Unfinished Business - part 2a/2

Feb 21, 2013 16:51


Title: Unfinished Business


Part Two

Prowl's first day on official duty came as a relief to more than just himself. The unit's mechs breathed a sigh of relief as much to see the duty roster rearranged as to hear the reassuring and familiar tones of their Second in Command. Sideswipe might be a fine warrior and a bright officer, but he had a lot still to learn about matching mechs to their strengths. The humans of NEST were simply grateful that something could distract Prowl from the intent study of them that he'd indulged in over the last week. Watching the training exercises, of course, constituted essential intelligence gathering, and not even Ratchet had tried to ban him from such light work. Monitoring the humans off-duty was part of that too - a chance to assess their reactions in unexpected and emotional situations as well as regimented ones.

It was also quickly developing into a hobby. It was easy to see the regard in which Jazz, Ratchet and Optimus all held these frail organics. As he grew accustomed to them and learned to read their small faces, Prowl too had begun to enjoy life lived to the rapid beat of a human pulse, and even to somewhat appreciate the media suggestions and popular culture references that seemed to spill from Jazz in a constant stream.

Only an opportunity to talk to Jazz himself - impossible in front of the oblivious humans - could draw Prowl away from his surveillance. That, or the tempting lure of several years' of hitherto unseen tactical reports.

"Ain't it time you get y'self some fuel and some 'charge?"

"I can't stop now. There's too much to do."

"I know."

The quiet response broke Prowl's concentration in a way the well-known routine of Jazz's first suggestion hadn't. The tactician cycled his optics, a little startled himself to find he'd been working for almost seventeen Earth hours without a break.

The familiarity of the moment was actually disorientating. For a klick or two, as Prowl's tactical processor worked through a last few thousand simulations based on recent intelligence reports, he was back in a time vorns past.

How many long joors had Jazz spent in Prowl's various offices, teasing, distracting and bouncing ideas off him, between spells of letting the tactician work in companiable silence? How many times had it only been Jazz's prompts that reminded Prowl of the needs of his frame, elevating his oft-ignored status updates to conscious attention?

Just for that brief moment, Jazz was alive and Prowl was home and all was right with the world. And then Prowl looked up into faceplates drawn in shimmering light. He saw servos that clenched and unclenched restlessly, unable to hold the energon ration the saboteur would once have fetched rather than merely suggesting. His straining door-wings searched in vain for the energy field he was more familiar with than any in existence. The bare hint of spark-resonance they could detect was a cold and distant thing.

Jazz would never fetch him energon again. He'd never sit in front of the vid-screen in the rec room, laughing and joking and getting mildly overcharged on high-grade. He'd never throw a friendly arm around a mech's shoulder, or drop into recharge leaning against whoever was closest, or face down a challenge with his own unique combination of style, humour and deadly threat.

Prowl looked up into Jazz's visor and knew that his friend felt it too - that nothing could ever be the same.

Jazz shook his head. His pensive expression cleared, hidden by the mask he showed to the world at large.

"Still the workaholic, eh?"

It was hard to refute. The office was dark, lit equally by an inadequate fluorescent tube and the ethereal radiance that spilled from his friend's frame. Outside the thin-walled office set aside for Prowl, the main hangar had quietened as the humans settled into their night shift. Inside, Prowl hadn't noticed the time passing, his attention captured by the administrative work neglected in his absence, and the occasional interjection by Jazz. It hadn't occurred to him to rest.

He'd been equally oblivious to the effects of the long session on his companion. Prowl frowned, subjecting Jazz to a quick inspection, noting the pale shimmer of the ghost's frame and the tension he couldn't entirely hide.

"You need rest as well."

"I'm fine, Prowler."

The tactician raised a brow-ridge, his door-wings flaring wide. "You're tired."

"I'm fine. Not like stickin' around's gonna kill me."

Prowl's door-wings shuddered. He steadied them, venting a sigh as he tried to study his friend without annoying him further.

The spectre had been present more in the last week than he was in a normal month, or so Ratchet said, and it was showing. Appearing, or manifesting, or whatever it was the lingering sparks did, seemed to be truly difficult. Enough so that only Sunstreaker, Cliffjumper and Jazz put in something approaching frequent appearances. A couple of others had been seen a single time, so Prowl was told - amongst them Ironhide, who'd manifested to push Prime out of harm's way and then spend a solid hour lecturing Optimus on defensive technique before vanishing from the battlefield for good.

