Never Give Up - Part 12 of 12
Title: Never Give Up
'verse: G1
Rating: T/PG-13
Length: 50k, 12 chapters
Characters: Jazz, Prowl, ensemble
Warnings: angst, cybertronian profanity, mild Prowl/Jazz, violence
Thank you all for reading so far, and for coming with me on this ride. It's almost a shock to get to the end. And special thanks to all those who have reviewed! I hope you've all enjoyed the fic :)
Chapter 12
The thunderous chaos that burst over his com almost sent Mirage careering off the road. Behind him, Hound skidded to a halt, the dirt thrown up from his deep treaded tires hanging in the moonlight. Both listened, engines revving in the still night, to the racket of a dozen voices shouting, and one struggling to make itself heard above the noise.
"This is Blaster, rockin' the airwaves, callin' all ma buddies back to the barn." The cassette host was shouting, his lyrical voice rich with excitement. "C'mon home, ma mechs, c'mon home!"
Pacing himself to Hound's top speed was an effort, one Mirage was relieved to abandon when his worried friend shouted for him to go on ahead. The Ligier racer didn't ask for confirmation. His fine-tuned engine roared in the night, patrol abandoned and forgotten. There'd been no word from Blaster - no answer from the Ark - since the unexpected recall. Mirage played the brief signal over and again, his audials echoing with the voices of agitated mechs, his Ops algorithms working on the recording. Only one word stood out, a name repeated often enough to rise above the noise. It was one he'd hoped for, prayed for even, after hearing the new note in Blaster's voice. He'd not heard the mech sound so alive since... since the last time a total recall had urged the Autobots homewards.
The Ark's entrance stood open and unguarded, the noise from within enough to warn any intruder they would get far beyond the threshold. Mirage skidded into the control room, already transforming, and dodging both stalagmites and crew-mates. The thronging crowds made it clear at once why the com station was unattended. Even if Blaster had lingered at the console, he could hardly have heard an incoming call above the noise. Every mech on the ship - and half those who had been abroad - had to be crowded into the open space, all jostling to see the small group at the far end of the room.
Mirage wove through the crowd with skill where he could, with elbows and a flare of his energy field to clear the way where he couldn't. The Ark's crew had never seemed so large, or so noisy. His optics were bright, but his Ops systems kept his systems even and his faceplates carefully neutral. The blue and white spy sauntered forward through the last few yards. Mirage had a reputation to maintain. He couldn't show his hope... or the intense fear that it might be crushed.
The last mech shifted, the last shoulder removed itself from his view, and Mirage smiled politely. He nodded.
"Jazz."
The blue visor glinted with wary humour. "Raj," Jazz answered in the same even tone, even as his subordinate's thin smile broadened. Mirage laughed, his joy too intense to contain, shaking his head and trying to resist the urge to reach out to the other mech - just to check he was real.
Jazz stood in the entrance to the officers' corridor. Prowl hovered directly behind him, and the twins and Bumblebee formed an effective barrier in front. Despite frequent, frustrated glances in Jazz's direction, Ratchet was off to one side, stymied by an audience of his own - those who couldn't get close to Prowl and Jazz, demanding answers from the officer they could reach.
Mirage slipped into the defensive line without another thought, wondering how many of the mechs bombarding Jazz with their questions, reaching for him, trying to touch him, could see the tension in his black and white frame. And how many realised that it was only Prowl's subtle hand on his lower back that kept the saboteur from fleeing.
Jazz was grinning, calling greetings, never quite getting as far as answering questions before the next mech interrupted. One could almost overlook him leaning back into his companion, and the artificially even tone of his over-controlled systems. Even for Mirage, who'd hoped to see his friend again, the sight of him now was scarcely believable. For the rest of the crew - and for Jazz himself - it seemed overwhelming.
"But... but..." Bluestreak clung to Sunstreaker's arm, his expression oscillating between delighted and appalled and afraid faster than Mirage could follow. "But you can't be Jazz. Jazz is dead! Prime said so." The young mech's optics were over-bright, his door-wings trembling. "We... we mourned, and Prime said, and... and..." Blue nodded to himself, voice taking on an edge of accusation and rising strident above the noise of the crowd. "And how do we know you're really Jazz? You could be a fake, or... or from a parallel universe! You could be parallel Jazz. You could be evil! How do we know you're not evil, parallel Jazz?"
