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It was the morning of another recon assignment, a small, simple mission near the outskirts of Praxus’ ruins where an abandoned Decepticon base had been recently discovered. Jazz walked to the meeting room while carrying the mission plans in his servo. He peered down at the datapad, frowning as he saw the name attached to the plan. It wasn’t Prowl’s.
Prowl always planned his missions, but now that Jazz thought about it, the Praxian had been pretty busy lately. The Decepticons had retaken a neutral city, wars were being waged on five different fronts, and Tactical was going crazy trying to prepare for it all. He hadn’t really been able to talk with Prowl for weeks now.
Jazz absently spun the datapad around in his digits as he walked, feeling a sad ache in his spark as he longed for his lover. He missed Prowl more than he cared to admit, missed the warm touch of his servos, how his doorwings fluttered at the sight of Jazz, the tiny smile he would show when they cuddled. The saboteur loosened his grip as he felt the datapad bend; he hadn’t realized he held it so tightly.
“Do not break it; they won’t give you another.”
Jazz jerked his helm up so fast he gave himself whiplash. There Prowl was, white and black armor glossy and pristine, almost glowing. Perhaps it was the lighting, but he didn’t cast a shadow. He carried a stack of datapads, holding them as if busy sorting through the different reports.
“Prowl.” Jazz vented out his name. Just seeing the tactician made him relax tenfold. “‘Bout time ya showed up. Thought ya didn’t wanna see me no mo’.”
Prowl had an odd, strained look on his faceplates. Probably from all the stress of his work, Jazz thought.
“I wanted to see you off.” The Praxian said quietly, his wings doing that adorable flutter that made Jazz just melt.
“D’aww, that’s sweet of ya, Prowler. Been missin’ ya too, mech,” Jazz said, voice lowering so only Prowl could hear.
“I miss you too, Jazz,” Prowl replied, the hint of a smile crossing his face and disappearing as quickly as it came as someone walked past. The mech gave Jazz an alarmed look and hurried away. The Polyhexian paid him no mind.
"You have a meeting to get to," Prowl said finally. There was something off about that sad look. Jazz suddenly didn't want to leave, mission be damned.
"It can wait. I ain't in no rush," Jazz protested, reaching out to touch the white servo that he badly wanted to hold. Prowl pulled away, shaking his helm. He fixed Jazz with his usual stern and commanding glare.
"Go. This mission is critical."
"It's just recon, scoutin' out an old base for any activity." Was Prowl avoiding him? It nagged at his spark, making his elated smile fall away. "...you've been awfully busy, huh?" he mumbled quietly.
"Jazz…" Prowl’s anxious tone made the saboteur look up, desperately clinging to the hope that Prowl would say what he wanted to hear. Instead, he only got a distressed flick of Prowl's doorwings. "Come back safely," he finally said, turning and walking away.
The saboteur stared after him with a broken spark, wishing the Praxian would turn around to give him a smile, just a glance, but there was nothing.
Jazz dragged himself to the debriefing meeting, slouching into his chair without his usual jaunty swagger. He could barely pay attention, his thoughts swirling around a specific tactician and all the possibilities why they were drifting apart. Everyone exchanged concerned looks, thinking Jazz couldn't see their worried faces. But he didn't care; he just wanted his Prowler back — the mission was the last thing on his processor.
"Jazz?" Optimus' voice broke through the turmoil in his helm. He lifted his helm, flashing the Prime a smile that almost hurt to keep up.
"Yeah?" He just noticed that the room was nearly empty. The rest of the bots were gone, leaving Optimus, Ratchet and him alone in the conference room. Curse his attention span. The older pair of bots had similar worried expressions on their faces.
"We understand you've been…coping," Optimus started gently, and Jazz couldn't understand what he meant for the life of him. "Since the tragedy back at Straxus, you've been silent. You've refused all treatment we've offered."
Jazz didn't know what he was getting at. Tragedy at Straxus? Sure, they had lost a good handful of mechs during that bombing ambush, but such was normal in war. And he hated to say it, but since he personally didn't know anyone that got torched that day, he wasn't really torn up over it. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chassis and wondering if this was some sort of test.
"What about it? And what treatment, the crazy counselin' thing that Smoky talked about?" Jazz scrunched up his face with displeasure. He hated talking about his feelings.
