Work Text:
It was, contrary to popular belief, difficult for Prowl when Jazz was on a mission. Just because he was able to efficiently compartmentalize in order to prevent his worry from (mostly) affecting his work performance did not mean that he did not feel it.
It lingered at the edges of his processor, in the corona of his spark. Jazz’s role was so particularly dangerous. In the planning stages, sometimes the percentages were just barely in Jazz’s favor, and there were times when it was personally difficult to sign off on those plans, understanding just how easy it would be for Jazz to not come back.
He had known that this worry would be his companion as soon as he entered into a relationship with Jazz, had understood that it would deepen the more intimate they got. And he knew that their continued relationship depended on handling that worry with professionalism. Both he and Jazz had ironclad devotion to the Autobot cause. Prowl’s worry could not jeopardize it, for all that sometimes, especially right after a particularly close call, he did want to say no and refuse to sign off on an ops purely on the basis of keeping his partner alive and with him. But if he acted on those urges, it would be a breach of Jazz’s trust and a hindrance to the war effort, both of which were unacceptable.
Over the course of the war and their long courtship, they had habits to maintain their relationship, ones they did their best to carve out time for. Just before Jazz headed into occupied Polyhex to investigate rumors of a new weapon factory, they had spent the night together, a date. Prowl was little more on edge. He always was when Jazz was going on a solo mission, and the chances of success this time were slightly below his preferred parameters.
Jazz knew it. Jazz had a little bit of electric energy, a potent mix of excitement and nerves, emotions he was downplaying to coddle Prowl’s own apprehension. He kissed Prowl’s optics, urging him to relax, and they had had a nice evening in, one that ended in berth, and Prowl had held Jazz extra close as they recharged.
When Prowl woke, he was alone. The berth covers were carefully arranged around him, tucked against his doorwings so the sensors were fully covered. There was no lingering heat in the berth from an extra frame. The only sign that he had not spent the night alone was a lingering ache in his valve.
Prowl got ready for the day. He washed, fueled, and when he arrive in his office, there was a little basket on his desk. He studied it. It was full of his favorite treats, rust sticks and a particularly difficult to obtain platinum additive. Prowl was in charge of supplies, and he still didn’t know how Jazz managed to scrounge up his favorites.
There was a short note. A reminder to fuel, a reminder of love, and reminder that he’d be back. Prowl’s mouth quirked up, and he tucked the note into one of his drawers.
Then, munching on one of the rust sticks, Prowl got to work.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Prowl’s days were always full.
His focus was sector 34SSE-SH. There were civilian centers to protect, attacks into Deception controlled territory to plan, troop movements to coordinate, supplies to manage. His worry for Jazz was put to side, easily disregarded in favor of everything Prowl had to keep track off. In this thick of work, he rarely even thought of Jazz. Only when he retired for the night, heading back to quarters with a berth too big for just one mech, did he wonder about what his partner was doing, if his mission was going well. He had no way of knowing until Jazz contacted spec ops.
There was an estimated check in time coming up in a couple of quartexs. It was a marker he looked forward to, but until then, he had a siege to plan, a couple hundred thousand more acres of territory to obtain. Life grinded on, the war washing over the planet inch by energon soaked inch.
In his minimal spare time, he did his best to maintain his other friendships. He got meals with Bluestreak. He chatted with Red Alert. He trained with Ironhide. He drank the occasional high grade with Ratchet.
And when he was in his rooms alone, processor fried, he would listen to one of Jazz’s tapes, letting the music wash over him. And like clockwork, he maintained Jazz’s zitar in his absence, keeping the instrument well oiled and clean. When Jazz came back, he could use it to bring to music Prowl listened to alive. Prowl was looking forward to it.
-*-*-*-*-*-
The check in came and went. It went past the latest estimate time. This made Prowl’s worry fission up, but it was hardly unusual. As much as he did not like it, Jazz’s ops were so variable. He could only plan so much before a wrench was inevitably thrown in. That was why Jazz was the best. He was a master at improvisation, capable of salvaging ops no other agent could.
