Praxus Requiem

by Transfan2024

Summary:

After his mate dies during the attack of Praxus, Prowl is left to grieve and welcomes the same fate, unable to survive without him.

But fate, however, has other plans when Lieutenant Jazz and his group of soldiers find Prowl protecting his mate's frame under the rubble and the two discover unexpected feelings for one another.

Notes:

Hi there. Back with another fic. Spent a while trying to interpret grief after doing LOTS of studying and watching videos on it as well as thinking about what I felt like when I lost my grandfather last year to three types of cancer: brain, liver and lung cancer.

Chapter 1

Ash and dust clogged his vents as he ran between piles of fallen buildings, nearly having to jump around dead civilians, getting his mate’s distress call. He coughed, buckling over a couple of times but kept moving, needing to get to him. Buildings burned from raging infernos, mortar covering them and melting metal fell into raging rivers below.

He could not pay them any attention. He could hear the cries of dying citizens, smell the Energon streaming and some parts that he would rather not have seen. The sky was dark, the Praxian unable to decipher if it were nighttime or daytime due to the smoke permeated sky above.

“Corridor!” he yelled, stopping to wheeze and looking around. “Where are you?” His vents heaved, faceplates covered in the same ash and dirt that clogged his vents, appearing as though he came out of the science lab. He followed the direction of the distress signal, the feeling growing warmer when he neared their home. “Oh no…”

He ran towards the crumpled building, cracks quickly and loudly crawling up the remaining walls as it threatened to collapse under its own weight. He couldn’t find an entrance. Their main entry point was crushed under the building, and he thought of a strategic way to get to his mate he knew was trapped inside.

“Corridor, hang on,” he said with a firm bark, but his voice trembled with grief and worry. “I’m going to find you, I promise.” He began moving rubble, looking around when beams began collapsing and he grunted after one scraped his door-wing, hissing in pain. In the distance, he could hear the battle rage on and he managed to shove aside the rubble.

But he was not prepared for what was on the other side. His spark thundered loudly in its casing when he found his mate lying under what used to be the staircase, door-wing and arm visible along with his helm. Rushing over, his digits scrambled over the destroyed metal and he noticed a thin line of Energon leaking from underneath his mate.

His mate’s vents heaved while he began attempting to move the rubble. He quickly grew tired, sliding down the side but couldn’t just leave his mate there. Gathering what strength he had, he searched for a place to get his hands underneath them as he said with a bark, “Stay with me! I’m getting you out.”

“Prowl…” his mate murmured, coughing and wheezing. “Stop…you can’t save me.” His optics flickered with rhythmic desperation. “No, don’t talk like that,” Prowl said stubbornly, voice wavering and his shaking hands scrabbled at the rubble with frustration. He grunted, not getting any farther and his mate said again, “Prowl…leave me.”

The Enforcer didn’t. He insisted on trying to find something - a way- to get his mate out of there. He had to. “No, I can’t,” he said, shaking his helm. “You’re not leaving me.” He only managed to shove the rubble off an inch and his mate’s vents hiccuped. “It’s too late for me; you need to escape before they take you, too,” his mate whispered, his voice an octave lower.

“I don’t care!” cried Prowl in anguish, glaring pointedly. “I love you, Corridor…I made a promise to you when we bonded that I would stay with you, in life or in the well.” His mate felt his system shutting down one at a time, losing mobility in his limbs. Corridor’s optics flickered and he said tiredly, “Prowl…stop it. You’re hurting yourself trying to save me. I want you to get out of here.

“I would want you to do that for me. Please…promise me you’ll escape. I’m sorry we didn’t have enough time together. Remember me. I…” His vocalizer froze, locking up as his systems shut his frame down, his spark flickering wildly for a few seconds. Prowl watched helplessly as his mate’s blue optics faded lastly and stared numbly, listening to the building crumble further.

“Corridor..” he whispered, hoping that this was a nightmare he would wake up from and his mate would be there beside him. “Come on…stop playing…” He shoved the mech once, tilting his helm and looked around him again. “Come on, wake up,” he said more insistently, “you need to come with me…”

His voice croaked when he went to say something else, realizing that his mate wasn’t replying or reacting to anything. “No…” he whispered at last, rocking back onto his heels. He then laid his helm over his mate’s spark chamber, listening for a spark pulse and his optics dimmed. “You can’t leave me…”

He rocked on his heels, the numb feeling boiling into something more explosive and shook his helm, still feeling the denial. He sputtered out a few words, unintelligible and tried shoving the rubble off again. He cried out in anger when nothing happened, falling to his knees after he stood and buried his face against the metal.

He felt like purging. Escaping without his mate wasn’t an option. He would sit with him for hours. Mourning weeps filled the space around him, holding onto his mate’s hand and sobs followed. He clenched his hands after releasing his mate’s hand, watching it drop limply onto the dust covered ground.

The building above him creaked and groaned, cracks crawling up its walls as it began its final collapse. Prowl crawled only a few feet away from his mate, staring up at what flickering lights from the raging infernos above and waited. He could see the shadows of the jets flying by, the sound of their engines drowned out by the flames and he smirked sadly lifting his arms invitingly as his world became dark.

************************

The city was gone. Pulverized, left in ruin and flames flickered into dying embers. Civilians laid half buried under their homes, bars and wherever they felt was safe in the moment. Jazz stood amongst the group of Autobot soldiers he’d come with, looking over the scenery with a deep sadness and grief he never imagined he would feel.

“Why did this ‘ave ta ‘appen?” Jazz asked angrily, spark-broken. He knelt by a rock, palming the smooth surface as if it could answer his questions. “Lieutenant,” a mech said, approaching and handing over a report. Jazz nodded once, standing and the group moved on towards the location of the first survivor.

Mechs worked hard to move the rubble, grunts of effort filling the air and Jazz watched, supervising when needed. He called out when he saw a dirty but white hand lying unmoving underneath the rubble and crawled down into the small ravine that was once the main level of an apartment building.

What he found under the rubble shattered his spark and crawled carefully over to the mech. “Primus,” he cursed, sounding sad and he began removing smaller pieces off the frame. The mech was lying draped as far as he could over another mech’s greyed frame, clinging rather tightly.

Jazz gently pried his digits off the greyed frame, mindful of the wounds and pulled him back far enough to lift him from the ground. “Ah’ve got ‘im!” he announced loudly, immediately gathering a group of Autobots. He carefully hauled the mech up onto the top of the rubble and laid him on his back so Ratchet could inspect his wounds.

The medic looked down the side of the small ravine, noticing the greyed mech and glanced back to the mech lying in front of him. His new patient hadn’t moved nor acknowledged that he was being hauled up the ravine, soon to be transported to Iacon. His patient made slight movement, startling the group and activated numerous blasters but Jazz lifted a hand.

