WARNING: I'll do the depressing one first. There is mention of child abuse in this chaper. It does NOT go into detail, it is mentioned in a conversation, but I still wanted to you guys to know just in case. I don't want to bring up bad stuff.

Don't worry, I know the first warning is a bummer, but the chapter really does end on a VERY high note, and I smut yer eyes out which is why I need this...

WARNING: The rating of this fic is now M. Smut. M/M Slash, and self pleasuring. Sticky. So if you don't like... you know the deal.

If you DO like, and you are therefore still reading, there's gonna be a little Prowl/Jazz action later in the chapter. Keep in mind, this is not a P/J fic...they're simply close friends with great benefits. I just thought it would be mean to make Prowl be celibate. And I think robot sex is hot. Originally, I was going to have it Prowl/Ratchet, but thought I'd give the P/J fans a treat =) Uhh, except I've never written Jazz before, so I hope I got him right.

Last thing, then the fic... A very big THANK YOU to anyone and everyone that stopped to read the first chappy. Y'all rock!

I Will Come Back

Chapter 2: The Best Night

Prowl rolled off his bunk and groaned as soon as his pede's hit the floor. Primus. He hadn't been so sore since that time he fragged off his drill sergeant at the Academy. Note to Self: Never, EVER, play tag with Runner. Ever.

He'd taken Runner on his first outing last day-cycle. A trip to the park. Prowl had desperately scoured his processors trying to come up with an activity he thought the sparkling would enjoy. He foolishly settled on tag. Prowl'd played tag with some of his friends when he was a sparkling, and enjoyed it.

That was the worst idea Prowl ever had in his entire existence. Seemed like a tactician would know better. He'd had some vague thought that perhaps he should chase Runner on his hands and knees to even the odds; after all the sparkling barely came up to his thigh... uh, no. Runner ran circles around him. Literally. For like... an entire cycle. Prowl gave it a valiant try, but the kid ducked, dodged, swerved and zig-zagged like there was no tomorrow. And in the open space of the park with no way to corner him, Prowl didn't have a prayer. Prowl supposed he could have fed Runner's movements into his battle computer and predicted his next move, but that seemed... wrong, somehow.

In the end, Prowl decided the most logical course of action was to admit defeat. And sprawl flat on his back on the astroturf. That decision had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Prowl was utterly exhausted, and wheezing. Prowl snorted, remembering. He'd lain there, optics offlined, trying not to croak, and he'd heard Runner running back to him. He onlined one optic, and said, "You win." Runner threw his arms around Prowl's neck and said, "Are you dead?" Completely deadpan, Prowl had looked at him and replied, "Yes, I'm dead. That's why I'm talking to you right now."

Runner'd giggled and said something about Prowl having jokes before smacking him a wet kiss right on the side of his face plates.

Prowl smiled at the memories, before smoothing his features back out, putting his face (as he thought of it) back into neutral. How sad was it that he got more acceptance from someone he'd just met, that was barely taller than his knees, than he had in his whole life?

Prowl walked into the plassmetal doors of SCF and slouched his posture in relief. He spent the better part of his duty shift behind his desk, unable to work his epic-tag-failure-soreness from his lower back and leg systems. As a result, at the end of his shift, he was even more stiff and sore than he was to begin with. He'd made himself walk normally, anyway, ramrod perfect posture and everything. He worked around hardened soldiers and there was no way he was going to reveal anything that would make him admit that a six vorn-old had basically handed him his aft. He'd never live it down or hear the end of it. Wouldn't that be awesome?

Here, though, he could show his pain. Every member of the staff, including First Aid, suffered at the hands of Runner's pedes. That sounded wrong. But true. At the SCF, running a marathon after Runner and nearly dying in the process was like a Rite of Passage.

Bluestreak looked up from the front desk. "Still sore from yesterday, huh? When you brought Runner back and he told us all how you played tag with him, we were all totally horrified. I mean, I can't imagine anyone encouraging him to run, it's bad enough when he does it on his own. Poor First Aid, you should see him trying to give that sparkling an exam. I don't think Runner likes medics too much, which is a shame, ya know, because First Aid is really nice, and—oh! Yeah, I almost forgot, Chromia wanted to see you, she said she'd leave the door open so you can just walk in."

Prowl stared for a second. "Thank you." he said, and made straight for the staff door. He was afraid if he didn't hurry, he'd be stuck in front of the front desk for possibly the rest of his life. He liked Bluestreak, but he had yet to figure out exactly when the younger mech air-vented during his ramblings. And how.

Prowl limped his way quickly down the corridor, idly noticing the drawings that papered the plassmetal walls. He stopped in the open doorway of Chromia's tiny work cube. The blue femme was bent over her desk, intent on some piece of paperwork or another. Prowl could relate.

"You wanted to see me?"

"I did, have a seat Just Prowl." She gestured to the two torture traps that passed for chairs in front of her desk. Prowl settled in one of them slowly, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles. "I'm glad to see that you decided to come back. You must be a glutton for punishment."

"I promised I would."

"I see." Chromia looked at him kindly. "It's easy to get attached to them, sn't it?"

Prowl ex-vented rather sharply. "Yes."

"Barricade, especially. Once you get past the shyness, he's a very affectionate sparkling."

Prowl arched an optic ridge.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Census finally got back to us about his serial number. It's not their fault, really, they've been backed up tracking idents because of all that's happened—it's just frustrating." She flapped her hands. "I'm getting side-tracked. Anyway, his name is Barricade. Um, he doesn't seem to like it very much. At all. We were hoping you could help with that. Maybe if you tell him you like the name, he'll like it more."

"Certainly." Prowl answered absently. If they knew Barricade's identity, perhaps they also knew about his family, his Creators. Would someone be coming to get him? And, if so, what were the chances that Prowl would be allowed to visit him?

"He has one living Grand-Creator. His Creators are confirmed deceased. Have been for awhile."

"I wasn't aware that I'd spoken out loud."

"You didn't so much speak, as mumble. And, no one is coming to get him. It's probably a good thing." The latter was vocalized so softly, quietly, that Prowl nearly didn't hear it. He had allowed his gaze to drift, but at her words he looked up, sharply. "Please explain."

Chromia leaned forward, resting her face in her palm. She scowled slightly, apparently having some sort of internal debate with herself. Finally, she leveled her gaze on Prowl. "You understand that I can't tell you specifics. It's considered confidential information." At Prowl's nod, she continued. "How much do you know about basic sparkling programming?"

Prowl was confused. "Virtually nothing."

"Ok, well, sparkling's can't exert the control over their processors that an adult can. If something terrible happens to say, you or I, we can actively choose to lock that memory away, so it can't randomly sneak into our thoughts, or we can choose to permanently delete the memory file. Sparklings lack that kind of control, so they have a subroutine that automatically deletes potentially damaging memories for them. As they get older, and gain more control, the subroutine obsoletes itself, becomes inert, and is eventually purged through defrag."