His worry was a bit more noticeable, a little harder to squish down, but his siege was going well, and they were set to liberate the small city of Altixoan in a few quartexs. There was less chatter about the weapons being developed in Polyhex, and none of the weaponry the Decepticons had been using were new or any more of a threat, so Prowl was inclined to think that that was Jazz’s doing even though he had no way of confirming it.
So Prowl waited. And waited. And then he drafted a new op to go to Polyhex because they did need to know what was happening with the new potential weapon development facility, and they did need to know what had happened to Jazz. Because Jazz should have checked in, but there was only deafening silence. By this point, it had long enough to assume that the mission had more than likely been compromised. It was protocol to send a follow up team if they had the resources and could reasonably believe that the missing agent could be recovered.
Of course, Jazz could be recovered. He was Jazz. He had survived the impossible so many times, Prowl sometimes nearly crashed just thinking about it. He could pull a victory out of smoldering rubble, with nothing more than his sheer determination. So Prowl developed the rescue op. It went through a few quick rounds of review and then it was approved and a pair of spec ops agents were sent after their missing leader.
Prowl buried himself in more work. His meals with Bluestreak become shorter. His talks with Red Alert reduced to a handful of sentences, and his training with Ironhide only occurred when the other mech grabbed Prowl by the scruff and forced him to. Just because Prowl was a tactician and not intended to see direct combat did not mean that Prowl was allowed to let his combat prowess atrophy.
Sooner than anticipated, the recon team returned. No Jazz. Their report was informative. It was confirmed that there likely had been a weapons facility in development, but based on the lack of supply shipments, the lack of signs of construction, and the movement of Deception scientists, specifically their transfer to other locations, it was equally likely that the project had been abandoned before it had been fully realized. The reason could not be conclusively determined, but Prowl was sure that it was Jazz, that he had taken down the facility even though was scope of the mission was purely recon, and he was likely chasing down the Decepticon weapon development team. There were any number of reasons why he couldn’t check in, and as soon as he returned, Prowl was prepared to receive a long report on what had happened. Jazz would have to make up for causing so much stress, and Prowl was looking forward to it.
Still, the scouts had not actually been able to pin point the location of the facility. It was still a loose thread. Just like Jazz right now.
The command chatter was grim. Prowl sent out another team lead by Mirage, purely to look for Jazz. It was in their best interests to recover such a valuable agent, and no one protested.
They returned empty handed again. No hint to Jazz’s whereabouts. Nothing in Deception chatter to indicate that he had been taken captive, nothing to determine if Jazz had been killed. Mirage looked stressed, his mouth frowning hard. It was lingering over everyone that knew that Jazz was MIA.
As they waited, they liberated Altixoan with minimal Autobot and civilian casualties. With the city in their control, the focus turned to maintaining that control. Their defenses had to be shorn up, most of the programming redone. The city’s supplies needed to be assessed. Medical care and fuel equally distributed. It was busy, but Prowl was not just thinking about Jazz at the end of the day before he recharged. He was thinking about Jazz constantly.
The file on Jazz’s mission was thick with the new recon information. He ran simulations on what could have possibly happened, where Jazz might have gone, and sent messages to Autobot command in other sectors to be on the look out. Then he send out memos advising on possible capture, that a hostage exchange may have to made.
In small breaks, he poured over the files, making sure his notes were up to date, that he hadn’t missed anything obvious. And he did not have the time he wanted to devote to it. There was a half finished ops plan on his desk, one that centered on the idea that maybe Jazz had been captured. It remained unfinished when the Decepticons shelled the neighboring city of Kaltox, and it was a scramble because that city had been a deemed a low priority target for their enemies. It was not near any major resources and it did not have a strategic location. There was no strategic value. It was just a minor population center, and as the situation devolved, the focus shifted to evacuation.
