Archive of Our Own

Prowl was watching again as the target – Lockdown of Uraya – sauntered through the market, apparently oblivious to the hunters watching him avidly from above. Angle and quality of the footage told Prowl that it must have been a drone, possibly one of the press drones – no, it must belong to Special Operations; the drone moved and he could make out the light warping of the image where he had crouched on a third floor window sill, the camera lens good enough to catch the outline of his frame and therefore far better than anything a press drone was capable of. Even most SpecOps drone weren't good enough for this, but he'd been in Iacon long enough now to not be too surprised anymore by what came out of Wheeljack’s and Perceptor’s lab.

In fact, while it couldn't see right through his cloaking shield, the image was still sharp enough to catch the moment when Prowl had followed his target's line of sight and seen the mech dancing in the street.

The angle wasn't good to really see the mech, showing only light reflexes off a silvery frame, but Prowl remembered all too well what he'd looked like – light civilian armor, a Polihexian frame with the typical sensor stubs on his helm, a sparkling blue visor, small with for his frametype unusual doorwings and elegance in every movement as he'd jumped and turned like gravity was just a mere suggestion to him, the fiddle in his hands never making a wrong sound no matter how he contorted himself. The grin on his full lips had never wavered while he serenaded the passers-by, visor blinking on and off in a wink whenever he flirted with some of them, earning laughter and cheeky kisses and quite a lot of shanix that would have made him a good earning for the orn – if not for the ugly black band around his throat, marking him as a slave to the mech watching him from a chair in the shadow, sleazy grin saying he knew very well just what kind of star he owned.

It had made Prowl want to jump from his window sill and hunt him instead of his target, an urge he'd never had before.

An urge he felt again, and even stronger, now that Lockdown had been hauled into the SpecOps cells downstairs.

"I assume you have an explanation for what was going on there?", Mirage's cultured voice came from beside him as if he could see what was going on in Prowl.

Maybe he could. For all that Prowl hadn't expected much from being lend to Iacon Special Operations – a consequence of the new Prime taking an interest in other city states beyond what taxes he could extract from them, and asking for the Praxian hunters to be deployed all over Cybertron instead of only leaving their city state’s borders to hunt down their own criminals – Mirage had proven himself to be a quick study of hunter habits and a very observant handler.

No wonder that he was helm of Iacon SpecOps, and therefore the Prime's supreme spy master within the Cybertronian Empire, counterpart to a mech like Soundwave even if he was barely half the age of the Lord Protector's optics on other realms.

In the footage Prowl could see himself watch the target watch the dancer. Felt, again, the urge to jump off the window sill and – and claim the mech for himself, kill first Lockdown – the greater challenge – and then the owner before dragging the dancer back into the palace and the rooms he'd been given in the SpecOps quarters. And there –

"Bluestreak reported that it took you almost a klik to confirm his ready to shoot despite there being no reason he could see to hold you up."

And Bluestreak might still be nominally Prowl’s apprentice but he was more than ready to be send out on his own. If not for the rules they lived by, Prowl wouldn't have had to be there this orn to watch Bluestreak take out the target.

Wouldn't have been there to see the dancer.

Licking his lips he offered, "I was ... distracted."

A light reflex somewhere on the screen as the projectile finally went off, streaking through the air invisible but for that one reflection, then hit the target.

Lockdown fell without even noticing that he'd been shot, the capsule in the point of the bullet breaking on contact and releasing a fast-working tranquilizer. Around him, mecha were calling out, obviously concerned – unaware that the downed mech was a dangerous serial killer – and kneeling next to him. One mech was checking for life signs – maybe a medic – but must have found enough to calm the rest of the crowd that had now huddled around them.

"Distracted", Mirage repeated.

From offscreen a medical transport came in, making only walking speed on the crowded market place while the medic working with him was jogging through the mecha. None of them seemed to notice anything off, but Prowl recognized Ambulon, the SpecOps medic, and knew full well that the ambulance would be outfitted with enough restraints to keep a furious tank down.

"Yes."

Outside the ring the mecha had formed around the scene – and incidentally far from his master – the dancer had stumbled to a stop, visor wide and bright – and directed not at the crowd but up, at the roof where Prowl knew Bluestreak had been stationed and must now already be off of.

Somehow, even with all the distractions around him, even while not even looking directly at Lockdown, he must have seen something – enough to realize, or at least suspect, that the target's breakdown had no natural source.

"By the dancer?"

Prowl himself should have been off already, too. The window behind him was closed but the one two floors higher wasn't, and it would have been a matter of nanokliks to reach it, hidden safely by his shield. Instead the telltale outline of his frame stayed still on the window, helm angled to watch down into the crowd.