The Kaon city guard found Barricade wondering the streets, lost. When they questioned him and realized he didn't remember anything, they sent him to us. He came to this Sparkling Care Facility because we would be able to give him more one-on-one time—he..." She paused, seeming to gather herself for a klik. "First Aid found damage he shouldn't have had."

Prowl wanted to ask her what kind of damage, because surely, surely her statement couldn't have the underlying meaning he thought it did. It was unthinkable. But he didn't. He didn't have to. All the confirmation Prowl needed was in the grim/sad lines of Chromia's face plates. He sat there, numb, feeling nothing until a tiny shard of ice seemed to plant itself in his spark. The ice expanded and grew, suffusing his systems and cooling the fiery rage rampaging through his processors. Prowl's face slid back into its neutral setting, and he straightened. Right now, he wasn't Just Prowl. Right now, he was Chief Military Advisor Prowl. And he was pissed.

To Prowl, it seemed like he'd been sitting there forever, first boiling and then freezing, but it was, in reality, only a klik or two. Chromia watched him carefully. Prowl had always been... laid back at the SCF, so much so, that she was starting to think his reputation as a cold, sparkless bastard was much undeserved. Until now. His face and body language were unreadable. His optics: cool and blank. She realized, for the first time perhaps, that despite the fancy office and title, Prowl's job—when you cut it down to the quick—was death. And he excelled at it.

"You are certain it was the Grand-Creator? You said he was wondering the streets of Kaon. You don't know how long. Could the damage have been caused then?"

"He couldn't have been out there that long. He was too well fed." Chromia sighed, burying her face in her hands. "Unfortunately, the authorities can't get past that. They feel an investigation is unwarranted—anything could happen to a lone sparkling on the streets of Kaon. But, Prowl, I spoke to him myself. The Grand-Creator. He was, shifty, nervous. And he denied having ever met Barricade. And I found out later from a few of the neighbors that Barricade lived there."

"His name." Flatly.

Chromia shook her head slowly, "You know I can't do that Prowl. It's against the law." Without thinking, she leaned forward over her desk and lightly brushed the back of Prowl's clawed hand with her own. "Look. He's safe now, and thanks to his programming, he doesn't remember anything. Red Alert repaired the damage to his interface systems. He has a clean slate. A chance for a new start."

Prowl contemplated her words. His battle computer ran every probability scenario possible, yet his processor remained stuck on just one. "Yes. A new start. And if his Grand-Creator were to suddenly remember that Barricade exists?"

Chromia could feel Prowl's cool and infinitely logical gaze on her as she mulled over his question. She thought the odds of that happening were probably low, but still, she was a realist. She knew full well that if Barricade's Grand-Creator were to show up and claim him, there would likely be little to no investigation before the sparkling was returned to him. The SCF's were running out of room to house orphaned sparkling's and credits were so scarce—the admin—made up of mech's that rarely dealt with the realities of the SCF's would not condone keeping a sparkling that actually had a home to go to. Chromia's protests would receive only minimal attention—it was unlikely she would be able to change the outcome. And they didn't have any evidence they could use to get the law involved...

Prowl could see Chromia coming to the same conclusions his battle computer had so sharply shown him. Very softly he said, "Give me Barricade's serial number."

Every Cybertronian was given a serial number at the moment of Creation. It was etched onto their bodies with a slightly irradiated tool. It was used to keep track of one's history, stats, medical records, credit earnings, anything of importance. However, to protect individual privacy, everyone's serial number was etched in a different place. While it was possible for the average mech to find another's serial number, it wasn't at all easy. They could be anywhere, even under external armor plating. Without special filters designed to detect the light radiation of the etching tool used to inscribe the number, it would literally take orns to find, and would require going over every inch of one's body with a fine toothed comb, inside and out. Such filters were reserved only for medics and key census personnel. Prowl was neither of those.

Chromia let her gaze travel vaguely over Prowl's shoulder. "I can't tell you that, either, Prowl." Then she shifted slightly, her optics meeting his in a hard stare, "Which is rather ridiculous considering that you could find it yourself if you looked at the bottom of his left pede." She didn't know what Prowl had in mind, but she knew that Barricade's Grand-Creator was a Decepticon soldier, the polar opposite of Prowl's Autobot affiliation. Perhaps the two would meet in the middle.

Prowl relaxed almost instantly. His posture returned to sore and slumped, and his face opened more. "Anyway," he said, leaving the previous conversation behind, "there is a fair in town, opens in a couple of cycles. I was wondering if I could have permission to keep Barricade out a little late so Jazz and I could take him."

"Jazz?" the blue femme grinned, following Prowl's lead and leaning back in her four legged torture trap.

"Yes. You know him?"

"Doesn't everybody?"

"Does that mean we can take him?" Prowl tried to keep the hope out of his voice.

He failed. Chromia grinned even more widely, waiting to answer, making Prowl fidget. "Wellll... I don't think it will hurt him to be out late every once in a while."

"Good. I told Jazz to meet me here." Noticing Chromia's raised optic ridge he shrugged, "I figured if we couldn't go to the fair, we could do something else." Prowl checked his chrono. He'd lost track of time talking to Chromia earlier. "He should be here by now, actually."

"Blue is on desk duty, chances are, he's here." She sent a comm. message to Bluestreak, and sure enough, Jazz was in the front waiting room. "Yep, he is. I told Blue to send him here, and to check and see if Barricade was ready to see you."

Prowl's face scrunched in a slight frown. "Ready?"

Chromia waved off his concern. "Oh, nothing bad. It's a surprise. He's been working on it all this orn."

Jazz chose that time saunter into the office. He gave Prowl a light punch on the shoulder and plastered his most winning smile on his face for Chromia. He made a big show of kissing her delicate blue servo, "Pleased to see you as always, lovely lady."

Prowl stared at his full time friend and part time bedmate with something close to awe in his optics. How was it that Jazz could take the corniest lines and deliver them with such class? If Prowl tried it, he'd just look stupid. Honestly, Jazz could charm the armor off of a glitch mouse. And glitch mice didn't even have armor.

Chromia rolled her optics. "Good to see you, too, Jazz."

Jazz eyed the remaining chair. It looked... painful. Deciding he liked his aft pain-free, he claimed the corner by the door, leaning against the wall. "So, where's the sparkling?" he asked, peering around.

"Blue's bringing him," Chromia replied.

"Yeah, speaking of Bluestreak, can that guy carry a tune, 'cause like, he'd be good at singing, what with not having to worry about that whole pesky ventilation thing." Jazz's visor glinted with good humor.

Prowl snickered. Chromia opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the sound of sparkling pedes as Barricade burst into the room. "Prowl! You came back!"