"Will Ironhide ever return?"

Jazz's visor flickered. He frowned at Prowl, startled by the impulsive question. The ghostly frame relaxed as he shrugged.

"Nah. Old 'Hide just wanted t' remind Optimus he's runnin' without a bodyguard now. Job done. He's gone rockin' on t' the Well." Jazz paused, expression distant. "Que too."

Prowl's tank churned. He nodded, keeping his faceplates neutral and his door-wings steady. It was hard to remember what had happened to the gentle inventor, and the way Ironhide was betrayed. Harder still with the official reports still fresh in his processor.

"I'm glad they have found peace," he said, and meant it. "And troubled that you have not." He paused, venting deeply before releasing the air in a long sigh. "Why are you still here, Jazz?"

Jazz stared at him. The mech's lip-plates worked, as if trying out the shapes of words. A thousand expressions flickered across his faceplates, all come and gone too quickly for even Prowl to read. Jazz's optics slid down to the Prowl's desk, and then off to one side, as if seeing through the walls and taking in the whole NEST operation.

Prowl's door-wings quivered, the vibration growing as the moment stretched out between them. It was tight, painful, far from comfortable silence they were accustomed to. Prowl's spark throbbed in his chest. His vents whirred, unnaturally loud without Jazz's there to balance them. The thought of not having the saboteur by his side, of being alone amidst the crowds on Earth, sent a stabbing pain through processor and spark. The devastating sense of loss he'd felt, and never truly understood, on hearing of Jazz's death still lurked at the back of his processor, and part of him truly wanted to turn away, to change the subject and pretend he'd never raised it.

Another part of him couldn't stand the thought of his closest friend and companion in pain. If Jazz needed this…

The saboteur's spectre turned back to him, faceplates blank as he subjected Prowl to a rapid and thorough visual inspection. Jazz had been head of Prime's Special Operations unit since before the first humans raised their eyes to the stars. He read Prowl's concern, uncertainty and fear in a single glance.

"Maybe I'm here for you?" Jazz smiled, a little melancholy, but with honest humour in the expression, as Prowl shrugged his door-wings in the equivalent of a human eye-roll. "Hey, who else is gonna make sure you take your ration?"

"Jazz…."

"Relax, Prowler. I got some things I need t' work out, that's all. Ain't the moment. Not yet. Need t' make my plans and pick my time. You ain't gonna get rid of me anytime soon."

The spectre turned away, pacing a few steps before glancing back over his shoulder.

"Y'know what? Maybe you're right. Could do with a break. Later, Prowler. And get some recharge!"

Jazz faded from view before Prowl could even finish his protest. The tactician watched as his friend's shimmer ebbed, as the glints and highlights that made up Jazz's outline became transparent and then vanished completely.

The office was quite suddenly smaller, emptier, than it had ever seemed before.

Standing, Prowl deactivated his computer terminal and stretched out his door-wings to loosen the kinks. It was time to fetch a ration, he decided. And then, well, maybe recharge wasn't such a bad idea.

"Ever wonder what you'll do after the war?"

The rock platform Prowl had commandeered as a seat was cool and damp in the night air. Jazz's spectral form, sprawled on its back beside him, lit the outcrop with a cold blue-white light. The warmer blue glow of Prowl's optics mingled with that radiance, brightening in his surprise and almost eclipsing the starlight they were here to observe.

Jazz lay with his hands folded behind his helm, his visor tilted up at the dark sky above. Prowl considered his friend, his expression carefully blank. The soft music spilling from Prowl's speakers - familiar now after nearly two Earth-years providing his friend that service - drifted across the still air. He let a chorus rise and fall before he answered the question.

"The last time you asked me that question the Towers still stood beneath Cybertron's skies."

Jazz hummed a note of agreement. "You told me you'd serve Prime until the Lord Protector was brought t' sanity, and then go home an' back t' bein' an enforcer."

That day seemed almost to belong to another life now. The mechs who held that conversation had been young and naïve. They'd had no way of knowing that the conflict sweeping their world would rage for eons and take them imaginably far from home.