And in the mess, the half finished ops taunted him. Prowl had to face a horrible truth.
They could not spare the resources to look for Jazz, not while trying to secure Altixoan, not while trying to save the citizens of Kaltox, not while they developed a counter to the Decepticon’s bizarre new battle strategy. The war front shift quick and constantly. They needed to obtain any and all advantage they could. If they did not, more mechs died.
Prowl stared at the pad. His fuel tank churned, the energon felt like molten lead. There was a correct decision.
He pressed his denta together. He shook. When he was calm enough to work, he shelved the ops plan. He wrote up a new report, one that relied on established templates more so than usual. He sent it to spec ops.
With that report in his outbox, he had effectively terminated any further search attempt for Jazz, and he had advised for Mirage, Jazz’s SIC, to be promoted in his place.
-*-*-*-*-*-
This was not the first time that this had happened. It was, all things considered, fairly rare for Jazz to be AWOL for so long, but it did happen. Prowl worried far more when it reached this point. He did not like that he was denying his partner any back up. It, more than anything else, felt like he was signing Jazz’s death warrant.
Jazz’s fate was frighteningly unknown. Based on previous experiences, there was still a decent chance for Jazz to return. He had done so multiple times before. This set of circumstances just meant that Prowl’s worry was sharper that usual. A larger distraction.
Despite the fact that this exact circumstances had happened before, mechs were slightly colder Prowl in the aftermath. He understood. It was a harsh decision to make. Jazz was popular. It did not mesh well with any Autobot to leave one of their own behind.
Prowl did not care (much) as long as it did not interfere with how his orders were carried out. Of course he wanted to send everyone after Jazz. Of course he wanted to save his partner. But they were stretched too thin. It was- it was so deeply unethical to act as if Jazz was more valuable than an entire city of civilians. Jazz, himself, would slag him for it. Prowl did not make hard decisions because he wanted to. He made them because he had to if they wanted a chance of winning this war.
Bluestreak made more of point to visit and sit with Prowl, even as Prowl’s meal breaks became shorter and shorter. He got sympathy from those who mattered and that was enough.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Then they passed another milestone. Jazz had never been missing for this long, and he had officially been listed as MIA.
Prowl worked as usual. He finished up. He went to his habsuite and gathered up several cubes. When he had grabbed enough, he headed to the medbay.
Ratchet took one look at him, and jerked his chin, gesturing for Prowl to go into his office. Prowl went. He placed his cubes on Ratchet’s desk and waited.
After a few kliks, Ratchet joined him, sitting at his own chair. He studied the pile in front of them.
“That kind of day, huh?” Ratchet said. He reached for a cube, and it was like that broke the spell. Prowl grabbed one.
“Indeed,” he said, and he downed the entire cube of high grade. The flux of energy burned against his circuits, harsh. His processor buzzed, unpleasant, and made thinking a little harder. “Jazz has been missing for a record amount of time.”
Ratchet’s mouth was a harsh slash. He vented hard.
“Right,” he said, quiet. He drank from his own cube, a more reasonable sip. Prowl was here because he did not like to be over charged in front of the troops and occasionally over indulging in high grade did not mix well with his over clocked processor. It was not uncommon for Prowl to drink casually with Ratchet, but that was not what he wanted right now. He grabbed another cube.
-*-*-*-*-*-
It was not uncommon to simply not know what happened to their spec ops agents. There was a list of MIA agents, and they always were on the look out for new information. Sometimes, they were recovered, either as a corpse or as a prisoner. That was preferable. To have certainty. Otherwise, it was a certain kind of torture, to have Jazz’s designation on that list with no obvious leads as to his whereabouts.
Prowl had compiled all the data, every report, every shred of intel related to Jazz’s disappearance. He had a backup copy that he saved and kept on him at all times.