Prowl stood, catching Barricade as the sparkling ran to him, not even noticing Jazz, clutching a large piece of art paper in one hand. It hurt his spark to hear the surprise in the sparkling's voice. "Of course I did." He hauled Barricade up and into a hug. Barricade threw his arms around Prowl's neck, the paper brushing past Prowl's audio. The earlier conversation with Chromia resurfaced. He had damage where he shouldn't have. First Aid repaired his interface systems... The idea of someone abusing such open, sweet affection pained him, maybe more so because it was something he'd so rarely had. Prowl squeezed him tighter, holding him close to his spark, automatically stroking Barricade's neural line like Chromia had shown him. Trying to soothe pain the sparkling didn't even remember. Prowl leaned his forehelm gently against the small shoulder. Never again, he thought. Never again, little one, I promise you that.

Barricade squirmed, leaning back in Prowl's arms for a klik to stare worriedly at Prowl's calm, neutral face. "Why are you so sad?"

Jazz and Chromia had been watching the exchange in silence, but at Barricade's question, Jazz jerked slightly. Prowl's face gave nothing away. Absolutely, nothing. Jazz knew something was wrong, but then, it had also taken three vorns worth of friendship, before he could even begin to read Prowl. Barricade managed to effectively read Prowl like an elementary primer after spending less than a full day-cycle with him. Did. Not. Compute. Jazz shot a glance at Chromia. She shrugged as if to say, "Beats the slag out of me."

Prowl tilted his head, looking down at Barricade's upturned face. "It's nothing," he lied. "I just had a rough day at work." He pretended to think for a minute. "You could give me sugars and make it better." Barricade looked at him a micro-klick longer, then grinned happily, giving Prowl a noisy kiss on the cheek and another hug. Prowl hugged him back, tightly. Now to quickly change the subject. Crafty Prowl.

"Chromia told me they found out your name today."

Barricade looked sullen. Chromia was right. He didn't seem all that thrilled. More like... anti-thrilled. Time for a change in tactics. "You know, if you don't like the name Barricade, we could always call you 'Cade for short."

"I like that," Chromia added, "it sounds very grown-up."

Barricade stopped himself from rolling his optics. He thought it might be rude. Who did they think they were fooling? Seriously? Adults always thought sparklings were gullible. Still, he thought it was nice how they were trying hard to make him happy. Funny, too. It wouldn't hurt him to play along. "Well," he said, "I guess that will be ok."

Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but it was a far cry better than sullen. Prowl came to the conclusion that he and Chromia were GOOD. Now, for another subject change. Crafty, crafty, Prowl.

"What's that you have, there?" He nodded at the paper Barricade was still holding.

The sparkling immediately brightened. "I made this for you!" He handed it to Prowl, hopeful and anxious. Hopeful Prowl would like it, but afraid he wouldn't.

Prowl took the paper gently. Barricade—no, he corrected himself, 'Cade—had drawn and painted a picture of himself and Prowl at the park. The picture showed Prowl sprawled on the ground, and Barricade hugging his neck. The sparkling pointed, "See, here's where you died, and I came to make you feel better." Out of the corner of his optic, Prowl could see Jazz in the corner, his head thrown back in silent laughter. Prowl decided the dignified thing to do was to ignore Jazz, and focus on the painting. It was clear that the picture wasn't hastily thrown together, 'Cade obviously put a lot of work into it, trying to make it look as nice as possible. Ohh, Prowl knew what that felt like. For one brief moment, he was swallowed by pain from the past. Primus, he'd been close to 'Cade's age.

Prowl looked up at Silvermoon, hope etched plainly on his small face. He'd worked so hard on the picture of her and Jetset, hoping, without even realizing it, to make his Creators proud. For once. Please like it, he thought, please.

As he watched Silvermoon's facial expression shift from passive, to a slight frown, to lip-curled disgust, his faint hope that he'd done something right disappeared beneath an anvil of anxiety. He'd failed. He could tell by the look on her face. She didn't really need to compound the hurt by marching over to Jetset's desk, where he sat ignoring the whole thing, and shoving it under his face, but she did anyway.

With barely a glance at the picture that had taken Prowl cycles and cycles to complete, Jetset said, "Well, evidently buying Prowl paint was a waste of credits."

"Evidently," Silvermoon repeated, scathingly. She let Prowl's picture drop into the waste bin. "Thank Primus, he's at least a little bright. Maybe if he tries, hard enough, he can manage to make something of himself." Silvermoon's tone suggested she thought the very idea was ludicrous.

Prowl stared at the floor. He pretended, as he did sometimes, that these weren't his Creators, and what they said didn't matter. It didn't really work. He could still feel hurt and shame throbbing through his spark. He did not cry. He already knew that only bad sparklings cried.

"Come along, Prowl," Silvermoon said imperiously. "Let's go throw out your art supplies. You obviously don't need to be wasting your time with them."

Prowl settled himself back in his hard chair, shifting 'Cade onto his knee. He studied the painting, feeling the sharp prick of coolant gathering in his optics. He forced the tears back down. Crying would not do. Prowl figured with his luck, 'Cade would think his picture was so bad it MADE Prowl cry in self defense. After a second to make sure his vocalizer was steady, Prowl said, "I think it's the most beautiful picture I've ever seen, AND, I think when we go out today, we'll have to stop and get a frame for it, so I can hang it up in my quarters."

"Really?"

Prowl kissed the top of 'Cade's head. "Really." Prowl felt the weight of Jazz's three-fingered servo press between his doorwings, and leaned back slightly into the touch. Jazz would know what he'd been thinking about.

"Can I see?" Prowl handed Jazz the painting. "Well, I think maybe you got the next great artist sitting in yer lap there, Prowl." He handed off the painting to Chromia's reaching servo.

"I think you're right, Jazz. Maybe if you're lucky, he'll sign you an autograph."

Barricade ignored all of this to address a much more pressing issue. "We're going out today?"

"Indeed," Prowl said easily. "I thought we'd go fishing for cybercrocs. You can be the bait."

Barricade looked at him with his arms folded. "You aren't funny."

"I'm not? Well, I think I am. I guess if you don't want to be bait, we could always play Tickle the Sparkling."

"I," said Barricade with as much dignity as he could muster, "am not ticklish."

"Is that so?" Moving fast, because Primus knew that if 'Cade decided to bolt, Prowl sure as slag couldn't catch him, Prowl grabbed both of 'Cades ankle gryos with one hand, and pressed his other hand against his back, gently lowering him until he was upside down, so that 'Cade's hands were flat on the floor. Prowl ex-vented noisily into the bottom of 'Cade's right pede, making the sparkling squeal with laughter. Prowl caught Chromia's optic.

She met his gaze, her light tone belying the gravity of her look. "He doesn't seem to be at all ticklish. Maybe you should try his left pede, just to be sure."

Nodding almost imperceptibly, Prowl looked at the left pede. 'Cade's serial number was there, just as Chromia said. He memorized it quickly, and ex-vented into that pede as well, earning more laughter from the sparkling. "Right. Since 'Cade is obviously not ticklish, I guess Jazz and I will just have to take him to the fair."

"Really?" Cade peered at Jazz as if noticing him for the first time.