Prowl dimmed his optics, drawing air through his vents, while his door-wings trembled behind him.

"Then Praxus fell." The music from his speakers died, both mechs sharing a moment of respectful silence before the melody started again, a low lament floating on the breeze. "You never asked again."

They both knew why. The world they'd known had fallen into the ruins of Prowl's home city. After that, not even Jazz, for all his unfailing optimism, could envisage them surviving a war that seemed without end.

Not, is seemed, until now.

Jazz pushed himself up on one elbow, his visor tilted in Prowl's direction.

"Three years since Chicago, Prowl. How many Decepticons're left on Earth, or - Pit! - within half a kiloparsec: a dozen here, twenty more maybe? What are they gonna do? Megatron's gone, an' Screamer, an' even Shocks. Roundin' up the rabble won't take forever. The three that came t' say hello when you arrived were the last t' put up a decent fight."

Jazz paused, settling back with his servos tucked behind his helm. "Cyberton's gone, Primus knows where, but we got a chance at a new start here." The former lieutenant squinted at his friend, the corner of his lip-plates twitching into a wry smile. "So, watcha gonna do?"

"I… I don't know."

Door-wings twitching, Prowl gave the question its first serious consideration in eons. The cool evening breezes of Earth, so alien after the stillness of Cybertron, played across his delicate sensors. Even here, in the sparse scrubland of the NEST base, a myriad of insects, birds and other provided a background hum beneath Prowl's music. They crawled across dirt in equal parts organic and silicate, fine grains of both finding its way under plating and into Prowl's vents. Overhead, Earth's thick atmosphere turned a majestic sweep of stars into a join-the-dots puzzle that stimulated even the tactician's imagination, and set their steady glow dancing in the night.

It was hard to imagine a planet much less like distant Cybertron. Was this really a world they could call home? If it were, what would that mean, for Prowl, for Jazz, and for them all?

"Peace?" The word tasted alien on Prowl's lip-plates. He shook his head, and tried again, forcing the uncertain note away. "Peace."

"Never thought I'd live t' see th' day."

The saboteur tried to mask the truth behind his joke with a grin. The expression was almost convincing, amidst the highlights and reflections of his glowing faceplates. Almost.

It wasn't often, after two years to grow accustomed to its consequences, that the reality of his friend's situation crashed in on Prowl. Most of the time, even Jazz seemed not to give it much thought. The ghost's struggle to interact with matter did not extend to the unconscious act of sitting, or lying or leaning against a handy support. His inability to send or receive comm signals didn't stop him making his feelings clear, and his limited audience just incited him to more frequent and less reverent commentary in mixed-company meetings.

Glimpses of the melancholy that lay behind Jazz's façade were far rarer. Prowl was aware of it, of course. He'd had seen his friend's sad smile when new arrivals to Earth were welcomed, oblivious to the watching saboteur. He'd sensed the erstwhile lieutenant's frustrated impotence when the Autobots discussed battle tactics with their NEST allies, or even just the nuances of human politics. More than once, and most often when Bumblebee or Sideswipe were occupied with the duties they'd inherited from Prime's lieutenant, Prowl had come across Jazz sitting quiet and still in the rec room, utterly alone in the crowd.

To catch brief sight of such unguarded expressions was one thing, and it wrenched Prowl's spark every time. To hear that frustration and loss in Jazz's voice was quite another.

Prowl reached out without thinking, his finger-servos stopping just short of touching Jazz's arm in comfort. The chill of the contact, the energy drain that seemed to draw heat from Prowl's very spark, would hardly comfort either mech.

Jazz's visor broke contact with Prowl's optics. He stood, the lithe silver-blue frame flowing between seated and upright in a graceful movement. The spectre's head tilted up, his visor resting on the twinkling stars. Prowl's servo dropped into the empty space between them, his fist clenching as it did so. He nodded slowly, trying to bring his processor back to the original question.

"Even if the end is in sight, the remaining Decepticons will occupy us for some time to come. Ensuring our people are safe from the humans will take rather longer."

