Blood Ties - Courtship (Part 2 of 3)

[lobaeclipse]

<<< Part I

In the days following, they all played a subtle and delicate game of ignoring one another and pretending not to sulk.  Jazz was subdued and spoke only when necessary.  Prowl treated him with nothing but unfailing civility, but he kept his distance.  It had been nearly twenty years since Jazz had been regarded with the cool aloofness with which Prowl treated strangers, and he quickly came to understand why so many people thought Prowl to be emotionless and uncaring.  Prowl and Stormy interacted normally enough, but Stormy had turned shy of Jazz and spent most of her play time in human form.  Chasing and wrestling in the yard in beast form had been their favorite game, but Stormy came to prefer playing with her toys alone.

They ate together sometimes and they still shared the living room in the evening, though they were careful not to make eye contact and the warm, homey feeling was gone.  Jazz didn’t want to test Prowl’s patience with music and he refused to pick up the book Prowl had recommended to him (no matter how much he had been enjoying it) so he usually ended up going to bed even before Stormy.  Prowl wasn’t reading as much either, and instead devoted his time to cleaning and organizing.  Much to Stormy’s annoyance, he made her do the same.

In short, they were all thoroughly miserable and everyone was too stubborn to admit it.

After three days of this, Smokescreen snagged Jazz one afternoon at work.

“I don’t know what in the Pit you did,” he hissed, hauling Jazz into his office by one arm, “but whatever it was, fix it.”

Jazz shook himself loose and glared. “What makes you think -”

“Prowl has been - Primus help me - sulking.  Stormy is fine and the only other person close enough to affect him like that is you.”

“So he has an off day and you automatically assume that it’s -”

“I guessed.  But you’re not usually this defensive so, now, yes, I’m assuming that you two have had some sort of . . . spat.”

Jazz rocked back on his heels and folded his arms.  Smokescreen looked back at him with a cool, calculating look that was not unfamiliar.

“But you are guessing that it was my fault,” said Jazz slowly.

“No, I’m not” Smokescreen smirked.  “And I know you have to be the first one to apologize.  Something’s stung his pride and he’s not going to unbend until you’ve soothed it.”

Jazz snorted.

“He’s also pitifully depressed.  Downright gloomy.”

“So your, uh, tactical analysis of the situation dictates an emotional appeal?” Jazz said skeptically.

“To you, yes,” said Smokescreen.  “Prowl won’t listen to me.”

Jazz chuckled.  “Ya know, a few days ago I had to practically beg you for help with him.”

“A few days ago, it wasn’t affecting my work environment,” Smokescreen said coolly.  “Whatever the two of you do in private - or don’t do, as it were - is none of my concern so long as it does not infringe upon me or my affairs.  But now it is infringing,” his voice softened as he stepped closer, “so I expect you to fix it.”

And on that note, he manhandled Jazz back out in the hall and slid the door shut again.

“Thanks for all your help, Smokey,” Jazz said loudly.  “It’s good to know that you care.”

Laughing ruefully and shaking his head, Jazz continued on his way.

It was the wrong time of the year for apples.  Jazz knew that perfectly well - he had grown up on a farm, after all.  But farmers tended to know other farmers who knew other farmers and so he had a network of contacts that likely encompassed half the continent.  He called his brother Claybank, who gave him the number of a friend, who put him in contact with a cousin’s neighbor, who had a great-grandfather with an orchard in a hothouse.  Before the week was out, there was a bowl on the kitchen table full of crisp, red apples as big as Jazz’s fist.

Prowl and Jazz were still dancing around one another without talking much.  The apples went ignored for two days, but after that they began to disappear one at a time until they were all gone.  On the night that the last one vanished, Prowl cooked supper for the first time in a while.  Jazz arrived too late to eat with him and Stormy, but there was a plate waiting for him in the icebox.  It was a little thing, so subtle that from anyone else it might have been a coincidence.  Jazz didn’t believe in coincidences, especially when it came to Prowl.

Contacting Claybank for help had been easy, almost fun, but there was another conversation that Jazz wasn’t looking forward to nearly as much.

“Yo, Ratch, you in here?”

Jazz entered the med bay cautiously.  Ratchet was a brilliant doctor, but he was also a bear transformer and exemplified all of the patience and gentleness that one would expect from an old boar grizzly.  With his sturdy build, close-cropped silver hair, and perpetual scowl, his human form looked more like a bad-tempered drill sergeant than a medic.  He certainly had the lungs of one.

“On the berth with you!” a voice barked from the depths of the med bay.

Jazz hastily complied.  The bay was a labyrinth of banks of machines, racks of equipment, and medical berths scattered in seemingly random order with narrow aisles zigzagging between.  Ratchet appeared a moment later with a battered medical kit in one hand and, for some reason, a wrench in the other.  He strode up to Jazz, nose twitching as he looked him up and down.