Prowl gently turned the sparkling right-side up. "Jazz," Prowl whispered into 'Cade's audio, "has been my friend for a very long time. I trust him a lot."

Barricade wasn't all that great at meeting new mechs. Or femmes. Or anybody. He knew that. But if Prowl trusted him, he had to be good, right? "You are really short." Oh, that was probably rude. Yeah, he was sure it was. He didn't mean for it to be, but sometimes rude things slipped out before he could stop them.

Jazz threw his head back and roared laughter. "Ain't truer words ever been spoken." Jazz held out his hands. "C'mere and lemme get a good look at ya, Big Mech." Cade looked at Prowl, and at Prowl's nod, he reached out to Jazz and let Jazz set him on the floor. "Ya want me to tell ya a secret about Prowl?"

'Cade nodded, anxiously. He wanted to know all about Prowl. Prowl groaned inwardly. He knew what was coming.

"Well, Prowl really likes it when people call him Prowlie."

"Prowlie?" 'Cade looked dubious.

"Yep." Jazz nodded adamantly.

"Hey, 'Cade? Jazz really loves to play chase."

Barricade looked up at Jazz eagerly. No one EVER wanted to play chase with him. "Really?"

Jazz grinned. "I sure do."

Barricade grinned and took off through the office door; Jazz running after him. Chromia watched them run out of her office. She glanced over at Prowl. "That was... really mean."

Prowl smirked. "I know."

After rescuing Jazz from the hallway, where he clung to the wall for support, the trio, two mechs and a sparkling, made their way to the fair grounds.

Having never been to the fair himself, Prowl was just as fascinated by the lights, sounds, and smells as Barricade. He wanted to stop and look at everything; Barricade wanted to touch everything. Jazz dragged them both along, otherwise, they might never have actually made it past the entrance.

It did not take long for either of them to figure out that 'Cade was most certainly NOT impressed by the rides. After taking him to a third sparkling ride, ablaze with light and spouting cheerful music, to which Barricade scowled, they gave up and focused instead, on the games. Prowl couldn't say he was too disappointed. It took very little imagination for him to picture Barricade falling off a ride onto his head.

Unfortunately for the vendors, not only did Barricade like the games, he excelled at them. The kid was wickedly coordinated. They had stopped at a Ring-Toss game, and much to the concessionaire's dismay, 'Cade was ringing the metal bottles with almost every toss. Note to self: Never let Barricade meet Ratchet. Or a wrench. Or even worse, Ratchet holding a wrench while in the mood to instruct. Prowl shivered at the thought.

Jazz scanned another credit's worth of rings for 'Cade, and Prowl watched amused as the vendor tried to subtly hand the rings to Jazz instead of 'Cade, obviously hoping the adult would have a much less accurate throw. For all the good it did him. Jazz promptly passed the rings to the sparkling, before glancing over at Prowl. "Hey man, I'mma go get something, I'll be right back." Prowl nodded. He wondered what 'something' Jazz was after, but kept his questions to himself. He would find out. Instead, he agreeably scanned a few more credits to buy even more rings. The vendor handed them to Prowl, who handed them to 'Cade. The vendor slumped, dejected.

Finally, after winning enough points to choose from the top-tier level prizes, Barricade, had had enough. Much to Prowl's surprise, the sparkling bypassed the toys and gadgets, and chose a very nice looking stretch-metal frame, designed to expand to fit almost any picture. He handed it almost shyly, to Prowl. Still a little startled, Prowl almost questioned the decision, almost asked if 'Cade wouldn't rather get a toy or something for himself, but one look at the determined look on the sparkling's face changed his mind. Instead he took it and said, "Thank you. It will look great with your painting, don't you think?"

A sharp nod. "Of course."

Prowl grinned to himself. It was cute, he thought, one moment 'Cade was a completely sweet sparkling, and in the next, he could display near-adult snark.

Jazz came running up to them, clutching three... somethings...he had two in one hand, and was merrily munching on the third. "What'd ya win?" he asked between bites.

Prowl held the frame up and Jazz admired it properly, before Prowl placed it carefully in his subspace, "Very awesome." He thrust the two remaining 'somethings' at Prowl and 'Cade. "Got you guys something. Fried energon treats on a stick. They are a work of culinary art. And pretty slagging yummy, too."

Prowl and 'Cade both eyed them dubiously before taking them. The treats sure didn't look like art, culinary or otherwise. Prowl absently re-adjusted Barricade on his hip, and then stared alternately at his 'treat' and Jazz. Jazz seemed to be enjoying his, but well, the fraggin thing looked almost as though it might bite him back if he were to try eating it. He figured he'd just watch Jazz for a few more kliks, and then, if his friend was still alive, he'd try his own.

Jazz looked at the pair, both of them staring at him and holding their treats. Jazz supposed Prowl wanted to see if Jazz survived consuming his treat before Prowl tried his. "C'mon guys, eat up. I'm tellin' ya, they're amazing. What are y'all waiting for?"

Barricade answered, "We wanna see if you die, first." He thought for a second and glanced up at Prowl, "That was rude, wasn't it?" he asked worriedly.

Prowl choked back laughter, "Not rude. Just honest." And, genius. He decided right then and there that Barricade was a mental giant. Jazz laughed, but scowled slightly behind his visor. Not in insult, but in consternation. He honestly couldn't understand how Barricade could manage to be so in tune with Prowl. He wondered vaguely if 'Cade might not be a telepath. It was a rare, but not unheard of ability. He decided to make an effort to think weird, random thoughts at the sparkling, to see if he'd comment on them.

"Yeah, yeah." Jazz chortled. "Have I lived long enough? Does my current life-span meet y'alls approval?"

In response, the pair nibbled their treats tentatively. Prowl looked up, shocked. "These are really good."

Jazz slapped his shoulder companionably, "I told you. They're like... interfacing on a stick."

Prowl choked.

Barricade looked up from wolfing down his treat. "What's interfacing?"

Prowl and Jazz exchanged looks. There was a can of cyber-crawlers neither of them wanted to open. Thankfully, they were all three distracted by a loud roar of the crowd laughing from the other side of the fair grounds. All three of them turned to look. "Well!" Jazz said, a bit overly cheerful, "That sounds like just the place for us." He turned and hurried off in the direction of the noise. Prowl followed quickly, toting Barricade.

'Cade smirked to himself. Interfacing had to be something really interesting if his question had made the adults that uncomfortable. He played along, pretending to forget his question in the rush to see what was going on. He didn't forget, though. He decided he'd just wait until there was nothing to use as a distraction. Barricade snickered to himself. Embarrassing adults was so funny.

It didn't take long to find out what was causing the frackus. There was a Dunk-a-Mech booth on the other side of the fair, and the mech sitting on the bench above the dunking pool (Waverunner, according to the holo-placard) was doing his job well—taunting and teasing the spectators, making them eager to line up for the chance to hit the target and dunk his smarmy aft in the cold water.

"Come on, gentlemechs! Only one credit gets you three chances to adjust Waverunner's attitude!" the concession owner barked.