“Nah, put ‘em down,” he snapped authoritatively at them, glaring. He walked over to the Praxian, kneeling down directly in front of where his helm lolled off to and was surprised to see dimly lit blue optics flickering weakly. Jazz’s presence seemed to catch his attention, if even a little and it looked as if he were trying to say something but he wasn’t able.

He made a soft grunt, akin to saying aborted words and his optics dimmed further. “Alright, we need to get him to Iacon,” Ratchet said, calling his assistants over and they brought forth a stretcher. “He won’t make it if we sit here watching.” The medics hauled their Praxian patient onto the stretcher and Ratchet transformed so they could get him inside.

*************

Hours passed with little information. Little hope. Jazz was hanging out in the recreational room when a friend approached and he was startled from his wandering thoughts. “Jazz,” Hound greeted him, smiling and joining him, offering a cube of Energon. “Anything on the survivors you pulled from Praxus?”

“Nah, nothin’, mah mech,” Jazz replied, faceplates contorting into many expressions at once. “Tha’s wha’ ah’m waitin’ fer…” He thought about the mech their first survivor clung to when he found him and Hound looked concerned at the expression on his friend’s face. “You okay?” he asked, leaning over and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Ere was a greyed mech our first survivor was clingin’ ta when we first found ‘im,” Jazz whispered brokenly. “Ah think tha’ mech he cared ‘bout a lot…like a mate or somethin’, judgin’ by the way ‘is digits ‘ere stuck ta ‘im.” He was troubled by the sight, wondering how they were going to tell him about the mech - that is, if the mech survived the operation.

Hound’s expression told the Lieutenant exactly how they both felt about the situation. They fell quiet while finishing their Energon and the Lieutenant excused himself from his friend’s company to head to the medical center with hope of having good news. He stopped inside the medical center, taking a deep vent and walked in.

***********************

Lying inside a closed off area was the first Praxian they found, door-wings spread underneath him but covered in many tubes. He looked as bad as he did when they found him just a cycle ago, venting quietly but with a slight rasp and Ratchet was replacing something when Jazz waited by the curtains.

He took the time to inspect the Praxian’s frame and mentally write down how bad he looked. The medic finally took notice of him and turned to say gruffly, “Lieutenant. I wondered when you would arrive.” Jazz cautiously approached them and said, skipping the pleasantries, “How is he?”

“In rough shape, Lieutenant,” Ratchet replied with a heavy sigh. “I found out his name is Prowl, a former Enforcer if what is left of his plating wasn’t obvious enough.” Jazz nodded, sitting beside the mech and said, “He was wit’ a mech-” Lifting a hand, Ratchet interrupted, “I know. He was with his mate. His mate’s been dead for three cycles prior.”

Jazz’s spark froze with grief at that, glancing at the monitors connected to the Praxian’s frame. It was going to be tougher than he realized to tell the mech about his mate’s passing and sat with his helm low between his hands, staring at the ground. “How am ah gonna tell ‘im, Ratchet?” he asked, voice croaking. “No one should ‘ave ta tell someone tha’ their mate died!”

Ratchet came around the berth and knelt before him. “No, they should not,” he whispered as if they would wake his patient, “but in this case we must allow him to know and grieve that loss alone.” He stood again, needing to finish tending to his other patients and allowed Jazz to sit with the Praxian for a while.

The Lieutenant could only watch the slow flashes across the monitors and listen to the echoing beeps of the medical equipment in the back of his mind. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the Praxian’s youthful appearance without thinking about the fact he shouldn’t be in their medical center without his mate.

**************

“We ‘ave ta retrieve ‘is mate,” Jazz said, slamming his fists into the Prime’s desk. “Ah don’ care tha’ he’s dead but ‘tis wrong jus’ ta let ‘im rust out ‘ere without an appropriate burial.” “Jazz, we don’t know their customs,” Prime tried reasoning with him. “It could be entirely different from yours or mine.”

“Gah,” Jazz grunted with frustration, spinning on his heels. “Lemme ask ya this, Prime: wha’ would ya do if ya lost Elita?” He glared at him pointedly when the Prime’s EM field shifted at the words and he rubbed his faceplates tiredly. “Alright, but this is a risky move, Lieutenant,” he allowed at last, giving him a firm glare that meant business.

“Ah never said it wasn’,” Jazz said, thankful and rushed off to gather the needed group of soldiers for the job. Optimus sighed softly, thinking about what was asked of him about Elita-1 and couldn’t imagine losing her in any instance. Shaking his helm, he turned to his work with the hope of his mechs’ safety.

Chapter 2

Summary:

I just remembered that I lost a really good neighbor too. So man, what a rough 2025 it's been...

Two cycles went by and Jazz returned with the mech that was pinned under the rubble. Ratchet walked down to the room they laid him in to inspect his injuries and swallowed thickly when he saw him, “Primus…” No other words were needed to describe the intense sadness the medic felt, writing down information.

He couldn’t look at the Praxian’s wrecked frame longer than his professionalism would allow and quickly finished his job. He left the room swiftly, locking the door behind him and went back up to the upper levels, where his medical center was. Jazz was sitting in the waiting room when the medic got there and stood up.

“He’s…” the medic began, but was unable to talk about it. “I couldn’t get his name from any sort of cna prints on him…our best bet is to wait until Prowl wakes.” He shook his helm quickly, darting back into his medical center. Jazz followed him, curious about Prowl’s condition and sat by him.

He didn’t have to wait very long before blue optics began attempting to flare, digits twitching and the Praxian stared up at the ceiling. He looked around his surroundings, finding out that he was alone and saw something off to his left. He dimmed his optics, wanting to struggle but Jazz placed a firm hand on his shoulder, “Don’ move. Yer hurt.”

The Praxian looked around once again, not settling and Ratchet came over to them, making Jazz look up at him. “He seems ta be ‘wake,” he informed the medic, standing so that he could sit beside him. Ratchet immediately soothed the Praxian somewhat, judging by the reaction he got when he saw the medical signs.

“My name is Chief Medical Officer Ratchet and you’re in my medical center in Iacon,” he introduced himself professionally. “You are safe.” He was rewarded with a slightly worried expression and his patient tried to say something, not quite figuring out that he could speak right away.

He eventually managed a quiet, “Where is he?” Ratchet looked momentarily confused, exchanging glances with the Lieutenant and before either of them could reply, they got a more impatient question, “Where is he? My mate?” Jazz sighed quietly and Ratchet rubbed his faceplates wearily.

“He’s…” the medic began, immediately remembering the state the frame they brought in. “I mean, he could be in the morgue, Prowl, but we need you to confirm that.” “The mor-” Prowl began, his mind supplying likely scenarios and he tried reaching out through his shared bond with his mate. “No…”

He attempted to sit up, tugging at the equipment tying him down as his spark was crushed under the weight of the news and Jazz had to help Ratchet pin him down where he wouldn’t hurt himself. A mourning wail filled the space, shattering the sparks of those around him and the Praxian struggled.

