Chapter Text
Prowl closed his optics, familiar, sharp pain settling into his processor. The lights were too bright. He could hear them humming. One of the bulbs needed to be replaced, and it was driving him insane. He tried to focus on what Ironhide was telling him, something about increased Decepticon activity sighted in Peru, but the words were filtering in one audial receptor and out the other. Numbers and probabilities churned in his TacNet.
If you’d dodged Blitzwing, the chance of Optimus surviving would have increased by 13.2%.
He ran the simulation again.
If you’d dodged Blitzwing, and if Hot Rod hadn’t been injured, you could have sent him instead of Flareup, and the chance of Optimus surviving would have increased by 26.7%.
He grit his teeth, clenching his jaw so hard it ached.
If you’d dodged Blitzwing, and if you’d sent Hot Rod instead of Flareup, and if Tailgate had been paired with Bumblebee instead of Trailbreaker, the chance of Optimus surviving would have increased by 28.9%.
“Prowl?”
He blinked, turning his helm to see Jazz staring at him. “Yes?”
“The meeting ended four breems ago.”
Prowl looked around. The meeting room was empty, save for him and Jazz. “I know. I am just… calculating something. Please let me focus.”
“Riiight,” Jazz drawled. “Whatcha calculating?”
The same thing I’ve been analysing every waking moment of my life since we pulled Optimus from that Pitforsaken hole. “The projected energon yields of our mines in West Virginia.”
Jazz didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press Prowl for more details. Prowl stood up and pushed his chair in. “I have another meeting in fifteen breems. Excuse me.” He turned and walked out of the room, not giving Jazz another glance.
He walked quickly, squinting slightly to try and relieve his processor-ache. As he passed a group of bots, he noticed them fall silent when they saw him, instead turning to watch him go by. He did not pause to talk to them, only twitching a doorwing in the slightest semblance of a greeting. He saw one pull a face out of the corner of his vision, and his spark sunk slightly.
“What an afthole. Doesn’t even bother to stop and say hello to us, while we’re out there riskin’ our tailpipes for him,” the bot muttered under their breath. “...Optimus always stopped and said hi to me.”
“Shut up. He’s gonna hear you and stick you in the brig. Or put you on some suicide mission as cannon fodder,” another hissed, elbowing the bot in the side.
“Ugh. Why’d it have to be him that took over? He's no Optimus, that's for sure.”
Prowl turned the corner, and when he was out of their sight, he stopped, finally letting his doorwings droop low. He knew he wasn’t popular among the ranks, but is that what his troops really thought of him?
He’d never bothered to pay attention before, yet the stares and whispers that followed him everywhere he went were starting to grate on him. He’d begun avoiding the mess hall during crowded times, instead slinking in to grab his meals when he was sure nobody would be around and bringing them back to his office to eat in peace and quiet.
“Hey Prowl. What are you doing?”
Prowl’s doorwings hiked up, snapping back into their usual stiff, neutral position as Bumblebee’s voice interrupted him from his thoughts. “Bumblebee. I am walking to my office. I have a meeting in…” he checked his chronometer. “In ten breems.”
Bumblebee tilted his helm. The brightly colored scout looked dull, paint chipped and unpolished. Lines had formed around his optics, and his doorwings were held tightly pinned against his back. “It looked like you were just standing there.”
Prowl stifled a sigh. “I was answering a comm.”
“You can’t answer a comm and walk at the same time?” Bumblebee stepped a little closer. “Sorry if this is forward of me, but… you know, we all miss him. ...I know you two were close. If you ever need to—”
Prowl narrowed his optics. “That is very forward of you. I would appreciate it if you kept your personal feelings to yourself when addressing a superior officer.”
Bumblebee stiffened, jerking back as if Prowl had physically struck him. “My apologies, sir. I’ll… just be going now, then.”
Prowl watched the scout retreat down the hallway before continuing his way to his office. Once the door slid shut behind him, he slouched into his chair, laying his helm on the desk. He set a timer for five breems and sat there in the dark, optics closed. When his timer went off, he lifted his helm, smoothed a servo over his face, fixed his posture, and turned the lights back on. He picked up a datapad, skimming the words just as Hound walked in.
“Report,” Prowl said, not looking up from his datapad.