This time the smirk Jazz threw over his shoulder was genuine. "Didn't think you'd've missed that. These humans might be small but they kinda make up for it in attitude. Remind me of 'Jumper that way." Jazz paced a few steps and then turned, his helm once again tilted towards the tactician. The ghost opened his mouth to speak and then paused, a strange expression flickering across his face. "Now there's a spark who'll be glad to see the last Decepticon outta the way."

The expression was gone before Prowl could question it, Jazz's servo waving a vague dismissal of the point as he resumed his pacing. The tactician shook his head.

"Be that as it may, Optimus will have need of my skills even after the Decepticon threat is eliminated."

"Political tactics, rather than military ones, eh? Bit of a departure for you, mech."

Prowl's ambivalence spilled into his frame, his door-wings swayed forward and back again. He vented a sigh, one hand coming up to massage his chevron. "But a necessary one. It may be many years before I am free to rest. In the mean time I will serve where I can. To do less would be to fail in my duty: to our people and our to our Prime."

Jazz sighed, the sound unnatural without the hum of vents behind it. The spectre dropped back down to sit on the rock platform beside Prowl, a careful arms-length from the tactician.

"Yeah, I know," he said, voice soft. "And you wouldn't be you if you didn't feel that way, Prowler. I know that too."

"Jazz?"

"Humans live fast, Prowler. Die fast. Change fast too."

"I know." This time it was Prowl who murmured the words. "I fear you are correct. We will face a new paradigm sooner than I ever believed possible."

"We got a while yet, and - I shouldn't be tellin' you this - but the Big Guy's got a plan. The future ain't nothin' for a mech t' fear."

Jazz's visor dimmed, the spectre's entire form flickering as he settled back to his stargazing. Prowl studied him for a long moment before turning back to the stars himself. The human music Jazz preferred, forgotten for the length of their discussion emerged once more from Prowl's speakers. His friend murmured his appreciation, musical voice merging with the melody.

The conversation lapsed, the two mechs comfortable with the silence between them, both lost in thought.

Lord Primus had a plan? Prowl knew the thought should excite him, that it should relieve the shapeless fears that hovered at the edge of the tactician's processor.

Beside him, Jazz sang quietly, echoing the chorus of a human song about love and loss. So human a thing - to capture the deepest of emotions in words and tame it in the process. Prowl knew to do so was far beyond his skill.

Even if he could articulate his feelings clearly in his own processor, even if he could find the words to share them with his friend, how would Jazz react? The dream of an ordered, conflict-free future was what Prowl had craved even as an enforcer. Now, the culmination of his life's unfinished work was a prospect he viewed with unease, or even fear.

No. Not the completion of his own work. The completion of his friend's.

Prowl could see hope of peace for their people, and all the more clearly so with each iteration of his tactical algorithms. For Prowl himself, there would be no peace without Jazz by his side.

"I wouldn't." The human soldier chuckled, reaching out to lay a friendly punch on his comrade's arm. Both looked up at the door of the Autobots' medbay, keeping just out of range of its opening sensors. "Old Ratchet is talking to himself again."

It was curious, Prowl considered, how quickly Cybertronians had become not only acceptable to the humans they worked with, but oddly humanised.

The five years since Prowl himself made Earth-fall, ten since Mission City, was hardly a noticeable time in Cybertronian terms. The tactician had known single battles that lasted longer. Admittedly, looked at from the perspective of a shorter, human lifespan, the interval must take on a different significance. It was long enough, it seemed, to have bred familiarity, and perhaps even the slightest hint of contempt.

"Ahem?"

The two soldiers snapped to attention. They blinked up at the black and silver Autobot towering above them with salutes and the immediate respect due to his rank. He couldn't help noticing the stress hormones that flooded their organic systems as they wondered whether he'd heard the comment. Amongst the humans and younger Autobots - 'the younglings', even to sentients whose ancestors hadn't left the trees when they were sparked - more than one older mech had acquired a reputation for talking to themselves. Prowl was far from unaware that he numbered amongst them, although he'd done so far less than he'd prefer of late.

It was his latest search for Jazz, in fact, that had brought the tactician to Ratchet's door. Looking down at the NEST soldiers, Prowl crossed his arms over his bumper. He raised a brow-ridge, moderating the unconscious flare of his door-wings to ease the men's nerves.

