Berth Snatcher (4/6)
Title: Berth Snatcher (4/6)
Rating: G
Verse: G1
Word count: 614
Warnings: Off-screen nonspecific character death.
Summary: Five times Jazz ends up in Prowl's berth (and one time he doesn't).
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
Four dead, seventeen wounded.
Five teams had gone in to enemy territory and not one had escaped unscathed. Jazz could feel some bit of relief that his primary team had only injuries and no casualties, but then guilt ate at him for the selfish thought; there were four bots who had not returned tonight.
It had been his plan that had failed so spectacularly. On his information. Every injury, every death was on his conscience. His tanks sloshed as the sick feeling intensified, and he fought to keep from purging the scant energon he’d been able to consume earlier. Was this what being a leader was all about? Worry and guilt and praying desperately for the sparks of those too quickly departed under his care? If so, then Optimus was welcome to the title of Prime. Jazz wanted no part of it. All he wanted now was his cold berth and the chance to break in to his stash of high-grade to make the pain go away for a cycle. Of course, that was provided he could keep it down for at least a little while.
But when Jazz made it to the hall housing the officers’ quarters, Prowl was there waiting for him. Without a word, Prowl palmed open the door to his own quarters and held out his hand in invitation. Jazz stumbled forward to take it and allowed himself to be drawn in to the room. The door hissed shut behind them, and Prowl led him to his berth. Jazz sat down heavily and Prowl joined him, their frames barely brushing. Jazz was quiet for once; no easy-going conversation spilling from his vocalizer, just the harsh cycling of his anxious systems. Prowl was a steady presence at his side, his face a mask of seeming serenity as he waited out the silence.
Finally, Jazz spoke. “Four dead and seventeen wounded.” He looked down at his clenched fists. “And all my fault.”
Prowl’s composure did not break at the abrupt declaration. “Was it your hand that held the blaster to their sparks, that set the explosives that sent them to the Med Bay?”
Jazz snorted softly. “Might as well have been,” he replied. “I was the one who came up with the slagging plan to begin with.”
“If it was your fault for creating the plan, surely I share blame as well.” Prowl said quietly. “Did I not aid in the crafting of the mission, and agree with its implementation? Was mine not the hand that sent those bots out to die?”
“No,” Jazz said sharply, raising his helm to look Prowl in the optics. “If it weren’t for your tweaking, we all woulda died there.” He laughed hollowly, looking away again. “Your changes saved our afts from my stupidity.”
“And if it wasn’t for your quick thinking during the mission, you never would have brought as many home as you did,” Prowl countered. “Were it not you on that mission, all would have likely perished.”
“That don’t change the ones that lost their lives for us.”
“Then live for them,” Prowl replied so fiercely that Jazz was momentarily taken aback. “Do not wallow in their deaths, Jazz,” he said, softer now, and tentatively rested his hand on Jazz’s shoulder. Jazz let out a shuddering sigh and leaned back against him, and Prowl reciprocated with a proper embrace. “Give them the respect and credit their lives deserved. They would not want to see you so defeated by this for long.”
Four dead, seventeen wounded. The ache was still there, but Prowl’s arms around him gentled it into something manageable, and Jazz finally let himself grieve in the dim light of Prowl’s quarters.
Rating: G
Verse: G1
Word count: 614
Warnings: Off-screen nonspecific character death.
Summary: Five times Jazz ends up in Prowl's berth (and one time he doesn't).
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
Four dead, seventeen wounded.
Five teams had gone in to enemy territory and not one had escaped unscathed. Jazz could feel some bit of relief that his primary team had only injuries and no casualties, but then guilt ate at him for the selfish thought; there were four bots who had not returned tonight.
It had been his plan that had failed so spectacularly. On his information. Every injury, every death was on his conscience. His tanks sloshed as the sick feeling intensified, and he fought to keep from purging the scant energon he’d been able to consume earlier. Was this what being a leader was all about? Worry and guilt and praying desperately for the sparks of those too quickly departed under his care? If so, then Optimus was welcome to the title of Prime. Jazz wanted no part of it. All he wanted now was his cold berth and the chance to break in to his stash of high-grade to make the pain go away for a cycle. Of course, that was provided he could keep it down for at least a little while.
But when Jazz made it to the hall housing the officers’ quarters, Prowl was there waiting for him. Without a word, Prowl palmed open the door to his own quarters and held out his hand in invitation. Jazz stumbled forward to take it and allowed himself to be drawn in to the room. The door hissed shut behind them, and Prowl led him to his berth. Jazz sat down heavily and Prowl joined him, their frames barely brushing. Jazz was quiet for once; no easy-going conversation spilling from his vocalizer, just the harsh cycling of his anxious systems. Prowl was a steady presence at his side, his face a mask of seeming serenity as he waited out the silence.
Finally, Jazz spoke. “Four dead and seventeen wounded.” He looked down at his clenched fists. “And all my fault.”
Prowl’s composure did not break at the abrupt declaration. “Was it your hand that held the blaster to their sparks, that set the explosives that sent them to the Med Bay?”
Jazz snorted softly. “Might as well have been,” he replied. “I was the one who came up with the slagging plan to begin with.”
“If it was your fault for creating the plan, surely I share blame as well.” Prowl said quietly. “Did I not aid in the crafting of the mission, and agree with its implementation? Was mine not the hand that sent those bots out to die?”
“No,” Jazz said sharply, raising his helm to look Prowl in the optics. “If it weren’t for your tweaking, we all woulda died there.” He laughed hollowly, looking away again. “Your changes saved our afts from my stupidity.”
“And if it wasn’t for your quick thinking during the mission, you never would have brought as many home as you did,” Prowl countered. “Were it not you on that mission, all would have likely perished.”
“That don’t change the ones that lost their lives for us.”
“Then live for them,” Prowl replied so fiercely that Jazz was momentarily taken aback. “Do not wallow in their deaths, Jazz,” he said, softer now, and tentatively rested his hand on Jazz’s shoulder. Jazz let out a shuddering sigh and leaned back against him, and Prowl reciprocated with a proper embrace. “Give them the respect and credit their lives deserved. They would not want to see you so defeated by this for long.”
Four dead, seventeen wounded. The ache was still there, but Prowl’s arms around him gentled it into something manageable, and Jazz finally let himself grieve in the dim light of Prowl’s quarters.