Mirage cycled his optics. He wasn't alone. Conversations throughout the room had paused, the assembled Autobots trying to process the wild accusation. Perhaps, given Jazz's return from the Matrix, nothing was too wild for their shocked processors.
Then Jazz laughed. The rich sound rolled through the room, drawn onwards by a wave of indrawn vents.
"Wow. Seriously, mech? We need t' talk again about weanin' you off the Star Trek re-runs, okay?" The saboteur braced, taking in a vent of his own. He took a step forward, easing between the twins to run a gentle servo over Bluestreak's helm. "Blue, it's me. Just me."
"But Prime said... Prime told us..."
"I told the truth as I knew it." Quite how they'd missed the rumble of Prime's approach, Mirage would never know.
Bluestreak spun around. "You didn't know?" he asked, his startled question echoed by half the crew.
Prime raised a hand to still the uproar. The large mech stood in the passageway that led to the Ark entrance, his optics locked onto the visor of his third in command over the helms of their crew. His fists clenched at his side and then released, extending a little forward as if he too craved to confirm the output of his optics.
"I grieved to the depths of my spark." Optimus took a step into the room and the Autobots parted for him, leaving a clear corridor where there'd been crowded mechs a moment before. His strong energy field spread through the room, the astonished joy there silencing them all. "Even when we discovered Shockwave's cruel deception, when Prowl and Ratchet fought so hard to save your spark, I could not subject the mechs under my care to the same uncertain torment that has plagued my days and disturbed my recharge hours."
Prime stood in front of Jazz now. He reached out to lay a servo on each tense shoulder, and stilled as his third flinched. He waited, his optics flicking up to Prowl as the tactician moved forward until Jazz's back-struts rested against his bumper. Jazz leaned back into the subtle comfort, and allowed Prime's servos to settle.
Optimus Prime looked hard at him, pain visible in his deep blue optics.
"I could not bring myself to believe you might truly return to us."
Jazz drew in a shaky vent. Shielded from the room by Prime and by the mechs closest to him, the broad showy grin dropped away. For the first time since returning to the Ark, Mirage saw a true glimpse of his much-missed friend. The quirk of Jazz's lips was subtle, the expression on his face weary. He shook his head, smiling gently.
"Jus' try an' keep me away."
Prowl's hand rested on his friend's arm, and both pressed into the contact. Prowl's door-wings twitched, Jazz's visor not quite concealing his darting glances from side to side. They were weary, patience worn thin. Ratchet saw it as well as Mirage could. The medic stepped forwards into the opening Prime left in his wake and subspaced a wrench, tapping it against his palm. The look he swept around the shocked and murmuring crew made the implied threat general.
"Right." He raised a servo, pointed firmly at the saboteur. "You. Medbay. And this time, you don't leave until I say so."
Jazz could have argued. There was nothing on Mirage's sensitive Ops sensors to suggest the trip was necessary. He yielded instead, letting Ratchet hustle him back into the officers' corridor, and no one outside the select group noticed Prowl backing up into the shadows alongside them. Mirage and Bumblebee needed no consultation to close ranks with the twins, and Optimus stood with them, giving them the bulk they needed to hold back the confused and questioning crew.
It was half a joor before Prime's resonant voice coaxed the questions into celebrations, and the massed Autobots into the rec room. Mirage mingled amidst them, concerned perhaps but joyful too, rejoicing with friends he no longer had to deceive, if only by omission.
The rec room was still crowded a joor after that when Jazz and Prowl reappeared, masks firmly in place. Not even Mirage could tell whether Jazz was truly at his ease, or just playing for the crew, as the mech grinned and spread his arms, his warm visor sweeping the room.
"All right, my mechs. This calls for a party!"
The simple declaration couldn't banish the past few orns - for Jazz or for his friends - but it was a start.
It was a start.
It was a fine summer morning when Optimus Prime strolled onto the command deck of the Ark. A warm breeze played across his armour, the Autobots taking an opportunity to freshen the ship's air supplies while the weather stayed fair. Prime ruffled his plating, opening vents and flaring seams to let the air flow cool his systems. It made a pleasant change from the stuffiness of his office. It was a much needed escape from the drifts of paperwork accumulating there too.
