Fic: Off Days
Another one I found while cleaning out old files.
Rated: T
Jazz was the happy face.
Always.
He was always smiling, always willing to share a good joke, always willing to cheer someone up and make them smile.
Most of the time, he enjoyed it. He loved seeing someone else smile and know that he put that there, that he had, for a short time, helped them forget their problems, or, perhaps, even helped them solve what had been troubling them.
Then there were times like today, where the last thing he wanted to do was crack a joke, the last thing he wanted to see was a smile, the last thing he wanted to hear was a laugh.
These were the days he felt like the rest of his life was a lie. He’d rebuke himself; those smiles weren’t fake! He knew that! He knew he genuinely liked smiling and laughing with his friends!
So why, now, did all those smiles feel like a mask? Like he was just hiding the hurt?
Then he’d realize; probably because that was what he was doing at the moment. Because the Autobots couldn’t seem him scowling. They couldn’t see him so frustrated at the universe that all he wanted to do was curl up in a dark corner and forget everything for a while.
Because he was Jazz. He couldn’t be angry, or sad, or frustrated.
To the other Autobots, those emotions were the mask, the fakes.
Jazz isn’t angry, they’d say. Prowl must have kicked him out of their berth for some reason, or something, and now he’s just pouting.
He can’t be mad, they’d think. Because Jazz just doesn’t get mad. He’s always cool, always calm.
He can’t be sad, they’d mutter. Because he’s always smiling, always joking.
They wouldn’t believe him if he told the truth, and that made the usual truth seem even more a lie.
And that made the hurt even worse.
Prowl found him later that day.
Prowl always found him.
He had left the Rec Room after keeping a smile on his face had become too hard. For an hour, he had wandered around, avoiding everyone at all costs, even wriggling through a section of the air ducts at one point to avoid Sideswipe.
The place he stopped was where he always ended up on days like this -- the deepest, darkest part of the Ark that was still intact. There was nothing there; it was just an empty, dead-end section of hallway. But the big rocks and sheets of twisted metal made for good perches. Perhaps not the most comfortable of places, but good for hiding.
He curled up in a space scarcely large enough for him. Nannite transfers on the sharp edges and rough sides of the surrounding metal and rocks made evident his past squeezes into the small space.
For hours, he remained curled there, hugging himself, hiccuping staticky sobs.
“Oh, Jazz.”
The soft voice made him look up. Prowl was there, crouched in front of the small opening, gold optics soft and sad, normally stoic face folded into a delicate frown.
Jazz hitched back another sob, then lurched forward into his bondmate’s arms.
Prowl asked nothing, simply gathering up the black and white saboteur and holding him close, cradling Jazz’s helm close to his chassis, like he liked to be held, so he could hear the tactician’s spark.
They stayed like that for a long time. Neither knew exactly how long, nor did they care.
Eventually, Jazz pulled away slightly and gave Prowl a sad little smile. “Thanks.”
“Do you wish to speak of it?”
Jazz contemplated for a moment. When Prowl asked, he really was asking. There were some who, when they said that, they were really asking to hear all about it, but Prowl... Should Jazz say he did not want to talk about it, the tactician would just nod, return the smile, and they would go on with their lives. This time, though, Jazz wanted to talk.
“It... It was jus’ a little thing... Ah was cleanin’ up a bit, ‘n found some old r’ports.”
Prowl nodded. “I see.”
No elaboration was needed. Prowl knew what reports would set off one of Jazz’s Moods. The death reports, the reports from missions gone wrong, the missions where mechs were lost.
Jazz took loss very hard. Admittedly not a very good quality in a war, but most of the time, Jazz coped well.
Again, Prowl pulled the saboteur tight to his chassis, venting heavily.
They had not suffered very many losses since their crash on Earth, for which he was thankful, but he knew that sometimes, those old losses were the hardest to take.
Again, they simply sat.
Slowly, they realized it was beginning to get late.
“Prowler,” Jazz murmured without moving, “we should get up ‘n get back t’ our quarters.”
“Mm,” Prowl hummed, agreeing quietly. After a moment, he stood, lifting his bondmate with him. Slowly, they walked back toward the occupied sections of the ship, hand in hand. Jazz wasn’t quite smiling.