“Enough, you’re going to hurt yourself,” Ratchet barked firmly, and the Praxian tried removing his grip. “You are no good to us dead.” “G-get off me!” the Praxian angrily snarled, “I need to get to him; he’s not responding to my contact.” Ratchet dimmed his optics with grief; grief for the fact he knew his mate was gone and nothing he would tell him would help.

Prowl writhed in their grip, glaring icicles into them and said, “How would either of you like it if you weren’t able to see your mate?! Let. Me. Go.” Ratchet retreated at last, disconnecting the equipment and helped the Praxian sit up- or at least, he attempted to help him but was swatted away.

They brought forth a chair for Prowl to sit in while they brought him to the morgue and the Praxian didn’t want to be touched. He reluctantly allowed them to help him get to the lifts, ignoring the stares of other soldiers and the Lieutenant snapped at them to get moving back to where they were headed.

******************

The silence was heavier than the fog after an acid storm when the doors to the lift opened on the last floor, dust flying around and Prowl looked confused. “Why are we…?” he asked, looking around then up at the strange mechs. “He wouldn’t be down here…where are your docks?” Ratchet simply guided them to a room and typed a number into the keypad.

“We will leave you with him if this is indeed your mate,” he informed him simply, though his tone was laced with grief for the other mech. “We will not get in the way.” The door slid open with a hiss, revealing a dark room and the medic turned on the lights into a dim percentage, stepping aside as Jazz brought him in.

Seeing the mech, Prowl stood onto his pedes shakily. His expression fell the closer he wobbled over to the frame lying stretched out and he began making a soft, unintelligible sound. He cupped the mech’s face, pressing their chevrons together and his frame silently trembled with emotions starting to spill out.

Jazz and Ratchet left the room, stepping on the outside while they waited, exchanging broken glances. The Praxian looked over his mate’s frame, remembering the silvers and blues that once matched his optics. Pain tightened his spark like a coil, breaking it and finally he felt wet streams falling from his optics, tears dropping onto his mate’s frame with soft pings.

He pulled his chair forward, sitting beside his mate’s frame and would remain there for a long period of time. “Corridor…I’m sorry I failed you,” he croaked out, shaking his helm in anger and self-depreciation. “You could have lived if I was with you but I wasn’t!” He curled a hand into a fist, clenching his jaw and fought against his raging emotions.

His mate continued lying motionlessly, staring sightlessly and Prowl remembered the sound of his voice. Laughing brokenly, he sobbed at the same time and took a cold hand into his own warmth, cupping it. Another reminder that he’d been left alone, he murmured, “I wish it had been me instead. I’ll be avenging your death, Corridor…even if I sacrifice my own life doing it.”

He pressed his hands against his forehelm, a silent Praxian prayer and freed one hand to cup the side of his mate’s face again. He stood shakily, bending down to kiss his mate’s forehelm for the final time (not that he could truly get enough) and felt his face becoming wet again with renewed emotions.

His strength was giving out, forcing him to sit heavily and feel exhausted. Perhaps it had been too soon for his release but he wanted to see his mate and that’s when Ratchet walked back in, seeing him through a small window. The Praxian murmured, “His name was Corridor. Please…get me out of this room. My spark can bear no more.”

Ratchet wordlessly obliged, helping him get back to the medical center and Jazz lingered a few kliks before following. No one said anything while Prowl thought of his mate’s faceplates alight with life and smiling, optics overbright whenever he would return home. He barely acknowledged the moment they reached the medical center and reattached him to the equipment.

********************

Later that evening, Jazz leaned against the archway of his balcony overlooking the city while his thoughts turned to the others in the medical center. Did they have mates too? Family? He couldn’t imagine having to tell anyone else their mates or family died in the attack. Another part of him wanted to give the grieving Enforcer company but it wasn’t the time.

He glanced at his half-drank cube of Energon in his hand and abandoned it on a nearby table as he hopped out to the lift, locking his quarters behind him. He wanted to go back to the medical center and see if the Praxian would want his company or not. It couldn’t hurt to try, the Polyhexian thought as he entered the lift.

*************

Prowl was recharging fitfully when Jazz entered the closed off space and the Lieutenant swallowed thickly, sitting down beside him. The Praxian eventually startled himself back online, looking around and saw Jazz, who remained impassive. He didn’t say anything to the visored mech, staring at him instead and Jazz tried offering a shy, small grin.

“Hey,” he said stupidly, rubbing the back of his helm. Prowl narrowed his optics, a small frown forming and he said, “If you want to ask me questions, do it later. I’m in no mood for your questionnaire.” He scoffed quietly, looking away but Jazz didn’t budge. Instead, he leaned forward and folded his hands over his lap.

“Look, ah kno’ nothin’ ah’m gonna say is gonna bring yer mate back or wha’ever, but ah wanted ya ta kno’ mah place is open fer ya ta stay in,” Jazz offered as coolly as possible. “Tha’ is, if ya wanted…” Prowl eyed him from the corner of his optic, refusing to say anything to him and had a petulant pout.

He continued remaining quiet, thoughts elsewhere. “Do you Autobots stare at each other or are there things you guys do?” he asked acidly when Jazz didn’t move. “Get out.” Jazz stood, sighing sadly and turned to leave, feeling Prowl’s gaze watching him. “Mah offer still stands,” Jazz said, glancing over his shoulder once with a faint smile and left.

*****************

Two weeks later, the Praxian was finally allowed to be released from the medical center and Ratchet said, “Lieutenant Jazz will be down to help you.” “Were there others?” Prowl asked him, looking around. “Am I the only one?” Ratchet’s expression sobered and he approached him, “There’s only two. Smokescreen and Bluestreak. One was a gambler and the other a merchant.”

“I want to see them,” Prowl demanded, flaring his door-wings. “Now.” Ratchet couldn’t deny the former Enforcer’s demand, guiding him to another part of the medical center and stepping aside, withdrawing the curtain. Both younger Praxians widened their optics at the sight of Prowl, exchanging incredulous expressions.

“Smokescreen, Bluestreak, I am Commander Prowl of the hundredth precinct,” Prowl introduced himself curtly, glancing between them. “It brings me great pleasure to see at least two others survive the attack against our home city.” Neither of the other two said anything to him, until Bluestreak quietly said, “Can we go back?”

“I do not know the answers,” Prowl replied rather formally, ducking his helm. “I regret to inform you of this.” Bluestreak’s hope fell with his expression and the Enforcer turned when Lieutenant Jazz arrived. He placed a stoic expression on his faceplates and the two mechs left the medical center together.

********************

“I have heard things about this place,” Prowl said, arms folding behind his back. “Seems as if things need to be…put in order, putting that simply.” Jazz didn’t say anything to that, silently guiding him to the recreational room and Prowl furrowed an optic ridge, looking at the Lieutenant again.

