Broken Vows 6
It was difficult to remain angry with Jazz. His kindness, his generosity in so many ways made up for his failings. Prowl would speak to him regarding what he had told Smokescreen, but not in anger. Jazz was open about his emotions, honest in a way Prowl did not know how to be. Generally this was a more positive trait that Prowl’s own stoicism, but Smokescreen was so young, and so overburden for one his age. He needed to be better protected from the turmoil of those grown mechanisms around him. Prowl would ask that Jazz be more careful, and Prowl would be more careful too. Let Smokescreen just be a mechling again. Let him be mischievious. Let him be wild. Let him be free.
Prowl leaned into Jazz’s servo. One lapse was not enough to push him away. It was not so much a sin as to deserve to be barred from Smokescreen’s presence. They had clicked, progenitor and creation, instantly. There was a bond already forming that was deep and true. This was everything Prowl had ever wished for Smokescreen. He could not help but fear the suffering that would come if Jazz suffered the same fragmentation as he had before. Not only his, but Smokescreen’s. But also Jazz’s. There was no question that Jazz had suffered. Prowl loathed nothing more than to be measured by nothing but his glitch, and he would not measure Jazz simply by his illness. Instead, he willed himself to measure Jazz by his strength in overcoming that fragmentation. It could not have been a small feat of mental and emotional strength.
“There’s somethin’ else... a few somethings...” Jazz murmured. They both glanced to Smokescreen who at curled up at Prowl’s side, that plushie in his arms as he immersed himself in his story.
“You have given us enough,” Prowl replied. He did not want Jazz bankrupting himself out of guilt. That was the very last think he would want. “You have given him a piece of his life back.”
“I ran into the owner o’ Just a Jillion Things. The designation’s accurate, they got a lot o’ everythin’. There’s more... Anyway, he gave me a deal... and he gave you this.”
Jazz placed a dataslug in Prowl’s good servo.
“When y’re settin’ up yer habsuite, he wants ya to come ‘n pick what ya need.”
“Do I want to know how much is on this?” Prowl felt his voice crack. Smokescreen glanced up at him, and Prowl brushed his servo over his creation’s helm.
“My guess? No limit. He was real insistent that ya deserved it. We haggled for three breams before I could convince him to let me pay for anythin’.”
“How could he know anything about me?”
“Yer story went viral. A medtech sold out to the tabloids. Y’re identities are safe but a Miracle from Primus is all over the data-net.”
“Oh,” Prowl cringed as he sucked in a harsh intake. “I suppose it was not realistic to hope we could just integrate into Iacon.”
“Why are you scared, Origin?” Smokescreen asked.
“I want you and Bluestreak to have normal lives. I do not want Xeon to have any claim to you from the grave.”
“Well, he called you Pantera, and he called Blue Silverstreak. Everyone’s called you Prowl here already, and Blue Bluestreak.”
“Clever, Smokey. He’s right Prowl. No reason anyone’s gotta know ya ain’t just normal Praxians. Xeon ain’t around to claim ya.”
“He is not... Some must know.”
“Those in the know here are already in a world o’ trouble. Y’re on record as Autobot Prowl, ‘n Smokey as yer dependent. I can edit the record, put Blue in. No one’s gotta know the difference.”
“How do I explain Bluestreak’s parentage? I do not want to hide that Smokescreen is yours.”
“We just put me down as the progenitor. Simple.”
“Simple,” Prowl echoed.
“You’re gonna adopt Blue?” Smokescreen asked. He sounded so jubilant at the prospect that Prowl was taken aback.
“More or less. If y’re origin’s cool wit the plan.”
“No one would believe it.” Prowl’s argument was laced with regret.
“‘M Spec Ops, Prowl. Hidin’ a lover’s the exact sort o’ thing one o’ me ‘n mine would do.”
“Have any of your subordinate’s done such a thing” Prowl asked.
“If they have, they haven’t told me. Which is exactly what I’d hope. Secrets are worth more than shanix, ‘n they go much farther if ya don’t go spreadin’ them around.”
Why was he hesitating? Prowl could not imagine wanting anything more, but still he shied. Why was Smokescreen thrilled at the prospect? Could that question have been what was holding Prowl back? It had never been a secret that Smokescreen had detested Xeon at first sight. When Prowl had asked what had inspired such an ardent hate, Smokescreen had only replied that Xeon felt slimy. When asked to clarify if Xeon had ever laid a digit on him Smokescreen had said no. Xeon felt slimy, the sense of he mech, not his touch, or even his glyphs. The mech had kept his glyph to Prowl, he had provided the tutors Prowl had wanted for Smokescreen and he had never said a cruel glyph to Prowl’s beloved creation. He might have become a surrogate progenitor, if only for PR’s sake, but Smokescreen had made it his mission to avoid the Conjunx Endura of his originator whenever possible. Prowl had learned he servants’ passages well, but Smokescreen had known every nook, and every possible escape and he had made good use of this knowledge. Even when Prowl had commanded his presence, Smokescreen had simply been unwilling to suffer Xeon’s presence.