“There has been Decepticon activity sighted near a coal mine in Queensland, Australia as well as near a solar farm in Brandenburg, Germany. They have caused no damage, and have not interacted with any humans. The advance party in Queensland made contact, but the skirmish was brief and resulted in no major injuries.”
In the time since the deaths of their respective leaders, the war had ground to a terse standstill. Autobot and Decepticon forces still occasionally exchanged blows, but few battles lasted beyond firing warning shots. Intelligence reports showed that Starscream had taken control of a majority of the Decepticon forces, but several splinter groups had formed, leading to heavy infighting. There had been no successful attempts to communicate with Starscream or Soundwave. Attempts to communicate with the scattered pockets of resistance left on Cybertron revealed that Shockwave continued to command the Decepticon forces there uncontested.
“Thank you, Hound. Dismissed.”
Hound hesitated, his optics flicking up to Prowl’s face. They landed on his left optic, still cracked, flickering occasionally between dimness and going dark entirely. He hadn’t gone to the medbay yet. He told himself Ratchet was busy with others, and Hot Rod was still in recovery, demanding round the clock supervision. He wasn’t avoiding the medic, he was just… preoccupied. He had too much to do, and he could do his work just fine, even with half his vision occasionally cutting into static, giving him a painful jolt each time.
“Is there something else you need?” Prowl finally asked, setting his datapad aside.
“Oh. Well…” Hound fidgeted, wringing his servos. “I…actually, it’s nothing. Sorry, sir.”
Prowl waved a servo at the door. “You are free to go, then.”
Hound turned and meekly headed for the door. He stopped just before it and turned back. “I, um… It’s just that some of the humans are holding a memorial service for Optimus Prime in a few orns. I’m supposed to be assigned to another scouting mission then, but I-I’d really like to be there.”
“Swap shifts with another scout. I do not understand why you are telling me this.”
Hound opened and closed his mouth, stumbling over the words. “None of the other scouts are willing to swap with me. I’m sorry, sir, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
Prowl let out a long, strained sigh. His first instinct was to snap at Hound, remind him that it was his duty as a soldier to obey his orders without complaint. Optimus would let him go. He paused. If you’d been faster, they wouldn’t need to hold a memorial for Optimus. He’d still be here. “You may go. I will cover your patrol.”
“W-wait, really?” Hound lit up. “Thank you, sir!”
“Please leave my office now.”
Hound quickly stepped out. After a moment, Prowl turned the lights off once more, leaving the room dark save for the small beam of sunlight shining through his window, and stared at the wall. He ran the simulations again. And again. And again. He didn’t even notice when Jazz slipped in, creeping over to him and sliding an arm around his shoulders.
“That was a real nice thing you did for Hound.”
Prowl wasn’t surprised that Jazz had somehow immediately found out about his rare show of lenience. “Hound is a good soldier. He’s loyal and skilled.”
Jazz’s frame was warm against him, and he suppressed a shiver as Jazz ran a servo down the space between his doorwings, scratching the sensitive plating there. “I was kinda hopin’ you’d go to the memorial with me, though.”
“Even if I didn’t take Hound’s patrol, I have work to do here. I wouldn’t have gone either way.”
He heard Jazz sigh before the other bot gently grasped Prowl’s chin, turning his helm and leaning in close. Jazz smoothed a thumb over his jaw, stroking the plating. His engine let out an involuntary rumble, and he couldn't help but lean into Jazz's soft touch. In the dim light, he could just barely make out his own reflection in Jazz’s visor.
“Why haven’t you gotten your optic fixed? It’s been almost two cycles now.”
Two cycles since he failed. Two cycles since Optimus Prime died. “I’m busy.”
“Too busy to go get medical treatment? You’d never let one of your soldiers walk around and keep working with an injury like that. I know it's botherin’ you. You only turn off the lights in your office when you have a processor-ache.”
“An untreated injury to a front-liner would compromise their performance. My wound is minor, and does not affect my performance.”
Jazz let out a frustrated huff, tightening his grip on Prowl’s jaw. “There’s more to life than performance and efficiency.”
“I need to prepare for a meeting with Silverbolt.” Prowl grabbed Jazz’s wrist and pried his servo away.
“You are insufferable sometimes, you know that?” To anyone else, Jazz’s expression would be unreadable beneath his visor, but Prowl could tell by the way his frame stiffened against him, the edge in his voice, that Jazz was angry.
“Do you need something?” Prowl looked away, turning his helm down and picking up a stylus and datapad.