The knowing look in Prowl's optics told Optimus his delinquency hadn't passed unnoticed. He held up the datapad he carried in front of him as both shield and explanation. His second glanced at it, unimpressed. Prowl leaned back in his seat, his optics scanning the monitors in a swift check before giving the Prime an enquiring look.
"Can I help you, sir?" The tactician's door-wings arched to mirror his raised brow-ridge, his respectful expression tinged with humour. "Is there a problem with the reports I gave you to look over?"
Prime's quelling look was subverted by the smile in his optics. He chuckled. "Not yours, Prowl. Your glyphs I can actually read." He glanced down at the datapad in his finger-servos, shaking his helm ruefully. Stretching a little, he looked to either side as if his elusive third-in-command might put in an appearance, and then down at the console, tapping the switch nearest him.
"Teletraan-1, please locate Autobot Jazz."
He regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. They seemed to echo in a room gone silent. Prime's armour flattened, memory files playing out in front of his optics. Seated in front of the monitors, Prowl shivered in a breeze that felt suddenly cold.
It was eight Earth weeks, almost to the hour, since Prime had last issued that precise request. In Cybertronian terms that was both no time at all and long enough to change a mech to his very spark.
Prowl's gaze stayed focussed on the screen in front of him, his wings held steady save for the slightest tremor. Optimus Prime searched for words to apologise and to remind his second that the nightmare of the last two months was over.
Teletraan-1 found them: "Autobot Jazz is entering the Command Deck."
"Someone lookin' f' me?"
Jazz rounded the stalagmites growing through the deck floor in a casual saunter. His servos rested on his hips, his thigh speakers flared and throbbing a low beat. It was impossible to read the softly-lit visor, but Optimus thought he saw his third-in-command's gaze flick across Prowl before settling on Prime himself.
Jazz cocked his helm as he closed the gap between them, sensory horns at a jaunty angle. The attentive look and the grin on his faceplates were almost enough to distract an observer from the stealthy way his servos trailed along the leading edge of Prowl's nearest door-wing, and the way the appendage pressed up into the touch. Almost.
"Can I help ya, Prime?"
Jazz produced a pair of energon cubes as he spoke, pressing one into Optimus Prime's servos and the other into Prowl's without so much as a verbal acknowledgement. Prime took his instinctively, cycling his optics at it, and then suppressing the chuckle in his vocaliser when Prowl didn't even appear to notice taking his own.
"Jazz," Prime nodded his thanks, having to think for a moment before reminding himself of the datapad he held. "I had a few questions about the media analysis you compiled. Perhaps we could talk in my office..."
His third nodded, patting Prowl's shoulder before turning away. "Up for a movie later?"
Prowl shuddered, the echoes of memory still strong. Jazz's grip tightened, his visor brightening for a few klicks, and the tactician relaxed. He rubbed his chevron and released a long, slow vent before nodding. "My quarters, after shift."
"Gotcha," Jazz agreed, his broad grin coaxing the smallest of smiles out of his companion. Prowl's door-wings rose a little, and Jazz took a moment to tease the nearest before beckoning Prime to lead the way. "Okay, Optimus. I'm all yours."
It was curious, Prime mused as he followed the saboteur along the short corridor, not how much the interaction between his third and second in command had changed, but how little. As far back as Optimus Prime could remember, Jazz had been slipping Prowl energon cubes, and casually molesting his second's sensitive sensors. For almost as long, Prowl had been enduring Jazz's never-ending education in popular culture, and accommodating the saboteur's erratic whims with tolerant good humour.
Some things had changed. The touches had become more frequent, the mirroring of moods between the two a little more obvious. A natural and unspoken mutual understanding had always been part of their relationship, but open and tactile reassurance, like that Prime had just witnessed, had been rare - except in the immediate aftermath of a mission gone wrong or a tactical disaster. Now it was almost a daily occurrence.
Jazz was jumpy still, and had shown a tendency towards suspicion and caution where before he'd have rushed in where devils feared to tread. He was working only part shifts - at Ratchet's insistence - and where Prowl might have protested, Jazz had accepted the proscription and sunk his time instead into mingling with the shocked and disbelieving crew. Prowl himself was still quiet, and all the more so in comparison to Jazz. His always-rare visits to the Rec Room were now vanishingly so, his recharge almost as erratic as Jazz's. Even so, Prime could only be astonished and deeply impressed by how well his friends had adjusted to their new situation.