Prowl had wondered if Smokescreen simply did not want to share him with anyone, but he had embraced Bluestreak without hesitation and he seemed to embrace Jazz’s presence without any of his traditional wariness. He had spent the entirety of Smokescreen’s carrying mourning Jazz and he had spent the entirety of Bluestreak’s carrying wishing he was Jazz’s. Letting Jazz claim Bluestreak would not change his newling parentage. Xeon would haunt Prowl forever through him, but Prowl did not need to let it cripple him. Jazz wanted to claim him. If Prowl refused, he believed that Jazz would still dote on him as much as Prowl allowed, ensuring the mechling had no reason to be jealous of his brother. But he would hear Smokescreen call Jazz genitor. And he would ask about his own. Prowl did not want Bluestreak to ever know Xeon’s designation.
“If you want to be his progenitor, Jazz,” Prowl said. “I would welcome the claim.”
“Thank ya,” Jazz said. “I’ll take care o’ it.”
“Are we going to go home with you?” Smokescreen asked. Prowl took another sharp intake.
“My place ain’t big ‘nough,” Jazz replied. Smokescreen dropped his helm against Prowl’s side and his originator knew without looking that he was pouting. Jazz smiled at him. He looked so adoring and Prowl’s spark quivered. Prowl had known, had been certain, that Jazz would adore Smokescreen but seeing Jazz look at their creation with so much love brought tears to Prowl’s optics. It was what he had wished for most for so long. “But I won’t be far. I’ll see ya as often as ya want.”
“Every mega-cycle?” Smokescreen asked.
“If that’s what ya want,” Jazz promised.
It was what Prowl wanted. He wanted it from Smokescreen and he wanted it for himself. Prowl loved and that love terrified him. Would he be strong enough to endure if Jazz suffered another case of fragmentation? No, Prowl had learned he was not especially strong, but at if it occurred again, Prowl would at least know what was happening. There was a better chance he could actually see that Jazz was helped. Of course, Jazz had friends now who were better situated to see Jazz through out. Smokescreen nuzzled his helm against Prowl’s side and Jazz watched him, searched his face, always too perceptive.
“Perhaps we might be able to find a habsuite in the same block as Jazz,” Prowl suggested. Jazz smiled at him, the warmth of it soothed Prowl a little.
“I don’t live on base,” Jazz said. “But if ya’d prefer it, I mean... I could move. I could work it out.”
“You never liked living under prying optics,” Prowl remembered.
“Neither did ya,” Jazz replied.
“I am accustom to it at this point,” Prowl replied.
Living as Consort, Prowl had become used to his every movement being noted. This was why he had memorized the schedule of the palace’s servants as well the layout of the servants’ passages as well so that he could go about his clandestine activities unseen. Regardless where Prowl lived now, he would be watched and his movements would be restricted. Base housing would be the logical choice, it would the most security, in theory, but only in theory. The Autobots were not to blame for his choices, Prowl could blame no one but himself for his decision to bond to Xeon. Still, the only bright point of his service in Iacon had been Jazz. Their fellow Autobots had been everything but his friends or allies.
“I wonder if there is something I could rent near Mirror’s,” Prowl wondered out loud. “I liked that district.”
“I’ll look for ya,” Jazz said.
“How far is it from your habsuite?” Prowl asked. “It would make more sense if we focused the search in your district.”
“It’s close enough,” Jazz replied. “Anyways, I liked that district too. They still have that pretty park we used to walk in.”
“I missed that park,” Prowl whispered. The manicured paths of the Helix Garden and the Royal Estate had been poor substitutes.
“I’ll take ya, soon as Ratchet says yer fit,” Jazz promised. “Then we can walk down to Mirror’s ‘n introduce the mechlings to her.”
“I would like that.”
These had been his favourite kind of dates. Prowl did not enjoy pageantry. Quiet walks and cozy evenings in, those where his favourite dates. There was a quick rap on the door and Prowl stiffened. He understood they were safe, especially with Jazz so close. Though he was sore and tired, Prowl did not want Ratchet to send Jazz away. His processor was no where close to settled. Without being drugged to oblivion, Prowl would not be able to recharge and Smokescreen was nowhere close to needing a nap. If he argued that, perhaps the medic would leave them be. Maybe, he could convince him to let Jazz stay. Jazz turned away, towards the door, paused and waited.
“It’s Prime,” Jazz explained. “He’d like to speak wit ya if yer up to it.”
“Is he so much different from Sentinel or Zeta?” Prowl asked.
“As different as dark-cycle from light,” Jazz replied.
The way Jazz looked at him, Prowl guessed he had questions. Prowl had called himself a member of the intellectual class and that was the truth. His adoptive procreators, the procreators of his originator, had been minor members. They had refused to be tied to Zeta and his primacy. It was one of the few of their lessons Prowl was happy to adhere to. Seeing Prowl’s glitch as evidence of the weakness of Zeta’s character, they had been strict, loveless guardians. It had not even occurred to Prowl to tell Jazz of their deaths when they had died during his tenure in Iacon. He had not mourned them. Had they been alive when Prowl had returned to Praxus, they would have told him he was reaping what he had sowed by laying with a casteless thug. Despite the fact that they had not lived long enough to fill his audios with their vitriol, Prowl still heard it, in his helm and in his spark and he loathed himself for it. Jazz was not a thug.
“I’ll send ‘m off,” Jazz said. Prowl shook his helm.
“No, I am fine,” he said. “I will see him. You will stay?”
“As long as ya want me, Prowler,” Jazz promised.