“Yeah. Yeah, I need a lot of things, Prowl, but you’re not ready to give them to me.” Jazz stalked out of the office, flicking the light on as he left.
Prowl winced at the brightness, a small growl escaping his throat. He checked his chronometer. Half a joor until his meeting with Silverbolt. He ran the simulations again.
Jazz paced in his own office, servos clenched. He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch Prowl in his stupid, expressionless face, then drag him to the medbay and cuff him to a berth until Ratchet fixed his lingering wounds. His spark twisted in his chest, another wave of longing rising up in his frame, threatening to sweep him off his pedes.
If Optimus were here, he’d smile warmly at Jazz, clap a servo over his shoulder, and reassure him that Prowl would come back to him. He just needed some time.
Prowl was avoiding him. He'd stopped refueling in the mess hall. He wouldn't look at Jazz during meetings, and he wouldn't stay to talk afterwards. He was always rushing off to the next task, and when he did speak to Jazz, he was clipped, neutral. Professional, tactical Prowl.
Most bots wouldn't think twice about Prowl’s behavior, but Jazz knew. He knew what every tilt of Prowl’s doorwings meant, knew the side glances he would shoot Jazz during meetings when Optimus waxed poetic about ethics and morals, or when Ironhide and Ratchet began squabbling, or when Jazz himself suggested a plan with too much chaos, introduced too many variables in which Prowl couldn't guarantee a concrete outcome.
“Argh!” He finally spat out, throwing his servos in the air. “How is it that he can take Hound's patrol shift, but he won't even support me during a memorial for Optimus!”
Jazz circled around his desk to plop into his chair, leaning back and dragging his servos over his face. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw a photo frame sitting on a shelf and leaned over to pick it up, mouth twisted in a grimace.
Orion Pax stared back at him, forever frozen in time, a huge grin spread across his face. His bare, unmarked face, all bright, silver metal, no battle mask, no scars. Jazz, a younger Jazz in a different frame, stood next to him, arm wrapped around Orion, hoisting a cube of high-grade in one servo. In the background, he could just make out Bluestreak, Blurr, and Arcee.
His spark twisted painfully again as he traced a digit over the photo.
“I miss you,” Jazz whispered to empty air. “Can you hear me? Are you one with the AllSpark now? I hope you're resting. I hope you're not worryin’ ‘bout us. I think you've done enough worrying to last multiple lifetimes.”
“I want him to come back to me. I need him. I already lost you, I can't lose him too. I can't, Optimus.”
A chill went down his backstruts, and he shivered, plating rattling. “I need him. …But what if he doesn't need me? He's the leader of the Autobots now. Your Autobots. At least here on Earth. We haven't heard from Elita-1 in a while. She doesn’t even know you’re—” his voice cut out for a moment. “—gone.”
He stared at the photo, expression softening. He remembered when it was taken as if it was just last deca-orn. He had somehow managed to drag Orion away from the Archives for a night out.
The music had been loud and chaotic, just the way Jazz liked it. He pulled Orion by the arm to the dance floor, even as the larger bot dug his heel struts in and gripped the table to avoid being forced to dance.
“Jazz, please, I'm begging you! I seriously have two left pedes, I'm gonna step on you!” His friend pleaded, but he was grinning as Jazz spun him around. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Ratchet in the corner, tongue halfway down some random bot's throat. The Party Ambulance was at it again. He knew he wouldn't be seeing Ratchet for the rest of the night.
“Holy Primus! Is that Orion?” Arcee gasped, her speech already slightly slurred, turning around as she caught the flash of Orion's bright paint job reflecting the neon lights.
“Arcee!” Aileron stumbled as Arcee knocked into her, wings flaring wide to try and catch her balance.
“Oh, slag! Sorry, sweetspark!” Arcee reached her arms out, looping them around Aileron's neck and pulling her in for a kiss.
Jazz laughed, the pleasant flush of overcharge crackling across his frame as his systems processed a generous amount of high-grade.
It was good to see Orion smiling again. As the newly formed Decepticon movement grew larger and more aggressive, cities across Cybertron were implementing stricter and stricter curfews. It was common now to see hordes of Enforcers and soldiers patrolling up and down the streets.