The trio watched Waverunner harassing a mark, only to get dunked in the water. The crowd around the booth cheered and laughed as one. Jazz grinned at them, "Y'all game?"

In response, Prowl set Barricade down, and they got in line. When it was their turn, Prowl held out his wrist for the barker to scan one credit, and in return, got three plassteel balls. Prowl handed one to 'Cade, and Jazz said, "Alright, Big Mech, you know the deal. Hit the red circle and dunk his aft."

Barricade nodded, and turned to face Waverunner, carefully taking aim.

"Hey!" shouted Waverunner, "hey kid! You got enough optics there, son? You better not miss, I KNOW you can see the target. Pit, I bet you can see the fraggin future!"

The cheerful crowd grew slightly less cheerful. It was one thing to make fun of an adult, but a sparkling? Barricade threw the ball, hitting the target dead in the middle of the red circle. Really, scary aim, Prowl thought. The lever mounted target moved, but only a little, it didn't swing back far enough to hit the switch that would drop Waverunner into the pool for a swim.

Waverunner cackled. "Hey kid, when you used all those optics to look in the future, did you see yourself failing miserably?"

The crowd was definitely quieting down. Jazz figured the mech on the bench had to be really dense to NOT pick up on the shifting moods of those around him. Barricade, however; ignored all of them, and after getting a second ball from Prowl, threw it as hard as he could. The red target went a little further back than before, but still not enough to make the bench dump Waverunner.

Barricade scowled. It wasn't fair! He hit the target, twice! But still, that mean mech was on the bench and not in the water. He wanted to make Prowl proud of him—Prowl wouldn't want to spend time with a sparkling he was ashamed of... and Barricade had so little. If Prowl stopped coming to see him, he would have no one, really. Oh, he knew the caretakers at the SCF tried their best, and he knew they cared about him—all the sparkling's—on some level, but they had to stay a little detached because otherwise their jobs would be unbearable. He understood.

But he also understood this: somehow, he'd failed so badly that even his own Creators hadn't wanted him. True, his memories were pretty non-existent, but he had a vague sense of being dropped off in a city, and being told to wait. He'd waited, but no one had ever come. He figured he was fortunate that Prowl was not only willing to spend time with him, but actually seemed to want to. He couldn't afford to lose that. Barricade was many things, but he wasn't stupid. He knew most mechs didn't like him because of his optics. He didn't know how he'd failed his Creator's before—what he'd done to make them leave him—he just knew he couldn't fail this time.

Squaring up his small shoulders, Barricade looked again at the target, taking careful aim. Then, the mech on the board, vocalizer pouring sarcasm, confirmed Barricade's worst fear. "OoOo, I bet your Creators over there are SO proud to call you their sparkling," his voice dripped false sincerity, "can't even knock me off this little, tiny bench. You throw like a femme, sissy!" Barricade froze. To add to his horror, he felt the sharp sting of coolant standing in his optics—tears waiting to be shed. He dropped his throwing arm, and stood there shamefully, clutching the plassmetal ball in his small talons.

Prowl had been watching 'Cade carefully. The mech on the bench was sitting on his last nerve, but up until his last comment, Barricade had been ignoring him, focusing solely on the target. As long as Barricade was fine, Prowl was, somewhat fine with it, kind of. Just before his third attempt though, Prowl had watched a myriad of emotion flicker across Barricade's face that he couldn't identify, except—except for that last one. He recognized that final look, that odd mix of desperation and determination. He should. He'd felt it on his own face-plates often enough when he'd been a sparkling. Prowl was moving to interfere, when the aft-head on the bench opened his fat mouth.

The crowd's mood went from slightly annoyed, to downright hostile. The concession owner stopped his crowd-drawing patter and cursed under his breath. Waverunner was supposed cajole the marks, even jeer at them a little, he was NOT supposed to make sparklings cry and frag off every femme in the audience all in one fragging in-vent! He'd decided to yank that moron off the pool bench and blister his fraggin audio AND his aft—then he got a look at the kid's Creators. The shorter one wore a visor, but his lips were compressed into a thin angry line. The taller mech, the one with the door wings, he looked... calculatingly murderous. The older mech decided to wait. He had a feeling that whatever those two did to Waverunner would be far worse than anything he could manage. And the idiot deserved it.

Prowl was fighting the urge to online every ranged weapon in his arsenal before Wave runner even finished his sentence. He wanted to blow the useless piece of slag into smithereens and cheer as his bits fell into the pool. Instead, he calmed himself, and knelt in front of Barricade. The sparkling wore shame like a mantel, and that, also, was something Prowl was altogether too familiar with. He took 'Cade's hands in his own, feeling the sparkling's talons tighten around the ball.

"Cade?" No acknowledgement. Prowl gently tugged the slightly resistant sparkling to him, and wrapped him up in a hug. "You did good, 'Cade. It's not your fault you couldn't dunk the moron. The target is made to be hard to move."

The concessionaire threw his two cents in, "He's right, son. It has to be hard, that's how I earn my living."

Prowl thought he felt a change in Barricade's posture, like maybe more thoughtful and less ashamed. Perhaps hearing Prowl's words verified by a complete stranger helped.

"You hit the target both times you threw the ball. And most importantly, you tried your very best. As long as you do the best you can, I'll always be proud of you—even if you fail." Jazz crouched down opposite of Prowl, behind Cade's back. He gently poked the sparkling in the rib struts, earning a muffled giggle. "That's right," he said. "Everyone fails at something, lookit Prowlie, he totally fails at being cool, but somehow, I tolerate him anyway." Barricade laughed harder at that. Prowl smacked Jazz for his efforts. Prowl scooted away a bit, flashing a somewhat disturbing grin at Jazz before looking at Cade.

"Do you want me to dunk him for you?"

Barricade nodded earnestly. "Dunk him a lot."

"... Define a lot."

"A WHOLE lot," Barricade clarified.

Prowl gave a sharp nod, rose, and once again held his wrist out for the concessionaire to scan. "Take seventy-five credits." The crowd gave a low murmur of approval and stayed put.

Waverunner wasn't the brightest mech of the assembly line, but he was starting to think he shouldn't have been so hard on the sparkling. The crowd seemed angry. And the kid's Creator, Primus, that guy sure looked scary. And then—and then he heard how many credits he told the old mech to take. Seventy-five! TIMES THREE! That was like...uh..150 throws. And the old geezer looked happy about it, too! Waverunner snorted, then yelled at the creepy/scary mech with the doorwings, "You're gonna need all those throws! I bet you couldn't hit the ground with your aft even if someone pushed ya!"

Prowl's optics glowed brighter for a klik. Really, didn't that dipstick know when to keep his vocals silenced?

Prowl's battle computer was a wholly unique, and amazing processor mod. It was easily capable of simultaneously analyzing the movements of over 800 units on the battle field, using the data to predict future moves, weaknesses, and providing Prowl with a detailed set of probabilities for each unit, all within a micro-klik. Without a moment's hesitation, Prowl turned all of that awesome processing power to focus on one, very stupid, very hapless, very doomed, mech: Waverunner.