Ratchet scowled at him, but the emotion in his optics seemed more perturbed than annoyed. "It's not something to ignore! We all miss him, but you can’t—"
"Ratchet." Optimus interrupted sharply, giving him a warning.
"He's in denial!" The head medic threw his servos up in frustration, shoving away from the table and standing up. "He hasn't talked about Prowl once! I've had bots come in saying he keeps talking to a wall! He shouldn’t be on a mission!"
He pointed an accusing digit at a bewildered Jazz. "This isn't 'coping.' This is—!"
"Ratchet!" He finally stopped at Optimus' firm tone.
"The slag ya on about?" The pair stared at Jazz, who looked alarmed and confused. He was definitely paying attention now. "What does this hafta do with Prowl?" he demanded, sitting up straight and leaning forward. Ratchet made an angry noise and thrust his servo out at the saboteur in a 'see what I mean' manner, glaring at Optimus.
The latter cleared his vocalizer, voice soft and gentle. "Jazz…Prowl was at Straxus. Do you remember?"
Jazz stared. Of course he remembered, what kind of stupid question was that?
"Look, I got a mission to get to. I ain't got no clue what yer gettin’ at, but I'm fine," Jazz said, standing up and flashing them a cheerful, forced smile. The whole conversation unsettled him. "See ya when I get back."
Ratchet and Prime stared at him with wide optics as he left, an uncomfortable shiver creeping up his spinal struts. Jazz headed down to the open doors of the building where his team waited for him.
Something shiny caught his attention from the corner of his vision; Prowl was there, watching him from the sidelines. A sad ache tugged at his spark, and Jazz instinctively walked over to the Praxian. He stopped before him and said nothing as those pretty doorwings raised and flicked cautiously.
A few kliks passed before the saboteur leaned in and, suddenly, kissed Prowl's lips. The cold sensation of his plating was a shock. Maybe it was Jazz’s imagination, but Prowl’s plating felt so light he almost thought he missed his face. Jazz didn't mind. He felt his spark warm; this was his Prowl. Jazz knew he shouldn't have done that in public, but he couldn't help it.
Prowl stared down at him in surprise, pale blue optics wide. “Jazz, you—”
"I'll be fine, Prowler,” Jazz said quickly, trying to break the tension between them. "Ya gotta trust me, ‘kay? Stop worryin’ so much." Jazz grasped Prowl’s servo, giving him the best reassuring smile he could muster. He wouldn’t admit how he felt like breaking, missing Prowl so much. Missing his touch, his quiet voice, his beautiful spark, and the sweet love they’d make behind closed doors.
The tactician had no words for him as Jazz let their servos fall away, averting his gaze to the ground.
“Ya work too hard. Don’t skip on yer energon again,” Jazz reminded him softly. And he turned to walk away, knowing if he stayed any longer, he would shatter into a million pieces from the deafening silence.
It was painful knowing that Prowl had grown so distant, not even coming to check in with him anymore. Jazz barely saw hints of his disappearing doorwings whenever he would glance up from his cube or datapad, leaving him wondering if Prowl had been avoiding him all this time.
After all, they’d never said ‘I love you.’
So they coasted along, their fling lasting longer and longer, not discussing emotions or relationships. But Jazz still hoped that one day they could truly say what they felt. Maybe even seal their sparks together. But a dark, terrible sinking feeling that rested in the pit of his tanks told him something else, something Jazz actively did his best to ignore. Despite the uneasy chill that ran up his struts, he had a mission to focus on.
The mission did, in fact, go terribly. An easy recon and information operation had quickly turned into a bloodbath. The Autobots were ambushed moments after discovering the communication terminal destroyed by claws and fists. Jazz had been at the front, connected to the terminal, trying to salvage the contents when he heard one of his mechs screaming.
It all happened so fast. They tried to escape, but everything had gone dark after the red Decepticon chasing them threw a bomb. After that, Jazz couldn't move; he was pinned under rubble, slowly being crushed while a sharp object pierced his leg.
His visor onlined to utter darkness, and his audios were numb with static — he didn't bother trying to use his comms. He could tell it was useless. After many kliks of sitting in silence, a beam moved above him and light suddenly poured in.
"Jazz." The voice cut through the static, sending shivers down Jazz’s frame. He coughed, trying to speak. A white servo appeared in front of him, polished and shiny despite the dust and debris in the air. Jazz reached up to take it, staring at the stump of an arm lacking any living sensors; the blast had melted his servo.