He could claim it had been to make sure that no one had noticed anything. Could even claim that he had realized someone had noticed and that he only wanted to make sure he was no danger to the operation.

But Mirage was terribly observant, and hunters that lied to their handlers usually didn't live long – too much of a danger that they secretly started to become killers themselves.

"... yes."

Mirage nodded, an elegant, cultured movement that made Prowl wonder if he could take him out if he needed to. Mirage wasn't a fighter like Prowl, preferring to take his hits from far away like Bluestreak, but he wouldn't be helm of SpecOps if he didn't have some tricks up his subspace.

And those cool, icy optics looking at him now seemed to see far too much. "Relax", he ordered. "I have worked with enough highly specialized and instinct-driven mecha to know how they can focus in on one mech. At least you chose a slave – a free mech would be far harder to vanish."

That ... Prowl blinked, surprised, and felt his doorwings flutter just the slightest behind him. This sounded very close to how Praxus would deal with such a lapse in comportment, and very much not how he had expected Mirage to handle this.

"I just need to know – do you plan on killing him?"

The growl was out before Prowl could stop himself, his doorwings hiked up again, hands balled into fists at his side. Only iron self-control kept him from jumping his handler.

Mirage mustered him, still calm and cool in the face of a hunter ready to rip his throat out, and nodded once. "Good. Optimus isn't fond of slavery at all, and having to explain to him why I bought a slave will be easier if he doesn't wind up dead somewhere. It shouldn't be hard to sell him on the idea that this dancer will have a better life here with us than out on the streets under a master who obviously doesn't take much care with him."

Surprise stopped the attack protocols, cautious joy and a strange, new hunger filling the void left by his anger.

Yes.

… … ...

Jazz was not entirely certain what was going on and for someone in his position that could be really fragging dangerous. It wasn't made better by his feeling that this had something to do with the sharp shooter on the market.

He probably wouldn't have noticed anything – no one else seemed to have – but he had been living on the streets before a hand in the wrong purse had lead to the collar around his throat, and one didn't survive the Polihexian underworld for as long as he had if they weren't very observant.

Rollover had had him continue to play and dance until his fingers and peds were sore and the market had started to be dismantled around them, then dragged him back into the apartment he kept in the lower city and locked him into the closet that served as his berth room. It probably violated several laws about how he was to treat his slave, at least in spirit if not in word, but considering he had pushed a cube at him for his evening fuel and he was allowing him enough movement during the orn Jazz was pretty sure there wasn't anyone who would care enough to make it a problem for him.

Tired and safe enough in his closet until Rollover came back from his trip out to probably frag him or maybe have one of his friends frag him Jazz had squeezed into the berth and tried to get some rest.

He'd been woken again by Rollover coming back, but unlike normally he hadn't been brash about it, yanking the door open and ordering him to his knees. Instead he had been deferential, stuttering that he was only keeping Jazz locked in because he was a flight risk and obviously he wasn't mistreated, no sir, he would never!

The mech he had been talking to, light blue with expensive accents and an almost noble arrogance around him, hadn't seemed impressed. Nor had his companion, a seeker who had absentmindedly played with a knife, the sparse light from the hallway reflecting off her claws.

"I assume you didn't think about what might happen if the building caught fire?", the noble said, his voice pure acid, and Rollover had crumbled where he stood.

No wonder – Jazz might not be up to date with the laws but even he knew that a slave owner was responsible for keeping their slaves safe. Locking Jazz in when there was no one there to let him out in case of an emergency might be more laziness than malice but it could still earn him time in prison. It would, at the very least, cost him the rights to Jazz' contract.

So when the noble proposed leaving Jazz to him in exchange for the promise of never owning slaves again Jazz wasn't surprised that Rollover jumped on the opportunity, and less than a breem later the noble left the apartment, Jazz' paperwork safely stored in his subspace, while the seeker followed behind Jazz, ensuring that he wasn't making a run for it.

Which he wouldn't. There was a tracker somewhere in his frame, and a second in the collar, and while he might have gotten them out in time to escape when it was only Rollover and his friends pursuing him a noble had much more resources and more shanix.

So now he was here, huddled in his seat in the transport that had waited for the noble down on the street, and dreading what would happen to him. He couldn't even find joy in being allowed onto the seat – the old berth was the only furniture Rollover had allowed him on, and he was pretty sure it had only been because of the convenience of having a berth close by to frag him on whenever he wanted –, not when the way the noble was looking at him was far too intense for him to be an impulse buy.

