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As soon as the door opened and revealed an empty office Jazz knew it was going to be a bad day.
He lingered at the door frame, leaning his shoulder against it and letting his digits drum against the metal in a beat all his own. Behind his masking visor, his optics flitted across the room, looking for evidence of the last occupancy.
The energon cube was half full and had a filmy top layer that suggested it had been exposed to the open air of the ARC for joors. The pads on the desk were organized into neat piles that lined up perfectly with the edges of the desk. The chair was tucked in, its low backing snug to the leading edge.
The lights above were humming as they warmed up.
::Prowl to Jazz:: he commed, opening up a private line tagged with Professional-Inquiry.
For a moment he hung there, waiting. It was unlike Prowl to make anyone wait.
::Yes:: finally came through, the words untagged with emotions or inclinations.
::We still meeting about Mission 12CB?::
Again he waited. A frown pulled at his lip plates. He drummed his fingers faster against the doorway.
::No:: and again the answer was short and filtered. Too bland, even for Prowl.
Especially for Prowl.
Before he could comm back Prowl sent ::Leave the data::
Because of course, he knew that Jazz was probably in his office, lingering in the doorway. He probably also knew that he was drumming his fingers, probably could even guess the beat. He had suggested once that Jazz used certain beats depending on his moods, to which Jazz vehemently disagreed. Jazz could not be predicted like that, he had claimed.
Prowl had only smirked.
Jazz huffed and quit his drumming at the memory, refusing to analyze if he was doing a certain rhythm or not. He didn’t move into the office.
::Are you having an episode:: he sent Prowl.
And then he waited. And waited. The time it took for Prowl to answer stretched and Jazz frowned. He sent the question again, this time tagging it with Urgent-Now-Respond.
Pushy, sure, but he was Jazz and this was entirely expected.
Jazz only realized he had started up frantically drumming against the door when Prowl finally answered with, ::Yes::
He opened up another comm line.
::Red Alert to Jazz::
::What?:: came Red’s quick reply, the single word tagged with so modifiers that it sat heavily on his comm line. Frustration-Impatience-Weariness-Curiosity - all of them laden into that single word.
Exactly what Jazz expected.
::When did Prowl leave his office last?::
::Why is Special Ops so nosy?:: Red Alert snapped back, but along with the words came an attachment that stated ‘seven joors ago’.
::Same reason why Security’s so paranoid:: Jazz sent back, tagging it with Love-Understanding-Playful.
::Pah.::
The line was closed.
With a huff of a laugh, Jazz pushed away from the door frame and walked away from the office. The door slid closed behind him with a gentle woosh .
The data could wait; Prowl wasn’t going to like it anyway. It wasn’t urgent and it wasn’t time senstive. It was important and relevant, but it could wait.
Jazz sauntered down the hallway. He waved at Arcee who was heading towards the armory. He bumped shoulders against Hound who then happily showed him some new organic lifeform he had found. He was even good at pretending genuine interest in the thing, even though it was squishy and it was leaking fluids and honestly all he could think about at the moment was about Prowl.
He couldn’t appear hurried. Jazz only had the option of looking like he was completely in control; calm, cool, confident. The mechs under his command looked to him for how to act; when he was brave so were they, when he was relaxed they took cue.
The few times he had slipped and shown his panic had been chaos. Lessons well learned for the TIC, branded into his circuits with a hot iron.
So he sauntered through the halls and said hello and chitchatted as he would on any other given day.
When he was able to slip into the officer’s hall he breathed a sigh of relief. No one else was here; they were either working or sleeping. This was not a throughway often frequented by anyone beyond upper management.
Prowl’s door was the last on the left. When he approached it he heard the soft click of the lock disengaging. His visor lifted up to look at the camera that watched the hallway and flashed brightly for a moment.
::Thanks Red,:: he commed.
The camera’s tiny parts focused a little, the smooth gears slipping against each other. Jazz only heard it because of his upgraded audios, and he knew he was supposed to hear it.
Quietly he slipped into the room, sending a quick command to cancel the motion sensors and keep the lights off.