“This is used fer wha’ yer seein’,” Jazz said sheepishly. “Ah’m guessin’ ya never seen one ‘fore?” “No,” Prowl replied, raising a door-wing and optic ridge at him. “Do I look like someone who enjoys being around others to you, Lieutenant Jazz of Polyhex?” “Well, ah-” Jazz sputtered, caught off guard but grunted dismissively, continuing forward.

Prowl was guided to the Polyhexian’s personal quarters and Jazz keyed in the entry, leading them inside. The Praxian froze inside the anteroom, looking around and Jazz disappeared around a corner, audibly moving things around in a room followed by frustrated sounds. Prowl raised an optic ridge, curious and walked down the hall, stopping by a berthroom.

“You call this a berthroom?” he asked, sounding disgusted. “This makes my home seem like a grand hall.” His voice trailed off, now grieving at the reminder and Jazz wisely said, “Ah’m sorry this isn’ wha’ yer used ta. But ‘tis somethin’ fer ya ta recharge in, fer now…” He dimmed his visor, stepping around him and Prowl approached the ‘berth’.

His spark broke when he sat down on the ‘padding’, wincing at the unfamiliarity of it and buried his face into his hands. Soft noises akin to quiet hiccupping sobs filled the room and he hoped he would hear his mate’s voice…soft, cooing and calming voice. The laughter that made his spark warm, the snuggles he would share.

All of that…it was gone. His spark surged with renewed anger, a flame that was never tempered and he pushed aside all his emotions. He looked up when Jazz approached the doorway of the room and said, “ah’ve made some fuel tha’ will help ya heal."

Chapter 3

Prowl wandered around his new ‘home’ aimlessly, looking around and seeing holopics of Jazz before he became a Lieutenant. He saw instruments hidden in a room, at which he tilted his helm with an inquisitive hum and continued down the hall, stopping to look at holopics along the way.

He froze awkwardly in the hallway entrance when he noticed Jazz was lightly recharging on the couch, looking around helplessly. He saw the balcony, walking quietly outside and placed his hands on the railing, staring into the distance. Iacon was a very much different place than Praxus; the lights and vibe were much less…standoff-ish and beautiful.

His spark ached for something he knew he would never get back in his life. His mate. His job as a commanding officer. The gardens and their home. He ducked his helm, staring at the smooth metal ground that made up the balcony, remembering more of his mate’s whispering voice like a personal breeze.

His door-wings sagged lower than he normally would hold him, the appendages feeling as if they were suddenly too heavy for his frame. He watched mechs down below, distantly hearing the sound of shared laughter and he wanted to make them pay for killing his mate. Staring towards the horizon, he thought of the jets and the sound their engines made, curling his fists.

He flinched when he heard a loud sound in the distance, door-wings hiking upwards sharply and he scanned the horizon. He ran towards the berthroom in search of cover, and moments later Jazz walked up to the doorway, “Prowl?” “Leave me alone,” murmured the Praxian from his hiding spot. “I’m fine, alright?”

“Wha’ ‘appened?” Jazz asked stubbornly, refusing to let the Praxian’s attitude get to him. Prowl peered from his hiding spot with narrowed optics and said, “Why are you so irritating? I said I’m fine. Now leave.” Jazz didn’t. He stepped closer until the Praxian gave him a warning rumble and knelt down before him calmly.

“Someone has ta care ‘bout ya,” he said nonchalantly, shrugging when Prowl scoffed. “Don’t be hard on yer-” “Don’t be hard on myself?” Prowl interrupted abruptly, laughing bitterly. “I’ve lost everything, Lieutenant, and you tell me to stop being hard on myself?” He looked away, crawling from his spot.

“Ah’m not goin’ ‘way, Prowl,” Jazz reminded him, crossing his arms. “This is mah home, ‘fter all, an’ yer livin’ in it.” “Don’t remind me,” the Praxian muttered quietly, barely loud enough for Jazz to hear him. “I do not need your sympathy for something you don’t understand, Polyhexian…I did not ask to be here.”

“Nah, ya didn’,” Jazz agreed, unfazed. “But at the same time, no one else wanted ta help ya once ya ‘ere out of the medical center.” Prowl kept his focus on anything but the Polyhexian in the room with him and said, “Do you all have accents like that? It’s annoying.” Jazz couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him at that and nodded.

“Unfortunately, we do,” he replied shamelessly. “Ah neve’ understood why, though.” Prowl eyed him then, not understanding why the other mech hadn’t left him alone. He thought about his next tactic, attempting to find a way that would get the other to leave him by himself for once and for all.

“Can you leave me alone?!” the Praxian then asked again, a tint of desperation in his tone. “Please!” Jazz sighed softly, swallowing as he backed off and Prowl stared at him until he left the berthroom altogether. The Praxian could be heard shutting the door behind him, locking himself in and Jazz rubbed his faceplates, becoming exhausted.

Maybe he didn’t understand. He didn’t know how to help someone who’s been through what the Praxian has and felt more helpless with each passing cycle. Not to mention he wasn’t entirely warned that perhaps Praxians grieve harder than his own race and that the process may take a long time.

Later that evening, Jazz brought forth a cube of warmed Energon to the berthroom, knocking gently and setting it on the floor in case the Praxian wanted it. He smiled sadly when he didn’t get a response, leaving the room again and turned to walk into his washrack, shutting the door behind him.

********************

Two hours later, after Jazz freshened up, he decided to check on the cube he left for the Praxian and noticed it hadn’t been touched. He walked towards the doorway, pressing an audial against it and listened for any activity in the room. Knocking, he said, “Prowl? Ya ‘kay? Ah left a cube fer ya…”

Prowl didn’t respond. The Lieutenant tried opening the door, realizing that the Praxian must have unlocked it at some point and he opened it a crack. Prowl was lying on his berth facing away from the doorway, not seeming to acknowledge Jazz’s presence and the Lieutenant approached him.

“Prowl?” he tried again quietly, finding a chair and sitting down beside him. He wanted to touch him but was afraid of being attacked, pinned to the ground and rubbed the back of his helm. The Lieutenant stood after a while, palming the Praxian’s forhelm, making sure nothing was wrong and headed out, picking up the cube.

**********************

Jazz sat at his kitchen table, pulling out a datapad and began a long series of research, hoping to find something that would help him. He rubbed his faceplates gently, staring at the datapad after getting nowhere and glanced up when he heard movement from the berthroom at the end of the hallway.

Prowl was making his way down the hall when he saw Jazz waiting for him at the other end and flicked his appendages back, annoyed. “Are you going to be near me every time I make a move?” the Praxian asked sharply, freezing mid-step. “Or be in my path every time I try to exit the berthroom?”