"Don't tell me I've picked up a scratch?"
Optimus didn't realise how long he'd spent lost in thought, optics resting passively on his lieutenant, until Jazz spun on the spot with a theatrical gesture, apparently trying to see his own aft.
"Ratch'll have my spark if he sees it!"
Optimus couldn't help it. His engine grumbled, queasy with the memory of Jazz's fragile spark chamber in his medic's trembling servos. Jazz straightened, the smile slipping from his face-plates, and his black helm nodding as if in confirmation of his suspicions.
The saboteur gazed levelly at his Prime, arms folding across the blue racing stripe on his chest armour.
"Yeah, I thought this'd be 'bout more than the media stuff."
It had been, of course. Optimus had to admit to himself that the details of Jazz's recent analysis were far from urgent, and this meeting had never been more than a pretext to assess his third's ongoing recovery. It really shouldn't have been a surprise that his Head of Special Operations realised that so quickly, but it put Prime on the defensive that he had.
And that, Prime realised, his optics narrowing a little, was probably the entire point. Jazz let a hint of a smile soften his expression, his frame posture deliberately non-threatening, but the mask he showed the world still had its cracks - ones that were only slowly closing.
It took an effort of self-control for Prime not to vent a sigh as he settled himself in the specially constructed and reinforced chair behind his desk. He waved Jazz to the seat opposite, watching with interest when his third perched on the corner of the broad desk instead.
"Jazz."
"I'm okay, Optimus." The words rolled easily from Jazz's vocaliser. The tone was the same one Optimus Prime had heard him use time and again in the Rec Room: sombre enough to convince the asker that his concern was noted and appreciated, light enough to reassure him that his concerns were unwarranted. Jazz waited a beat or two to see if the prompt response had the effect intended. Prime met his visor with steady optics, expression impassive even without the battlemask to conceal it.
The saboteur shook his helm, venting hard. Some of the poise dropped from his posture, the mask falling away, as it would with precious few other mechs. He shrugged, one hand coming up to rub at a helm-horn.
"Believe it or not, I kinda mean it. Sure, I'm edgy. But it's not like I actually have memories of what happened."
Prime just waited, a brow-ridge rising to betray his scepticism. Jazz huffed air at him, turning a little so he didn't have to meet his Prime's optics. His servos intertwined in his lap, his visor resting on them.
"Not real memories. I know it wasn't good. It... it hurt. Can't say I'm rechargin' like a new-spark. But I can cope with that. I'll get over it."
He looked up, fists clenching. Tension had edged back into his frame, but his voice and visored optics were steady.
"It ain't the first time I've been captured, Prime. It ain't the first time I've been tortured."
Prime knew it. He hated it, but he knew it nonetheless. Most of the time, he could pretend to forget that Jazz had survived treatment that would make Prime himself plead to tell all he knew. Not at times like this. The knowledge made his spark ache.
Jazz slipped down from the desk, pacing a few steps and waving a hand as if he could dismiss the issue.
"I'm not sayin' it's easy. I'm sayin' I'm not gonna let this break me. Shockwave never could, and he won't now." Jazz scowled, the menace that radiated from his taut frame threatening dire things for his next encounter with the Decepticon. A few klicks passed before Jazz shook himself, a vented sigh escaping him. "I'll work things out. And Prowl'll help."
It was added almost as an afterthought. Prime steepled his fingers, engine rumbling in soft encouragement. Jazz cycled his optics and his lips quirked into a wry grin.
"Yeah, that's takin' a bit of adjustment too. Might be a bumpy ride for a while. We're still figurin' out the ground rules." He shook his helm. "Can't say I'm whoopin' up choirs of delight 'bout it, but if it's Prowl or offline...?"
He shrugged again, and the acceptance in his expression was more than his Prime had dared hope for. It lifted a shadow from Optimus's spark and sent a pang through it at the same time. It was too easy to forget that Jazz was a saboteur and the Head of Special Operations. Brutal practicality had been driven into his core. The cruel triumph of necessity was an every-orn part of his life, whether it was weighed against the future of his own spark or those of others. Optimus both ached for his friend, and thanked Primus that he wasn't fighting the reality of what had happened.