This felt far less like a noble seeing a pretty dancer and wanting him for themselves, and far more like someone who had noticed him seeing the projectile hitting the mech in the crowd this orn.

And Rollover might not have noticed but Jazz had been a court musician before his master's traitorous actions against the Prince of Polyhex had forced him to flee into the streets and he knew that no normal noble would have come to pick him up themself, and even less one whose expensive paint job and rich inlays spoke of high nobility.

What was going on here?

The transport stopping caught his attention, and then he was sucking a vent in, shocked, when he realized that they had stopped right outside the gate leading onto the grounds of the primal palace.

The door opened, allowing a guard in the red livree of the Primesguard to look inside.

"Lord Mirage."

The noble allowed it with barely a reaction, only nodding in response to the shallow bow the guard offered him, while the seeker grinned.

"Stuck with gate duty, Springer? I can be in the gym when you need to work out some of the frustration later."

The guard rolled his optics at her but grinned a little, nodding, before asking with a glance towards Jazz, "Should I ignore him or is he here officially?"

The question had dread settle in Jazz' tanks. Just what kind of influence had Lord Mirage that the fragging Primesguard would offer to turn a blind optic on him bringing an unknown mech into the primal palace – and what kind of reputation that the guard would immediately assume that that's what he might want?

Lord Mirage mustered him, still so utterly calm and collected, before coming to a decision. Turning towards the guard he made a small gesture with his hand, offering, "He will be around, so I see not much reason in keeping his existence secret. He is Jazz, of Polyhex – I will contact Ironhide concerning his security clearance later."

"Very well." The guard nodded, then stepped back so the door could close.

The way he had barely looked at Jazz, his deference to Lord Mirage, had all given Jazz the feeling that he wouldn't have said anything if Jazz had been bleeding out on the floor, and that only increased the feeling of dread in his tanks. It took all his former court training and whatever he had learned on the streets to keep from projecting his fear, instead forcing his field flat and snug – unless someone touched him they wouldn't know what he felt.

Glancing up he found Lord Mirage looking at him with a thoughtful air that made him ball his hands into fists to keep from calling him out on it. That never went well for a slave, and probably double so when he was talking to a proper lord.

Putting his back to the noble made his neck itch but it was still better than returning Lord Mirage's gaze and having him get ideas.

It helped that he had never seen anything like the palace grounds before: a wide park sprawled around them, with aesthetically pleasantly arranged crystals and statues of mecha in various poses – maybe former primes? – lined the main way.

Their transport passed the main entrance and he got a close look at the palace buildings – none of them higher than four stories though with an occasional tower; a sign of wealth in a city like Iacon where even the rich and noble resided in towers, though they lorded living in higher towers than the rest of the population over them. Jazz didn't know much about architecture but even he could see that there were quite a few different styles, though whoever had added newer buildings had made sure they matched well with the older ones at their sides.

Finally, the transport stopped next to a side entrance, and Lord Mirage stepped off with a surprising lack of fanfare. The seeker was looking at him, obviously waiting for him to get moving, too, and so Jazz jumped out, trying to get a better look around.

Apparently they were close to the barracks, a couple of mecha in Primesguard coloring watching them idly from what must be a training ground, now almost deserted due to the late jour. The building next to them was even lower than the rest of the complex, only two stories high and almost plain compared to the entrance.

Maybe these were the servant quarters? But why would Lord Mirage bring him here himself?

They passed through a gate, the guards only nodding at Lord Mirage and the seeker and completely ignoring Jazz, into a shadowed inner garden that Mirage walked through without a pause for the truly stunning display of crystals and a freaking energon well, only stopping when he reached the door on the other side, looking impatiently back to Jazz.

Afraid what he might do Jazz jogged the last steps, earning himself a sharp nod.

"Stay close now. You are not, technically, allowed in here – not yet, anyway. If you are found wandering around on your own you will cause more problems than I want to deal with this evening."

Jazz wondered how Lord Mirage thought he might take off with the seeker following behind him – only to realize that she had vanished at some point, leaving Jazz alone with the lord. Which made his caution make more sense at least, though why he would leave his frameguard behind Jazz couldn't quite understand.

However, the way Lord Mirage was looking at him called for an answer, so he quickly nodded. "Sure. Stay close."

Those sharp, icy optics lingered for another moment on him, then he nodded and turned abruptly around, the door opening as soon as he stepped forward and into the hallway behind.

