Chapter Text
Jazz was not having a good time.
Not that having a good time was a common occurrence aboard the Ark, especially in these more recent years. But having to sit in the medbay indefinitely while getting yelled at by the Hatchet for several hours borderlined on ridiculous. It’s not his fault that the mission went haywire! It was like that way before he even got on the field.
Sure he technically shouldn’t have left the Ark, but he was a field agent! Not a tactical commander. Leave all that smart stuff to the mechs who know how to work it. And him going out into the field meant countless mechs were saved. Way better than if he was still stuck inside.
“If you keep gong out when you’re not supposed to, I’m gonna end up welding your aft to the command deck until you get it in your helm what your job is supposed to be!”
He might be having a few regrets about joining the battle.
Listen, if you looked at it from his perspective, Jazz was doing his job. He had a call to make and he made it. He went out into the fray and spent his time helping the Autobots win the battle. No matter what anyone said, he wasn’t avoiding responsibilities or being reckless, Jazz was anything but.
Sure the tactical room smelled weird and the still relatively new badge on his chest felt way heavier than it should be, but those didn’t affect his decision. Neither did the pain in his spark.
Jazz will also be the first to admit that not letting anyone know he was leaving probably wasn’t the best decision. But in his defense he was still getting used to his new role! He would tell Ratchet all of this, but even he was smart enough not to push the medic’s buttons too much when he got into a tizzy.
“And to think that you went out there without even telling anyone! You can’t just do that anymore Jazz! You have to stay here and do your job, the job assigned to you, not the job you wish you still had!”
Now that made Jazz respond. “Mech, if Ah stayed here right like Ah was ‘supposed to’”, he said with air quotes, “then you know that casualties would be up by at least twenty-five percent. Ah ain’t no Prowl, but Ah can at least know that. Me being out there was a good call.”
Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sure, it was a good call. This time. What about the next time where it kills fifty percent more than normal because you weren’t here guiding the battle? We’re already spread thin and Smokescreen hasn’t been trained enough to make the best choices.
“Mech, Ah don’t think Ah’ve been trained nearly half as much as Smokey. And yet here we are.” Jazz spread his arms out and lifted one of his legs to the berth he was on. Ratchet kicked it down immediately with a wack.
“You’re not as good as Smokescreen, not by miles. But you have the most experience with this type of role Jazz. Not everyone can be Second in Command.”
Jazz, who had been staring at Ratchet with playful defiance, suddenly backed down and turned away. “Ah can’t command an entire army, Ratchet. That just ain’t in my skill set.”
The medic sighed and placed a hand on Jazz’s shoulder. Jazz only flinched slightly. “I know this has been as hard a time for you as it has been for everyone else. We’re still reeling from his– the loss. And I wish I could give you time to recover, to yell at you to visit Rung and work through it all, but I just… can’t.”
Jazz shrugged the hand off as he got up from the berth. “Yeah, Ratch. Ah get it, the whole army gets it. But Ah ain’t got the time to spend tellin’ everyone what to do. Ah gotta be out there.” He started to make his way to the exit, but a hand grabbed his wrist.
“You’re not going anywhere until I let you.”
Any other time, Jazz would adhere to the command. It never did any good to get on a medic’s bad side. And he respected Ratchet enough to take his advice. Unfortunately, times were different now. Jazz’s visor leered with hostility and his EM field started to drip with malice.
“Mech, ya can’t keep me in here any more than ya can keep your patients from dyin’".
Ratchet stared at Jazz for a long time. The grip on his wrist tightened before it fell slack.
“Where are you going? Since I know it’s not back to the tactical room.”
“Heard OP was sending some of ma agents out on a spy mission. Thinkin’ of joining up.”
Ratchet’s field flared in anger. “Dammit, Jazz! You can’t keep putting everyone at risk like this! You’re Second in Command, Jazz. You’re one of the only things that are holding us on to life still! We need you on the Ark giving instructions, gallivanting on the field won’t cut it anymore! If Prowl were here, he’d–”
“WELL HE’S NOT!”
Ratchet flinched away at his outcry. Jazz turned away and put a hand under his vizor.
“Ah’m sorry Ratch, Ah didn’t mean ta.”
