Chapter Text
Sometimes, when he was still for too long, Jazz saw the moment the thermo-charge detonated and the Amprodome was annihilated, leaving nothing but a smoldering crater. In these moments, Jazz could feel the reverberation of the explosion racing through his audial horns. How could he have almost let himself chuckle at Sunstreaker’s stupid attempt to lighten the mood afterward? If Jazz had just repressed the urge, chastised his teammate like a true hero would, maybe everything would not have gone wrong. He replayed his mistake in his processor again and again, like a song stuck on repeat. Other times, when the shock wave of the explosion was not ringing in Jazz’s horns, he instead felt searing pain in them, like he was hanging above the vat of acid again and the tips were melting off. Megadeath had pulled him back from the edge of madness to make sure he felt all the pain, and it would be burned into his processor forever. Jazz would hide away, crouch down, and hold his horns tight when he felt these ghostly pains, not wanting anyone else to see him in that state. He did not have the luxury to be upset about being hurt when he could still hear his friend, Stampede, begging to be physically tortured alongside everyone else.
While Jazz felt what his team, the so-called “Magnificent Six,” or rather what was left of them, had been doing—fighting on the ground and liberating neutrals and Autobots in small villages and towns from the Decepticons’ oppression—was probably the most valuable type of tactics, he had felt a wave of relief hit him when that one radical voice on the Autobots’ High Council had set the stage for the Autobots’ forces to be consolidated under the command of the former leader of the Elite Flying Corps, Optimus Prime. The reason being that Jazz was always kept busy with constant orders, and he had ended up posted in Iacon with all his comrades. In a big city like this, he would not be reminded of the village he had failed.
Right now, there was a private meeting happening between their leader, Optimus Prime, and Emirate Xaaron. Probably discussing how to push through the current stalemate, and when the Decepticons would launch their next assault. The rest of the Autobots were holed-up in the High Council building. Jazz was pacing in the hall, back-and-forth, like the swinging of a metronome. The far wall was constructed of transparent hexagons, so anyone could gaze at the rest of the city as they walked.
Jazz wandered over to where Prowl was sitting on an elaborately-decorated bench. “How are we looking?” Jazz asked him, which both of them knew meant that Jazz was asking what the outcome of the Decepticons’ next assault was likely to be.
“I’ve calculated a seventy-nine percent chance that we will succeed in breaking through the Decepticons’ battle line and thwarting their current attack.”
Jazz knew Prowl would never lie about something like this. “Huh. That’s not actually what I expected.”
“Yes, well, the great Optimus Prime has made us Autobots far more effective under his leadership.” Sometimes, Jazz was worried Prowl idolized Optimus Prime too much, but then other times, Prowl would explode at him and tear all of Prime’s strategies to scraps. Back before, Jazz remembered a calmer Prowl, who was unsure of himself but willing to step up and lead. He used to look to Jazz for advice—stupid, given it was Jazz who had caused everything to go so wrong—but now that Jazz had sworn to never let anything like that happen again, sometimes he wished it could go back to being that way. But that Prowl had died during those seven days of pain, leaving a more extreme one in his place. He was acting like Jazz used to! Why could he not understand that everyone should have been acting like the old Prowl instead?
Of course, Jazz’s new outlook did not allow for him to voice any of that noise. Instead, he made himself smile and nod. He sat down beside Prowl, awaiting further orders. Jazz stared off into the distance, the architecture now crumbling, but still shining. In a way, the rough edges of debris glinting was beautiful. But who could ever care about the beauty in destruction when it meant everything it was before was lost? Shaking Jazz from these thoughts was a faint, repetitive clattering sound. It was close by, very close by, not some distant thundering of a war machine, and nothing at all like a tune.
It was Prowl. The doors on his back were vibrating, and his eyes were huge and bright yellow, looking a lot like the city’s great golden dome. The scowl on his face was intense, all harsh, shadowed grooves. “I will say,” Prowl ground out, “there is also a forty-three point eight percent chance that, given the positions we’re likely to have in the formation due to our ranks, we’ll both be casualties in the upcoming battle.”
If Prowl’s tension was due to worrying that saying it out loud would freak Jazz out and make the bad outcome more likely, he really should have had more faith. “That’s too bad, but I’m fine with it given what a good chance we have to succeed in our goal,” Jazz said. He was not afraid of dying, and he knew Prowl was not either. After all, they probably deserved it.
But all the tension in Prowl’s frame did not unwind at those words. Instead, he tilted his head down. Jazz was shaken, having no clue what was wrong. He stared, waiting for Prowl to speak.
“Logically, I know that if I’m a casualty, I’m likely to be repaired, given the tactical advice I can provide,” Prowl said. More quietly, he added, “But if there are no resources to spare, and I’m left offline for the foreseeable future… I have a regret.”
“Everybody has plenty of regrets, Prowl. I think what’s important is that we’re all trying to make the future a better one,” Jazz said, even though he did not believe the words.
At that, Prowl lifted his head and turned to glare at him. He seemed to be more of his new normal, cranky self. “I don’t want empty platitudes, Jazz. I was going to say that I’d regret never having a companion the way I’ve always wanted.”
“A companion?” Jazz tilted his head to the side. “But you’ve got plenty of friends.”
“Not like that. I’ve always wanted… a life partner.” Prowl had a tense little frown on his face, clearly feeling like this was illogical. “The feeling of being prioritized in a certain way seems… pleasant."