Prime thought he'd controlled his reactions, but Jazz saw the change in him. The Ops mech settled back on the desk with a gust of air from his vents. He adjusted his visor, and the smile that quirked his lip-plates was one of genuine good humour.
"That's what's been worryin' you? Believe me, Optimus, if it hadta be someone, I'd take Prowler every time."
Prime leaned forward, his own posture relaxing a little as his arms rested on his desk. "I am... relieved."
Jazz chuckled. "An' I'm alive. An' that's all that matters."
The saboteur's chuckle faded into silence, his expression becoming distant as a thought occurred to him. His visor dimmed a fraction, his helm tilting as it swept over Optimus Prime. His voice was softer when he went on.
"Prime... Prowler doesn't wanna talk 'bout it, but it's kinda hard not t' work some things out, y'know?" He paused, holding Optimus's optics with a firm look. "You know I wouldn't give up, right? I wouldn't do that t' you, or t' myself."
Prime tried to keep his plating from ruffling, and knew he was only partly successful. The calm acceptance and good humour of a few moments before were gone from Jazz's tense frame and from his own. He let a sigh show, shaking his helm slowly as he gazed at his friend. "So the great majority of my officers insisted."
"An' you didn't believe them?"
It was a difficult question. Prime gave it due consideration, trying to marshall the internal conflict he'd been waging for eight weeks into words. Now his third-in-command was the one waiting, drawing out Prime's thoughts with his silence.
"I have never doubted your dedication or courage. I have never doubted the strength of your commitment to the Autobot cause. And I have never underestimated the price you have paid in my service - the burden you bear." He drew in a vent, cooling his systems. "I believe you will always throw your full spark into doing what you believe to be the correct and necessary thing." Looking up, Prime soaked in the sight of his third alive and well in front of him, and shuddered. "But I could not be certain under what circumstances your return to the Matrix would appear to you to be both correct and necessary."
It would have been easy for Jazz to brush that off. He could have denied the possibility, and masked the shadows that lurked behind his visor. Instead he sat still for a long time, considering his Prime's words.
"Yeah. I think that's what Prowler's not tellin' me too. And I guess I can't say you're wrong." A frown creased Jazz's brow. He drummed his finger-servos of one hand on the desk, the other waving in a vague, all-encompassing gesture. "Maybe there's somethin' out there that'd take me away from here, from the Ark." Pausing, the saboteur lowered the output of his vocaliser before he went on, matter of fact and completely sincere. "From our family. Maybe if I had a good 'nough reason, I'd do what you all thought I did."
He shook his helm sharply, his vocaliser resetting. "But Prime, I've got Prowl in my spark now. And he's only the loudest voice. You're all there. I ain't gonna give that up anytime soon. Maybe, if I hadta, I'd do it. But it would have t' be one Pit of a good reason."
Jazz let the observation - the promise - hang in the air between them. Slowly, reluctantly, Prime nodded his acceptance. His third grinned, slipping off the desk and brushing his hands over his thigh speakers.
"Right, so shall we get on with this media thing, Prime? If y' don't mind, I've got things t' do an' places t' be."
Prowl woke suddenly, an errant elbow knocking into his left door-wing and rousing him from a deep recharge. The elbow wasn't alone. Another frame curled into his, a warm engine throbbing against his plating, a weight on his chestplates pinning him to the berth.
At any other time, he'd have reacted with the trained instincts of an Autobot warrior, arming himself and throwing off his burden before the recharge algorithms faded. Instead, the tactician sighed, and thanked Primus for remembering to set override locks on his frame before powering down.
His left door-wing was trapped below the pair of them, the weight not entirely comfortable. Even so, he didn't try to adjust his position, or displace the warm helm resting above his spark. Even if moving had been an option, it was not one he'd have chosen. Instead, he was content to lie still in the soothing field of the recharge berth, a download of files from his office and a quick com to Optimus Prime relieving his morning routine of any urgency.
Perhaps an hour had passed before Prowl became aware of the pale glow of visored optics, playing off the wall beside him. The restless fidgeting, so familiar now that he scarcely noticed it, had subsided. Jazz lay passive, still curled into his companion's side. Slowly, with care, Prowl removed his blocks and eased an arm around his friend's frame.