Jazz pulled Barricade up to sit on his shoulders, and handed him a cube of sparkling-grade energon. "That guy over there is about to learn a very important lesson, Big Mech. Do NOT mess with Prowlie's friends. Now, relax and enjoy the show. And try not to spill that on my head."

Prowl's battle computer analyzed all the data given to it, and told Prowl exactly where and how hard he needed to hit the target to dunk the bastard sitting on the bench. The first time Prowl succeeded in making Waverunner swim, the crowd roared its approval.

Prowl figured the couple dozen or so mechs and femmes gathered around would get bored and eventually wonder off, but he was shocked to find the crowd growing even larger instead. Nearly all of Praxus had turned out on the Fair's first night in town, and word had quickly spread about how Waverunner made a sparkling cry, and the sparkling's Creator had paid to get the chance to dunk him 150 times. And the fact that Prowl had already thrown 35 times and not missed once was a huge draw. Add to that the fact that Jazz was running around with a giggling sparkling on his shoulders, working the crowd with all his excessive charisma, spinning tales about Prowl's prowess; what started as simple revenge for Barricade was turning into quite the spectacle. Really spinning tales, Prowl thought. He didn't catch everything Jazz was saying, but he thought he heard the saboteur saying that Prowl was blessed by the First Thirteen themselves. Prowl repressed a snort and dunked Waverunner again, not even waiting for the mech to climb all the way back onto the bench.

By the fiftieth throw and dunk, Jazz decided that Prowl needed his own theme music. At the crowd's urging, Jazz riffled through his music collection, finally choosing a classical song that sounded appropriately heroic and epic. He blared it from his speakers full blast as Prowl continued to throw and dunk, never once missing. To Jazz's surprise, many others in the crowd all started playing the music, some even transmitting the file to others that didn't have it, until most of the crowd was blaring Prowl's theme.

Prowl himself was actually a little embarrassed and overwhelmed by all of the attention. He'd been ignored most of his life—any attention, especially positive attention wasn't something he was used to. True, the Autobot troops and officers listened to him during battle briefings, but that was work, it was hardly the same. Prowl was also aware that he was probably destroying his reputation as a sparkless bastard and dedicated work-a-holic. He paused in his throwing for a moment to glance at Barricade—the sparkling was having the time of his life—and looking at Prowl like he was convinced Prowl was responsible for hanging the moon in the sky. Prowl decided he didn't care about anything else, or what anyone else thought. He just rolled with it. For perhaps the first time in his life, Prowl's spark felt light, happy. He thought he could throw balls all night if it made 'Cade happy.

It was a good thing, too. Random mech's and femmes had been paying credits to get Prowl even more chances to throw. Every so often he'd toss the ball to Jazz. The shorter mech would usually feint out Waverunner, pretending to throw the ball to watch him flinch, before handing it off to someone in the crowd, to even more cheers.

By the time they were ready to leave, Prowl'd thrown the ball over 300 hundred times. The crowd was starting to disperse, though, a good many had lined up, wanting a chance to play Dunk-a-Mech for themselves. The old concessionaire stopped Prowl, a tired Barricade in his arms, on their way out. He produced a large, plush turbofox toy, and held it out to Barricade. "Here, son." he said. "I'm sorry. Waverunner shouldn't have said what he did to you. Though, waterlogged as he is, I think he might think twice before opening his mouth now." The old mech said it with a twinkle in his optic.

Barricade clutched the toy happily, and leaned over to give the concessionaire a shy hug. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." he said gruffly. "He's a good kid," the old mech said, this time directed to Prowl and Jazz. "Take care of him."

"Definitely."

They'd dropped Barricade off at the SCF. The kid had been exhausted, and after hearing Prowl's promise to come back the next day, dropped right into recharge.

Prowl and Jazz were walking through the large building that housed the Officer's quarters. His quarters were just a little ways up the hall, Jazz's being only a little way past his. Prowl checked his chrono and groaned. "We," he said, "aren't going to get slag for recharge before our shifts start." And even worse, Prowl wasn't tired. He was too wound up from the night-cycle's events.

"I know," Jazz responded. Moving fast, he shoved Prowl into a corner made by the common room entrance meeting the hall wall. Prowl's doorwings spread against the plassmetal behind him, the weight of Jazz's body pushing hard into the corner. "You were fragging hot out there tonight," Jazz whispered roughly, before pulling Prowl's head down for a fierce kiss. Jazz's glossa slipped past surprised lips and proceeded to make friends with Prowl's glossa. Two three-fingered hands made their way up Prowl's back, ghosting over his doorwings before digging into the hinges. The taller black and white groaned, his interface systems cycling on.

"Let's make time for a quickie."

Prowl decided that was likely the best plan Jazz'd ever had. Prowl broke the kiss, moving to head to his quarters, but Jazz held him back, fingers still digging into Prowl's 'wings'. "Nah. Quarters are over-rated."

Prowl gaped. "What? Here? It's a monitored public hallway. Anyone could just walk up on us!"

"That's part of the fun. Besides, it's late, everyone's prolly deep in recharge."

"But the-"

Jazz nipped along Prowl's neck. "Red's got monitor duty tonight. Most likely he won't see, but if he does, he's cool. He'll keep his mouth shut." Jazz probed the sensitive cables he found with his glossa, "And, you can't tell me that the idea of Red Alert watching us on vid and getting off isn't hot."

Huh. Prowl thought it was actually kind of disturbing. Then his processor presented him with an image of a red hand slicking down a spike, slowly at first, then faster, until a silvery-blue jet of transfluid splattered across the security console. Slagging Jazz. He always did that. He'd say something crazy knowing full well Prowl would get a mental image. Prowl's fully pressurized spike lubricated in its housing. Ok, so maybe it was a little hot but... Prowl's sensor net flared, and he stopped his internal dialogue to glance down. While Prowl was distracted, Jazz coaxed the protective pelvic armor into retracting. Even as Prowl was glancing down, Jazz gently stroked the larger mech's housing cover, causing Prowl's spike to auto-release into his awaiting three-fingered servo.

Prowl stared, transfixed, as his friend's hand cupped the tip of his spike, receiving a dollop of lubricant for his efforts. Jazz spread the lubricant over Prowl's length with smooth, gentle strokes. Prowl was tense, his doorwings rigid behind his back. Jazz could almost see the gears turning in his friend's head, he was staring at Jazz's hand, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The saboteur ignored his own aching spike and kept his stroking slow, not escalating or stopping. He'd gotten Prowl off of Point A, but it was up to his friend to get to Point B.

