A/N: A little gift fic for TFJazz, who is one of my most consistent reviewers. So in honour of that, I have offered this gift fic. The request was for some Prowl/Jazz cuteness, so this popped into my head and had to be written.
Disclaimer: No…TF's are not mine *sulk*
Walking down the halls of the Ark to his quarters, Prowl ignored the odd looks directed at him from the rest of the orange ships inhabitants. His focus was on balancing a tray, laden with energon and other objects, and in holding the small stack of datapads against his side so they wouldn't fall. Reaching the door, he shuffled the items around so that the datapads perched precariously on top of two energon cubes while he typed in the code to his and Jazz's quarters, entering and door cycling tightly closed behind him.
Walking through the living room and to the berthroom, the doorwinged mech smiled tenderly at his bondmate as he went into their washracks. "I told you I wasn't going to leave you alone," he murmured.
The visored mech grinned back for a second, before settling onto a pained grimace.
Jazz was in a large tub, big enough for three mechs of his size, and soaking in iced solvent cubes so that he wouldn't rust from prolonged exposure to water. The liquid was a very pale blue and so cold. It had to be, for the occupant.
For Jazz had a virus. His frame was near constantly hot and his cooling fans wouldn't work above a certain setting, and every now and then, his joints would lock up and energon would trickle from his nasal ridge as all his firewalls and other protection systems tried to fight off the virus he had picked up from a mission on Cybertron. Ratchet had done all he could without overdosing the black and white, and now it was up to the anti-virus to work with Jazz's systems.
Cooing softly at his sick mate, Prowl moved forward and settled himself next to the tub, setting both tray and datapads down to lean forward and stroke a hand over a warm cheek. "Brought you some energon and a few slow-dissolving rust sticks."
Lethargically, the saboteur murmured, "Thanks, babe. Means a lot to me."
With another soft smile, the Praxian picked up one of the energon cubes and helped his lover to lift it to his mouthplates to drink.
"Hate bein' sick Prowler," whispered Jazz once he drank his fill.
"I know," replied Prowl, stretching out comfortably in a sitting position next to the bath, picking up one datapad and beginning his work. Jazz came first, which is why he was doing his work here with Jazz. They both relaxed, Prowl content to go through his datapads and Jazz to float in the bath of icy solvent keeping his core temperature from overheating. A few words were passed between them, but they didn't need them. Silence, comfortable and warm, reigned, halting only when the sick mech asked for a rust stick or for another holo video file to be placed on the end of the tub and played – which displayed how thoughtful the doorwinged mech was to have supplied for his mate's eventual boredom.
The day passed in sweet peace, until in late afternoon, Jazz began to sputter and thrash before becoming deathly still, but alive.
Prowl moved into action, arms winding around the locked frame and holding him above the solvent. A worried frown marred his handsome features, before finding his solution.
"Easy, dearspark," the tactician crooned as feelings of anxiety transmitted to him over their bond. If there was one thing Jazz hated more than a non successful mission, it wasn't being at the top of his game, being sick. With the utmost care in his touch, Prowl lifted the prone, quivering form, unable to speak due to a locked jaw, and slid into the bath behind his bondmate before settling back down.
"Shh." Prowl ignored the jarring change of temperature, the sensors in his doorwings crying out in discomfort from the icy solvent, to wrap his arms around his lover and rock them slightly from side to side.
When a trickle of energon came out of Jazz's nose, the slightly taller mech merely got a clean cloth from subspace to wipe it up.
Finally, the locked up body released and relaxed, Jazz sighing loudly as his jaw unclenched.
"Ah HATE bein' sick," growled the saboteur.
"I know," Prowl replied calmly, pulling the body back into him, worrying that, for all the bath was cold, Jazz was still warm and what classified as feverish for a transformer. At least, he mused, Jazz didn't reiterate himself and relaxed into his hold.
"Do you want me to read you something?" the tactician asked.
Jazz shook his helm tiredly.
Thinking it over in his processor, Jazz replied, "Well, if ya could wave some sort of magic wand and make me better, then yeah. Otherwise, just hold me."
Prowl chuckled at the sarcasm. Jazz couldn't be too far off being better if he was saying things that almost locked up his processor. Accepting his bondmate's reply, nevertheless, he got one of the washcloths from the side of the tub and gently, methodically, ran it up and down Jazz's hood. After a few minutes of the wet cloth stroking up and down the front of his alt mode, Jazz leaned back even more into his mate's chest, angling his helm so that it was leaning on the elegantly shaped neck.
With his other hand, the doorwinged mech stroked over the stubby sensor horns on Jazz's helm in a touch, not to arouse, but to evoke the rest the saboteur so sorely needed.
The washcloth continued on its travels, going over headlights, arms, the abdomen and business-like over the pelvic span and upper thighs, as far as Prowl could reach. Jazz knew that the actions conveyed far more than Prowl could ever say. It was the type of mech his mate was. He pressed a light kiss over the neck cable in front of him in gratitude.
"Rest, Jazz. I'm here," murmured Prowl, halting his ministrations for the moment.
"Nnnn…wanna kiss," said Jazz, craning his neck up.
"And then recharge," bantered Prowl, smirking kindly, before grasping his lover's chin gently to steady his course as his mouth closed over the saboteur's, soft and yielding, letting Jazz control it, do what he wanted. Jazz sensed this and pressed firmly, tilting his helm for better access as the warm mouth parted for him – and only him – delving in with his glossa and claiming his lover. A wet glossa slid and stroked with him, so calm, reassuring. They pulled away slowly, Jazz going back in for another sweet taste of Prowl's mouth whenever his lips began to leave the other's.
"Love ya," murmured the saboteur, grateful to have a mate who so adored him and cared for him, knowing he felt the same.
"I know. I love you too," whispered Prowl as the sick and exhausted black and white snuggled in closer to his frame and slipped into a peaceful recharge.
A/N: Was supposed to come out fluffier than what it did, but I flail. Well, as long as TfJazz likes it, then that's what matters.