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WARNING
Contains slash as well as character's death
Don't like, don't read, don't tell.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Very single mech passing by either looked at him with pity and worry all over their faceplates, or they just hurried away, unable to bear the sign of their proud and usually composed second wasting away like this.
From time to time someone would sit down and try to talk to him – even grumpy old Ironhide had tried once, telling him they had received message of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. The mischievous twins would arrive soon, a bit too soon for most peoples liking, but still two more of them who survived. By the sound of it they also knew something about the whereabouts of at least Mirage, Hot Rod and Arceen, but right now Prowl couldn’t care less and no one would even think about holding it against him; they hadn’t the right to do so anyway, or the experience.
Prime had. He knew what it meant to lose someone this close and because of that very reason he let the military tactician be, let him grieve, while he himself managed to life on. How was a miracle to Prowl and a small part of him admired Optimus for the strength he himself just couldn’t muster, but it was overshadowed by an other, much lager part saying over and over again that no one could possible understand his pain.

The pain itself wasn’t new through; it had been there before, but there had also been hope.
Hope, that he soon would be allowed to stop counting the orns they were already parted, more hope even when Optimus’ message reached him and led him to this strange, organic planet. It had almost been fun to see the surprised faceplates of his comrades when he drove in, disguised as a black and white Nissan GT-R from the local Highway patrol, but the shocked expression when he transformed and, without any word of greeting, asked for Jazz . . . he should have known something was wrong that very moment, but he just hadn’t wanted to. He had been so full of hope, joy and longing for his bonded . . . and then everything had stopped, as if some kind of almighty being had just grabbed time itself. There had only been this feeling, like his very spark had been ripped out and thorn into pieces – he had wished it to be true that time, still wished it to be true so he could just fall over, dead as dust, but the only thing in pieces was his beloved Jazz and the world started turning around again, leaving him functioning, but far from whole.

Prowl couldn’t remember how he’d managed to get into this corner of the recently made up base – judging from the dirt on his hands and knees he had embarrassed himself by crawling at least a part of the way, but it wasn’t like that mattered anymore. Nothing mattered with only a half existing – but he remembered crying like he never had before and being cold, so very cold. He still was shivering like a youngling not able to control its own body temperature, but what was worse was the loneliness. It felt as if he was the only sentinel being in the whole universe, although another being sat right in front of him, trying to coax a response or at least the smallest reaction from him, unwilling to give him up, to accept that he had already given up himself and everything else.

A blanked was laid around Prowl’s shoulders and Wheeljack was replaced with Bumblebee. The normally very livid yellow bot didn’t try to force a conversation on him, at least not by using his vocals, but the Nissan disguised Autobot had turned off every communication line when the first one had tried to reach him this way. He just didn’t want to talk to anyone in any way. He just wanted to sit here in the dark and grieve, grieve and sit until his body shut down form exhaustion forever and his spark, his soul was finally allowed reunite with Jazz in Primus.

But then a signal reached him.

It was strange and reminded him of Cybertron, but it was of human origin and actually horrible to listen to.

>Tha’d be music, Prowler. Ye should still be able ta recognize it or ah’ve failed badly.<

Ah, there it was again.

Prowl had forgotten when his processor had started this particular glitch, creating comments sounding so very much like his bondmate, but on the other hand had he never judged it important enough to remember. He had heard about mechs becoming insane, literally, when their bonded died, and compared to them he considered himself still pretty sane. After all was it just a voice he had begun to imagine long ago when the absent of Jazz became unbearable, and it was harmless. The voice never made him do something, except maybe “take it easy” from time to time. It just sounded like his lover, made remarks no matter if they were appreciated or not and held the loneliness at bay. Viewing it from this point he was to a certain degree even relieved to have that particular glitch acting up again.

>You’re spacin’ out again, luv. Change tha channel; this is a really bad example of human culture.<

Prowl replied, not aloud, nor through a com. link. He just thought what he would have said if it would have been a real conversation. This way no one would ever know he had that glitch and he had long ago discovered that just ignoring it completely didn’t work at all.

>That’s still open ta debate, but it’s your own logic anyway: there are really many humans out there and ya can’t expect them all ta listen ta one radio station. There must be more on air, especially when this one sends stuff even I would permanently ban from existence. It’s damagin’ ma audios.<

The Nissan refrained to remember the voice that it had no body thus also no audios to damage, but imagined or not, it was indeed a logical conclusion, so Prowl searched a radio station with more appealing tunes and fond one, even if it was a bit to cheerful for him right now, but he had discovered a new problem now. Humans didn’t seem to be able to express themselves only through tunes. The main focus laid obviously on the lyrics, but Prowl didn’t knew the language humans used.