Jazz remained where he was. “Tha’ wasn’ mah-” he began but the Praxian grunted dismissively, starting his approach anyway. “Your ‘home’ is pathetic, Lieutenant,” Prowl snarked, pushing past him and the Polyhexian sighed again. “Ah’m gonna be doin’ wha’ ah wan’ in mah own place,” Jazz snarled, becoming somewhat insulted. “This wasn’ how mah home in Polyhex was like, either.”

Prowl was staring at his half-full cube, not really listening to Jazz and he quietly murmured, “Corridor would have despised it here. He never wanted to leave Praxus…” Speaking louder as his tone became accusatory, “Why did you remove his frame from there? He would have been happy to have died and been buried in his only home.”

His hand tightened around the cube, hearing something crack and Jazz tried protesting but the Praxian whipped around to glare. “We didn’ kno’, Prowl,” the Polyhexian admitted, his voice turning smaller when he thought about how they found him, “we could only ‘ave assumed tha’ he was yer mate judgin’ by how ya ‘ere clingin’ ta ‘is frame-”

“Do not remind me of something you should be thankful you’ve never had to do!” the Praxian hissed angrily, pointing out the balcony doors. “I tried and failed to save him! He was pinned under that rubble without help and died because of my failure.” He approached him with a quick three strides and stood close to him.

Jazz remained quiet, unsure of what to say and Prowl vented hotly in his face. “Have you been bonded, Lieutenant?” he growled quietly, waiting impatiently for an answer. “Have you lost a mate in Polyhex, because I somehow doubt you were, or have.” “No, ah ‘aven’,” Jazz replied with a tone that was both firm and shaking.

Stepping back in disgust, Prowl sneered, “I didn’t think a bottom feeder like you would. I’m sure you wouldn’t know how to act without a mate, either.” He walked back to the berthroom, needing to be with his thoughts again and Jazz was hurt emotionally, dragged further into the helplessness that he already suffered from.

****************

Bluestreak was awake when the Lieutenant walked into their closed off space in the medical center and Jazz smiled as he sat down beside him. “Hey ‘ere, mah name’s Lieutenant Jazz,” he introduced himself calmly. Bluestreak nodded, accepting him and the Lieutenant continued, “Ah need some questions ‘bout yer grievin’ period answered.”

“...why?” Bluestreak croaked out, not really speaking much since his arrival. “Cause the Enforcer tha’ came in wit’ ya lost ‘is mate durin’ the attack,” Jazz explained, letting some of his desperation to help leak into his tone. “An’ ah don’ kno’ how ta help ‘im.” Bluestreak eyed him suspiciously at first but relented.

“Everyone’s emotions are different, Lieutenant,” he replied with a tired sigh, relaxing into his berth. “I can’t explain for everyone; you might have to deal with him on your own.” “He’s been prickly, an’ hard ta talk wit’ or even ta comfort,” Jazz further explained, which Bluestreak nodded once.

“I…don’t know him but you could offer to bury his mate,” Bluestreak shrugged. “When my grand-creators died a long time before the attack, we buried them in the Helix Gardens.” Jazz thanked him after a couple more questions and the young Praxian nodded, though was soon recharging after he left.

******************

Prowl hadn’t fueled this time either. His cracked cube of fuel was left abandoned on the kitchen counter, breaking Jazz’s spark and the Lieutenant walked down the hallway with a new but false confidence that he would be able to help him. The Praxian was sitting on a lone chair in the berthroom, staring at something in his hands.

They’d rummaged through his mate’s belongings in his subspace. Soft sounds emitted from the Praxian while Jazz stood wordlessly in the doorway and Prowl’s tone came as cold as ice, “If you’re going to stare at me, do it more…discreetly.” He didn’t look at him fully, eyeing him from his peripheral and Jazz approached him, going around until he sat on the berth.

Tense silence hung around them for about an hour before Jazz spoke quietly, “Ah spoke ta Bluestreak earlier. Ah wanted ta understand yer customs. Ah want ta help ya, Prowl. An’ mah poin’ fer sayin’ this is gonna sting, ah think…but we can bury yer mate ‘ere in Iacon or somethin’...”

Prowl remained quiet, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge his presence. But Jazz wasn’t deterred in the slightest. Prowl shifted on his chair, listening to it protest under his weight and the sound was louder than his thoughts. “Do what you want,” he eventually said quietly. “You already moved him here.”

“Tha’s not an acceptable answer an’ ya kno’ it,” Jazz pressed gently, ignoring the glare this time. “Now, wha’ d’ya wan’ ta do wit’ yer mate?” Prowl visibly tensed, glaring up at him even darker than before and the Polyhexian retracted his visor. Prowl’s optics brightened slightly at the different look on the other mech’s face and he quickly glanced away.

“Since you’re pressing me to make that decision so soon, I think we should bury him here,” he whispered, unable to cope with the idea yet. He shuddered briefly, not bothering to say anything when Jazz knelt directly in front of him and the Lieutenant reached out hesitantly, wanting to touch his hand but fought the urge.

“Thank ya fer allowin’ this much,” he said gratefully, standing again and headed for the exit. Prowl continued staring at the small object in his hands as if he wasn’t disturbed and he said just before the Lieutenant left, “You are right. I should not leave him to rust in there alone, Lieutenant…Jazz.”

Chapter 4

Notes:

Damn my negative thoughts...... almost didn't post this chapter.

The dreaded day came for Prowl to face his hardest moment in his life. He was asked from multiple mechs how their attire looked when burying one’s family member and the Praxian gave them curt information. He was given his cloak just a few days prior and allowed the Lieutenant to help him settle it on his shoulders.

He did not say anything to the Lieutenant in gratitude or appreciation, instead placing a frown on his faceplates and Jazz walked ahead of him to open his door, allowing the Praxian to walk out first. He locked the door behind him and they walked together in silence, allowing the Praxian to grieve.

Jazz led him down to the morgue, where his mate was now encased in a casket designed with the help of the other two Praxians, who were released at last. No one said anything when Prowl walked into the somewhat cleaner room where his mate rested and suddenly stalled, realizing they’d painted him.

The look made him seem as though he were simply recharging and it shattered the Praxian’s spark into shards, nearly buckling him over. “I can’t,” he whispered hoarsely, shaking his helm and leaning his weight onto others. “I can’t see him like this! No!” He refused to look any longer, faced again with the reality he’d continued attempting to deny behind closed doors.

His spark reached out with love for the mech inside, and the others allowed him to fall to his knees. But he didn’t, struggling to stand fully and wobbled over to him for the final time, reaching inside to kiss his chevron. A tall blue and red mech approached him and said, “I am Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots.

“We are greatly sorry for the loss of your mate and the city of Praxus. We will do what we can to be accommodating to you during this hard time in your life.” He gave him a polite nod and Prowl simply gave him a much shorter nod that was barely there, stepping back to allow them to lock the casket for good.