"I assume you had a reason for being here, gentlemen?"

"Ah… Sir, yes, sir. Our physicals, sir?"

After the initial wobble, the man's voice was even and unafraid. Prowl nodded in approval as much as acknowledgement. Considering, the tactician glanced at the door. The strident tone of Ratchet's voice was audible through the door, even to human ears. There were precisely three sentient beings on base capable of inspiring that level of irritation in the medic. The intangible, unsee-able nature of two of those three would hardly do anything to enhance perceptions of Ratchet's rationality, or Prowl's.

Scanning the soldiers for their identities, the Autobot Second encoded them in a message and fired it off, before inclining his helm to the humans in question.

"Ratchet will send for you when he is ready."

"Sir, thank you, sir."

Neither man argued, both nodding to the enigmatic tactician before vacating the corridor with a haste that verged on the impolite.

Prowl watched them go, his door-wings trembling with amusement. Both men were relatively new arrivals. They might have picked up the comfortable way their NEST comrades discussed the Autobots, but it would take longer to get over the instinctive awe of confronting one, and even Autobots sometimes took vorns before they could relax around Prowl himself.

Of course, there were exceptions to every rule. Jazz had made it his mission to get to know the then-enforcer from their very first orn as colleagues.

Jazz's habit of distracting him from his work was something Prowl had resented for vorns, and merely tolerated for a near-eternity. Strange, then, how much he'd missed it during their vorns apart. Shocking, how bereft he'd been when it appeared he'd never experience again.

Now, he struggled to picture his life without Jazz's visits. As much pleasure as he derived from plotting Optimus Prime's path through the complexities of human politics, and managing the Autobot's growing portfolio of additional interests, the distractions had actually become welcome. The silver-blue mech's absence for even a day or two niggled at Prowl's concentration. When the spark-ghost was absent for a full week, even the satisfaction and fulfillment Prowl derived from his endless diplomatic work could not compete with the urge to track him down.

Speaking of which… Prowl dismissed the human soldiers from his processor. He dialled up his audio receivers. If Ratchet was with one of the twins rather than the erstwhile saboteur, not even Prowl was prepared to brave the medic's ire.

"Jazz… this can't go on."

"Leave it, Ratch!"

The snarl stopped Prowl's hand halfway to the door control. He'd heard Jazz angry before, but the weary, melancholic note in his voice was new.

"For how long? It's been six months since we rounded up the last Decepticon on Earth. Almost two since anyone's seen Cliffjumper."

The former was hardly news to the sub-commander of the Autobot armed forces. The latter gave him pause. Prowl had noticed that the mini-bot's spectre was unusually quiet, of course, but had it really been so long? The thought was a startling one, and disturbing too. If the last battle of their long conflict had really come and gone, was Cliffjumper finally at rest? If so, what did Ratchet mean by pointing it out to another of their ghosts?

The medic's sigh was audible even through the door. "You can't wait forever. You need to tell him, Jazz. To explain."

"Optimus said it was my choice when, y'know, mech." That, at least, was calmer, even if Jazz's voice still lacked its usual cheer. "He's got his reasons for being here, just like I've got mine. Decepticons or not, that ain't changed. It's not time yet."

"And when will it be? How long will you wait?"

"Long as it takes!" It was too easy to image Jazz waving a dismissive servo, his visor blazing. Prowl leaned forward, resting the chevron on his brow against the door as he focused on the words inside. The fact that he was eavesdropping didn't even occur to him as he strained to hear his friend's quiet words. "I waited a dozen kilovorns, Ratch. I waited half a lifetime. Another few Earth years isn't too much t' ask."

Ratchet hesitated long enough to make Prowl uneasy. His finger-servos were already brushing the door controls when the medic finally spoke.

"I just wish I could make this easier for you."

"Nothin' worth doin's ever easy, Ratch." Prowl's door-wings slumped, their joints sending a stab of discomfort through his frame. Until the return of laughter to Jazz's voice eased his concern, the tactician hadn't even realised how tense he'd become. The saboteur's mood had always been mercurial. Since the spark faded from his frame, it had become more unpredictable still. "I'll ask when he's ready t' hear the question. When he's free to answer it. Won't do no-one any good if I force it when he ain't. Trust me t' know my mech that well, at least."