“Well, where is it?”

Jazz drew back slightly.  “Where’s, um . . . what?”

“Your injury.”

“Well, actually -”

“If you’ve just dropped by to aggravate me, I assure you that it would be wise to rethink your plan.”

“No, it’s just - why does everyone always assume the worst about me?” Jazz snapped.

“Perhaps because you’ve been stomping about in a temper for the past week?  Nobody likes it when special operatives get snappish.  Makes folks . . . twitchy,” said Ratchet.

“I haven’t even seen you this week!”

The medic shrugged.  “People talk.”

Jazz eyed him shrewdly.  “You’re as gossipy as a little old hen, aren’t you?”

Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Do you have a reason for being here or not?”

It took a bit more prodding to get the full story out of Jazz - the childhood nightmares, the current stress, the awful night not long ago when it had all come to a head.  Ratchet folded his arms and propped his hip against the berth opposite Jazz and listened intently.  Jazz spoke slowly and haltingly, and Ratchet questioned him throughout until he was sure he had all relevant information.  By the time it was over, more than an hour had passed and Jazz felt wrung out.

When Jazz finally wound down, there was a quiet moment as he drank from the canteen Ratchet had handed him at some point and swung his feet back and forth.  Ratchet rubbed his chin and stared vacantly at some point on the wall behind Jazz’s head.

“Well?” Jazz said hoarsely.  “Can ya do anything?”

“Maybe,” Ratchet said finally.  “There’s a colleague - well, he’s really more of a friend of mine - he’d talked about something years ago.  I’ll have to see if anything ever came of it.”

Jazz nodded, trying not to look too hopeful.

“And let me see that hand of yours.”

Jazz proffered his bitten hand.  The toothmarks were partly healed and already fading.  Ratchet prodded them, warned him not to let them get infected, and reminded him that he probably did deserve them.

“Yes, sir,” Jazz said wearily.

Ratchet’s gaze sharpened.  “Now, go home and get some rest.”

Jazz gave him a bland stare.

“Try to get some rest.  Then try to fix whatever’s wrong with you lovebirds -”

“Primus, does everybody know?”

“- and let me worry about this, alright?” he finished in a tone that was almost kind.

Jazz sighed and scrubbed at his eyes.  “Yeah, alright.  Thanks, Ratch.”

Ratchet clapped him on the shoulder as he got to his feet.  “I can’t speak for Prowl, but if ever I had a disagreement with a girl I was courting, I found it best to just assume that everything was my fault.”

Jazz made a face.  “Prowl has made certain to inform me that he is not, in fact, a girl.”

Ratchet grunted.  “He’s a bit on the self-righteous side, though.”

Jazz automatically bristled, but . . .  “Yeah, he kinda can be.”

Ratchet grinned as he shooed Jazz out the door.  “You just worry about him.  Let me worry about you.”

ooo

After the apples, Prowl was, if not warm, then somewhat less cool.

One afternoon when Prowl was still at work and Stormy was at the youth center, Jazz took it upon himself to help out with the rather early spring cleaning that Prowl had begun.  He dusted and mopped and organized until dark.  When Prowl got home - with Stormy cheerfully running circles around him - Jazz tucked himself in one corner of the couch and tried not to look smug.

At least, he fought the smugness until he realized that Prowl was going along behind him and cleaning all over again.  Then he gave up and went to bed.

After that, he began experimenting.  He chatted and laughed as if nothing in the world were amiss and then he didn’t say a word for days.  He played every kind of music he knew (which was quite a lot) and then went about his day with nary a whistle.  He attempted to cook something elaborate and delicious.  That one didn’t work out quite so well, but he did avoid setting fire to the kitchen.  He would have fawned shamelessly over Stormy, but she wouldn’t give him the time of day.  Prowl gave no outward indication one way or another, but he surely must have thought that Jazz was off his rocker.  Jazz gave up the experiments and went back to the drawing board.

Jazz plotted.  Fortunately for him, “I like you a lot; do you like me, too?” gifts were remarkably similar to “I am a wretched creature unworthy to grovel at your feet” gifts.  In Prowl’s case, this usually meant books.  Buying books was tricky, as literature was one of the few things Prowl indulged in.  While his tastes were varied, they were oftentimes expensive and obscure as well.  Fortunately for Jazz, he was as meticulous in his hobby as he was nearly everything else and kept detailed records of his collection.  Jazz discreetly copied the files on one of Prowl’s datapads to one of his own and set to work.