And Jazz realized that he had majorly misjudged where they were going. This wasn't some servant building. This wasn't even just another palace building, housing courtiers. No, those richly decorated walls – crystal mosaics! Vibrant paint! Woven tapestries! – and the statues and vases and hardlight sculptures and the freaking arrangement of more crystals on small pedestals betrayed the high rank of the inhabitants of this palace wing. And considering there were more Primesguards here – a pair directly inside the door they had come through, another at a hallway leading off towards a different building – Jazz had the bad feeling he knew whose rooms these were.

After all, Primus was said to be below them. And traditionally – at least in the outer city states; cities like Iacon often had different rules which was the reason he had totally misjudged so much –, the highest ranking mecha lived the closest to him.

Jazz just hadn't thought he would ever come this close to meeting the Prime.

At least it seemed that he wouldn't this time, either, when Mirage stopped in front of another hallway.

Unlike the rest of the building this one was utterly without accessories, the walls, ceiling and floor painted white over bare metal. No doors lead away from it, and after about two dozen steps it made a sharp turn, hiding whatever else might lie within from view.

There were no guards here, but Jazz didn't need anyone to tell him that this was not a hallway he wanted to step in without invitation.

"This is the entrance to the Iacon Special Operation headquarters", Lord Mirage said in front of him, having turned around so he could look at Jazz properly.

Which meant that he had a very good view as Jazz almost lost his dinner. Special Operations? As in, spies and torturers? What had he done to gain their attention?!

Had ... oh frag, oh frag, oh frag. The mech on the market this orn. The projectile. The sharpshooter on the roof, even if he'd never seen them.

A Special Operations mission.

And he was but a slave. What better way to get rid of unwanted witnesses but to make them walk to their execution themselves?

Only, a small part of his mind that wasn't frozen in panic pointed out, Lord Mirage had given his, Jazz’, designation to the gate guard. Had said, 'He'll be around'. So what else might a spy want from a slave?

The answer – nothing good, most likely – made him sway on his peds a bit, balance thoroughly shot, and Lord Mirage reached out for him, a hand against his elbow as if to steady him – then he blinked, surprised, when he brushed against Jazz' field. "Ah."

A moment of silence, before, "You don't have to be afraid. I haven't brought you here as a prisoner – or even as a guest of Special Operations." He stepped forward, just enough that he could use his free hand to tilt Jazz' helm up, his blue gaze cool on Jazz' feverish face. "One of my ... agents showed a certain ... interest in you, and acquiring you is far easier than having to work around his distraction. He does not wish to hurt you. Taking into account what I have seen from your life with your former master, your circumstances should have changed far to the better."

He does not wish to hurt you still left a world of accidental pain, but knowing that he wasn't about to be tortured for noticing just a little too much at least allowed Jazz to vent easier again. And being given to on agent meant he probably wouldn't be passed around like a fragtoy – he'd done that, before Rollover, and he would really like to avoid experiencing it again. Pleasurebots at least could say no if they didn't want to get fragged by someone – a slave like him? Had to take what their master ordered, and usually no mech gave a frag about how legal that was.

"Better", Lord Mirage – who must be helm of SpecOps if he said one of my agents, Unicron's rusting spike, what had he gotten himself into here? – said, making Jazz realize that the pain in his sides was from his vents slowing down again after the sudden panic had pushed them into overdrive, cooling his frame far too much.

The hand dropped from his chin though he didn't quite dare to let his gaze sink again. "Rules, at least for this orn – we will go over them in more detail tomorrow when I have talked to Ironhide."

Jazz nodded quickly. Rules. He liked rules – even if he often ended up breaking them they meant he knew when to expect pain.

Lord Mirage stared at him for a moment longer, then turned away and started down the hallway. Jazz hastened to follow him.

"One, you may move freely within the SpecOps floors, though you are to stay away from the two lowermost floors. Two, you will not leave these hallways, at least not without me or your master – or Optimus Prime or Lord Megatron, though I do not foresee either of them coming into these halls for you so this is rather theoretical. Three, don't attack anyone you meet in this hallways. This should be self-explanatory but just to be sure: everyone who is allowed in here, including the Prime, is more than capable of kicking you aft, and I have no desire to deal with Prowl over someone putting a dent into his precious slave. And four."

They rounded the corner, and Jazz blinked, surprised to see a door in front of them. It slid aside when they stepped up, opening to show a small room – an elevator, though without any buttons as Jazz quickly realized when he followed Lord Mirage into the cabin.

"Four," Lord Mirage wasn't looking at him. "I do not care if Prowl chains you to his berth and frags you until your processor melts as long as you pass your medical evaluation, but the second anyone who isn't Prowl so much as touches you against your wishes you come and tell me. Clear?"