As more information came in, he doubted that Jazz had been captured. There was not chatter. Other operations to liberate Autobot POWs had yielded no information. In Prowl’s spare time, he scoured the ledgers, transfer orders, looking for any possible sign that Jazz was one of them, any hint. Damningly, he had found traces of chatter, in meetings notes, in reports and stolen communications, that the Decepticons were also wondering what had happened to Jazz, and it could have been a hoax, but if it had been a trail to throw them off course, it was the most well done hoax to date.
And as a less rigorous proof, Megatron had not gloated. Jazz was their Prime’s personal friend, and he doubted that the Deception warlord would be able to stop himself from taunting the Prime if he had known something about what had happened to Jazz. More than once, Megatron had let important information slip in order to hurt the Prime, to the point where Prowl had glued a voice recorder to the Prime’s plating to have a record of the warlord’s taunting that was more reliable than the Prime’s battle smeared memories.
Time grinded on, one battle after the other. Prowl had work to do, but the zitar in his quarters remained in pristine condition.
Prowl was moved to another section. The fronts shifted and moved like the tides of the rust sea. It felt like anything that could be destroyed was destroyed. At some point, Prowl was no longer assigned quarters meant for couples, and that was practical in a way he appreciated, but it stung. The space was too small. It constricted around him like it wanted to crush him. By this point, Prowl had gone mostly numb, like Jazz had taken what little warmth he had had when he left and never came back.
He knew many of Jazz’s friends, the Prime included, were grieving. He had been approached a few times, mechs who wanted to commiserate, but Prowl glared them down. Just because an outcome was statically likely did not mean that it was the outcome that had actually occurred.
It was difficult to face a future without Jazz. Prowl maintained the zitar. He listened to the tapes of Jazz’s music. He worked. For all that his talent was in logistics and planning, when he thought about his personal future, one without his partner, it felt like his processor ran into a steel wall. He couldn’t see past the grey.
It was easy to work more. To not take the effort to carve out those pockets of time for his friends. It was not as if they weren’t all always hideously busy with the war effort. As long as his work performance didn’t slip, as long as his health wasn’t impacted, as as he could keep going, he could push back the concern. Everyone was missing someone. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was finally ending the fragging war.
He shut down all attempts to get him to talk about Jazz. He did not go to any of the gatherings of Jazz’s friends, and not from a lack of invitation, though they slowed to a trickle when it was clear that Prowl would never show up. He even shut down the Prime’s attempt to comfort him, and while he could tell the Prime was watching him, he did not push, a mercy Prowl was grateful for.
Bluestreak’s chatter got faster every time he managed to force a chat with Prowl. Prowl could not handle him for long, the social contact prickly and unpleasant for all that he loved Bluestreak, his family, and he usually sent Bluestreak away after a few breems. It was not fair to the other Praxian, to have Prowl’s own short mood taken out on him.
It was only when Bluestreak showed up with a handful of rare treats, Prowl’s favorite, with nervous chatter buzzing his speak and his door wings twitching like he was being shocked, that Prowl realized the extent of his worry.
He could make an effort for Bluestreak. Just because his emotions felt like they had leached out of him, leaving a grey husk, did not mean that he could not expend the extra little effort to be more social than he wanted to. If it was up to him, he felt like he would never talk to anyone again, but he had to, every day to coordinate his plans and his subordinates. This, a few minutes of chatting with Bluestreak, was just another task for him to complete, one that he needed to be better at for Bluestreak’s sake. Bluestreak deserved better.
So when Bluestreak handed him the treats, Prowl accepted them. He couldn’t force a smile, but he perked his wings up slightly higher on his back, and Bluestreak smiled, a touch tremulously. In a distant way, Prowl felt horrible for worrying him so.
They sat in Prowl’s office and chatted, a common occurrence before… Before. Prowl didn’t talk much, and he ate the treats as an excuse not to speak.
The rust sticks tasted like corrosion. He forced them down anyway.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Like everything else about the war, Prowl became used to the unimaginable.