Off to the side of the room sat a low berth. Prowl was curled up on his right flank, wings towards Jazz. Prowl’s white finger’s gripped his own shoulders tightly, leaving dents.
A wing twitched and Jazz knew his presence was noted.
Jazz leaned a hip against the bed and gently laid a hand on the center of Prowl’s back, avoiding the door wings and hinges. A shiver ran through the sensitive panels but otherwise, Prowl didn’t react. His torso was hot under Jazz’s palm.
Prowl’s body kept shivering intermittently. Every time it did it jerked at his locked joints, working away at the metal to cause a multitude of microscopic fissures. Every shake made Prowl’s pain baseline spike into agony. The small joints that made up his vocals were locked down too, so he couldn’t even express his pain.
From his angle Jazz could see Prowl’s face. His optics were a dull white with pain. His mouth was slightly parted as he panted, his denta were gritted and grinding against themselves. The multitude of tiny plates around his face were pulled tight to express his pain.
Prowl had a very expressive face, though few would agree. His finely sculpted face lent him very malleable features. Just because he didn’t often use them to their greatest degree didn’t mean they didn’t exist.
Jazz just wished he saw them used in more than just pain.
::Ratchet to Jazz:: he went along a professional line, not moving his hand from where it rested against Prowl’s back.
::Go ahead:: Ratchet replied.
::Prowl’s having a bad day::
::Another?:: and Ratchet couldn’t avoid the tags of Worry-Remorse.
::Yeah. He’s locked up and getting hot::
::I gave him five bags of coolant three orns ago, check his storage::
::Standby:: Jazz padded softly over to the cabinet that was kept a lower temperature. He cracked it open and winced at the noise that it made, hearing Prowl flinch with it. ::He’s got two bags left::
Ratchet’s grumbling could be heard on the open line. ::Stupid fool should have told me, he knows what the build-up means!::
The build-up.
These episodes didn’t just randomly happen, there were precursors to every single one. Overheating, aching joints, processor aches - all of these things built up on top of each other before finally combining into what Prowl was now.
::Give him the two bags and when he can move tell him I want him in my bay::
::Can do, Ratchet::
The line was closed softly on each end, both having sympathy for each other’s role in this.
Jazz leaned against the berth again and placed his hand exactly where he had before - lower back, dead center.
::Open up:: he sent Prowl, tagged with Gentle-Kind-Sorry-Helping.
Prowl quivered under his hand. The plating shook just a little. Finally the panel that Jazz’s hand had been resting on released its lock. Jazz gently flipped it open, grabbed one the bags, and as carefully as he could he stuck in the line.
The coolant would help with the overheating, of course, but it would also help with his joints. Every joint right now was locked up, from his hips to the fingers curled around his shoulders.
His body was fighting itself.
Jazz held up the bag of coolant and watched as it dripped into the bot’s lines. It was slow, but it had to be. So as to not overload the lines it had to be dispensed at a steady and even pace. He imagined the liquid traveling through his friend’s body, cooling the hot metal and lubricating the joints.
He imagined the damaged lines he knew the liquid was traveling through, some areas of tubbing thick with scar tissue and others worn down and ready to burst.
Prowl had admitted to him recently that Ratchet wanted him in to do another complete overhaul of his coolant systems. Jazz knew Prowl wouldn’t verbalize it, but he was sure that Prowl didn’t want to go through that procedure, not so soon after the last time.
When the first bag finished Prowl was venting a little easier. His fingers flexed a little on his own shoulders. Jazz watched keen-opticked as Prowl worked his jaw and lip plates.
::How are you feeling?:: Jazz questioned.
Prowl didn’t answer right away, but finally sent ::Better:: to Jazz, which Jazz immediately translated to: I feel like slag and am in a lot of pain, but it’s better then it was.
Jazz didn’t bother pulling out the first bag’s line out of Prowl; instead, he pulled at the other end, disengaging it from the bag and inserting it into the second bag. This was a trick learned through time, with trial and error. It was easier on Prowl, this way.