Ratchet's snort was distinctly uninformative. Jazz chuckled.

"Sorry, Ratch. You ain't gettin' rid of me anytime soon. I'm goin' nowhere for a good while yet."

"Prowl?" Optimus Prime's voice on the comm-link startled Prowl out of his near-daze. His optics brightened, his door-wings and plating flaring in shame and surprise as he realised what he was doing. "I know you're off duty, but I was wondering if you have those resource projections the colonel was asking for earlier?"

"I… ah… Yes, Optimus. I'll bring them to you at once."

There was a thoughtful pause. "Is everything all right, Prowl?"

Alone and unseen, Prowl shook his head. He was already moving away from the medical bay door, determined to put distance between him and it before either Jazz or Ratchet sought him out and realised what he'd done. The discussion he'd overheard looped again and again through his processor, baffling and troubling him. Who must Jazz talk to, and about what? Was this something Prowl could help his friend with, and, if so, why had the spectre confided in Ratchet rather than the tactician? Why could he not even hazard a guess as to the context so clearly understood by both participants the conversation?

"Prowl?"

Prowl shook his head, consciously terminating the query algorithms before responding to his Prime's repeated question.

He knew the saboteur well enough to be sure that attempting to force a confidence would backfire catastrophically. Jazz would come to him if he wanted or needed assistance, Prowl was sure of that. If he did, if Jazz asked for help, Prowl would move Pit and Well to ensure his friend got it. Otherwise, Prowl could only wait the mech out and offer what comfort and support he might. As Jazz had said, a few Earth years hardly counted as a long wait for either one of them.

And in the meantime, the tactician would draw comfort of his own from what he'd heard. 'I'm goin' nowhere', Jazz had said, and for all his concern, Prowl's spark sang with relief at the words.

"I'm fine." Prowl told Prime, speaking only the honest truth. "Just a small distraction."

Laughter didn't travel well over the comm-links, but Prowl knew amusement when he heard it.

"Jazz?" Optimus asked.

Prowl cycled his optics, venting deeply. "Is there any other?"

"Prove it."

A broad, knowing grin spread across Sideswipe's face. It was a familiar expression - one that admitted to guilt without words. Sideswipe knew that he'd been caught. He knew too that Prowl, Ratchet and Optimus Prime would never be able to prove he was culpable.

The mere fact that no other mech in the history of the Autobot armed forces had ever been capable of such audacity wouldn't justify the severest punishments. In the absence of further evidence, the swordsmech was more than ready to take a lesser sanction. The amusement value of watching the entire human race wake to find their online information and entertainment pages transposed to another language was, it seemed, worth that much.

Sideswipe rolled forward a few metres on his pede-tyres, and then scooted in a tight circle, too hyped to stand still. It was an old behaviour pattern - one the tactician hadn't seen since the twins stood in an office long gone, waiting for his verdict with a dangerous mixture of trepidation and exhilaration.

Yes, Prowl knew this smile well, and he rejoiced to see it. The ten years since he joined Prime's unit on Earth had been far too long without a prank of Sideswipean proportions to lighten the mood.

"Prowl?" Prime tried to put a stern note in his rumble, but Sideswipe smiled brightly at him nonetheless. Optimus had been fighting laughter ever since an irate Brigadier General Lennox thumped on his bumper to rouse him from recharge. Sideswipe had no problem reading their Prime's temper, any more than he did with the watching Ratchet.

Judging by the exasperated look Lennox turned on the group, fifteen years in Prime's close company had taught their human ally to read the mood with nearly as much ease.

Prime's Second-in-Command schooled his faceplates to neutrality, careful to keep his door-wings from quivering with his own amusement.

"There are few mechs on Earth with the requisite level of hacking and programming ability. Of those, Sideswipe has by far the most extensive record of past offences against procedure and discipline. The audacity and public nature of this 'prank' is consistent with his established modus operandi, as is the largely non-malign nature of the, ah, amendments made. The pre-programmed reversion of each server to norm at ten AM local time - before the working day was far advanced - also suggests a mech with a strong sense of responsibility, probably with experience of human interaction at officer rank."