Frag. Well. It wasn't as if Jazz had expected anything else. "Crystal."

Maybe he noticed Jazz' reaction to his last words but Lord Mirage stopped for a moment before exiting the elevator onto a new hallway – there was no display, but it hadn't been long enough for more than one or two floor down – and looked at him.

"I do not expect Prowl to curtail your freedom in this way, or in fact abuse you at all. My experience with him tells me that he is far more likely to absolutely spoil you as long as you can keep from challenging his authority too much. He is possessive and highly focused, but his instincts also run towards the protective and nurturing when it comes to those he considers his. You will be fine."

Unsure how to react to this Jazz only nodded, earning himself another sharp glance before Lord Mirage turned on his heel, walking down the hallway.

It was utterly featureless and white as well, yet unlike the one they'd just come from this one had doors leading away from it – white and utterly uniform again –, with a fork ahead, and Jazz thought that he would need quite a while to learn his way around here.

Mirage nodded towards the first door to their right as they passed it. "This one leads to a staircase that connects the residential floors and the training area. You can also reach the medbay using it. As you will not be able to use the elevator this will be your primary way to go around. In fact, everywhere you can reach through it, you are allowed to be."

That was actually rather handy. Jazz had already dreaded how to not accidentally get into areas that were off-limits.

Lord Mirage turned left at the fork, then again sharp left at the next. Just as Jazz was starting to wonder just how large the underground complex was he stopped at another white, utterly nondescript door.

It opened within nanokliks, revealing an actually rather attractive Praxian who had Jazz reset his visor. The paintjob – white with black accents, a red and gold chevron over piercing blue optics – would have looked drab on another mech; this one made it look classy. In fact, it beautifully accented the intelligence glinting in those optics, the wide, elegant doorwings and the powerful thighs.

At least, if Jazz was meant to spend the rest of his functioning chained to someone's berth, he would have a nice view.

And apropos view – those piercing blue optics had jumped from Lord Mirage to him within a nanoklik and then stayed there, his expression transformed from cautious welcome into an intensely burning focus that made Jazz swallow, his throat suddenly dry.

He was distantly wondering how he hadn't acquired any burns under those optics.

"Prowl", Lord Mirage said.

The mech – Prowl, his new master apparently – didn't react.

"Prowl!"

That snapped his helm around, teeth bared in a silent snarl, his field flared in a show of anger.

Lord Mirage was either more ballsy than Jazz had thought or he was a really good fighter for he didn't flinch in the slightest, just caught the look of those optics with his own, his field still placid and cool like an acid puddle in a winter night.

"Rules", he started, earning another growl even while Prowl's doorwings dipped in assent. "One – I don't think this will be a problem, but Jazz doesn't leave the residential area at the very least until I've sorted out his clearance with Ironhide. Clear?"

Again a dip of those gorgeous doorwings even as his helm turned again, optics burning on Jazz' frame.

"Two – I don't care what you are doing with him this night, but Ambulon wants him in his medbay tomorrow at jour ten. And I want him in my office at twelve – if he's to live here he needs a proper introduction to SpecOps. Clear?"

Another dip, then Prowl repeated, maybe in an attempt to show that he was listening, "Medbay at ten. Your office at twelve."

Oh frag, even his voice was gorgeous, a deep bariton that made Jazz' struts vibrate. Now he just needed to be reasonable decent and Jazz had really lucked out with his new master. Getting fragged by him, at least, wouldn't be too much of an ordeal – hopefully.

It seemed Lord Mirage was satisfied for he nodded again, then stepped out of the door with a "Good. Have fun", thrown almost over his shoulder.

Jazz didn't have long to look after him for white hands grabbed him, sharp claws prickling along his plating, and pulled him into the room. Behind them, the door slid shut, but Jazz really didn't have the free RAM to more than notice that, not when Prowl pushed him up against the wall, those hands on his wrists, pushing them into the wall over his helm. Powerful thighs pressed against the outside of his own, an already warm modesty panel against his own, and then Prowl pushed even closer, his face against Jazz' throat, lips touching his cables just barely – warm vents dancing over them as Prowl inhaled deeply – scenting him, as a turbodog might.

"Jazz", he said, like a revelation. "My Jazz."

Sure. Wasn't as if it wasn't true.

It wasn't quite fear that cursed through him – more apprehension at the feeling of being so effectively caged, of unknown dentae against cables that he had never felt so much were only civilian grade – easily bitten through or ripped out. A field pressed against his plating that was full of dark hunger, of lust, like the night in the pleasure district.