*************************

Prowl held his helm low, staring at the ground with a petulant pout while they walked to the mausoleum, a place he felt was better than lowering such a delicacy into the ground and stepped aside to allow them to slide it in. Unfamiliar flowers surrounded the gravesite, followed by freshly polished metal and Prowl felt his spark clenching.

The soldiers tenderly carrying his mate’s casket slid it into place with the same amount of care and Prowl broke once again when he heard it lock into place. He dimmed his optics until they were barely visible, now collapsing to his knees and the others stepped away to allow him to get his emotions out.

Prowl sat in front of his mate’s grave for hours, long past the sunset and stars were shining on the outside. He let out a mourning song, rocking on his heels and often switched from his song to sacred prayers. He had nothing to leave at his mate’s grave, save for his spark and whispered something to his mate in their language.

He hadn’t realized that he was sitting there for so long until he heard a voice, “Prowl? Ya need ta come back.” “I’m fine here,” he replied, shivering and pulling his cloak closer to his frame. “I don’t want him to be alone anymore.” The Praxian didn’t move and Jazz walked closer then unexpectedly knelt down to sit beside him.

Prowl watched him curiously, confused at the same time but didn’t protest. He quietly said instead, “It was beautiful…our ceremony. We’d wanted sparklings once things settled…” He couldn’t hold back the sobs at his future falling apart, images of his mate heavily carrying his creations flashing before his optics and he played with a corner of his cloak.

“I loved him,” he continued with a soft spark-broken wail. “I would have done anything for him to see him happy…even granting him the home he-he…” The Praxian couldn’t finish his sentence, trailing off into more soft sounds. Jazz remained quiet, not wanting to say something that would hurt the Praxian more.

The night air was getting colder and Jazz eventually coaxed the Praxian to walk inside with him where it was warm. Prowl reluctantly followed him, staying a few strides behind and the Lieutenant would stop to wait for him. They walked past other soldiers in the halls, who stepped aside and Jazz gave them a glare to clear out the halls.

***********************

Prowl sulked on his berth when they reached the Lieutenant’s quarters and Jazz brought a cube to him, setting it on the berthside table. “I don’t understand why you’re being this way towards me,” he said, frowning. “I’ve been nothing but hard towards you and yet…you’re here giving me another cube.”

“Yer in mah home, an’ ah’m responsible fer wha’ ‘appens t’ya in mah home,” Jazz replied, smirking softly, bowing his helm. “Tis not ‘ppropriate fer meh ta leave ya ta yer own devices when yer hurtin’.” Prowl sighed softly, still aching for his mate while judging the Polyhexian’s words.

He pulled out a trinket, playing with the soft metal and Jazz watched him curiously. “Wha’s…tha’?” he asked cautiously, pointing towards the small object. Prowl glared at him icily and said, “Must you know everything, Lieutenant? I am not obligated to tell you everything.” He put the trinket back into his subspace.

“Nah,” Jazz said simply, earning another look from the Praxian. Prowl turned from him slightly and stared at the floor. “Ah’m sorry,” the Lieutenant tried again, but Prowl turned further from him and the Lieutenant walked away, learning his lesson from the last time but wasn’t deterred from trying to talk to him.

*************************

Prowl was gathering his things two days later when Jazz returned from his duties and the Polyhexian went to see what he was up to. The Praxian hardly acknowledged him when he walked in, continuing to find things that he might have had in his subspace when the city fell and nodded to himself.

“Where ‘re ya goin’?” Jazz demanded, crossing his arms and blocking the exit. Prowl flared his door-wings threateningly, narrowing his optics and clenched his jaw. Neither of them said anything until Prowl vented hotly, “I am leaving. There is nothing here for me. My mate’s dead, and I am alone.”

“Yer not goin’ out ‘ere alone,” Jazz denied, shaking his helm. “Ya could ‘ave stuff ‘ere ta do; ah’m sure the Prime would give ya somethin’ ta do if ya ‘ere willin’ ta ‘ccept it.” Prowl approached him in a quick few steps and gave a low growl. “Let me go,” he said sternly, attempting to use his Enforcer tone with him. “Now.”

“Ah will not,” Jazz said, remaining right where he was. “Yer gonna die out ‘ere if ah let ya go.” “Why does that matter?” Prowl asked snidely, lifting his helm. “He’s not here to stop me and…even if he were, I wouldn’t be in this place.” Jazz hung his helm low as he said, “Wha’ can ah do ta make it better?”

Prowl looked at him for a long time, seeming surprised by the question. Or at least, at first. “Leaving me alone would make it better,” he decided at last, though admitting it made him wince internally. “I need time to get past his death.” “Leavin’ mah quarters isn’ a good way ta do tha’,” Jazz tried reasoning with him. “Please jus’ listen ta meh.”

When the Praxian didn’t move or say anything to protest, Jazz tentatively reached out to guide him to the kitchen and offered an encouraging nod when Prowl didn’t say anything to the touch. He gently pressed him onto the chair, turning to grab fuel and returned to the table, sitting across from him.

“Drink this fer now,” he encouraged when Prowl simply stared at it, eyeing the Lieutenant as if he didn’t fully trust his intentions. The Praxian grasped the cube firmly, staring down into his reflection and he didn’t recognize his own face that stared back at him. His frame was a shadow of who he was; a Commanding Enforcer, head of his precinct, a Praxian, a lover.

But there was nothing but a void staring back at him; the loving light disappearing from his optics and replaced with something much colder. Another part of him felt colder, emptier, than before. He shivered, shaking his cube and accidentally spilling some of the substance onto the table.

“I…” he began but stopped himself, forgetting what he wanted to say in the moment and fell quiet again. His thoughts turned to the attack, hearing the screams over again and seeing his mate’s frame pinned underneath the rubble. He grasped the table roughly as his memories became more realistic, feeling as if he never left the forefront of the moment.

“Prowl?” Jazz said, concerned as he rounded the table and knelt before him. “Ya ‘kay, mech?” The Praxian simply made a soft whimper, sliding to his knees and said, “Corridor…no…no, no, no…” He fumbled at nothing in particular and Jazz grasped his shoulders, earning him a wide-opticked stare.

“Hey,” Jazz tried saying, attempting to get him back to the present. “Prowler, tis meh…yer in mah home in Iacon.” The Praxian searched his optics for a while, seeming to think that his mate was in front of him until an unfamiliar accent hit his audials and he frowned, becoming increasingly stressed once again.

“Prowl.” Jazz hardened his tone, never releasing his grasp on his shoulders. “Yer ‘kay, mech…yer in mah place, nothin’s gonna ‘appen…” Prowl felt his spark pulse slowing until he collapsed against Jazz, tired and aching. He needed some kind of touch in the moment, burying his faceplates against his neck cabling and sobbed.

