Work Text:
Jazz has been on a mission for two decaorns.
Prowl knows what it's about, had helped go over the preliminary planning himself. Jazz will don a Decepticon identity to infiltrate one of their most important bases. He will search for some very sensitive and very important information about the science sector of the Decepticon war effort, and once it is found, he will commit as much sabotage as he can.
There is an actual list of what he should be sabotaging, but Prowl is aware that he will do that and more.
The mission is dangerous. For any other mech, the numbers would spell disaster. Jazz is not any other mech.
Prowl cannot afford to stop and worry about him. Jazz has been unable to communicate with the Autobots during the mission, the frequency posing as far too much of a risk of detection, so there is no new information to add to the likelihood of success. Prowl will simply have to remain uniformed until he returns, or until reports of his capture are received. There is no point in repeating numbers that will not change.
The thought trees that refuse to listen to that reasoning are pushed to his tertiary processing. He busies himself with work and does not allow himself to be consumed with the image of Jazz, captured and without help, laying cold and gone on a slab or subject to some other worse fate-
So he continues with work. What he is doing is too important to be overshadowed by worry.
And finally, now, he's sent a comm informing him that a team will be picking up Jazz at the rendezvous. It is sudden and it is quick, which was accounted for, but that doesn't mean it will not be risky. However, Bluestreak is on the extraction team, so he is able to be given intermittent updates about how it is going.
Mission was successful, he is told. Jazz is receiving medical attention on the way back. ETA is 22:09.
Thank you, Bluestreak, he sends back.
Showing a remarkable amount of restraint, he only waits until Jazz is reported to be in medical to let himself leave his office.
He finally allows his worry to spill free, to rise to the surface and be culled by the facts.
Jazz could have so easily died. Not even died, but captured, interrogated, taken apart piece by agonizing piece. Reprogrammed, tortured, destroyed. So many things could have happened if he did not succeed, so many ways that Prowl could lose him.
But Prowl didn't lose him. He's returned. He's alive. Another update from Bluestreak confirms that the injuries he sustained aren't terrible, and with the fact that he was being treated on the way back, he'll be permitted to leave medbay rather quickly.
He's alright. Jazz is alright, Jazz is alive, and Jazz is here.
And now that he's here, it's time for Prowl to take care of him.
He slows his steps as he enters the medbay. It's not hard to find Jazz, sitting on a medberth and chatting with a few other patients. It seems that Ratchet had just finished with him.
He has a few gashes that have been covered, as well as a few wounds that appear to have come from somebody's blaster. The metal on his right knee is warped in a way to suggest some sort of blunt force wound, but it has been taken care of.
He also doesn't miss the tension in Jazz's frame as he talks, nor the exhaustion that he keeps almost entirely concealed from his voice. Jazz would be loath to show any indication that he is not at 100% capacity, so Prowl has had to learn his tells.
He will not step away from this conversation until the other mechs stop talking first (87.89%), even though it's clear he needs rest. So, Prowl makes his way forward and clears his throat.
While the other patients take pause at his arrival, Jazz brightens up almost instantly. A feeling of fondness runs through Prowl.
“Hey, Prowler,” Jazz greets, flashing a breezy smile. He leans forward. “Missed me?”
“Jazz. My quarters, please.” It would sound like a demand to any other bot, and while Jazz should know he can refuse, Prowl knows he won't.
Jazz can pretend so very easily, can don a confident, upbeat mask as easily as one puts on a new coat of paint, but Prowl knows better. The paranoia from those missions don't just wear off. Even now, knowing that he's safe, there's a chance (87.89%) that Jazz is still on edge, still tense and waiting for the worst to happen. They could go to Jazz’s quarters, but with the state of mind that he's in, he may still be wary, cautious, under the fear that perhaps something happened in there while he was away. Prowl’s quarters have been occupied though, by Prowl no less, and are therefore certainly safe.
Of course, Prowl's line of reasoning isn't obvious to just any mech, judging by a few of the other bots being treated and how they shoot Jazz a look of sympathy. Perhaps they're thinking that Prowl is going to grill Jazz for details about the mission (42.23%) or make him start on the mission report right away (55.89%). But Jazz just shoots him a grin and hops to his feet.
“You're on light duty for the next four orns,” Ratchet calls out, from where he's treating another bot. “And if you get your dumbaft injured doing some stupid slag and pushing it, I am not treating you!”
“C’mon Ratch, when have I ever?” Jazz replies, laughing at the very disagreeing look Ratchet shoots him.
He follows Prowl out of the medbay, and Prowl offers a servo out, not wanting to startle Jazz with any sudden touch, but still offering comfort. Jazz smiles at him, a look that makes Prowl’s internals feel warm, and takes it.
“How did it go?” Prowl asks, as they make their way there.