::Wish you’d just tell me when you’re getting this way:: Jazz sent, Sorrow-Unhappy riding along with it.
Jazz could help him. Jazz could ensure it didn’t get this bad; that Prowl didn’t have to suffer with locked joints and an overheating system and the little seizures that tore apart his body.
::You’re not my medbot::
::But I am your friend:: Jazz sent back forcefully, like flicking Prowl on the head. ::I’m allowed to care about you, you know::
Prowl didn’t answer. Jazz looked down at the second bag and found it halfway empty. Prowl’s fingers flexed again and this time they peeled themselves away from his own shoulders. His entire body started to relax, melting a little into the berth.
::I know:: Prowl sent, Apology-Frustration tagged along with it, ::I just do not want to be a burden::
It was a conversation they had had dozens of times now.
::You are not a burden. It’s ok to need help, and to ask for it:: Jazz placed his hand gently on his friend’s flank, embracing him now that he was pretty sure the action would not cause Prowl physical pain. ::You’re killing yourself::
“I am not,” Prowl answered out loud, working his throat and rolling his head a little on his neck now that the joints had relaxed enough to do so.
“Are too,” Jazz said, poking him on his side, “Ratchet wants you in the medbay.”
“You told him.” It was a statement.
“Of course I did, he’s your doctor. And he’s none too pleased that you’ve used so many coolant bags so quickly without telling him.”
The grinding of Prowl’s denta was easily heard in the quiet room.
“Prowl…” Jazz sighed and closed his optics, letting his visor go dark.
They sat in the dark for a long moment. The second bag was empty now.
The fact that Prowl’s body was tearing itself apart was one that neither bot wanted to face. It had been happening for vorns now but had escalated recently. This was the third attack in thirty orns. Prowl’s body hurt before the attack finally occurred, and it would hurt for orns after.
Recently all Prowl had known was a dull ache. It was wearing on his usual patience.
Jazz knew it wasn’t his pain to bear, but he wished he could take some of it off of his friend. Seeing Prowl as he was right now, laying in a berth, in pain, facing away from Jazz and petulantly arguing a topic the two of them had danced around for vorns was… It was hard.
Jazz onlined his optics so that he could pull the line out of Prowl, taking care to apply pressure long enough that his body would seal up the hole. He clicked the plate back into place and let his hand fall away.
Prowl sighed and shifted. He leaned up and braced against his arms so that he could be in a sitting position, facing towards Jazz.
His optics were still white and dull.
“How did Mission 12CB go?” he asked, looking up into Jazz’s visor.
“Oh, pit no,” Jazz started, shaking his head.
“Jazz--”
“No. We aren’t doing work right now. No. ”
“Jazz--”
“You will hear about that mission when you’re back in your office.”
“Jazz--”
“I said--”
“Jazz!” Prowl said sharply, interrupting him as he had been interrupted.
Prowl waited, brows raised, to see if Jazz would keep going. When Jazz kept his lip plates shut and raised his own brows Prowl sighed. Jazz knew that he wanted to ask about the mission data and knew he would swiftly reject Prowl’s request.
“Jazz…” and Prowl let his helm fall forward, letting the chevron rest against his friend’s shoulder. “I’m tired.”
“I know,” Jazz replied quietly, wrapping both arms around Prowl and pulling him in a little. Me too wasn’t said out loud but felt between them.
“... Ratchet’s comming me,” Prowl said, his words muffled against Jazz’s plating.
“Let’s go see ol’ Hatchet then, hmm?”
Prowl grumbled a little at the nickname but otherwise didn’t fight it when Jazz shifted one of his arms to rest across Jazz’s shoulder. Jazz’s arms wrapped around Prowl’s body and prepared to brace him as he said, “Alright, up we go.”
Prowl leaned heavily on Jazz as Jazz helped him to his feet. They took one step towards the door when Prowl’s left knee gave out. Prowl grunted and his fingers spasmed against Jazz’s shoulder.