Prowl shivered as his spike pushed out more lubricant. The clear viscous liquid clung for a moment, then dripped slowly and silently to the floor. Jazz wasn't stroking him in a way that would let him build to an overload, but oh, it felt so good. Pleasure lapped gently at his sensor net. But if they were caught... they'd lose everything, be ruined—no, not ruined, not really. They'd have to find new jobs. Prowl thought about that. He did his job as well as he could because lives depended on it, but he could live without it. He didn't care about rank, or prestige—only his Creators did. Prowl figured he could probably be just as happy, if not more so, as a dockworker. This moment should go down in the history files, Prowl decided, because for the first time, he didn't give a frag. He relaxed and leaned back into the corner, offlining his optics. He would enjoy Jazz's special brand of persuasion.

Prowl enjoyed another few kliks of stroking, and then Jazz shifted position, replacing his hand with his mouth, gripping the backs of Prowl's knee joins with both servos. Prowl looked down. Jazz's visor was dimmed, his warm mouth just over the tip of Prowl's spike. He could feel his friend's glossa eagerly lapping up lubricant. Prowl thrust his hips forward, gently. Jazz groaned his assent, and Prowl pressed on watching his spike disappear into his friend's face; Jazz's full lips stretching and thinning to accommodate his width. Prowl groaned softly when Jazz took his entire length, his hand sliding gently over the other mech's helm, caressing his sensitive audio receptors. Jazz's soft moan of pleasure was enough to make Prowl shudder. He fought for control, not wanting to leave the wet warmth of Jazz's mouth, but not wanting to overload either. He withdrew, and Jazz's glossa went wild on the out-stroke, pressing and sliding against every sensor node cluster it could find. Prowl gritted down, staving off the flares of pleasure scattering across his systems. He pushed himself back into Jazz's mouth as gently as before, his venting ragged. He withdrew, and repeated the sequence again, and again, always gentle. Primus, Prowl could feel the charge building in the nodes of his spike; could feel the transfluid pressure increasing, making its way toward the tip, pushing him to finish. He wanted it, wanted to overload in Jazz's mouth, feel the black and white mech swallowing his transfluid, but more, he wanted this to NOT end, not yet, and Prowl pulled away—at the same time Jazz did.

Jazz couldn't wait anymore. His spike was a hot, hard, painful pressure in his housing. Prowl's reactions were driving him to distraction. The ragged venting, shudders, and small soft noises of pleasure were too much. Then, Prowl's spike, thick and hard, filling Jazz up, easing Prowl closer to overload. No. Couldn't wait. He needed to fill Prowl up. Needed it. Now. He pulled away, releasing Prowl's spike, at the same time Prowl jerked his hips back. Jazz, tightened his grip on Prowl's knee joins, then tugged, hard, pulling his feet from underneath him. Jazz pressed into Prowl, slowing the mech's slide down the wall with his body, while scooting forward on his knees. Prowl ended up on Jazz's lap, legs sprawled on either side of his hips, his back propped against the wall. He was wedged tightly between it and Jazz's body.

Prowl's valve cover auto-released and Jazz freed his own spike, groaning at the relief of pressure. The tip of his spike nudged up against the thin, silver ring of Prowl's entrance, furiously leaking lubricant. Jazz reached between them with both hands. With one, he quickly spread his lubricant down his spike, shivering slightly at the sensation. With the other, he used a finger to spread the clear fluid over Prowl's valve, dipping a teasing, testing finger inside. Prowl jerked slightly, trying to capture the digit, but he lacked leverage.

"I want it, too." Jazz whispered. He removed his finger and pressed the tip of his spike against Prowl's valve. One long, firm stroke had him completely seated in Prowl's sheath, his lining clinging to spike. "Yeah, frag, yeah," he whispered, hotly. "So tight, Prowler." Prowl responded by bending his knee joins, spreading his legs farther, giving Jazz easier access. It was almost Jazz's undoing. For just a klik, he couldn't control himself, thrusting fast and hard and deep, hitting the sensitive node at the very end of Prowl's valve. Jazz grunted softly, helplessly, lost in pleasure, in the expansion of Prowl's tight, soft lining, the light charge of the sensor nodes striking his. So. Fraggin. Good. Prowl writhed under him, his vents coming in quick pants.

Jazz dimmed his optics, forcing himself to stop. He struggled to get his own ventilation under control. He looked up at Prowl, grinning at the tacticians annoyed stare.

"We're a little on edge, Prowler, gotta cool off a little."

"That's one way of putting it."

Jazz chuckled. Their fans were kicking on, their systems cooling just a touch. He hummed, letting himself enjoy the feeling of being buried deep inside his friend. Prowl's spike was leaking continuously. It looked delicious, Jazz was having a hard time stopping himself from putting it back in his mouth. He compromised, scooping some of the lubricant up with his finger, and sucking it off.

"Frag, Prowler, you taste good. Hey, remember that time ya got transfluid in my optic? That's the reason I wear a visor, ya know."

Prowl rolled his eyes, hard. "No it isn't! And I told your dumb aft to move."

Jazz grinned cheekily, and helped himself to another scoop of Prowl's fluids. He leaned over, bracing one hand against the wall behind Prowl, the other wrapped itself deftly around his neglected spike. Jazz thrust into Prowl in a fast, steady rhythm. He matched the pace with the hand on Prowl's spike, driving them both steadily to overload.

For the next several kliks, only the sounds of their interfacing could be heard: the smooth metallic slide of Jazz's spike, their fans trying desperately to cool their systems, heavy ventilation, and low sounds of pleasure. Prowl's venting turned to light pants, and Jazz picked up his pace a bit. He wanted Prowl to overload, wanted it bad. "Do it, Prowler, c'mon man, lemme see it. You know I want it."

Jazz's harsh whisper was all it took. His valve convulsed around Jazz. Transfluid hit Jazz's chasis in hard torrents that seemed to go on forever. Pleasure spiked through Prowl's sensor net as both systems overloaded simultaneously. It was too much, too intense, and Prowl went offline for just a moment.

Prowl faded back in slowly. He could hear Jazz gasping, panting. He was moving only barely, just enough to keep the charge from dissipating.

"Close?" Jazz just nodded in response, not really trusting his vocalizer to work.

Not as vocal as Jazz, Prowl wrapped his legs around the smaller mech, pulling him close, squeezing his Jazz's hips between his thighs. He tugged gently on his shoulders, urging him forward, stroking his back.

It was all the encouragement Jazz needed. He pistoned his hips roughly, without the smooth pace he'd had earlier. He gripped Prowl's black hips, nearly sobbing, desperately seeking the relief he needed. Transfluid burned its way up Jazz's length, and finally, finally he overloaded. He pressed his lips together tightly, trying to keep quiet, as waves of pleasure crashed over him. His entire frame shuddered and jerked, slowly relaxing as he spilled his transfluid. Jazz sat up, still resting in Prowl, little twitches of pleasure still skittering across his systems. "Ha! Made ya offline."

"Shut it." Prowl shifted slightly, getting more comfortable, content to bask in the sensation of fullness for just a few kliks.