The servo grasped his arm and pulled. Jazz grunted in protest as the sharp piece cut his leg deeper. The tugging stopped, and the crack of light widened. Jazz could see him now, the doorwings and chevron against a bright halo of light.
"It's not your time yet, Jazz…Get up. Get up, Jazz." His tone was soft and beckoning, and Jazz wanted to sag with relief at the sight of his lover. His pristine, beautiful Prowl pulled him out of the wreckage and rested him against a broken beam.
The evening sunset cast a warm glow over the empty landscape. Jazz was a mess, more than he could've guessed. Along with his melted servo, his leg was sliced open below the knee and hung by a few cables. His midsection was crushed nearly flat, explaining the burning pain in his tanks. His bumper was flattened, and his hip snapped sickeningly as he was shifted into a sitting position. Everything was scorched black and warped from the heat of the blast.
Prowl sat beside him, not looking at his face as he tended to the worst of Jazz's wounds. He worked quietly, welding medical patches over open energon cables and administering emergency pain chips.
"Your comm isn't broken," he said softly. "Call Optimus. He'll come and get you."
Jazz sent a fuzzy distress message as he was told, but that anxious feeling was back again. Why didn't Prowl comm them? Why did he come alone?
“..Prowl?” His vocalizer cracked painfully. The Praxian finally looked up, and there was a deep sadness in his optics. Jazz’s tanks twisted anxiously as he asked the question that could turn his world upside down. “Do you hate me?”
“Jazz…” Prowl took Jazz’s face in his servos, cold digits cupping soot-covered cheeks, and kissed him. Just like before, his lips were freezing. That kiss answered and raised more questions than Jazz liked.
“Yer so cold….” Prowl pulled his servos away as though Jazz had burned him.
“Prowl…Prowl, talk to me, please.” Jazz begged, a whimper in his voice. “Yer never ‘round no more. Ya don’t come ta my room, don’t ask fo’ reports, don’t plan Ops missions, ya don’t even say hi.” Jazz forced himself to ignore the coolant tears dripping down his cheeks as his spark bled out. "Did I… are we over?"
The Praxian kissed him again, and this time Jazz could feel the loneliness in that kiss, and it was impossible to tell if it was his own or Prowl's. "I have always been yours,” Prowl said gently, cupping his face with digits that felt like ice against his burned plating and rubbing the tear tracks off his cheeks.
“Then prove it,” Jazz said with sudden defiance, his frustration over being ignored for so long finally raising its angry head. “Show me you still love me.”
And Prowl did. They held each other tightly, afraid they would disappear. They waited together for help to arrive, passing the time in each other's company. They didn’t talk; they didn’t need to. Jazz only wanted to feel Prowl’s arms around him again, even if a secret part of him knew it might be the last time.
The sun set over the horizon, sending the pair into the shadows. Faint sirens interrupted the tender moment, and Jazz’s servos suddenly fell through Prowl’s chassis. Jazz lifted his helm in alarm, optics wide under his visor. He was kissed with cold, fading lips before he could say anything.
“It’s time to wake up. Help is coming.”
“But— Prowl, wait!” He was fading. Prowl was melting away, limbs turning into wisps of smoke that drifted away. “Don’t leave me!” Jazz cried, thrusting out his good arm towards the wavering form of his lover.
Prowl smiled at him, bittersweet and calm. “I’ll always be here. You may not see me; you may not know it. But I’ll always be watching you, Jazz. And I’ll be waiting in the Well.” One last kiss was placed on Jazz’s helm; Prowl embraced him, cold fogging up his visor.
It was pitch black again. Everything hurt, ached and burned. Jazz felt like he was dying. He was back in the rubble, crushed and unable to escape. There was movement above him, someone shouting, and a crack of bright light shone down.
A servo reached down for him, blue and red, not Prowl’s. Jazz didn’t want to grab it, but something made him lift his trembling arm and nudge the plating. It was warm. Jazz released a vent he didn’t realize he was holding as the digits wrapped around his arm, squeezing reassuringly. He couldn’t make out Optimus’ words through damaged audios.
But he could almost hear, almost feel, that sweet, loving whisper in his helm: “Hold on just a little longer for me.” Jazz gripped the servo tighter and vowed that he would see Prowl again, but not today.