After another week or so, Smokescreen pulled him aside to tell him that he was doing a good job.  Jazz was pleased until Smokey’s questions began to get more pointed (really, Jazz had defended his intentions and ideas to half of his own family and he really didn’t feel like doing so again) and so Jazz made his excuses and escaped as quickly as he could.  He never thought he’s see the day when he willingly ran to the med bay.

As it turned out, Ratchet’s friend wanted measurements.  Lots of measurements.  Jazz spent most of an evening in the med bay.  Ratchet measured his height and weight and took an inordinate number of vials of blood.  He also measured the circumference of his head, the length of his fur in beast form, his lung capacity and countless other things that Jazz found rather irrelevant.  Judging from the amount of grumbling and rueful chuckles, Ratchet agreed with him.  The medic seemed just as happy to see him go as Jazz was to leave.

“And how exactly will all this help?” Jazz asked as he pulled on his jacket.

“Hanged if I know,” said Ratchet.

ooo

One night when Jazz had gone to bed immediately after supper, he was startled out of a light doze when Prowl tapped on his door.  He opened the door to find Prowl with his face as blank as a mask holding Stormy with a face that was blotchy and tear-streaked.

“Forgive me if it’s too much to ask,” said Prowl coolly, “but she wants you.”

Jazz had the cub tucked in his arms before he had a chance to think about it.  Prowl turned on his heel and left.

“What’s the matter, baby girl?” he asked, rubbing her back with one hand.  When had she gotten so heavy?  She had nuzzled her head under his chin and wrapped all four limbs around him, so she didn’t require that much effort to hold.  It hadn’t been that long since she had flung herself at him so carelessly and trustingly, but he was abruptly reminded of how fast she was growing.

“Had a bad dream,” she mumbled.

He kissed her tangled curls.  “I’m sorry, baby.  Those can be rough.”

“Papa said . . .” She sniffed and gulped.  He automatically gave her a handkerchief.  “Papa said you gets ’em too.”

He nodded.  “Sometimes I do.”

“How d’you make ’em go ‘way?”

He grimaced and hugged her a little tighter.  “I can’t really make them stop,” he admitted.  “Mostly I just talk to your papa or Ricky until I can go to sleep again.”

She stiffened.  “Don’t wanna go to sleep!”  she whimpered.

“Maybe just talk about it for a while?”

“Nuh-uh!”  She shook her head.

He didn’t press the issue.  She had was nearly five years old - old enough to sleep in her own bed and not throw a tantrum whenever things didn’t go her way, or so she said - but he didn’t care to test her tonight.

“Okay, I know the feeling.  What do you want, little girl?”

She sniffed again and said very softly, “Sing for me?”

Jazz chuckled and kissed her head again.  Stormy had always treated him like her own personal jukebox - which, to be fair, wasn’t far from the truth.  He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.  “And what song does the lady require?”

“Somethin’ happy and sad.”

Others might have found this a challenge.  Not Jazz.  After a moment’s thought, he launched into a jaunty, upbeat tune about the ghost of a hanged man calling to his lover.  It was made to dance to, and before he could second guess himself, Jazz two-stepped down the hall with Stormy snickering against his neck.

Prowl was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in front of the bookshelf.  The lowest shelf was devoted to Stormy’s books so she could reach them easily.  Prowl had taken them all out and arranged them in neat stacks around himself.  He was in the process of putting them back a few at a time.  Knowing Prowl, Jazz would be willing to bet that they were now dusted, repaired, and in alphabetical order.  Knowing Stormy, he was willing to bet that they wouldn’t stay that way for long.

Prowl did not approve of the hanged man song, so as it drew to a close, Jazz started a more mundane lullaby to appease him.  It was a low, crooning song in the style of his namesake, and one of the few that all three of them could usually agree on.  Stormy began to fidget until Jazz shifted his dance into a smooth waltz to match the new song.  He felt her relaxing against him.

“Too slow,” she mumbled.

“You like this song,” he reminded her.

“Yeah . . . but not -” She gave a huge yawn.  “I’m not sleepy.”

“Hmm.  Okay.”

He switched to a different song, a little faster but still soft.  It was high and eerie, one of Stormy’s favorites.  She settled more comfortably against him.  Even a waltz would jostle her, so he swayed on the spot until he finished the lyrics and hummed for a few minutes more.  He automatically shot Prowl a questioning glance and received a nod in return.

Stormy whined when he tucked her back in bed, so he sat down beside her and rubbed her back until she settled.  Once she was still, he brushed a thumb over her cheek.  The cut had healed to a dull pink line that would fade.  Some part of Jazz that had been tight and worried slowly relaxed.  He smoothed the covers and tucked one of her many plush toys in her arms before he got up to leave.  The floor would normally be a minefield of books and toys, but when Prowl was in a mood everything was spotless.  He was almost to the door when Stormy spoke up.