And yet the hunger wasn't violent, the hands on his not painful. The panel stayed closed even as it heated ever more, even as the glossa darting out licked over his cables, over all the sensors in his throat, eliciting half-choked gasps.

Considering how close the mech was, how intimate their position, the whole moment felt strangely ... chaste.

And really, Jazz had had several masters by now – not as many as some others but he hadn't taken the verdict of fifty vorns of slavery over a simple picked subspace pocket lying down, not when it was so obviously functionistic; he shouldn't have gotten more than a fine, really, or maybe one vorn since he couldn't pay it, but this was outrageous! – but despite the initial shock this was a rather ... nice start. Two of his masters had ordered him on his back or knees within the first klik, and a third had thought he needed to have his attitude whipped right out, so just being held like this, being kept close, was ... really good.

Without his conscious decision he felt himself relax, a small sigh escaping him.

Prowl reacted with a quiet moan, his field smoothing out until he, too, felt relaxed, the hunger only a deep, warm desire.

When Prowl finally moved back Jazz almost missed the warmth against his plating.

"My Jazz", he murmured again, voice warm.

Fear all but gone under the warmth Jazz dared to grin up at him. "Looks like it, sure. You have any plans for what to do with me, now that you have me?"

Prowl's optics blazed, his fingers spasmed where they still pinned Jazz against the wall. "Yes", he said, voice dark again. Then his optics wandered down to Jazz' neck and he snarled before he pulled Jazz' hands together so he could easily pin them with one hand – and frag was he strong that he could easily hold Jazz like this, and that shouldn't make a delighted shiver run down his struts when the mech was glaring at his throat – and then use his free hand to cradle Jazz' neck.

No, not his neck – the collar still locked around his neck, proclaiming his status to everyone around him as if his id ping wasn't already enough to tell them that he was a slave.

A collar he was supposed to keep wearing but the way Prowl held it felt a lot like he was plugging into it – the lock shouldn't be hackable by anything but a super computer, that was part of the reason fleeing was so fragging damn hard – but maybe SpecOps had the master keys to them –

Jazz was staring at his master, wide-opticked, as the collar fell to the ground next to them. "I'm pretty sure that's illegal", he said, lips numb.

Not that he missed the damn thing but he was pretty sure it would be taken out on his plating, not Prowl's.

Prowl only snorted, fingers stroking gently over his suddenly so naked throat. "There's only SpecOps here – no one who will report it. And it was ugly. I will get you something more elegant for when we are allowed to leave the complex."

Leave the complex – oh. This sounded like he wouldn't be kept chained to his berth after all.

And something more elegant? Maybe Lord Mirage had been right about the spoiling thing. Or at least Prowl was into showing Jazz off and that usually meant that he would make sure that Jazz was looked after well enough.

Prowl's optics wandered down his frame, then he was suddenly pulling back entirely, allowing Jazz' arms to fall free. "Come", he said. "You need a proper shower."

Oh yes. Making sure he was well looked after.

And Jazz certainly had no objections to that plan. Rollover hadn't allowed him into the shower, claiming it was too much of a luxury for a mere slave, so he had had to make do with sponge baths for his entire time with him. A proper shower sounded wonderful.

Yet when he expected Prowl to walk deeper into the room, through one of the two doors he could see behind him, he instead made for the exit again. Blinking in surprise Jazz followed him; he would have expected the rooms to have showers included.

Though after he'd followed Prowl a couple doors down the hallway – Mirage was long gone – he could easily see why a different option had been chosen: the washrack he followed Prowl into was vast, with a generous entrance chamber, a shower room with a dozen shower heads, and another chamber with a hot oil tub easily large enough to hold four convoys.

Jazz almost stumbled in his surprise, staring wide-opticked at this luxury. Even shared between several mecha – this seemed to be a communal washrack after all – it was better than anything he'd seen since sneaking into his lord's washrack as a youngling. His servants certainly hadn't been given a hot oil tub.

The pool was empty right now but he wasn't too disappointed; as much as he liked soaking he preferred to not be this vulnerable just yet when he was still so unsure of his place here.

Though Prowl made a good showing of putting him at ease, taking a bag of bathing utensils from one of the shelves in the entrance room before leading him into the shower itself.

The first spurt of hot solvent on his plating felt so amazing Jazz wanted to melt into a puddle. His cables relaxed under the heat and he could feel the liquid sluicing the orn's dust right off his plating and then run deeper, soaking parts of his armor a washcloth simply couldn't reach. Flaring his plating as much as possible he simply enjoyed for a moment before he felt Prowl stepping closer.