He couldn’t keep his emotions in any longer as the dam broke and he shuddered against Jazz, tightening his grip. Together they sat there for an hour of the cycle until Prowl’s memories faded somewhat and the Praxian released Jazz from his tight embrace. He glanced away shamefully, standing and began making his way back to the berthroom, closing the door halfway.

******************

Two hours later, Prowl emerged from the berthroom after Jazz had gone to recharge and the Praxian peered into the berthroom, stalling when he saw the Polyhexian’s slumbering form. He watched him, noticing the blanket was sliding off the berth and retreated, the sight reminding him of when his mate would be recharging.

He wandered out to the balcony, leaning against the railing and sighed quietly. He watched mechs who worked late fly by in their alternate modes and felt a sudden warmth surrounding him, wrapping around him like the wind. He stood straighter and looked around to make sure it wasn’t Jazz and his mate’s form began appearing.

“...Cor?” Prowl whispered brokenly, wanting to hug him. “Prowl…you made it,” his mate’s voice flowed into his audials, sounding like a smile. “That makes me so happy…” He tilted his helm and continued, starting to fade, “Allow him to help you, Prowl…you need it. I’ll be watching, always.”

He was gone and Prowl watched sadly, his spark breaking for the nth time, clenching his fist tightly while glancing away. He couldn’t watch his mate leave him for a second time let alone the first and didn’t hear the Lieutenant wake. Jazz’s blue visor was dimly staring at him from the end of the hallway that connected the berthrooms and Prowl turned towards him.

“Lieutenant?” he said, inclining his helm. Jazz walked halfway across the living room and stopped again, simply watching him. “Was…was tha’ yer mate?” the Lieutenant sputtered, stumbling foolishly over his words. “Ah- ah saw ‘im, if it was..” Prowl glanced back over at the end of the balcony where his mate was.

“Yes,” he whispered. “It was.” “Did he speak t’ya?” Jazz asked, hoping he wasn’t pressing into the Praxian’s life too much and Prowl stared off into the night sky. “He did,” he replied again with simple words. “I have come to a conclusion, Lieutenant…” The Praxian turned towards him again and continued, “I will only accept your help in memory of my mate.”

Chapter 5

Notes:

Another quick update 😅😅😅. Hope you like.

Something touching happened to me today. Last year, I lost my grandpa in September and I was told I couldn't grieve his loss because I didn't know him by my mom so I felt like offing myself.

I had the brave idea to have someone contact the local PD and the LEO that came mercifully sat with me for an entire hour then eventually brought me home. But today, I saw the same LEO and I wanted to let him know how I was doing one year and three months later.

He said that he'd been watching me walk to work since my lack of love from parents and he would try to get out more and if he saw me, he would give me a ride home. That touched me so much because I feel that people don't love me....

Two weeks later. The recreational room.

“How is that Praxian mech doing?” Hound asked Jazz while he sauntered over to the table lazily, sliding into a chair across from him. “Prime has a job in line fer ‘im,” Jazz told the green scout, sighing softly. “He’s still dealin’ wit’ memories of tha’ night but ah managed ta talk ‘im into talkin’ wit’ meh more.”

“Maybe you should walk with him?” Hound suggested, thinking about how little any of the soldiers have seen of the Praxian since his release. “I’m sure being pent up in the place can’t be good for his health.” Jazz thought about it and said, “Tha’s why Prime is thinkin’ ‘bout offerin’ a commanding job fer ‘im.”

“The soldiers won’t like that,” Hound warned the Lieutenant. “Tis not up ta meh,” Jazz shrugged apologetically. “Soldiers will do wha’ the Prime says.” “When can I meet this Praxian of yours?” Hound asked with a smirk that broadened when Jazz glared. “He’s not mine,” Jazz said firmly, shaking his helm in bemusement. “Don’ even laugh.”

Hound chuckled quietly and the two of them finished their cubes in companionable silence before the scout had to go on shift. Jazz left shortly after, needing to return to the Praxian who was waiting for him and inform him about the new offer that their leader wanted to give him, hoping that he would accept.

**********************

Prowl was sitting on a chair on the balcony with a cube of Energon when Jazz returned and glanced up when he heard the door open then close again. The Lieutenant walked over to him confidently, offering a small smirk. “Ah see ya like the balcony,” he commented lightly, leaning against the archway.

“It is…soothing,” Prowl replied, thinking about how it made him feel. “I am…thankful, Lieutenant, that you took me in.” He spoke in Praxian to him, a short few words the Polyhexian didn’t understand. Jazz furrowed an optic ridge behind his visor and Prowl let out his first chuckle that really wasn’t a chuckle.

“Wha’ did ya say jus’ now?” Jazz asked curiously, attracted to the sound of the language. Prowl shifted on his chair, setting aside the cube and folding his hands neatly. “It is nothing that is of importance,” he said, venting softly. “A language you will rarely hear but is never lost, Lieutenant.”

“The Prime has a job fer ya,” Jazz said, catching the Praxian’s attention and Prowl’s cold blue optics were on him in an instant. “He said tha’ we’re in need of someone ta command the army an’ he thought ya might be a good match…” Prowl looked at the sky around them and asked, “Why would he choose me?”

Jazz sat down on another chair. “Cause he heard of yer work,” he replied, smirking gently. “Tha’s why.” Prowl was silent. He didn’t need to be reminded of his old life. “I…” he began, struggling to come up with words. “I, uh…” He dimmed his optics, fighting off memories of his mate.

“Tis ‘bout yer mate?” Jazz asked quietly, nodding knowingly when Prowl glanced away again. “Yes,” Prowl said simply. “They fill my mind.” “Perhaps wha’ yer gonna be doin’ will help?” Jazz suggested, and the Praxian was looking at him again. “You’re surely pushy for a Lieutenant,” he said, scoffing softly. “But if it is something you want me to do, fine.”

“Tis not wha’ ah want ya ta do, Prowl,” Jazz sighed softly. “Ah jus’ don’ think bein’ trapped in this room or wha’ever is somethin’ ya wan’ ta be doin’.” Prowl sat there, nursing his cube and watched civilians flying by as if there were never an attack anywhere on the planet, the sunset beginning to take place.

********************

Jazz was fixing the covers in Prowl’s berthroom when the Praxian came in that evening and this time the Praxian leaned against the doorway. “I can do that,” Prowl offered when Jazz struggled with the cover on the corner of the berth and approached him. “You- you don’t have to do that by yourself.”

“Ah’m used ta it,” Jazz said, confused but stepped back anyway. “Ah’ve always lived ‘lone.” “Now you do not,” Prowl replied with a grunt as he fixed the berth cover. “I am capable of fixing my own mess.” Jazz wordlessly assisted Prowl with the other end of the berth, neither of them saying anything and the Praxian let out a relaxed purr.