Jazz sighed, forced to acknowledge his awakening from recharge, and the world outside of his processor.
"I made you late for your shift again." The saboteur's musical tones were made soft by the lingering recharge algorithms. He shifted, moving some of his weight from Prowl's door-wing, and ran his hand over the panel, a magnetic pulse easing it after the strain. Venting a sigh, Jazz squirmed a little closer. "Prowl, I'm sorry."
"I do not recall complaining."
Jazz shook his helm, sensory horns brushing Prowl's chestplate. His soft voice escaped in a half-gasp of distressed laughter.
"One of these orns you're gonna be able to wake me without riskin' your spark doin' it."
Prowl hummed, the vibration from his vocaliser rippling through both frames. "The defensive reaction is not your fault. Berating yourself for it will do little good. Optimus understands and is content for me to work where I may."
The saboteur lying against him wasn't entirely comforted. Jazz tried to pull away. Prowl's arm stopped him, the tension in it carefully gauged to assure his friend he was still welcome, without allowing him to feel trapped. It wasn't uncommon for Jazz to hurry away as soon as recharge faded, his embarrassment haunting Prowl's spark. Just for once, Prowl wasn't in the mood to allow it. Whether Jazz felt that, or whether the saboteur had simply stopped fighting, he subsided, settling into the loose embrace.
"One of these orns, I'm gonna be able to recharge without you there too, Prowler."
This time Prowl's murmur was non-committal. He'd half-thought this was the orn in question. He'd initiated his recharge cycle alone, with the distinct impression that Jazz intended not to return. He'd woken with a companion nonetheless.
It was, at least, better than the two previous occasions - when he'd been forced to go in search of a jumpy Ops mech who'd forced himself to the verge of exhaustion while resisting the compulsion to return to his spark-mate. A compulsion both felt.
"There is no urgency. Neither of us is in immediate demand. Our absence from the full shift will not cause the Ark to collapse around us."
Jazz vented a sigh, his energy field restless and not entirely happy.
"Jazz?"
"I've givin' you bad habits. A few orns back you'd've rather ripped out y'r own vocaliser than say somethin' like that."
It was true, Prowl couldn't deny it. "We are not the mechs we were a few orns ago."
Neither of them was exactly struggling against that truth, nor entirely comfortable with it. There was no denying that Jazz's perspective had affected Prowl as much as he himself was influencing his friend. The behavioural shifts were subtle - perhaps even invisible to any other - but they were real and they had to be acknowledged. Jazz's fine-tuned engine revved, the vibration transmitted between their entwined frames.
"I didn't mean t' crash into y'life like this, y'know."
"Jazz, you crashed into my life an eon and more ago." The dry humour in Prowl's voice did nothing to ease Jazz's tension. The tactician angled his helm, peering down at the forlorn faceplates of his companion. His tone softened. "Neither of us intended this. We can only take Primus's will as it comes."
There was a long breem of silence. Prowl waited patiently. He knew Jazz well enough to see when the saboteur was deep in thought. The physical contact between them, and the insight into one another's sparks that came with it, only confirmed what Prowl had learned from long experience.
Jazz's expelled vent drifted across Prowl's plating, tickling the sensors in his door-wings. The saboteur rolled onto his back, gazing up at the ceiling of Prowl's quarters.
"Primus's will," he repeated. "You sound so resigned. Ratch told me you weren't thrilled when he told you." Jazz's visor dimmed and then cycled back up to full brightness. Prowl felt his doubt, his uncertainty and his determination to learn the truth. "Honestly, Prowler, I need to know. Do you regret this?"
It was a question that deserved the honest answer Jazz had asked for. Prowl considered it, his frame still relaxed, despite the tension that gathered in his spark. This wasn't something they'd discussed before. Both had concentrated on the facts: on the existence of the partial bond between them, and the adjustments needed to accommodate their new status. Their feelings had never come into into it. Now they had, Jazz would not be deceived.
"Honestly? I have two regrets."
"Two?" The saboteur's voice was scarcely above a whisper.
"First, that you had no choice. This semi-bond was not your decision. It was forced upon you."
"Not like y'had a lotta choice yourself, mech!"
Still lying alongside his companion, Prowl raised a hand to still his protest. Jazz fell silent, his trepidation almost thick enough to taste on the air of the closed room.