It was expected to be assigned the officer quarters for single mechanisms. He got used to waking up alone. The only music he came to expect were his recordings. The social gatherings that Jazz would coax him into going to were a thing of the past, and the idea of making an effort like he had back then did not occur to him. He did not make an effort for anything besides the war effort, the occasional attempt to belay Bluestreak’s worry aside.
He got used to the loneliness that was eating his spark whole.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Time passed.
-*-*-*-*-*-
At some point, after a million stellar cycles, the impossible happened.
A truce.
It was so miraculous, Prowl and most of his fellow Autobots felt drunk on hope, on fear, on the delirious truth that all the death, all the destruction might finally be over.
Their species had been near entirely decimated. Prowl still had Bluestreak. He had Ratchet and Ironhide and Red Alert and the Prime. He was, all things considered, fortunate that so much of his social circle had survived.
The rebuild efforts were concentrated in Iacon. The remaining Decepticons did not like it, but Iacon was the most functional city-state left. It had the most infrastructure and most critical resources available.
Maintaining that fragile truce was the hardest thing Prowl had ever done. He drank with Ratchet at the end of his shifts, the old curmudgeon soothing after all the brittle hope that maybe, just maybe they could make it work. He could not handle too much optimism or hope, and Ratchet’s dour countenance was a balm on his spark.
But the peace held, orn after orn, moment after moment. And as he watched with guarded optics, Iacon bloomed. Buildings become habitual. Mechs slid from military service back into civilian industry as easy as a dream. There was something resembling a functional society being built.
There were stores that Prowl could go to. For fun. It was absurd.
And one stellar cycle, Prowl realized that his work was no longer so urgent. The planet was not going to fall apart again. Everyone was so tired of conflict, and- and it was working, the peace treaty. He could relax without it all falling to the pit, without risking everyone’s lives. He could take a break.
So he filed for leave, one without a return date. Optimus called him in to talk about it, and he laid out his plan. With an achingly sad smile, Prowl had permission to do what he had wanted to do for what felt like a million solar cycles.
-*-*-*-*-*-
The rebuilding efforts had not reached Polyhex. It would be centuries until it did. The population was still so low. There was simply not the mech power to rebuild all of Cybertron at once.
Prowl had a campsite, something small and functional. He had arranged for regular supply drops.
It was odd, just how frightened he was. He was Optimus Prime’s second in command, the Autobot’s lead tactician. He was used to being kept away from the front, to being in the heart of whatever Autobot stronghold was most strategically important. Then he was working with both Autobot and Deception leadership, everyone trying to cram all their plans together, and it had been Prowl’s job to make sure the resulting piecemeal mess was functional. It had been so loud. All the time.
This, alone in the Polyhex ruins, no backup, was unusual. Prowl could not shake the feeling of vulnerability.
But it was freeing in other ways. The sky was beautiful here. No one was around, and the true solitude was soothing. The rubble had long since settled, and chromium lichen bloomed on everything. It was beautiful like a grave. The quiet and the stillness lingered everywhere, only occasionally broken by small mechanimals or sometimes, a cydear.
In his possession, asides from all the supplies needed to keep him alive, he had his files. And, as part of the peace, he had the Deception files.
He was looking at it with fresh optics. It had been quite some time since he had been able to dig into this case.
The Decepticons never had Jazz. That had been evident even before the peace talks, when hostages and information had been exchanged as gestures of goodwill from both sides.
Prowl’s only lead to Jazz’s whereabouts was the old weapon facility the Decepticons were going to build in Polyhex. The Autobots knew it had disbanded, but they had never located it, and with a million fires to address at all times, they didn’t spare the resources looking for a facility that had a 95% of not being a problem.
But even with the Decepticon’s notes, it was going to be tricky to find. The Decepticons did not have detailed notes on a facility they hadn’t even finished, let alone used. Not to mention that the long solar cycles of war, of Autobot sabotage, had corrupted a decent amount of Deception intelligence.