Jazz thought of having the Praxian help him with his own berth too if it helped him keep his mind off things and Prowl hesitated. “I cannot go in there,” he said, putting a hand up. “That is a privacy I do not want to intrude.” “Tis ‘kay, Prowl,” the Lieutenant encouraged, pulling him by the arm but it was like pulling a rock. “Ya seemed content helpin’ meh do yer own…”

“That is because it is a space I’m occupying,” Prowl said, refusing to budge. “I will not go.” Jazz let go of his arm and sighed softly, nodding. “Kay,” he relented, walking into the other berthroom and began redoing his bedding. Prowl watched from the doorway, curious and looked around the place, finding other things to do.

Jazz peered out of his berthroom when he heard the Praxian puttering about the kitchen, cursing out soft words in Praxian followed by clinking from cubes being put away. The Lieutenant smirked to himself, slinking back into his berthroom and laughed to himself while finishing putting the blankets back on his berth.

*************

Later that night, Jazz was woken by murmurs in the berthroom across from him and he groggily slid out of berth, shivering when he walked over to the berthroom. Pushing the door open, he peered inside and saw the Praxian trembling while tightly clinging onto his covers. Prowl’s optics were dimly lit when Jazz walked around the berth and knelt before him.

“Prowl?” he said, shaking him very gently as if he were brittle glass. “Come on, wake up, yer ‘kay…” The Praxian continued to tremble for the following half hour, eventually calming down and he offlined his optics. They remained offline for another ten minutes until they came online again, brighter than before.

“Jazz…” the Praxian murmured hoarsely, still seeming somewhat out of it but better than he was when the Lieutenant found him. “Did…did I…?” “Wake meh?” Jazz finished for him when the Praxian nodded. “Yeah, ya ‘ere makin’ all sorts of sounds an’ ah had ta come wake ya up but tha’s ‘kay.”

“I’m sorry, Jazz,” Prowl murmured, sounding half-asleep. “I don’t know how to make them go away.” Jazz reached out to squeeze his shoulder and said, “Tis alright, Prowler. Ratch might ‘ave somethin’.” “Prowler?” the Praxian repeated, surprised. “No one’s ever called me ‘Prowler’ before.”

Jazz smiled genuinely at that and said, “Well, consider meh ta be yer first, then.” Prowl huffed softly, but it lacked the heat from before and sat up from his side, rubbing his faceplates. “I can’t believe it,” the Praxian murmured quietly, thinking of when he saw his mate. “I can’t believe you saw him.”

“He was glowin’ brightly,” Jazz admitted, catching the Praxian’s attention and interest. “What did he look like?” Prowl asked eagerly, borderline demanding. “From your perspective, what did he appear like?” “Jus’ a bright light, almost like an orb of some sorts but wit’ a clear face,” Jazz explained as best as he could. “Ah’m not sure how else ta put it.”

Prowl was fully watching him by this point, intrigued and was hit with a wave of grief when he remembered the trinket in his subspace. The warmth he managed to create vanished in nanoseconds, quickly washed over with his immense pain and the Praxian pulled out the small metal object.

Assuming it was a private moment he was intruding on, Jazz stood to leave and only managed to get to the door when the Praxian said, “Wait…you don’t…you don’t have to go.” His tone held something the Lieutenant had never heard from his roommate before until now and he slowly turned around to face him.

“But ya ‘ave the trinket..” Jazz motioned to the metal object. “Belonged ta yer mate once, did it not?” “It…” Prowl began thickly, swallowing his grief, “was a gift…for both of us when we got bonded.” Jazz approached him cautiously and the Praxian shifted over to make space; a clear invitation.

Jazz hesitated and the Praxian patted the padding encouragingly, almost like trying to get a sparkling to come over to him. “Re ya sure?” Jazz asked, stepping closer but remained on high alert. Prowl shoved aside his berth covers and Jazz eventually sat beside him, still feeling unsure about it.

“I would not invite you otherwise,” Prowl reminded him with a tint of cold in his tone but vanished, replaced with some of his grief. “Don’t press me into regretting my decision, Jazz. You are lucky I invited you now.” He glared at him pointedly and turned his focus back onto the trinket in his hands.

“Did ya each get one?” Jazz asked, motioning towards it and Prowl looked thoughtful. “Yes,” Prowl replied quietly, “the one he had is buried with him…eternally.” He tightened his hand around the trinket and continued, “I met him when we were younger…I was just getting out of the academy and coincidentally, so was he.”

“Were ya head of the precinct when ya..?” Jazz trailed off, not wanting to ask too much. “I was in training,” Prowl whispered, shaking his helm. “He was a Lieutenant of our department…we hadn’t lived in our home long b-before it…it was…” The Praxian turned, grabbing something else and activated it, igniting a holopic of his home.

Jazz’s visor brightened at the sight, in saddened awe and Prowl shut it off almost immediately after. Prowl wasn’t looking at him anymore, instead offlining his optics and had a pained expression he clearly was trying to fight off. “Ah…ah’m sorry, Prowler,” Jazz stammered, unsure of how to comfort him even now.

Prowl came to after becoming lost in his thoughts and forced his optics online. “There is nothing you or I can say that’ll turn back the events,” he said truthfully, sighing deeply and shoved aside the trinket onto the berthside table. “This trinket will never bring Corridor back…he’s dead. I should be angry but…”

He trailed off, his spark becoming numb and he tensed. Jazz wanted to rub his back soothingly, and reached out to lay a palm in the middle of his back. He felt the Praxian’s door-wings shift underneath his touch, moving away or closer to him, he wasn’t sure. Prowl was staring at him from his peripheral, unmoving then stared at the floor.

Neither of them shared words, a tense silence hanging over them thicker than the fog after an acid rainstorm and so Jazz kept his hand in place. “Are you going to move your hand or are you going to stare at me?” the Praxian asked acidly, flicking a panel at him. “Rub me or do not, but don’t stare at me.”

Jazz began running his hand very carefully along the Praxian’s stiff frame and Prowl dimmed his optics. All seemed to be working out until Jazz reached up too far on the Praxian’s back near his hinges and Prowl hissed angrily at him, sharply moving away from him. He was standing by the window facing Jazz while the Polyhexian’s hand was still mid-air.

“Prowl..?” Jazz asked, sounding hurt and worried at the same time. “Don’t touch me there,” Prowl growled, fluttering his door-wings with annoyance. “That spot on my back is off-limits!” “Oh,” Jazz said dumbly, rubbing the back of his helm. “Ah’m sorry, ah didn’ kno’, Prowl…ah won’ do it ‘gain.”

“Well now you do,” Prowl snapped, hurting as his tone wavered. “And no, you won’t be doing it again.” Jazz slowly stood, walking around the berth and began heading out of the berthroom for the second time. “Good night,” Jazz whispered, glancing over his shoulder once and closed the door half-way, leaving Prowl to listen to him shut the other door.

Notes:

Let me know how I did in the comments below! They mean everything to me and kudos are welcome!