Jazz wrapped his arms around his friend’s torso and caught him before he could fall to the ground. Instead, he stepped them back again and lowered Prowl to sit on the berth.
When Jazz gently touched the knee joint that had given out Prowl hissed, fingers gripping the edges of the berth.
“Must’ve damaged the socket,” Jazz said, leaving out the word again though both of them heard it.
When Prowl’s joints locked up and his body then started to seize some of the joints snapped. It’s one reason why Ratchet liked to check him over after an episode.
::Red Alert to Jazz::
::Yes?:: Red Alert answered quickly, Worry-Impatience tagging along.
::Can you clear the way to the medbay for me?::
::Give me a click:: Red sent back, deepening his Worry tag. ::Ok, you’re good to go::
::Thanks Red:: Appreciation-Love-Kindness.
Red Alert bounced the tags back at him before closing the line.
“Alright Prowl, let’s try this again.” Jazz braced him better this time, taking his weight so that bad leg wouldn’t have to pick up any of as they walked. Jazz didn’t reassure him that the halls were clear, knowing that Prowl would expect nothing less.
Most of the Autobots didn’t know about Prowl’s… condition. And Prowl would prefer it stay that way.
Jazz would prefer it too, to be honest, but for different reasons. Prowl didn’t want to look weak in the same way that Jazz had to keep up appearances for the general population. His pride ran too deep to show his pain, his work ethic didn’t allow himself to take it easy.
Jazz didn’t want the Decepticon’s to get wind of it.
Jazz knew, of course. Ratchet as well. Red Alert had figured it out early on. It was impossible to hide from Optimus Prime, what with Prowl’s workflows being interupted periodically.
Everyone else was in the dark. Jazz worried that if the episodes didn’t slow down they would soon catch on. The Autobots were not stupid. If Prowl didn’t start taking better care of himself or if Ratchet didn’t figure out how to get a handle on this then something would slip and everyone would know.
Know that their SIC’s frame was tearing itself apart.
The trip to the medbay was uninterrupted. Jazz sent a quick thanks to Red Alert as they entered the quiet bay.
Quiet, but only for a moment.
Ratchet appeared from his office, storming towards the black and white duo. His optics were dark under his chevron, his strong jaw set and his shoulders rolled back.
“Get on the berth,” Ratchet growled. Jazz winced and helped Prowl to the berth that Ratchet had pointed out. Prowl, for his part, was taking it all stoically. His face was set to neutral and his too-white optics looking straight ahead.
::His knee’s damaged again:: Jazz helpfully sent along in a comm to Ratchet.
::I saw:: Ratchet sent back, Anger-Frustration attached to it.
::Maybe we can calm down a little:: Jazz suggested, putting up his hands with flat palms towards the fuming medic.
“Calm down?” Ratchet answered out loud, engine growling. Prowl’s doorwing twitched behind him. “I am calm,” Ratchet snarled. “I am as calm as I can be when my patients refuse to follow my orders and so get themselves injured!”
Prowl didn’t flinch, though Jazz could feel himself wilting as he stood between the irate medic and the tactician.
“I told you to tell me when you used the coolant bags, I gave them to you so you could help yourself, so that we could work together to prevent you from getting this bad!” Ratchet ranted, pushing Jazz out of the way none too gently to stand beside Prowl. When Prowl looked resolutely forward Ratchet’s mood soured even further. “Look at me when I am talking to you!”
“I am Second in Command of the Au--”
“You are in my medbay and in here are better than a peon. Look. At. Me.”
Prowl clenched his jaws together loud enough to force them to creak and looked at Ratchet, his too-white optics bravely staring down the simmering ones of Ratchet’s.
Jazz flexed his fist and worried a claw as he watched.
“You agreed to tell me when you used the coolant,” Ratchet stated, each word said purposefully and with bite. “You said you’d report to me when your symptoms kicked up. This is the third time in just as many decaorns - the third time, Prowl!”
“I am aware.”
Rachet let out a growl filled with static.
Jazz broke the tension. “I gave him the two bags in his room,” he stated, sliding forward and keeping his body language calming. “I think the only injury this time is his knee.”
