated energy in their tanks, to give him a pleased and peaceful contact high simply from being in the room.  A lyric swirled through his processor, a frequent happening, and it was good he was sober or he would have purred it aloud--

"It is not a bad idea," Prowl was murmuring, "but is that not what you are supposed to be doing?"

Of course, reality brought him back to the moment, his visor flicking on.  His look to Prowl was playfully wounded.  Some might call it a pout.  "I do, when I'm given rein t'do so."

"And what exactly are you given now, save a pad with an objective on it?"  The agent watched Prowl take a careful mouthful of the high grade, possibly to wet his throat after so much talking.

A creature of quicksilver moods, Jazz was, at the moment.  And his mood had just bittered with the reminder of one of Prowl's more annoying habits.  "I get that from Prime," he about snapped, sitting up straight, "or rather, you get that from Prime."  It was a sore subject and he found he was glad to be able to broach it in the presence of others, even if they were beyond the point of remembering.  Perhaps it was better that way, that they wouldn't remember him losing his cool, even temporarily.  His hands lifted to mime a very small box, placing an illustration to his next words.  "I get a pad from you with every footstep com-part-mental-ized inta neat ikle boxes that got me on such a tight timetable tha' you send someone after me if I'mma nano late, puttin' them an' me at risk."

From his expression, Prowl was entirely off guard and intrigued by Jazz's outburst.  "And why, d'you think," to the point that he actually slurred! "I do that?"

Jazz just about collapsed into giggles at the slip, but his frustration with the long-time problem was carrying him past the moment quickly.  "'Cause y'don't trust me t'keep myself outta the med bay."  He couldn't help jabbing a finger at the other black and white.  "Check this detail, mech.  I get less damage when you don't try'n control me."

"I trust you, Jazz." Prowl visibly jerked back, slapped by a tone which had been much harsher than Jazz had intended.  Well, it had gotten his attention, at least, before they had fallen into the familiar call and answer the conversation usually took.  "I am merely attempting to--"

"Stop." For someone who considered himself not overcharged, he was certainly allowing his emotions, typically held under much tighter wraps then anyone might think, to run away with his vocalizer.  Part of his processor was marveling at the real anger which sugared his words.  "Don't.  I know my trade better'n you do.  The more freedom I got--"

"The more you'll escape to New Orleans an' sit days on end hobnobbin' an' listenin' to the street music." Wheeljack's intervention let Jazz know that the others weren't so overcharged that they couldn't read his tone or body language.  He sat back, doors folding back into place, feeling sheepish all over.  He was obliged to defend himself, of course, teasing Wheeljack  to get the humor back into the air.  

"That was once," he told the engineer, beginning to grin, the frustration dissipating.  "Besides, who didn't leave his lab for a month an' sit so long his knees gave out when he tried to stand that one time?"

"I was working on a very complicated project!"  Wheeljack protested.

"One which I never received a report on," Prowl murmured in a mild tone, finishing the high-grade in his mug.

"Speakin' of reports, not writin' out the detailed blow-by-blow for me would sure free up a lotta yer time, Prowler."  He hoped the exchanges were accomplishing that Prowl would, finally, return to him the rein the tactician had tightened little by little over the vorn until Jazz felt hard pressed to breathe when on an assignment.  "'Sides--"

"Huh?"  He was reminded of the hour by the sleepy puppy grumble from the red twin.  Thankfully everyone could make it back to quarters without extra help, even if he did call Springer's pals to assist the large triple-changer, more as a friendly gesture then necessity.

Then, they were alone, gazing at each other.  Prowl's expression was completely open and Jazz was hard pressed to qualify how the quietly marveling expression was making him feel into a coherent thought.  Coming off the contact high, Prowl's cool, gentle, warm, swirling aura brushing his own was comforting.  The tactician stood unsteadily, allowing Jazz the simple gesture of resting his hand on his shoulder.  "All of that was simply you acting?"  He asked, his tone as marveling as his gaze.

Perhaps he would tell Prowl, one day, that he hadn't been exactly sober during the conversation.  But the question remained, so he decided to answer it with a fact, instead of a true answer.  It was one of his favorite habits.  "You do realize someone had t'stay sober to record alla that.  Even you stopped takin' notes after a while."

"You are making my helm ache."

Watching his companion, he couldn't help a soft chuckle with sympathetic tones.  "That would be the high-grade.  Go have some oil an' get some recharge."  He was sure Prowl missed them.  He began to steer him to quarters, when the tactician made no move to begin walking on his own.

"I have often wondered how you do it," Prowl murmured.

"Do what?"  He knew Prowl didn't miss when he slid his arm around his shoulders, bracing him and getting as close as he would allow.  

"Your reputation."

"Which one?"  They reached quarters, Prowl sinking slowly down to sit on the berth, watching Jazz absently.  

"Your reputation that you can put anything to tank and not feel it the next day.  No one else noticed you did not touch a drop."

Finding some oil, he mixed it with some powdered silicon to further combat the headache he knew Prowl had, smiling when he obediently began to drink.  Jazz supposed the mug could have been more high-grade and Prowl would not have noticed.  A sleepy drunk, then, or perhaps he was simply no longer pushing himself beyond his means.  "But I did.  I tested yours, remember?"

"That hardly counts."

He chuckled again, both at his own musings and Prowl's sleepy thoughts.  He eased him onto his back, watching optics go dark as soon as the body was horizontal.  "Recharge, Prowl.  Your helmache'll be gone come mornin'."

"You are remarkable."

Moving from the berth, he at first didn't register the mumbled comment.  By his pattern of breathing, Prowl was already in recharge so didn't mark Jazz recrossing the room, gazing down at the sleeping mech with a fond smile.

He went to one knee next to the berth, simply resting their foreheads together for nearly a breem.  "Thank you for trying to protect me, Prowl," he murmured, dropping a kiss onto his chevron.