“Mm-uh, Beauty,” she mumbled, sounding more asleep than awake.

Rolling his eyes with fond exasperation, he rummaged around the toy chest until he found a soft black horse.  Stormy wrapped herself around it and burrowed under her pillow.  Jazz stepped lightly towards the door, but she was snoring by the time he reached it.

Surprisingly, Prowl wasn’t lurking in the hallway.  Jazz hesitated for a moment.  Bedroom or living room?  He wasn’t sleepy and Prowl was still shelving books.  Not long ago, the answer would have been obvious.  As it was, Jazz took one last look at Stormy and a few deep breaths before he went and settled on the couch.

“Is she alright?” Prowl asked without turning around.

“Huh?  Yeah.”  Jazz rubbed his face.  “She’s zonked.”

Prowl hummed approvingly.  His movements slowed.  “Thank you,” he said softly.

A smile twitched at the corner of Jazz’s mouth.  “You’re welcome, Prowler.”

Prowl looked over his shoulder, perhaps meaning to give him an answering smile, and froze.  Jazz tensed under his scrutinizing stare.  Prowl stood up, unfolding his lanky frame with surprising grace.  Seeing Jazz’s face, he went still a few paces away, gesturing with his outstretched hand instead of touching.

“Your collar,” he said simply.

Jazz automatically touched his throat even though he knew he would find it bare.  With a self-depreciating little grimace, he said, “Don’t ’xactly need it when I’m sleepin’ do I?”

Prowl was watching him carefully, one hand unconsciously resting on his own collar.  “Jazz . . .”

“Look . . . I -” Jazz knew Prowl wouldn’t settle for anything less than the truth.  “There’s things in my subspace worse than teeth, y’know?”

Comprehension dawned on Prowl’s face until he caught himself and made it neutral.  “That’s - that is very . . .” He snatched his hand away from his neck.  “Very responsible of you . . .” He finished in a mumble and closed his eyes as if expecting a blow.  “And that didn’t sound nearly as condescending in my head,” he added miserably.

“’S okay,” Jazz said.

Prowl regarded him with one sharp blue eye.

Jazz leaned forward and stared at his folded hands.  “I, uh, I been to see Ratchet, too.”

“Really?”

Jazz thought he sounded more pleased than skeptical, be he still didn’t look up.  “Yeah . . . he isn’t sure if he can help, but he knows a guy that might.”

“That’s great, Jazz.”  Prowl was - well, he wasn’t exactly smiling, but he looked happier than Jazz had seen in a while.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Jazz warned.

“No, I know,” Prowl said quickly.  “I’m really just proud that you asked . . . . Again with the condescending,” he muttered.

“It’s fine.  I know what you mean.”

Jazz rubbed his throat nervously.  He had several different collars and he switched between them easily.  Some of them were disguises, equally ugly battered or garish ones to help him blend in.  Most, however, were simply different styles that he liked - unlike the ever-efficient Prowl, whose strictly functional leather-and-steel number was the only one Jazz had ever seen him wear.  The raptor’s only concession to fashion was color - glossy black for himself and deep brown for Stormy.

Going without one entirely, even just when he was just supposed to be sleeping, was nearly unthinkable.  It made Jazz feel naked.  Vulnerable.  But just as Prowl wouldn’t leave his sidearm in a lockbox if he didn’t trust himself with the key, Jazz wouldn’t allow himself to transform or access his subspace if he couldn’t do so safely.  He danced to his own music and dared anyone to stop him with a predator’s smile, but some risks weren’t worth taking.

When Jazz realized how long he’d been silently contemplating the floor, he glanced up to find Prowl giving him an understanding look that also somehow seemed equal parts awkward and amused.  “I missed you.”

Jazz stood up slowly.  “Me, too - I mean, I hate fightin’ with you.”

Prowl nodded.

Jazz sighed, slumping.  “You’re not making this easy for me, are you?”

Prowl gave him a look that could only be described as pure raptor.  “Life is not easy.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” Jazz snapped, then, softer, “I know ya just wanted to help and I lashed out and I’m sorry for that.”

“You are forgiven,” Prowl said solemnly.

Jazz glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised.

Flinging his hands, Prowl said in a rush, “I apologize as well.  I - I pushed you.  I tried to help when you clearly didn’t want it.”

“It’s all good,” Jazz said easily, earning himself a skeptical look.

“Just like that?”

“Ain’t that hard.”

“For you, maybe.”

“Nah, for you.”  Prowl gave him a quizzical look and Jazz elaborated.  “I’d forgive you a lot easier than I’d forgive anybody else.”

Smiling just a little, Prowl nodded.  “I understand.”

>>> Part III