"And second," Prowl vented a small sigh, "that you must endure the constraint of my presence. Jazz, I will do all I can to minimise my impact on your social life and activities. I never intended to burden your vibrant spark with one so dull in comparison."
His voice was entirely matter-of-fact, his statement an acknowledgement of the world as he saw it rather than any attempt to garner sympathy or deliberate self-deprecation. The wave of astonishment and denial he felt from the mech beside him caught him entirely by surprise.
"No!" Jazz pushed himself up on one arm, looking down at the supine tactician. A bright blue visor scanned him up and down before Jazz relaxed and settled back down, curling a little back towards Prowl's side. "No, Prowler. Not dull! Never that. Mech, I look at you and I see a processor that can think me into a knot, even on my best days. I see a frame tuned t' precision, the smartest pair of door-wings I ever saw," he paused, grinning up at Prowl, "and an aft t' die for. Believe me, I'm lookin' hard, an' I don't see a ball and chain."
Prowl cycled his optics, and his audials for good measure. He still didn't move his frame away from his companion, but he gazed at the ceiling above them in mild disbelief.
"Thank you," he said eventually.
"For tellin' the truth?"
Prowl offered him a half-smile. "For listing my assets in that order, rather than the reverse."
"Y'know me, Prowl. Give me a good processor over a nice frame any day. I'm just lucky, I guess. You've got both."
Prowl shook his helm again, as if trying to clear it. The conversation had taken on an almost surreal aspect, far different from the brusque matter-of-factness with which their days usually began. Jazz shifted, fidgeting a little. The tactician waited, mentally bracing.
"Can't say a choice would have been good. I don't like havin' my servo forced. Don't like bein' forced at all." The saboteur tensed, shaking his helm as if to shake the thought itself loose , before relaxing back against his companion. "But... we've been friends a Pit of a long time, Prowler. An' I must admit I'm curious, did you ever think…? I mean, did you ever wonder…?" Jazz's voice trailed off, his finger-servos tracing patterns on Prowl's chestplate as if to illustrate his words.
He had to know the answer. Prowl was certain that they both knew it. He didn't look down at his companion but he caught Jazz's servos in his own.
"A liaison between senior officers would have been unwise both tactically and from a disciplinary standpoint. Any such consideration would have to wait until after hostilities were concluded."
"If we both survived." Jazz shook his helm. "I've not given up on a thing in my life, Prowl." Prowl knew it well. Jazz's frown was audible in his voice as he went on. "Nothin' but that."
Prowl sighed, his tone still gentle, emotions softened by the stillness in the room. "I never abandoned hope that our situation might change. I believed it was a possibility worth retaining."
"Yeah," Jazz agreed softly. "Never thought it would actually happen."
"The humans have a phrase: 'never in a million years'." Prowl sighed, finally lowering his optics to meet Jazz's watching visor. "We waited eight. And it is still far from clear what the tactical consequences will be."
"Prowl." Jazz's hand twisted in his, finger-servos intertwining. "What we have, it's pretty much screwed up the double jeopardy thing, and it's gonna take gettin' used to, but it ain't a full bond, y'know."
"I know."
Silence fell, it stretched out as they lay together, servos entwined. Prowl half thought his companion had returned to recharge before the mech spoke, very quietly.
"And it could be, if we wanted it t' be."
Prowl's engine stuttered. His vents stilled before kicking back in. He choked off his words, not at all sure what he wanted to say, or even whether he understood Jazz correctly. "Indeed."
"I guess, what I'm sayin' is..." Jazz's voice trailed off into static. He reset his vocaliser with a slight cough. "We should give it a while, get used to what we have, but if things work out... well..."
"Well?" Prowl's whispered, his shaped breath almost lost even to his spark-mate's sensitive audials. Jazz looked at him, visor bright and tentative voice betraying his nerves.
"Well... I wouldn' be averse t' seein' where this takes us."
The tension eased from Prowl's frame. For the first time in an eternity, he relaxed, the mech he would give his spark for in a nanoklick safe in his arms. Soon, they would have to get up, and rejoin the war which had shaped both their lives, bending but never breaking them. There'd be troubles to face and new lessons to learn, but that lay in the future. Until then, all was as it should be.
"I think I'd like that," he said softly. "I think I'd like that a lot."
The End.