Author's Note: Just a drabble that won't leave me alone. J/P friendship, no slash. Dunno if I'll continue it on past this point, but eh, if I do, whatev's. This is just me practicing writing and character stuff, and having a good time at it.
Everything seemed to always come in threes. Trouble, for instance. Twins plus one: Bluestreak. Prowl didn't let his irritation show as he sentenced Sunstreaker to cleaning the mess hall floor with a hand-buffer, not even the normal sized one, Sideswipe was to do double-shifts for the next week, no trading off with anyone, and Bluestreak was told to clean the wash racks. To use a human word, those were positively grody. Absolutely disgusting after all the scouts had reported in, and this was the first chance that anyone had to clean them since the beginning of the week. And did he mention that the spring rains had turned the normally-well-packed dirt roads that lead up to their base into mudbaths?
Sending the trio upon their way, he looked up at the door to see Optimus walk in with more paperwork, this time having to do with logistics regarding working with the American government. That was left on his desk while the leader moved on to deal with either more pressing issues, or to catch up on much-needed recharge. Recycling the air in his system, Prowl renewed his efforts to get through the pile of paperwork that needed to be done.
Of course, that was when the next interruption came. He hoped this was the third one. Thankfully, it was just Arcee, coming in to report her patrol sector. She handed in the necessary paperwork, then moved along again as the mud-spattered and decidedly-chilled and frustrated scout stalked out to the washracks.
Three. Good. Logic prevailed again. Lowering his head, he got through a human hour of paperwork when the door was slammed open. Doorwings twitching in irritation, the Datsun glared up at whoever decided to interrupt him. "What."
Jazz stood lazily against the door. "Jus' comin' tah check up on ya. When's th' last time ya had some energon, man?"
"This morning," Prowl muttered, going back to his work. Of course, Jazz would come. He was a rule all unto himself and applied no logic to his movements. What an annoyance.
"An' when did you las' recharge?"
"Last night." Prowl didn't look up at the other black-and-white, preferring to sign another piece of completed paperwork, sliding it into the "done" tray.
"Uh-huh. Right. Musta been a real late night for you. Since, yanno, I was on-duty for graveyard shift this week, an' ya haven't left this room since yesterday afternoon unless it was ta walk to grab energon this mornin'."
Pausing all movements, Prowl slowly glared up at the Porche. "And?"
The spymaster's visage didn't give him away, which meant that Prowl was in for it. He knew that closed expression. Great. "You're third-in-command—" the tactician tried to remind Jazz.
"Which gives me enough authority t' tell ya t' leave the paperwork for a while, or at least delegate it."
"Oh? To who, you? You hardly complete your own paperwork!"
"Only when you're watching. Look, ya can't survive on just energon alone, man. Ya need t' get recharge. An' I ain' takin' no for an answer!"
Times like these, Prowl wished that Jazz didn't have that visor. It'd make it easier to glare at him. It'd give him more than a general area to glare at. The test of wills continued on before he finally snarled inarticulately and saved his work. "You're just going to bother me until I go and recharge."
"Prowl, I've been telling ya to recharge for centuries an' ya haven't been able to refuse me yet. G'wan, get."
Just to be obstinate, Prowl stopped moving and continued to glare at the lower-ranking mech, not amused in the least that he was being told what to do, even though he knew that Jazz was right. It was most inconvenient. He was rewarded for his efforts with the downward turn of the expressive mouth. "Prowl."
"I c'n crash your processor then haul you to Ratchet, claiming that you've been overworking, which he'll agree to."
"You did that three months ago. To do so again would be highly illogical, as there hasn't been much in the way of absurd and utterly nonsensical happenings taking place on base." Crossing arms over his chest, the second in command knew that he had his friend at that one. "Not to mention that to do so again so soon would be out of your normal behavioral patterns."
Pain in th' aft mech, Jazz grumbled silently. "So ya're goin' t' think that I can't break your head."
"That would be correct."
"Last chance, Prowler."
"I am still capable of four more hours of solid work. And don't call me Prowler."
"Fine. Access DeviantArt, type in 'Prowl Jazz slash.'"
That got him a twitch . . . another twitch . . . then the audible fizzle of Prowl's logic centers crashing. Smirking, Jazz shook his head. "Sorry, man, but you're going to have to forgive me later." Picking the Datsun up over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, he brought the bot to the medbay, pausing as a laughing Wheeljack darted out, followed by several wrenches.
Yeah. Just a normal day at the base. "Yo, Hatchet! Prowler crashed!"
"What the hell did you do to him this time? Primus slaggit, Jazz!" Ratchet glared down the hall until Wheeljack disappeared into his own lab.
"Told him to look for some slash on a human art website."
"Slash, huh? That wouldn't happen to be the same as what the twins were causing trouble about earlier, would it?"
"You mean those pairings? Like me an' anythin' that moves, the Twins an' anythin' that moves, Twins an' Blue, Twins an' you, you and 'Jack, Optimus an' Megs—"
"Optimus and Bee—"
Snorting, the mech sighed and glared at the saboteur. "Great. That's fantastic. You knew that he didn't know about it, of course."
"Yep!" came the cheerful reply as he carried the prone Prowl into the med bay and laid him upon a berth. "He's too logical t' go searchin' out what th' Twins were cookin' up, jus' goin' along th' lines of 'do th' crime, pay th' time,' an' now you have Twins doing chores."
"Dare I ask what slash pairing? Primus above." Hooking monitors up, the medic glared over the still-twitching mech before attaching a plug into the highly-developed processor, translating the code into a viewable image on the screen. "Oh. Frag. Nevermind."
"Which one did he fritz on?" Jazz wondered, coming closer to the screen. He blinked, stared, reset his visor, then stared a bit more. "Well. I'd fritz, too. Hm. Well, I am that flexible."
Three things. Things happen in threes. Prowl came to with that thought, and memories of recent internet searches almost made his CPU freeze up again, until he logically broke through the vicious cycle. He found Ratchet staring down at him, then had the good grace to look embarrassed.
"It's taken me four hours to get your CPU back on track, then to put you into a natural recharge cycle. That was yesterday evening. It's now noon. You have three minutes to tell me why you found it to be a good choice to listen to Jazz."
At the end of three minutes, Prowl still had nothing to say.