“I know. It’s alright.” Ratchet stepped forward and grasped Jazz’s pauldron once more. “Jazz, I know it hurts. And I know you need to look strong to everyone to give them hope, but… it's okay to let go. No one can see you right now, you can let it out. I won’t think any less of you.”
He hesitated for a second, but Jazz shook the hand off and smiled at the doctor. “All’s good doc. Ah think Ah gotta go. Catch ya some other time, yeah?” He made his way to the door quickly, but before he left, he turned around a final time.
“Y’know, just between you, me, and the wall, but… as much as Ah’m doin’ for the Autobots, Prowl was doin’ a heck of a lot more. Ah don’t know how much longer any of this can last.”
Ratchet hummed.
“Prowl would be very proud of you, you know.”
“Yeah.” And he left.
===
Jazz entered into the room with confidence. Nobody was outside to see him enter but he made sure he looked confident anyway.
“Heya, Prowler! Long time no see!” The room was dark and dusty. He turned on the lights and brushed off the chair sitting across from the desk. “Sorry, room’s gotten a bit worse for wear since you’ve been gone. Tryin’ ta keep it as clean as Ah can, but y’know how it is.”
He sat in the chair and propped his legs up on the desk, careful not to move any of the datapads on top of it.
“Lot’s happened since ya left. Promotion’s been all well and good, but Ah still don’ think Ah’m the right mech for the job. Ya did it so well, don’ know if Ah could ever do it justice. Second in Command’ll always be yer job, ‘least in ma head.”
He sighed. “Prime's havin’ ma mechs go on another mission without me. Ah know Ah gotta lot ta do, but Ah don’t like them being anywhere in the field without ma help. Especially when they’re bein’ sent so close to Meg’s lair. Ah’m thinkin’ of goin’ anyway.”
“Got into another fight with Ratchet. Ah was doin’ my job as best as Ah could, tellin’ mechs where to go and all, but Ah left ‘bout halfway through. Ah honestly didn’t know what else to do. Ah’m not fit for yer job, Ah only know how to go out and help in the field. Ah couldn’t–”
He sighed. “Ah can’t keep helpin’ everyone like you were.
He put his head in his hands.
“There's just… so much on the line Prowl. And Ah don’ think Ah can do it without ya.”
He looked at the empty chair across from him.
One year ago, today, was the last time Prowl sat in that chair.
There had been a sizable amount of dust collected on it. If someone had slid their finger on it, it would have left a black smudge. Jazz stood up and walked around the desk. He took a rag from his subspace and wiped down the chair. Once it was mostly dusted off, he sat down and looked at the untouched desk in front of him. He had taken great care to keep everything in place exactly how Prowl had left it.
The only thing that had ever been moved was a small picture frame. Jazz picked it up and brought it to his lap. It showed him and Prowl together, one of Jazz’s arms wrapped around Prowl’s neck. Prowl had an extremely rare smile on his face. It had been a few months right before the start of the war, but Jazz could remember it like it was yesterday.
He had known Prowl for years, on separate sides of jail bars, always being arrested for some crime of the week ranging from stealing food to disturbing the peace (hey mech, musician’s gotta make money somehow). His gut had told him to keep his distance with the enforcer, but eventually something within told him to take a closer look at the mech.
Prowl was the only one who had been willing to talk to him, to understand his side of life, how horrible it had been for someone to grow up on the streets. He got to learn about the enforcer too, how he had been cold constructed and almost completely separated from his fellow enforcers because of his tactical net. He had told him it made him more “uptight and too much of a stickler for the rules” according to his colleagues. But Jazz couldn’t see that part. Sure Prowl had a bit of trouble breaking off from the norm and doing his own thing, but that wasn’t his fault. Especially when no one was around to teach him how to let loose.
So Jazz did something he never thought he would do. He went up to the enforcer station – on his own accord and not because he was arrested – and invited the enforcer out to dinner. And it was even more surprising that Prowl accepted. He took him to a nearby bar and within a few drinks, Prowl had let out a side Jazz knew that he was one of very few to see. He took a picture to celebrate the moment.
That was their first date.
Jazz was brought out of the memory when he registered coolant hitting the photo frame. He wiped his optics and checked his chronometer. Mirage and Hound would be leaving in ten minutes.
He placed the photo back on the desk, tucked the chair back in, and left the room looking like no one had been in there at all. Except for the new coolant stains now adorning the photo.