Jazz didn't understand the point of the curfews. In times like these, bots needed an outlet more than ever. The fact that he'd been able to dredge Orion from his moping and get him to go to any party, much less an illicit, underground one was quite frankly a miracle, but Jazz wasn't about to complain.
He let the music, high-grade, and good company melt his worries away, until the sudden whooping of sirens outside cut through the chaos of the party, and the music cut out with a screech, lights flickering on.
“Frag my stupid Cybertronian life!” Jazz groaned, grabbing Orion's servo and dragging him towards one of the back exits.
“C'mon, mech, we gotta split!” He transformed as they burst outside, the chilly night air washing across his overheated frame as they sped off laughing into the night.
Jazz couldn't help but sigh wistfully. He had split off from Orion soon after that to lead the cute Enforcer following them into a merry, high-speed chase. He'd dragged it out, enjoying the thrill before finally ditching him in a slick maneuver, a signature move of his that'd become invaluable in the following vorns, when tensions exploded into all-out war.
He set the frame down, resting his chin on one servo. He remembered vorns later, laying crumpled on a battlefield as that same cute Enforcer applied pressure to a gaping, smoking hole in his chest.
“You're going to be fine, soldier. Help is on the way,” he'd said, but Jazz had barely heard the words as he stared up into his gleaming blue optics.
“Ugh—damn. You…you finally caught me…”
“What?”
Despite being covered in soot and his own spilled energon, Jazz had remembered to flash him his most charming smile before promptly passing out in the other bot's arms. When was the last time Prowl had held him like that? He didn’t know.
<<High command meeting in ten breems. Do not be late>>
The comm broke him out of his nostalgic haze, and he cursed quietly. He got up, shaking his helm as he left his office, wondering how and when it had all gone so terribly wrong.
“What the frag could be so urgent that we’re havin’ another damn meeting already?” Jazz grumbled, stalking into the meeting room. He was several breems late, but for once, Prowl didn’t mention it. It felt like he spent half his time here, and the other half in his office. If he didn’t get out for a drive sometime soon, he was going to start climbing the walls.
“It’s Starscream,” said Prowl, helm down as he scribbled something on a dataped. “He wants to talk.”
“The Pit does he want?”
“Several splinter groups have split away from the main Decepticon forces and have been attacking human settlements. Starscream wants assurance that we will not interfere if he goes and reigns them in himself.”
“Uh-huh. And why would we do that?” Jazz scoffed. Anger churned in his spark as he crossed his arms, watching Prowl sit there and go on and on about logistics and strategies. He hated that Prowl was making sense, and normally, he would agree to the plan. Something in him now, though, pushed him to argue, to poke and prod and dig his digits under that dark plating. He wanted a reaction. He wanted Prowl to look at him with the same concern as when he’d held him on that battlefield, whispering assurances that he’d be okay.
“Starscream wishes to make an example out of the splinter groups, to keep the rest in line. If he handles the problem himself, we won’t have to expend limited and valuable resources, or risk casualties engaging them.”
“So we’re gonna let Screamer do our dirty work now? How do we know he’s not gonna slag it up like he always does? He won’t try to avoid civilian casualties, he’ll fly in there guns blazing without a care in the world about human lives.”
Jazz could feel everyone’s optics on him. Everyone’s optics save for one. They silently begged him to shut up, to let Prowl let Starscream deal with the rogue Decepticons, to save their tired, grieving forces from having to go back out there and risk their lives.
“Everybody else is in agreement on this, Jazz.”
Oh, everybody else was in agreement?
Well, Jazz had never been one to back down, even with the cards stacked against him. Even when Prowl’s TacNet spat out a number that said something should be impossible, he’d proved him wrong. All these vorns, and Prowl still believed that Jazz wouldn’t try and defy the odds?
“Optimus would never let us risk human lives just to spare our own.” He laid his trump card out on the table, and he could feel the sizzle of built-up static in the room as every bot in there stiffened, plating clinking as they shifted uncomfortably.
Prowl made an odd, strangled noise, as if he was trying not to scream. “Well. Optimus isn’t here. Mirage, contact Starscream, and let him know that he can expect no interference from us.”
Jazz leapt up from his seat. “Yeah? Thank Primus Optimus isn’t here, because he’d be disappointed to see what we’ve become.” He swept out of the room, and as soon as the door slid shut behind him, he turned and punched the wall, a muffled scream dying in his throat.