But he felt like a smile wasn’t too far away.
Rated: T
Jazz was the happy face.
Always.
He was always smiling, always willing to share a good joke, always willing to cheer someone up and make them smile.
Most of the time, he enjoyed it. He loved seeing someone else smile and know that he put that there, that he had, for a short time, helped them forget their problems, or, perhaps, even helped them solve what had been troubling them.
Then there were times like today, where the last thing he wanted to do was crack a joke, the last thing he wanted to see was a smile, the last thing he wanted to hear was a laugh.
These were the days he felt like the rest of his life was a lie. He’d rebuke himself; those smiles weren’t fake! He knew that! He knew he genuinely liked smiling and laughing with his friends!
So why, now, did all those smiles feel like a mask? Like he was just hiding the hurt?
Then he’d realize; probably because that was what he was doing at the moment. Because the Autobots couldn’t seem him scowling. They couldn’t see him so frustrated at the universe that all he wanted to do was curl up in a dark corner and forget everything for a while.
Because he was Jazz. He couldn’t be angry, or sad, or frustrated.
To the other Autobots, those emotions were the mask, the fakes.
Jazz isn’t angry, they’d say. Prowl must have kicked him out of their berth for some reason, or something, and now he’s just pouting.
He can’t be mad, they’d think. Because Jazz just doesn’t get mad. He’s always cool, always calm.
He can’t be sad, they’d mutter. Because he’s always smiling, always joking.
They wouldn’t believe him if he told the truth, and that made the usual truth seem even more a lie.
And that made the hurt even worse.
Prowl found him later that day.
Prowl always found him.
He had left the Rec Room after keeping a smile on his face had become too hard. For an hour, he had wandered around, avoiding everyone at all costs, even wriggling through a section of the air ducts at one point to avoid Sideswipe.
The place he stopped was where he always ended up on days like this -- the deepest, darkest part of the Ark that was still intact. There was nothing there; it was just an empty, dead-end section of hallway. But the big rocks and sheets of twisted metal made for good perches. Perhaps not the most comfortable of places, but good for hiding.
He curled up in a space scarcely large enough for him. Nannite transfers on the sharp edges and rough sides of the surrounding metal and rocks made evident his past squeezes into the small space.
For hours, he remained curled there, hugging himself, hiccuping staticky sobs.
“Oh, Jazz.”
The soft voice made him look up. Prowl was there, crouched in front of the small opening, gold optics soft and sad, normally stoic face folded into a delicate frown.
Jazz hitched back another sob, then lurched forward into his bondmate’s arms.
Prowl asked nothing, simply gathering up the black and white saboteur and holding him close, cradling Jazz’s helm close to his chassis, like he liked to be held, so he could hear the tactician’s spark.
They stayed like that for a long time. Neither knew exactly how long, nor did they care.
Eventually, Jazz pulled away slightly and gave Prowl a sad little smile. “Thanks.”
“Do you wish to speak of it?”
Jazz contemplated for a moment. When Prowl asked, he really was asking. There were some who, when they said that, they were really asking to hear all about it, but Prowl... Should Jazz say he did not want to talk about it, the tactician would just nod, return the smile, and they would go on with their lives. This time, though, Jazz wanted to talk.
“It... It was jus’ a little thing... Ah was cleanin’ up a bit, ‘n found some old r’ports.”
Prowl nodded. “I see.”
No elaboration was needed. Prowl knew what reports would set off one of Jazz’s Moods. The death reports, the reports from missions gone wrong, the missions where mechs were lost.
Jazz took loss very hard. Admittedly not a very good quality in a war, but most of the time, Jazz coped well.
Again, Prowl pulled the saboteur tight to his chassis, venting heavily.
They had not suffered very many losses since their crash on Earth, for which he was thankful, but he knew that sometimes, those old losses were the hardest to take.
Again, they simply sat.
Slowly, they realized it was beginning to get late.
“Prowler,” Jazz murmured without moving, “we should get up ‘n get back t’ our quarters.”
“Mm,” Prowl hummed, agreeing quietly. After a moment, he stood, lifting his bondmate with him. Slowly, they walked back toward the occupied sections of the ship, hand in hand. Jazz wasn’t quite smiling.
But he felt like a smile wasn’t too far away.