Jazz was more than a little shocked. He'd expected Prowl to want to hurry off. He thought after the passion cooled, his friend would once again feel anxious about their very public position. Instead, Prowl actually tightened his thighs around Jazz's hips, clearly wanting him to remain.

Answering Jazz's unspoken question, Prowl said, "I don't care if we're caught. The most that would happen is we'd be looking for work."

Jazz's visor brightened in obvious surprise. That was the least Prowl-like thing he'd ever heard.

"Do you remember what we told Barricade today about failure?" Jazz nodded. "I guess hearing myself explain it to someone else finally made me see the light. I have worked hard my whole life Jazz. I have achieved a position second only to the Prime himself, and done it at a far younger age than any has in our entire history. And for what? I didn't do it because I wanted it. I did it because I thought that if I became more powerful, more prestigious, maybe my Creators would give a frag about me. They don't. I failed at that. I will always fail at that."

Jazz pulled back a little, and gently slid back in. He'd meant for it to be a comforting gesture, but Prowl leaned his head, sighing, and spread his thighs wide once again. Jazz's spike was very slowly de-pressurizing, but he was fairly sure he'd be able to overload Prowl one more time. "That ain't your fault man."

The charge was rapidly building in his valve, hurried along by Jazz's highly conductive transfluid. "I know. I accept it anyway. It's quite—Primus—liberating." Ohhh, that felt good. Prowl looked down, watching Jazz's spike appear, then disappear as it slid back into his valve. That did it. Prowl grunted, squirming and thrashing as he overloaded, the electric discharge from his clasping orifice surging across Jazz's spike, forcing the saboteur into his own unexpected release. Jazz yelped softly in surprise, and thrust hard into Prowl's valve one last time as he delivered his second load of transfluid on a wave of shuddery pleasure.

His systems declared him to be Really Fraggin Tired, and Jazz's spike deflated promptly when he eased himself out of Prowl's tight heat. He noticed his friend quickly iris his valve cover closed—it wouldn't do to leak transfluid all over the floor. Jazz tucked his own equipment away, and eyed Prowl's still pressurized spike. "We fail at quickies." He leaned down, pressing a kiss of friendly greeting against the tip of Prowl's length. In return, the spike lubricated against his lips. Primus, he wanted to sit on it. Fraggin time constraints. Jazz licked his lips. "Ya need to stop letting it build up so much. It's not good for ya, man."

Prowl shrugged. "I get busy, I don't think about it." He forced his rather unwilling spike back into its housing. And winced slightly, that was uncomfortable, but he sure as slag wasn't going to parade the rest of the way to his quarters with his equipment poking out. He had some dignity, slaggit.

"You should just rub one out in the racks every so often. That's what I do." Jazz's valve twinged. "Uh, sure you don't want me to..."

Prowl shook his head. His friend looked tired enough already. "Don't worry about it. Maybe, I'll take your advice when I hit my wash rack here in a few. You're tired, and if they find you sleeping in the hall again, the others are going to start asking questions."

"What? It ain't my fault my quarters move around when I get overcharged."

Prowl snorted and accepted Jazz's hand to help him up. They walked in silence until they got to his quarters, and Jazz clapped him once on the shoulder before he moved on, making his tired way to his own quarters and berth.

The first thing Prowl noticed when he entered his quarters was the flashing green light indicating he had a message. It could wait. Watching his messages with a fully pressurized spike and Jazz's transfluid pleasantly sloshing in his valve would be...weird.

He retracted his pelvic plating as he walked through the small living area, ignoring his berth-room and instead taking a left, to his wash. He opened his valve cover even as he turned on the water, feeling Jazz's fluid run gently down his inner thighs.

Cleanser and water hit him from every direction, and he let it sooth him as he picked up a cleansing cloth and got down to business. He didn't release his spike until the rest of his body was clean. Lubricant splattered on the wet floor as it sprang free—evidently his spike had been busy in its housing. The plan was to clean his spike. Only. Clean. It. But, well, he failed at that, too. He rubbed his member gently with the cleansing cloth, scrubbing away the lubricant, and he couldn't help it, he grunted slightly, involuntarily thrusting into his own hand. Then he made the mistake of thinking about Jazz swallowing his full length earlier and gave up. The texture of the warm, wet, cloth felt great, and he locked his joints and stood there, stroking himself. In about a breem, he shuddered for the third time that night, and watched his transfluid run slowly down the wall.

Red Alert finished erasing the section of footage that documented Prowl and Jazz's tryst. He made it look like a hardware glitch. It wouldn't do to have anyone see it. Of course, he'd uploaded it to his own processors first, but no one else would ever see it besides him. What? It would be a travesty to let something that hot go to waste. Those two had definitely made his shift more interesting.

He leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze fall on the wad of silver-blue streaked flimsies. WAY more interesting. He picked them up and put them in one of his storage compartments. He'd throw the bundle away when he got to his quarters. After all, it wouldn't do for anyone to see that, either.

Prowl sat in front of his console. The message was from one of his Creators, Silvermoon. She said to contact her no matter how late it was.

Sighing, Prowl pressed a few buttons, and within a klik, Slivermoon was on his view screen, looking outraged. Clearly, she'd been waiting for him to get back to her. She started in on him before he even had the chance to say 'hi'.

"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING! A mech in YOUR position, making a complete spectacle of himself in front of the ENTIRE town. Oh, and to make things better, you even had THEME music to set off your stupidity. Probably your moronic friend's doing right there. Primus, I don't see why you lower your family's status by even been seen with him in public. I have never been so humiliated-"

Prowl tuned her out. It was fairly easy to do, he'd been hearing some variation of that speech his entire life. He wondered what she'd say if she knew about Jazz fragging him senseless in a public corridor. He smiled, not even bothering to hide his mirth.

"I fail to see anything amusing about this, Prowl." Her voice was scathingly hateful. "The whole town is talking about it. We will never live it down. And to think you acted the fool for some pathetic, homeless sparkling-"

"Silvermoon," she stopped her rant easily enough. She was, Prowl knew, waiting for him to start making excuses, waiting for him to apologize and get back into her good graces. Prowl decided she'd be waiting a VERY long time. He hesitated. All of the things he'd ever wanted to say to her came flooding through his processor, each rebuke vying to be first in line. As gratifying as that would be, Prowl was tired, and he decided that would take too long. Most of an orn, in fact, so he summed up his feelings and retorts in two simple words that he delivered in his most cultured tone, "Suck it."

She was still gaping at him when he cut the comm. signal and made his way to his berth. He stretched out tiredly, setting his internal alarm. Tonight had been a Night of Firsts for Prowl. His first time at the Fair. His first time being cheered on by a crowd. His first time seeing Barricade's face light up with pride because of HIS actions. Breaking free of his Creator's choke hold. That was a first and last, right there. Interfacing with Jazz hadn't been a first, but it was still awesome. He snickered.

It had been the best night of his life.

A/N: If you're wondering about Prowl's theme music, think: Wagner's Ride of the Valkyrie. Thanks again for reading! I know it was long, but hopefully not boring.