Jazz didn’t make it to the memorial. He felt too much anger, too much resentment, to bring himself to go. As much as he wanted to, thinking about Optimus finally being able to rest and ruining the rest of them in the process was almost too much to bear. He spent far too much time away, knowing he was late.
Prowl could do what he wanted for Hound. Prowl could be kind when the person gave him a puppy-eyed look and a little please thrown in. It was what the leader of the Autobots was supposed to do, right?
He stalked down hallways, looking for the one office he had sworn he wouldn’t storm into. Proximity sensors let him in without any tantrum needing to be thrown. Of course Prowl hadn’t bothered locking it.
Prowl didn’t even bother turning around to face him when he entered.
“You missed your meeting,” Prowl said, infuriatingly neutral. “Mirage waited twelve breems.”
Jazz let the door slide shut behind him with a quiet hiss. He didn’t answer immediately.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
Prowl continued writing, unbothered by his lingering intrusion.
“I—”
“You should apologise to him,” Prowl said, without looking up from his work. “We can’t afford to—”
“Stop. Stop pretending you don’t know why the Pit I’m here.”
Prowl’s remaining optic trained on Jazz at last. His cracked one flickered, dimmed, then came back in a burst of light. He clutched the pen tighter, looking ready to snap it in half.
“If you have complaints about the memorial, I’m not the one to direct them to,” he said with a growl.
“I’m not complaining about the memorial,” Jazz said, his voice steady. “I’m complaining ‘bout you. You’re walking around half blind.”
“It’s functional,” Prowl snapped. “I can still—”
“It’s been two cycles,” Jazz cut in louder, stepping closer until he was right at the edge of Prowl’s desk. “Two cycles and you haven’t been to medical. You’re turning off your lights like some kinda broody villain thing. You’re eating alone. You won’t let me touch you. You’re disappearing between meetings like nobody’s gonna catch you bein’—” Jazz’s voice hitched on the word and he hated himself for it. “—hurt.”
Prowl’s optic narrowed. “This is inappropriate.”
“Weak, then. Injured. Pathetic. Take your pick.” Jazz leaned forward, servos flat on the desk. Metal creaked softly under the weight of his frame. “Tell me to stop.”
Prowl’s doorwings twitched, and the bot turned his helm away.
“I’m busy, Jazz. Get out if there’s nothing else for you to say.”
“I watched you cover for Hound,” Jazz said, quieter. “You did that. You.” His voice sharpened again. “So don’t look me in the face and tell me you’re not capable of bending. You just don’t bend for me.”
“Stop it.” Prowl’s mouth tightened into a hard line. “You’re making this personal.”
“It is personal,” Jazz shot back. “He’s dead, Prowl. You gotta get over that. Stop trying to run the numbers. They’re not gonna bring him back.”
“You shut your mouth!” Prowl snarled, standing so quickly his chair scraped the floor.
Jazz straightened, unrelenting though adrenaline rushed through him.
“Yeah? I hit a nerve, didn’t I? Explain it to me then.” Jazz spread his servos wide. “Go on. Lie to my face if you want, but I want to hear you. In case you—”
Prowl’s servos slammed onto the desk so hard the metal dented.
“Because it should have been me! I should have died! Then Optimus would still be here, and I know that's what everyone wants! It's what everyone's been thinking! Do you think I'm stupid, Jazz? Do you think I don't hear the whispers, see the stares?” Prowl finally shouted, voice loud enough it made Jazz step back. He clenched the edge of his desk, the metal creaking from the force.
“Primus, why couldn't it have been me?” Prowl slumped back into his chair, all the fight and anger gone, his vocalizer glitching on the last few words. If only he had died. He would be a tragic, but necessary loss. According to some, perhaps not even that tragic of a loss. A soldier who laid down his life for his commander, for his cause, as things should be. Now he was stuck here, left behind, the leader that nobody wanted. He was slowly falling apart, and he couldn’t bring himself to care.
“What? What are you saying?” Jazz reached for him, but Prowl recoiled so violently, he smacked a doorwing against the wall with a painful sounding thud. Jazz's spark spun faster as realisation set in, a wave of nausea sending his fuel tank roiling.