“But—wait, you mean—oh, I know what you’re talking about now.” At first, Jazz had thought Prowl was talking about a best friend, but then he realized—no, he meant something romantic. Bonds like that had always been rare among the transformers. Sometimes mechanisms who had been around lots of alien cultures and seen these relationships in other species were more keen on the idea. Jazz himself loved getting absorbed in other cultures, but from an outsider’s perspective with some distance. Romantic bonds had never appealed to him personally. “That’s way more sentimental than I’d expect from you!”
“Yeah. Imagine how embarrassing it is for me.” Prowl’s expression softened a little. For a moment, he seemed kind of unsure, a flicker of his old self. “I don’t know what the purpose of my feeling these regrets could possibly be right now. Even if I survive indefinitely, I already know I can never have a partner like that, so it’s pointless. Part of the point of having one would be to be intimately known, supported, and accepted, but there’s too much I can’t share, and no one who does know the truth about me would be interested in an arrangement,” Prowl said all of it like a lecture, and it clearly was not directed at Jazz.
Jazz crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve been thinking about the shame, too,” he admitted, quietly, partially to indicate to Prowl that they should keep their voices down if they were going to mention it. Jazz did not want to be fully known. To be fully known felt like being trapped. But for someone like Prowl, who apparently did want to be fully known and cared for—there must be pain in realizing that he had already met all the people who would ever know the truth about him. That the older he survived to be through the ages, the less anyone new who came into his life could ever understand him. It was not fair for Prowl to be doomed to a fate like that if it was not one he found comforting. “Look, Prowl, I have to ask—when you’re talking about this kind of partner you want, would they have to do things like, say, I don’t know, binomial data transfers, and other things I’d find hard on the optical sensors? Like this?” Jazz tapped his hands together, trying to convey the sort of acts he was referring to.
“What? No, I guess not. Why?” Prowl asked.
“Just humor me and tell me the rest of what I want to know—then what is it that you’d want them to do for you? Different from a friend.”
“I would enjoy being held,” Prowl said, “having my frame embraced or even just my hand. I’d enjoy the steady pressure. I’d also want my partner to be my emergency contact for life.”
That sounded so easy and simple! But Jazz schooled his features. “When I’ve seen romantic-types, I sometimes see them spending time together and going out, but not really being into the activities they’re doing? There’s nothing better than doing something fun with a friend, but they’ll look more focused on each other, like the fun thing’s just an excuse. Is that the way you’d be, too?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That would be illogical. Now, will you explain why you’re asking me these questions?”
Jazz put his hands together and let himself smile. “You’re in luck, Prowl! You can have the thing you want—I’ll be your partner!”
Prowl’s expression went slack and neutral. A few sparks flew out of the corners of his eyes.
Jazz hurried on with an explanation: “Everything I was asking about would make me jittery in a bad way. When I see romantic-types hanging out, with a look in their eyes like they’re craving something from each other—I know I wouldn’t want someone to look at me like that,” he said. “But everything you said you want sounds fine by me! I won’t mind holding your hand, for example, even if I won’t get anything out of it myself.” To prove it and hopefully center Prowl, Jazz reached out and took one of Prowl’s hands in his own. It was fine—he had taken him by the hand before, when helping him up in battle or taking him somewhere to show him something.
Prowl’s eyes went dim for a moment, then turned back on. He shook his head, resetting something in his processor. He squeezed Jazz’s hand. “Let me make this clear to you. This is something I actively want from somebody. I don’t want you to take on this responsibility out of pity.”
“Listen to me, I want to help you feel better,” Jazz said solemnly. “If you think what pity means is seeing a friend drowning in heavy emotions and wanting to pull them out of it, and being happy to do that, maybe every bot needs to feel a little pity.”
“That is logical,” Prowl said immediately. His logic circuits must have been singing with how sound an argument that was, given how quickly he changed his tune. He stood up from the bench, but kept holding Jazz’s hand. “To underline how serious this gesture is and make it clear that the intention to try to be a supportive partner goes both ways, I suggest we seal a vow with the Rite of Oneness.”
Jazz took this cue to stand up as well. “You really don’t need to jump to a tradition that no Autobot’s ever broken—one for honoring vows about fights to the death or trade agreements—for it to be clear this is serious, Prowl,” he said. “But given what a rare thing it is for you to want to indulge in something so symbolic, sure. Is there a stylish vessel anywhere around here?”
Unsurprisingly given how lavishly the High Council’s building was furnished, it was easy enough to find a drinking vessel as blue as Jazz’s lit visor, with an elaborate gold inlay on its surface shaped like crackling electricity. They placed it at the heart of the bench they had been sitting on before, and transformed their hands inward and away, leaving an opening into the inside of their frames. As they each prepared to pour a bit of their precious innermost fuel into the vessel, it was time to set their terms.
“As long as we’re both happy with me being the one providing you with the things you said were important to you in the kind of life partner you want, I promise I’ll be there for you, giving you those things when you feel the need for them,” Jazz said.
“Yes. And I promise to provide the same things for you if you ever want them or anything else, and to always remain attentive to your comfort as long as we both feel it’s just,” Prowl said. “None of this should ever conflict with either of our senses of justice.”
Jazz smiled as their fuel intermingled. “That’s right, justice comes first. I’m glad we’re not suddenly each other’s top priority!”
That made Prowl smile, too. “Now, with this sacrifice, so shall our bond be sealed!” he and Jazz exclaimed simultaneously, as the ritual laid out. With that, Jazz transformed his hand back out and got his personal flamethrower weapon to set their combined fuel ablaze. The flames danced to life and the glow illuminated the two bots, the city’s skyline outside their witness.