It was their first major victory over the Decepticons under the leadership of Optimus Prime and there were pockets of celebration growing all over the main Autobot base. Moral was at an all-time high and the officers were turning mostly blind optics to the revelry that was ensuing as a result – so long, of course, that the running of the base did not actually suffer and the 'bots due at their posts showed up on time and in working condition. Regardless, the high grade was flowing and Jazz knew of several 'bots who would likely be suffering from aching processors the following cycle. He conceded, somewhat ruefully, that he would likely be no exception to that. But it was hard to resist the camaraderie and spirit of his fellow Autobots. And besides, cycles like this – where nearly everyone could relax a little and perhaps forget the horrific toll the war had taken for just a little while – didn't happen very often. Jazz fully intended to take advantage of it while he could. Just within the last joor he had dropped in on no less than six parties, ranging in size from small gatherings to full-scale romps. He had mingled and danced and consumed high grade like the best of them, swapping stories that had varying degrees of truthfulness to them and generally ensuring that everyone he met remained in high spirits.
Eventually, however, the parties began to wind down to something quieter as mechs and femmes began to wander off in twos and threes for more private celebrations. Jazz had received no small amount of invitations himself but he waved them all off with an easy smile as he abandoned them to find the mech at least partially responsible for the celebration. And that was why he was currently sprawled over the berth of the one mech in all of Iacon who had an off-duty cycle and was spending it working in his quarters instead of celebrating.
Some things never change.
"You do have your own berth," Prowl said pointedly after some time, "in your own quarters."
Prowl's quarters were a haven of quiet; the thick walls kept the loudest of the celebration to a dull murmur and the bits of equipment that had inevitably migrated to his living quarters hummed softly but not unpleasantly. Jazz stretched out on the low berth sinuously, enjoying the pleasant buzz granted him by the high-grade he had consumed earlier. He regarded Prowl through his dimmed visor, giving his comment careful consideration. "Yeah, but then I couldn't watch you work yourself in to an early grave," he finally replied with a cheeky smile. "'Sides, I like your berth; it's comfy."
Prowl turned from his desk, regarding his companion with steady optics. Jazz smiled guilelessly back. "The high-grade has impaired your motor functions, rendering you incapable of standing under your own power; much less able to remove yourself from my quarters. Hasn't it?"
Jazz smirked. "Maaaaaaaybe. Gonna kick me out anyways?"
Prowl turned back to his work. "Should you feel the need to regurgitate, kindly do so in the wastebasket and not all over my berth, if you please."
"Aww Prowler, I knew you cared."