I like making dramatic entrances. "Do it with style or don't bother doing it," y'know? So, I don't generally just walk into a room. No, it's more like I explode into it. I boldly explore and emphatically stake my claim to it. I attack it. No holds barred. Guns a-blazin' and all that.
And there's only one person in the entire world, possibly in the whole damn universe, that this doesn't seem to impress. In fact, far from being impressed with it, he often doesn't even seem to notice it.
And this time, of course, was no different...
I burst into Prowl's office, loudly slam my back against the door behind me as soon as it slides safely shut, heave a dramatic and, if I do say so myself, provocatively shaky sigh, and what does he do? I'll tell you what he does. Or, I should say, I'll tell you what he doesn't do. He doesn't look up at me, those big blue eyes wide and instantly filling with concerned, loving alarm. He doesn't then run to me, all gorgeously attentive and caring, and ask me what's wrong. Most importantly, he doesn't gather me into his arms and do his damndest to make whatever it is all better.
In fact, he doesn't even look up from what he's doing. He doesn't even twitch. What he does do is say, calmly and even a bit distractedly since all of his higher brain functions appear to be fixated on the computer screen in front of him, "Hello, Jazz."
Bastard. That better be something of earth-shattering importance -- or at least something earth-shatteringly erotic -- that he's staring at, or else I'm gonna kick his aft. Speaking of which...
"I need a hug," I announce, all plaintively vulnerable and stuff.
Well, that got his attention, at least. He's tearing his attention away from the computer, leaning back in his chair...
...And looking at me like I've grown another head. Vast improvement there.
"A hug," he repeats blandly.
"Yeah. Hug," I shoot back at him. "You know, you get up off your aft, get your aft over here, put your arms around me, and squeeze like all get-out."
I tactfully don't add that if he doesn't comply with my entirely reasonable request, then I'm going to go over there and kick his aft. Meanwhile, Prowl's mulling over my request. Then he levels his gaze at me -- and Primus help me but I can drown in that gaze -- and then he says, still blandly, "Why?"
Taken aback, I ask, bewildered and weak, "You mean why do I want a hug?"
I watch as he stands up and stares at me speculatively for a beat. And then I watch as he slowly and alluringly slides one thigh up on to the desktop before he settles his weight on it and...I'm gone. Swear, he has no idea what he does to me...
And then, totally deadpan, he answers, "No. I mean, why would I want to do that?"
Way to ruin the mood, Prowl. I glare a buttload of daggers at him and instantly forget the whole "gone" thing.
"Fine," I snarl, pushing away in indignation from the door behind me. "If you won't give me my recommended daily allowance of hugs, I'll go find someone who will."
I turn away from him toward the door and stab the handplate next to it with one outraged finger. I'm fully prepared to storm theatrically through the doorway just as soon as it opens all the way when I remember that I need a suitably dramatic parting shot. Wouldn't be a proper pissy exit without one and all. Phaser banks on "Nuke the hell out of it," Mr. Sulu.
"Optimus is always up for a hug, you know," I announce nastily over my shoulder as the door starts to slide open.
The door is three-quarters of the way open before I hear an ill-muffled and greatly amused snort behind me. But I am so not going to turn around and look at him. So not going there. And then the door is all the way open and I'm lifting my foot to begin my flouncy, wounded-to-the-core-of-my-being exit...and then Prowl says, in a voice that I couldn't resist even if my life depended upon it, all sexily and irresistibly innocent yet growling about three-quarters of an octave down from its usual pitch, "Oh, Jazz?"
I sigh, utterly defeated. I turn around and...Remember that "gone" thing from before? Well, it's baaaaaack!
Prowl doesn't have to say a word. All he has to do is lift one finger and crook it at me in an irresistibly come-hither sort of way, a wicked and predatory expression on his face and a feral glint in his eyes. The overall effect is the same as if he'd gotten up, gotten hold of my nose, and dragged me forcefully over to his desk. I'm powerless to resist.
Yep, he's gone and yanked my chain again, is my only thought as I plod in a dreamy, drooling daze toward Prowl, who's all alluringly arrayed on his desktop. Prowl is the undisputed world champion of chain-yanking. And one of these days, I swear to Primus that I will pay him back for all of that. I swear I will.
Just not right now.
When I'm in range, Prowl leans forward toward me, all delicious seduction, all sexy anticipation. I lean toward him in turn, and the moment strives toward completion and utter perfection. And just as my face is millimeters away from his...Prowl pokes me none-too-gently in the chest and pulls back from me, shattering the moment quite effectively.
"Have fun hugging Optimus," he says in that same sexy voice that he'd used before as he folds his arms over his chest and gives me a smugly amused look.
I swear to Primus, the mixed messages are enough to kill me, and I react appropriately.
"ARRRRRGH!" I yell in frustration on more than one level, and I turn on my heel and storm toward the door again. And no way am I stopping this time. Prowl can damn well go and yank his own chain instead of mine. Ignoring his low, deeply amused chuckling, I stomp through the doors almost before they have a chance to fully open in front of me.
Primus, I hate him. Hate him, hate him, hate him!
...Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I love him to distraction, of course...but I still hate him. And I will get him back. Oh yes, indeed...