“They don't even know what hit ‘em,” Jazz hums. “Honestly, I'm pretty sure we've killed most of the smart ones already.”
Prowl huffs out a laugh, and Jazz begins going on about the mission. His voice is full of confidence, jokes and laughter, and while Prowl catalogues every word, he's aware that this isn't all of it.
Once they arrive and enter, while aware of the autolock, he still ensures it's completely locked. Jazz will appreciate that. Then, he pulls a cube of energon from his subspace, ushering Jazz over to the berth and handing it over to him once he sits. Prowl sits down next to him, watching as he slowly sips it.
“I ensured the room was empty, both of mechs and any listening devices, before you arrived,” Prowl begins, Jazz tilting his head slightly to look at him. “The lock is engaged and the vents are inaccessible. There would be a 15.08% of any Decepticon agent making it here in the first place to attempt a break in, a 10.03% chance that they would be successful if they tried, and a 2.14% chance that any harm could be caused before they are neutralized if they were to actually get in.”
Jazz is uncharacteristically quiet, and it makes Prowl’s spark churn. He downs the rest of the energon, tossing the cube so that it lands perfectly on Prowl’s desk, before leaning into Prowl. Carefully, gently, Prowl wraps his arms around Jazz, pulling him close, yet leaving enough slack for him to pull away.
Jazz clearly has no interest in pulling back though, wrapping his arms around Prowl in return, and burying his helm against Prowl's bumper. Prowl takes this as his cue to tighten his hold. They sit there in silence, in safety.
Prowl is not a mech of pretty words. He is blunt and to the point. He cannot offer words of comfort or safety, nor can he lift a person’s morale with a smile and a promise of better things to come. However, none of these things are what Jazz really needs at the moment.
What Jazz needs right now is a quiet comfort, an assurance that he is safe. An unsaid promise that if he lets his guard down, even if he cannot bring himself to, that he will still be protected. He needs a space to unwind, to think past just trying to survive another moment, and Prowl is more than willing to provide that.
Jazz clings to him for quite some time, likely (87.90%) listening to his vents and the quiet thrum of his spark. Eventually, he pulls back just enough to press a quick kiss to Prowl’s mouth. “Should probably get cleaned up. I feel like slag and I doubt you're gonna wanna get that all in your berth.”
Jazz is either still awake and alert enough to feel that it would be worth his time (23%), feeling unclean enough to want to avoid putting it off (20%), or both (56%). “Do you want me to come with you?” Prowl asks.
“Would’ya mind?” Jazz murmurs, and Prowl shakes his head almost instantly. Jazz hums, leaning his head against Prowl’s shoulder. “I appreciate it, Prowler.”
He allows Jazz to lead the way to the washracks, but he does gesture for Jazz to stay still once they're there. “I could..?” He begins, gesturing to the solvents and cleaning mesh they keep there.
“I’m alright, Prowler,” Jazz assures him. “I can do it myself.”
“I know you are,” Prowl replies, careful to gauge if Jazz knows that's a lie. He’s bound to recoil at any perceived pity, whether or not it really is meant to be. However, Prowl's next words are nothing but honest. “But I would not mind. I enjoy it.”
That wins him over. He gives Prowl a tired smile and nods. Prowl counts it as a success. Jazz takes a seat on the tile bench, and Prowl grabs the supplies before turning on the solvent and kneeling in front of him.
He takes his time washing Jazz. He's as gentle as can be, carefully wiping away the grime left over by the mission, running the cleaning mesh over those smooth planes of metal. He's sure to get in-between seams and joints, getting out anything small that might be stuck there. Not for the first time does he marvel at Jazz’s physique. Appearances have never been a deciding factor in his love life, but it would be a lie to say that Jazz didn't appear to be molded from the image of Primus himself.
He's slow and meticulous about it wanting to get every ache and pain out of his lover's frame, wanting to soothe the stress that is bearing down at him. They don't speak, but he hopes that his actions, and the fondness and adoration he knows is wafting from his field, shows Jazz just how much he is loved and cared for.
“Y'know, you never answered me earlier,” Jazz eventually murmurs, teasing, as Prowl cradles his pede to scrub there. “Don't tell me you didn't miss me.”
“Of course I did,” Prowl replies. He raises his eyebrows, glancing up at Jazz. “Would you have expected otherwise?”
Jazz smiles down at him. “Naw, but it's still nice to hear ya say it.”
Prowl hums, setting Jazz’s pede down, before reaching up and gently grasping him by the shoulder. Careful not to move too quickly, both to avoid causing any pain and to allow Jazz time to pull away if needed, he pulls him down and presses a kiss to Jazz’s derma.
He allows it to be slow and sweet, keeping his optics half shuttered so he can still gaze into Jazz's visor. He trails his servo from Jazz’s shoulder and up the side of his intake to cradle his cheek, and Jazz responds by running a servo along his doorwings. He can't help but gasp, and he feels Jazz laugh against him.