When he turned he found him offering a brush – one of those fancy ones with organic bristles that cost more than the shanix he'd stolen that had gotten him into this mess into the first place. "Turn around, my Jazz", Prowl said and Jazz might have been concerned except the way his master looked at him was more appraising than lusty, wondering where best to start grooming him.

Having someone care for him this way had been ... it had been too long, since before his creators had died in his former lord's failed coup, and he couldn't help but purr while Prowl used an assortment of brushes and soaps to get rid of all the old dirt.

Speaking of his old lord ... Prowl was obviously not a lord but he was answering to Mirage who was. So ... was Mirage his new house lord?

Or did he now belong to the household of the Lord Prime, in whose employ Iacon Special Operations was?

Jazz didn't know much about the new Prime, his ability to collect news heavily curtailed by his status as a slave and his lack of shanix, but he'd had to listen more than once to his masters gripe about new laws strengthening the rights of slaves. Not that either of them had actually changed their ways – not until Mirage had turned up and used Rollover's actions against him – but if the Prime was against slavery then maybe Jazz really had lucked out, for surely Prowl wouldn't mistreat him under the Prime's own roof?

A brush over one of his deeper sensors distracted him from his thoughts and he focused back on the present, on cleaning himself so thoroughly.

On having someone take care of the parts that he couldn't reach.

At one point the cleaning brushes turned into sensual touches, palms petting the flats of his armor, fingers teasing his sensors, claws scraping gently over his cables, and Jazz wasn't surprised when he felt lips touch the edges of his doorwing.

"My Jazz", Prowl said, possessiveness dripping from every syllable, making him shiver.

Which Jazz was pretty sure was the reason he didn't notice the door sliding open behind them until a rather young voice exclaimed, "Prowl? Why are you – oh! I didn't know you had company – actually who is that and does Mirage know you brought a strang – yikes!"

The last came from Prowl whirling around and taking a swipe at the mech with his claws out that was fast enough Jazz could barely see it – could have never gotten out of its way in time – but that the newcomer easily dodged.

"Jazz is mine", Prowl growled, though without taking a second swipe.

The mech – a yellow minibot that looked rather innocent and young for a spy – blinked up at him. "Sure? I don't actually want to have him also Mirage says new rule, you're supposed to tell him whenever you let him out of your rooms if you're attacking people over him and why is he not telling you that himself?"

"I have been ignoring his attempts to contact me", Prowl said as if that was a reasonable thing to do with one's superior. Then, like it was being dragged out of him, "I did not intend to hurt you."

The minibot grinned, undaunted. "I know, you don't miss. Also, no worry, I've had mecha react worse to me crashing a private party before. Jazz, was nice meeting you, let's talk another time, bye!"

The door slid shut again before Jazz could so much as react – the minibot seemed nice, it might be cool to actually talk to him – though he caught the bot's grin as Prowl reacted to his words with a growl.

Prowl was staring at the door for a while longer, the growl rumbling through him, before he abruptly turned back to Jazz. Grabbing his wrist he pulled him out of the shower and pushed a soft mesh at him, then took another to help dry him off.

Jazz only hoped that this didn't mean Prowl would forbid him to talk to any other mecha; he hadn't been allowed to just casually talk to whoever he wanted in quite some time. Making friends in this new place would be … nice.

Not that asking Prowl about it right now seemed like a good idea right now; he was still growling slightly under his vents and his field was crackling with jealousy along the edges while he threw the towels at the racks and then pulled Jazz out of the washrack and back to his – their – rooms.

Hopefully, he would dial his possessiveness back in the next orns. Not that Jazz was opposed to sneaking behind his master’s back – it wouldn’t be the first time, really – but seeing as his new master was a spy it might be a bit more difficult than usually, and he would really rather not get punished regularly.

Once back in their rooms he was herded through one of the doors into a sleeping room, Prowl behind him all the way as if he was a flight risk. The room was surprisingly large and dominated by a large berth that looked like he could sink into it and never find his way out again.

Which, honestly? That sounded amazing. Even with how good the shower had felt, and how nice Prowl had been aside from jumping him, this orn had been a lot and now that he had gotten a good relaxing shower and the tension was leaving him, Jazz was ready to fall asleep on his peds.

Prowl helped him into the berth, then followed right along, before curling up around him in the middle of the berth. The position was … surprisingly comfortable. Whenever he had been in a similar position these last vorns it had been something to dread – warm and strong frames surrounding him meant getting fragged, and fragged hard and often without any care for his own pleasure or even just health.