Ratchet snorted, content to heckle from the sidelines. He jerked his head at the circling swordsmech without even attempting to conceal his amusement. "Even that one had to wise up sometime. Least he had the wits not to sign his name this time."

The tactician folded his arms, ignoring the interjection. "While there is, as yet, no direct evidence linking Sideswipe to this incident, Prime, the circumstantial evidence is compelling." He paused, a tremor reaching his wings despite his efforts. Glancing at the human by Prime's feet, he chose his words with care. "I would add that certain programming patterns and internal evidence suggest he may have secured assistance from another skilled hacker, and would likely have required at least one, if not two stealthy lookouts to give him time to access the main communications servers." Prowl looked around him, brow-ridges raised. "I note that the two most likely suspects are conspicuous by their absence."

Except, Prowl realised, as Optimus Prime launched into a speech that mingled approbation with his own delight at seeing Sideswipe so relaxed, that wasn't quite true.

A flash of white-blue from the doorway caught the tactician's optic. He turned a deliberately forbidding look in that direction, fully expecting to meet the visor of a sheepish Jazz. Instead he saw a taller, broader frame, elaborate head-fins framing a pale mirror of Sideswipe's features. Sunstreaker watched Prime's lecture with an expression Prowl could only describe as satisfaction, albeit one tinged with something that looked very much like regret.

Cycling his optics in surprise, Prowl took a moment to assess the situation before reacting. He'd seen Sunstreaker less often of late, and always in Sideswipe's company if he was present at all. The spectre seemed paler than Prowl remembered, although even the tactician couldn't have said whether that was truth or some trick of perception, and quieter. Maybe Sideswipe's improving mood made the presence of his long-gone brother less painful to endure. Or perhaps the weary expression Prowl glimpsed from time to time on Sunstreaker's face meant something more.

The second twin, always the more withdrawn and pensive of the two, even before his return from the Well, was staying well back. The doorframe concealed him from both his brother and their Prime. In fact, Prowl realised, of all the mechs who might perceive the spectral presence, only the Second-in-Command himself was in a position to do so.

Sunstreaker's optics glowed a deep blue against the ripple of light that made up his frame. They studied his brother intently for several klicks before rising to meet Prowl's. Sunstreaker didn't exactly smile, but his posture spoke volumes. The erstwhile frontliner jerked his helm, back towards the command corridor, and Prowl needed no words to realise what was being asked of him.

"Prime, if you'll excuse me…?"

Warming to his topic, and - Prowl was sure - also playing very much for his human audience, Prime nodded automatically. Prowl slipped away before Optimus Prime had time to think again and wonder where his Second was going. A wave of his servo had Ratchet settling back to lean against the gantry and enjoy the show. Whatever Sunstreaker wanted, Prowl was quite sure, he wouldn't appreciate an uninvited audience of his own.

Sunstreaker was gone by the time Prowl reached the corridor, and the door to the tactical office was closed. That didn't trouble him. The rules regarding just when a door would be solid enough for one of their wandering sparks to lean against, and when they would walk through it with impunity, seemed to be almost infinitely fluid. As a rule though, Sunstreaker leaned towards the latter behaviour - not seeking attention often, but making sure he'd be noticed when he did.

Sure enough, the electric blue frontliner was pacing in front of Prowl's desk when the tactician let himself into through the locked door. Here, in the smaller, dimmer space, Prowl could be sure. He'd spent enough time with Jazz - and even Sunstreaker - in this room to be certain now that Sunstreaker had faded. The highlights that picked out his form were fainter, less well defined, than before. The blue-white of his frame had become translucent, the sharp edge of Prowl's desk just barely discernable through Sunstreaker's chest and back-plates. The spectre's body language had changed too. Sunstreaker's shoulders slumped a little, his arms crossed over his chest-plates in a gesture that seemed more protective than antagonistic.

"Are you well?" The question came automatically, and Prowl didn't try to qualify it. The mechs who could see their ghostly comrades had long since adapted the meaning of such phrases to their own ends.

Sunstreaker shot him a weary smile.

"Just tired. Won't be for much longer." The ghost paused in his pacing, watching as Prowl lowered himself into the chair behind his desk. He tilted his head, leaning back against the nearest wall. "I want to say thank you."