“Don't touch me!” Prowl's one functioning optic was too bright, gleaming with unshed tears. His plating was flared and his venting came ragged and uneven, his frame trying to dump the excess heat as his TacNet continued to fire. Static crackled across his vision. There were too many variables, the numbers didn't make sense. There was no exact solution. The methods refused to converge. Iterations spiraled out of control, repeating infinitely. He couldn't—it was too much. “Don't try to tell me it's not true. You—I…"
Prowl's fans stuttered, his vocalizer cutting out for a klik. “Don't you think about it? Wonder what if? What if I had been faster? Stronger? Planned the battle better? If I could take his place, I would. I would do it in an instant, Jazz. I have fought for him, I have bled for him, I have killed for him. I have let others die for him. I have sent our bots to their deaths for him. I would have died for him, I wish I'd—” he broke off, letting out a muffled, choked sob that trailed into a whimper.
Jazz's spark lurched as he withdrew his servo. He realised suddenly that he had never seen Prowl cry. He stood frozen for a moment, then quietly crossed the room to turn the lights off. The only thing he could see was Prowl's optic, glowing wildly as he walked back to him. Prowl turned away, covering his face with his forearm.
“Hey,” he said. His voice was low and rough, a far cry from the usual rich, smooth tone. “Hey, look at me.”
Slowly, he reached out and pulled Prowl's arm away. Prowl stared up at him. Jazz could tell he was far away, running number set after number set, adding variables, changing them, repeating repeating repeating until he could find a way, some other universe in which Optimus could have lived at the cost of Prowl.
“Prowler, please. Please come back to me,” he begged, taking his servos and holding them tight, as if Prowl was going to slip away before his optics, vanishing like dust in the wind. His visor retracted and slid away, revealing his red, red optics. Decepticon red. Prowl wouldn't flinch away from them, though. He never had. For once, Prowl didn't bristle at the nickname, didn't roll his optics and grumble under his breath.
He brushed a tear away from Prowl's face, servo trembling. “Yes, I miss Optimus. I miss him every orn, but I want you. I wouldn't trade you for him.”
“You should. It's basic math,” said Prowl, as if it was obvious, a decision so easy to make, nobody would dare question it.
“You are not a number!” Jazz shouted, as if screaming the words would force them through Prowl’s helm and into his processor, as if he could shove them past the simulations and equations, recursions and matrices to make the words stick. He watched Prowl flinch, shoulders hunching, but he kept going. “And neither was Optimus.”
He hated this, hated watching Prowl sit and work his processor to the point of crashing to try and reduce living bots to cost-benefit analyses, reducing himself to a number that somehow added up to be worth less than Optimus. Watching Prowl walk around, refusing to get his injuries fixed, as if living in constant pain would atone him of his perceived sins.
Prowl finally dragged his gaze up to look Jazz in the optics. “I'm sorry.”
“For what?” Jazz whispered, his voice softening.
“For failing. For not stopping him from following Megatron down there. For losing him,” Prowl said, voice cracking. “For hurting you.”
“Oh, Prowler.” Jazz slid onto Prowl's lap and wrapped an arm around him, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I'm not mad at you. Well, maybe a little mad, ‘cause you've been ignorin’ me. But it's because I miss you. I'm worried about you.”
Prowl let out a tiny whimper as he shuddered, leaning into him and laying his helm against Jazz's chest. He brought one servo up to grip the other bot's arm, digits digging into his plating.
“You know I care about you, right?” Jazz murmured, pressing his face against the side of Prowl's helm. “We've already lost so much. I can't lose you, too. Please. Stay with me.”
Prowl's vents hitched, and Jazz clutched him closer. “It's okay. You can let it out.”
Jazz held on as Prowl shivered, a muffled whine dragging on into quiet sobs, held on as he finally let the walls down, until Prowl's venting slowly evened out, gasping against Jazz’s frame. He wasn't sure how long they'd been sitting there, breems ticking into joors, but he didn't care. He would hold Prowl as long as he needed, until the world ended, if he had to. He would greet the heat death of the universe with a smile, as long as he had Prowl by his side.
They sat curled around one another in the dark, limbs tangled. Prowl's helm tucked against Jazz’s neck, Jazz gently stroking his plating. He reached up, gingerly prodding the plating just under Prowl’s cracked optic. “Tomorrow. You are goin’ to the medbay, and you are letting Ratchet replace this. You can either walk yourself, or I’ll drag you. Those are your two options.”
Probability of escaping Jazz: 0.0037%. Prowl let out a small chuckle, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly as he whispered into Jazz's neck. “Okay.”