Prowl … Prowl felt different. There was lust in his field where it swirled around them and nipped at Jazz’ own, lust and possessiveness, but they were banked by protectiveness and a simple, warm joy at being here, with Jazz in his arms, that he couldn’t feel threatened by it. Cuddling deeper into the hold, his head resting comfortably on Prowl’s chest, it didn’t take long for his systems to slow down, lulled into sleep by the feeling of a large predator guarding him.

… … ...

Listening to Jazz' systems slow down into recharge, his engine noise becoming a soothing rhythm while being held in Prowl's arms, he finally returned one of the pings Mirage had been sending him like clockwork since he'd left him in his rooms. Really, considering how little he knew about Praxian hunters, his commander had been surprisingly patient and tolerant towards his behavior which must seem very incomprehensible to him.

He was still not wasting any time establishing a proper connection between them as soon as Prowl answered him.

::Judging by Bee's report I'm assuming Jazz is still well?::

And Prowl reminded himself again that Mirage didn't know what was going on and was really patient and tolerant with him, not to mention that between Prowl's actions and his inability to properly communicate due to his code rewriting itself he must have looked like he was going feral to an outsider.

Also that if he snarled now Mirage wouldn't hear it at all but he might wake and frighten Jazz.

::I will never hurt my mate::, he send back, purring in delight at the reminder that it was his mate who he was holding so close. Who was lying so trustingly in his arms, and now making a funny face even in sleep at the sound coming from Prowl.

A short pause – surprise? – before Mirage asked, ::My understanding was that hunters only mate other hunters."

Prowl reset his optics, surprised himself before he realized how Mirage might have come to that conclusion. ::We mate mecha who have a hunter's spark::, he corrected, his hand finding its way over the chest of his mate, tracing idle patterns over even this spark, spinning in comforting regularity under his touch. ::There are far too few hunters to ensure everyone of us might be able to find a compatible match. Yet the mecha that pull us in – the attraction is to compatibility, including their hunting prowess.::

::Jazz is a dancer.::

::Now::, Prowl agreed easily. ::I doubt he has ever been given the option to learn to fight or hunt, but he moves easily and silently:: – barely a sound even while out of his depths, and that while being untaught – ::and he doesn't scare easily.:: He had been afraid, yes, but not panicked, even when Prowl had jumped him. And his obedience hadn't been the unthinking submission of the frightened but tactical thinking, aware that he might be hurt if he fought back yet fully willing to do so anyway should Prowl try to abuse him.

It had made him very attractive.

::I will teach him.::

::And if he doesn't wish to learn?"::

::He will wish to.:: No hunter had ever been wrong when choosing their mate, even if Jazz was the first non-Praxian mate Prowl had ever heard of.

But the Prime had indicated that he wanted to see if non-Praxians could be hunters, too, so he would most likely not stay the only hunter whose origin was from elsewhere.

The comm was silent even longer this time, indicating that Mirage might think about it – or talk to someone else. Finally, ::I will give him the option to train alongside Bumblebee when you bring him up tomorrow. A friend will do him good anyway, and Bee is still early enough in his training that Jazz might be able to catch up easily if he is as good as you suspect him to be.::

::He is my mate::, he growled over the line, as good as that was possible. ::I will teach him.::

::You can certainly be one of his teachers,yes::, Mirage agreed. ::However, a good team is one whose members have different strengths – if you are the only one to teach him he might never develop his own strengths, or get frustrated because he might never be as good as you in those abilities in which you excel. And just from watching him this orn I would assume he is far more people-capable than you – how would you be able to train him in undercover work?::

It was galling to be reminded of this – and almost more galling to realize that Mirage was right, that this was the very reason Bluestreak had been taught by several hunters, of whose Prowl was just the latest.

:: Very well::, he acquiesced, holding Jazz just a little closer to remind himself that while his mate might have other teachers as well, he was his , and he would be ::But he will be my partner.::

::If he agrees to be trained, and then agrees to become a hunter – and part of SpecOps – alongside you.::

Not something Prowl was worried about. ::He will.:: A spark as bright as his Jazz’ would jump at the opportunity to learn more, to train to be able to defend himself. ::If that is all?::

A soft laugh came through the connection. ::Yes, it is. Sleep well, Prowl.::

Disconnecting with a short goodbye-signal, Prowl offlined his optics and allowed his senses to reach for Jazz.

For the one he was allowed to protect, and to call his, and to keep.

Who would hunt alongside him to keep the mecha of their city – of their empire – safe.

To keep each other safe.

His mate.