Prowl's vents faltered. The weight with which Sunstreaker invested his words gave his tactical processor the final clue it needed to reach a conclusion. It was one that pained him as much as it gladdened him.

"Thank you?"

"For putting up with Sides and me when no one else would. For understanding us." If this had been Sideswipe, he'd have cracked a grin. Sunstreaker's lip-plates quirked with the barest hint of a smile. "Or trying to at least." He paused, shoulders heaving as if he drew in a deep vent. The hum of Prowl's system's aside, the room was silent. "Thank you for saving our lives a dozen times over. For being there for us. For being here for Sides these last few years."

There was no doubt then. Prowl nodded, expression grave.

"I am sorry, Sunstreaker, that I could not do more."

Now Sunstreaker did smile, a familiar, wry twist of his well-shaped faceplates. "Not your fault I got myself slagged. Should have known better than to try something like that without you around to pull our afts out of the Pit."

The ghost's foot tapped idly against the wall behind him. Sunstreaker seemed relaxed… or perhaps content was the better word. Accepting of his fate.

"The broken bond really messed Sides up, you know that. But he's doing better now. He's got a ways to go yet, but I think he's finally on the right track." Sunstreaker nodded firmly. "He's figured some things out. Leastways, he's not going to crack. Not yet." The blue glow of his optics cycled in a wink. "Sometimes with Sideswipe that's all you can ask for."

Again, the frontliner paused and Prowl waited him out. Sunstreaker rarely spoke this freely. Given the circumstances the tactician wasn't going to interrupt.

"I've done all I can here, Prowl. Guess Primus has decided my time is up. So I just wanted to say thanks. And goodbye."

Prowl stood, his wings flared and his expression intense in its sincerity. "Sunstreaker… it's truly been an honour to serve with you. I wish you peace and happiness in the Well."

He truly meant to leave it at that, but Sunstreaker heard the hesitation in his voice. The twins had been around Prowl longer than anyone but Jazz, Ratchet and Prime. They could read him as few others could.

"Something on your mind, Prowl?"

"Jazz knows you're leaving?"

Sunstreaker's brief nod went a long way to explaining the edge of anger and despondency Prowl had seen in his friend of late. Jazz hadn't been this unpredictable since Cliffjumper returned to the Well. Prowl's door-wings slumped, his optics dimming with grief and anxiety.

"He'll be alone."

Again, a nod from the watching frontliner.

Prowl hitched his door-wings higher, his expression deadly earnest.

"Then, Sunstreaker, I have one final request to make of you, and I hope you can forgive my boldness. Tell me: how can I help Jazz find peace?"

The spectre pushed off from the wall. He moved to the desk, his bright optics studying Prowl intently. Whatever he saw, it seemed both to amuse and frustrate him. He shook its head.

"How you can be so smart and so dumb at the same time never ceases to amaze me." Sunstreaker leaned forward over the desk. "You want to help Jazz?"

"With all my spark."

"Then when he comes to talk to you… to ask you…"

Prowl startled, his door-wings flaring behind him. The conversation he'd overheard between Jazz and Ratchet was seldom far from his processor. Somehow though, he'd never connected it to himself. The thought that Jazz might hesitate for long years to ask anything of his closest friend was a troubling one. "Jazz's question is for me?"

Sunstreaker chuckled, the sound low and rich, and all the more precious for its rarity.

"When he comes to ask, don't let that processor of yours speak for you. Answer with your spark and everything will be fine." The ghost paused, chuckle dying as he turned a serious look on the tactician. "You want to help Jazz? Don't frag this up."

The slight smile returned, Sunstreaker's helm tilting back as if he were listening to something only he could hear.

"Won't be long now. Just sorry I can't stick around to see it. Goodbye, Prowl."

Prowl nodded, swallowing back his questions, knowing he'd already pushed too far. "Goodbye Sunny. Thank you too… for everything."

Sunstreaker's form was fading by the second. He tapped his brow, his handsome faceplates lit with a joy that Prowl had never thought to see there.

"Until all are one."

The words hung in the air even after Sunstreaker was lost to sight, ringing with hope and wonder and promise.

transformers, supernatural, movieverse, angst, prowl/jazz, fan fiction

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