“I’ll be the one to decide that,” Ratchet snapped. “Sit back on the berth.”
While the medics ire was palatable, he was gentle when he lifted Prowl’s knee onto the berth for him.
Prowl stayed still for the scans and rescans. Jazz sided up closer to him as Ratchet turned away to assess his findings. Prowl looked up at the ceiling, stubbornly refusing to glance at anything else. Jazz leaned against his berth and held back a sigh.
“Looks like you got off lucky,” Ratchet said after another handful of clicks had passed. “Just the knee today. I’m also scheduling you for another coolant system overhaul. The fact that none of your lines burst today was only dumb luck .”
The first time he had had an episode, vorns ago, Prowl had contacted Jazz in a panic. Jazz had found him in his office, joint-locked into place and coolant spilling from seams. That had been the reason for the first overhaul.
“I’m putting you under to fix your knee,” Rachet said, letting it sink in for a moment before setting to the berth to stasis and watching Prowl fall into blissful unawareness.
Ratchet sagged against the berth, resting his elbows against its surface and putting his face in his heads. Jazz sided up to Ratchet and bumped shoulders with him.
“He’s falling apart,” Ratchet said, rubbing a hand over his face.
“We’ll hold him together.” Jazz wouldn’t allow his friend to succumb to this.
“We might not have a choice.”
Jazz looked at Prowl and reached out to grab his white hand, wrapping his black digits around them carefully.
Ratchet let out another big sigh and rubbed at his faceplates roughly. He walked away from the berth only to return a moment later laden with tools. First, he hooked up a line of coolant and then another of energon. Quietly he started to take apart Prowl’s knee, grumbling once he uncovered the ruined socket. Jazz looked down at the part and knew that there was no repairing that; it would have to be replaced.
“Have you told Optimus?” Jazz questioned Ratchet while he watched him work.
“Yes, and I informed him that Prowl is to be off-duty for a decaorn.”
Ouch , Jazz thought, looking up at Prowl’s inert face.
“Doing the overhaul soon, then?”
“Should have done it before. I can’t risk him blowing them again.”
Jazz rubbed his thumb along the back of Prowl’s hand, trying to distract himself from the memories of coolant everywhere .
“If we can’t get him to participate in his own healthcare we won’t be able to help him,” Ratchet said as he threw out the old knee.
“He won’t admit it when he hurts,” Jazz said, his shoulders falling.
“He’s going to have to.”
Jazz hummed and replaced Prowl’s hand back into his lap. He itched the side of his faceplate and turned to rest a hip against the berth.
“I could move into his office,” he suggested lightly.
“You want to sparkling-sit him,” Ratchet questioned, looking up from his work to give Jazz an inquisitive gaze.
“Think of it as a long-form mission with a lot of observation peppered in.”
“Sparkling sitting, then.”
“If the circuit sparks true.”
Ratchet laughed and ruefully shook his head, returning to his work.
Jazz let himself sink into the sound of the laughter, enjoying its warmth and reverberation.
“That might work,” Ratchet continued after a moment, fitting the new knee into place. “But you’re going to be the one to tell him.”
“Awh, come on, you could make it doctor’s orders!” Jazz pouted.
“And then have him sign me up for double and triple shifts? Pit no. He’s your friend.”
Jazz’s laugh rang through the medbay. “Fine, fine. But you get to tell him he’s off for the next decaorn.”
Ratchet groaned as he closed up the knee joint.
“Fine, but I get to go first,” Ratchet quipped as he cleaned up his supplies.
“Maybe we let him rest for a bit longer?” Jazz suggested, looking down at Prowl’s smooth face.
Ratchet grunted and shrugged, saying, “You just want to delay the enevibtable,” but didn’t disengage the stasis.
Jazz leaned against the berth and grabbed Prowl’s hand again, rubbing his thumb against Prowl’s fingers. Another few minutes of this couldn’t hurt.
And this was the most peaceful Jazz had seen Prowl in a long time.