After a few kliks, Jazz’s visor shhnks back, revealing those beautiful blue optics that he usually keeps so carefully hidden.
Prowl smiles into the kiss. Those are just for him.
He pulls away before they can take it any further, despite the telltale click of his cooling fans turning on. Jazz has had a long orn and needs rest, as well as injuries that need to be minded.
“Well?” Prowl asks expectantly, not moving his servo from Jazz's faceplate just yet. “Is that sufficient evidence enough to suggest I missed you?”
“Primus, Prowl,” Jazz says, breathless. He tilts his helm so he can nuzzle his faceplates into Prowl’s servo. “You're far too good for me.”
“Statistically incorrect,” Prowl replies clinically. “You may neglect to include the variable of your own tremendous worth, but that does not mean that I do as well.”
Jazz presses a kiss to Prowl’s servo with a small huff of laughter, and Prowl smiles. He pulls away for only a moment to turn off the solvent spray and grab a warm mesh to wipe Jazz dry with.
“You didn't say that you missed me, too,” Prowl points out, beginning the task of wiping Jazz dry. The other mech leans into his servos, shuttering those pretty optics.
“Aw, c'mon, Prowler. You know that I miss your pretty helm every moment I'm outta here,” Jazz hums. “Those slaggers ain't nothing to look at on a good day, but you make them look like piles of walking scrap.”
Prowl feels his faceplates heat up, and even without Jazz’s answering laugh, he can tell that they must be a bright blue.
He finishes drying Jazz off, making sure to go over every inch of metal as though it is something priceless, something to be protected. He's quick to clean himself off as well, as to not get water in their berth, and as soon as he's done, Jazz is reaching out for him.
He cradles the saboteur in his arms once more, before moving to stand. They don't let go of each other as Prowl brings him over to the berth, laying Jazz down before climbing in alongside him. He pulls a warm, heavy mesh over the two of them before tucking Jazz close to him. Prowl runs a servo down his back as Jazz wraps his arms around him, holding on tight.
“Would you like to talk about your mission?” Prowl murmurs.
Jazz hums. “Thought I already did. What, you want your report done now?”
Prowl huffs. “Let me rephrase. Is there anything that you didn't mention earlier, that you would like to mention now?”
The chance that Jazz will do it is slim (18.42%, to him, 4.95% to anyone else). Prowl won't force him to say anything, of course, and doesn't expect him to. It is still best to put the option out there though, to let Jazz know that, if he wishes to speak, he could.
“Naw, mech,” Jazz replies, quick and easy. “Nothin’ worth talkin’ about this late.”
Silence, for a moment, before, “...But uh. Thank you.”
“Of course,” Prowl murmurs, as Jazz tries to squish himself impossibly closer. “Would you like me to run the numbers again, of anyone disturbing us?”
More silence, and then a quieter, more fragile, “...Please?”
“Of course. There is a 15.08% chance of any Decepticon agent being able to make it here if they were to break in, a 10.03% that they would successfully get into the room before being apprehended, and a 2.14% chance they would be able to cause any harm if they did successfully break in.” Prowl takes a moment to pause, running new numbers through his tacnet. “There is a 24.3% chance of any Decepticon successfully infiltrating the complex at all within the next decaorn. Overall, there is a 0.3774% of us being personally involved in any Decepticon activities tonight, and a 0.00808% of us being harmed as a result." He pauses for a moment. "There is a 32.89% chance of us being bothered tonight for any non-Decepticon reason as well."
“I appreciate it, Prowler,” Jazz murmurs, then jokingly adding on, “Your fancy tacnet prob’ly told you that already, though.”
“No, but it's still nice to hear you say it.”
Jazz pauses, and then laughs, tilting his face up so he can pepper a few kisses along Prowl’s mandibular tubing. Then, he presses his helm into Prowl’s bumper once more. “I love ya, mech.”
Prowl hums contently. “I love you too, Jazz.”
Jazz doesn't fall into recharge right away, Prowl knows. He's still too on edge. Prowl doesn't say anything, but he does continue running a servo down Jazz’s back, massaging sore joints, while his other servo remains pressed against the back of Jazz’s helm.
Here, Jazz will be safe and protected. Here, Jazz doesn't have to worry about any listening ears, about any slip-up that may cost him everything. He doesn't have to pretend to be anyone or anything else, even if he can't quite convince himself of it yet.
Prowl will hold him close and keep him safe, will stay with him from now until Jazz can let himself breathe once more. No, far past then. Far past when the next battles are done, and when this war has been long finished.
It takes Jazz breems to finally fall into recharge, and Prowl makes sure to stay awake until then. Only once he's sure that his beloved is out cold, and that no unpleasant memories may try to awaken him, does he himself slip into recharge as well.