There were some memos confirming its abandonment. A few documents that had vague directs to its location, but Prowl did not have its precise location. He had those clues, his own notes, and a database of geological data on the area. The geological data had large gaps missing in history, another side effect of the war.
It was, all the together, peaceful in a way Prowl was not anticipating. He spent the daylight joors wandered the wilderness of Polyhex’s ruins. When he rested, he watched the wildlife. He noted the species of crystals that were growing, the types of cybeetles scurrying around. Maybe when he got back, he would try to start a garden, like the one in Praxus before it had been destroyed.
Few buildings were intact, both those that were, he investigated, looking at the centuries of rust damage and aluminum build up, at the little solar plants and crystals that were growing and making this former, massive population center their home. Little cybugs crawled over the wildlife softened rubble. Some places were so overgrown, it was hard to tell that a battle had occurred here at all.
But he found plenty of bodies. He did not disturb them. This seemed like a nice enough place to rest, all things considered.
He had some servo equipment to dig, but he was just one mech. He was not going to be able to unearth all that laid beneath the regrowth and rubble himself. There was a mix of futility and resilience driving him forward.
He ended each day at his little camp, exhausted but fulfilled. He had wanted to do this for a very, very, very long time.
-*-*-*-*-*-
It took a couple of solar cycles, but Prowl eventually located a building, tucked in a hidden, strategic location. It was mostly collapsed, and had an extensive underground portion. He explored it, headlights shining.
It made him slightly nervous. At some point, this place had undergone a serious cave-in, and while it had held steady for who knew how long, that did not mean that it wouldn’t collapse on him now. He eyed the structural damage, and with paint, marked the tunnels to explore later, when he had the supplies to reinforce it. He only went down the tunnels he thought were safe.
He trended forward with caution even as his spark spun and throbbed. Answers. It would either be answers or hopefully another clue for Prowl to follow.
The rooms were difficult to ascertain their function. The cave-in rubble was thick, and what rooms Prowl could see clearly were mostly empty. But there were outlets and piping left in the walls for equipment that wasn’t there. And the equipment he did see strewn out on the floor would not have been out of place in Wheeljack’s lab.
He rounded a corner, turning to explore another room. He stopped.
Like most of the other rooms, it was half collapsed and besides the rubble, mostly empty. Mostly.
There was a corpse trapped beneath the rubble of the collapsed ceiling. Prowl took slow, careful steps into the room, afraid to vent, afraid to break the cloying silence.
Jazz’s lower half had been pinned by the cave-in. His death greyed face was twisted in a ferocious snarl. The rubble pinning him had claw marks. There was cub near him, filled with field medical tack, the type that could be slapped onto an energon wound and would be enough to keep a mech alive long enough to reach real medical help.
Jazz had been trying to bisect himself. His lower half was crushed. He had made it about half way there. Part of his torso still connected to the crushed half, but a decent chunk of it had been sloppily disconnected, the loose cable and tube ends plugged with the medical tack. There was a hideous stain on the floor around him, from where he had bled out despite his best efforts.
He had tried so hard to make it out of this impossible situation. He had wanted to live so badly.
Prowl knelt by Jazz’s helm. He placed a servo against Jazz's cheek.
He had his answers. It was, after all this time, the statically most likely outcome of Jazz’s disappearance. He had died somewhere hidden, alone and cold.
Later, he would have some calls to make. He would hire a construction crew, one that could safely remove the corpse. He would have to arrange a proper memorial. A lot of mechs loved Jazz, and they all deserved to say goodbye. Jazz deserved to be celebrated.
And Prowl would pick out his new resting place, something far better than this cold, dark room filled with terror and rubble. He would pick a nice place, one that would be easy for him to visit after work.
That would all come later.
For now, he leaned down, carefully pressing his forehead against the dead metal of Jazz’s helm. He vented, harsh and loud. His spark hurt. His processor burned.
“Oh, love,” he said, voice thick with static.