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Exhaustion was a physical weight, pressing its mass onto every inch of Prowl’s frame. His door wings hung as low as his spirit, as he paced another lap around his habsuite. The woozy giddy feeling of having a low tank, the feeling he sought after to lull the constant barrage of his mind, had worn off hours ago. He was left with systems that felt sluggish and heavy, each and every movement was an event.
23% fuel level. Another 500 laps and you can recharge. Keep going.
He rubbed at his optics with the heel of his palm, the first trickle of a processor ache making itself known. Great, he thought. Something to add to the griping pains of his tank.
Prowl was hiding away in his habsuite, officially barred from even light duty since his collapse on the battlefield. The ban had included the use of the training rooms, leaving him pacing in secret to burn off the excess fuel. It was slow, not half as efficient, and it was mundane, but it gave him something to focus on that wasn’t the outside of this room. Outside, his daily routine consisted of lectures from Ratchet, and the distressed stares of the Autobots, thrown his way when they thought he wasn’t looking. Their concern made him feel sick with guilt. It was his own fault he was in this state, he didn’t deserve their pity.
The erratic staccato of his spark was a din ringing inside of his helm. He concentrated on this, feeling the hurt it could give him, the pain he deserved, but also craved. It felt like he was lost in the sensation for hours, before the hiss of the door opening brought him back to reality. He stopped pacing.
22% fuel level.
It was Jazz, unsurprising given the 50% chance, the only other mech who would visit this late into the night cycle being Ratchet. The visored mech affected a casual air.
“Hey.” He said simply.
“Hello.” Was Prowl’s equally simple reply.
Jazz smiled, but it wasn’t his overly-cheerful-morale-officer-Jazz grin, it was just Jazz. “Yer gonna wear away the floor if yer not careful.” Prowl looked away, the guilt returning. He wasn’t sure how to respond so he simply nodded.
“C’mon, you’re done,” Jazz closed the distance between them, grasping Prowl’s upper arms in an attempt to guide him. “We’ll get you a cube, and then we’ll recharge, yeah?”
Prowl knew the choice was no longer his own, if he refused the medic would be informed, and he would be dragged into the medbay for another lecture and transfusion. He still had 456 laps of his habsuite to complete, and he would complete them later, but for now he could stop. It was a relief, he supposed, mindlessly following the pull on his arm. It was a relief to be forced to rest, not that he would admit it.
Jazz pushed him to sit down on the berth. He settled himself next to Prowl, and retrieved two dimly glowing cubes from his subspace.
“What percent you on?” He asked softly.
Prowl couldn’t lie to his best friend, and unlike the others, he didn’t preach ‘healthy fuelling regimes’ at him like he was an idiot. So, he told him.
“22%”
Jazz let out a sigh through his vents before passing over the cube. “Remember what ya promised, I won’t push you, or say slag, as long as yer at at least 30% yeah?”
“I know, I know.” His tone was more clipped than he intended, and he huffed, before leaning his helm on his friend’s shoulder as a non-verbal apology. He raised the cube to his lips and drank slowly, keeping a close watch on his fuel gauge. Jazz didn’t comment, taking the next almost 5 minutes of silence to drain his own cube, letting Prowl lean on him throughout.
As soon as the percentage reached 30, the slight mech sat up. Placing the now half empty cube on the berthside table he announced, “Can we recharge now. Please.”
Placing his own empty cube next to Prowl’s, Jazz replied, “Yeah, I’m flagging.” The two rearranged themselves, both lying on their sides under the blanket, facing each other. Jazz noted the mischievous glint in Prowl’s optic.
“Tell me a story.” He had to keep his mind off the liquid sloshing around his insides.
Jazz poked a finger at Prowl’s faceplate. “How old are you, mech?”
“Oh, are you not up to the challenge?”
Jazz snorted at the banter, but began anyway.
If the story was meant to make them both recharge, it wasn’t a very good one. By the end of the tale he was holding in his laughter, as Jazz animatedly described Ironhide playing cat and mouse with Sideswipe for pulling yet another of his pranks earlier that day.
“An then, just as he’s finally about to catch up with ol’ Siders –” He paused, giggles overcoming him, “Percy comes round the corner with a pile o’ data pads and smashes right into ‘im! Heh, never get on Perceptor’s bad side, that’s all Ima say. Next thing you know Hide’s got a nice dent in his helm.” And then they were both laughing, their vents stuttering with their mirth, before they calmed into a comfortable silence.
He was lucky, Prowl mused. Even after rejecting him, and ignoring him for months, Jazz still gave enough of a frag to be there for him. The pang of guilt he had managed to escape after Jazz had arrived, returned with a vengeance.
“Goodnight, Jazz.” He snuggled close to his friend, who wrapped his arms around him in return.
“Night, Prowler!”
He still hurt, his helm ached and his fuel tank groaned. But the warmth of both the frame around him, and the small amount of energon inside of him made Prowl feel hazy and content. The fuzzy safe feeling lulled him gently into the embrace of recharge.
~
Jazz remained still, holding his friend in his arms long after Prowl’s optics had shuttered. He focused on Prowl’s vents, shallow and uneven, but still there. There was little left of the once feared tactician, he fretted that if he closed his optics, when he reopened them Prowl would be gone all together. At least, at 30% charge, he wouldn’t be in any immediate danger, but the idea of losing the tactician still plagued Jazz’s dreams. Tilting towards the other, he placed a gentle kiss onto the recharging mech’s helm.
“Be careful.” He whispered in the darkness, before shuttering his own optics.