>Ye’re kiddin’ me, right? Humans have many languages and only very few know more than three; Ratchet told ya so. Ye should start ta listen ta what others say ta ye or they’ll stop listenin’ ta ye, too. Ye said so ye self.<

>How should I know? Use the Internet and learn English; we did, too. Most humans understand it and it’s tha language they speak in this country anyway.<

From another point of view his little insanity started to become annoying fast, too, but he wanted to at least listen properly to the songs he indented to drown himself in, so it seemed he would have to learn their language.

>And geographic. Ye can’t call ye self a tactician when ye don’t even know where ye are.<

>And what do ya intent ta do ta someone who isn’t even solid?>

Prowl didn’t even grace that attempt of a humoristic statement with a reply. Instead he connected him self to this Internet-thing and downloaded the first attainable lexicon.

>Are you done jet? Come on, Prowler, don’t ye wanna know what that song is about?<

Very annoying, indeed, but the song was over anyway and a male voice reported about the traffic in Mission City. He remembered seeing a traffic sign reading “Mission City” when he drove here, but at the memory his spark cramped painfully, remembering the soon to be devastated hope and joy about finally being able to see his bonded again.

>Oh no. And I just got ye distracted enough ta calm down. Now I have ta start a new.<

>But I’m right here, luv.<

>But . . .<

No reply; the voice had either vanished or just gone mute, but he didn’t care.

Prowl tried to make himself smaller in new awoken grieve and anger at himself, moving for the first time in quite a while. The traffic news was through and another song was played.
The tunes were at least not very cheerful, but the beat was far too vivid for his current likening.
The Nissan was about to change the channel again – he wanted something dark and depressing, something to dwell and drown in – but then he heard the first line and again everything seemed to stop, only that this time just the music existed.

This song . . . the lyrics seemed to be about him, about them. Not word by word, but close enough to be depressing, to a certain point even scary considering that no human actually knew their story, but it brought up so many memories, joyful memories. It just fitted like a clove.

The refrain made the tactician’s lips twitch, as did the memory of their first meeting.
He had been out that night to have a drink or two and maybe pick up someone for a meaningless night of passion. It sounded strange even to him now, but he had still been young that time and not marked by the war.

Some humans would have called their meeting destiny and he wasn’t far from believing it himself.
The club had been new and crowed and he had lost himself in the dancing masses for a while before retreating in a darker corner of the large room, drinking some high-grade and considering his possibilities. There had been quite a few femmes as well as mechs – while his short research he got the impression that for most humans it was a huge difference, but he didn’t quite understand why, nor did he care right now – trying to catch his attention, but none had been of any interest to him. He’d thought about changing the location when a sudden change of music had made him look at the DJ and Primus had that mech been beautiful; salvation for sore optics.

The rest of the night was somewhat blurred. He remembered the feeling of optics following his every movement when he rejoined the dancing crowd to prove it wrong, but it didn’t stop until he suddenly found himself chassis to chassis with that black and white beauty while someone else managed the music. What followed . . . was better not thought of in public, but it had been amazing and had made his pedals enter the same club again and again, just to meet him, Jazz.

Later, when their meetings had long stabilized into a steady relationship of trust and love, but also some time after reality (or rather the nightmare called war) had caught up with them, too, he had asked Jazz why; why had he, who could have everyone, chosen him? Prowl had known he could have been considered quite handsome himself, having heard that one or the other time from various people before, but he would have never imagined he stood out enough to catch the interest of someone as livid as his soon to be bonded. He did everything with style, even admitting that he had not the slightest clue what exactly had caught his optics that night, while Prowl was always organized, even in his ‘wild vorns’ if one could call it that.

“Ye whole existin’ had been so stunning, I couldn’t keep my optics off of ya” he had answered and for a change it hadn’t sounded like a pickup-line.

For the tactician on the other hand was the answer quite simple to give: the Nissan never got to see Jazz’ optics at the beginning of what had led to their bonding; it always gave the other bot a mysterious aura. Of course was it also Jazz’ character, his personality that had drawn Prowl to him like a moth to the light, but there had have to be something special about a mech who wears his visor also in a room with dimmed lights he had thought that first night and with everything new he had learned about Jazz he had become more fascinated by his whole being, but his visor still remained reason for Prowl’s curiosity.

Visors were equivalent to human sunglasses and – except for a few occasions with only the two of them in private – Jazz not even removed his visor at night.

He wore his sunglasses at night.

The song came to an end, but Prowl didn’t wanted it to. He wanted to remember, to relive Jazz in his memory, their love, even if it was only for fife point one four earth minutes.
Desperately he searched for another radio station playing it and found other songs, other memories; their first argument – he didn’t remember what it had been about, but he remembered that he hadn’t even known the reason when he had come online after a round of make-up-interface that had almost been worth the argument in the first place – their first real date and all these small things that didn’t seem to be important in the grand scheme of all things, but made a life worth living, and somewhere between lyrics and memories he began to understand what the voice had tried to show him: Jazz wouldn’t have wanted him to drown in shed and unshed tears. He had always valued life – especially Prowl’s life, if not to say his very existence – and some good music – higher than anything else.

But how should an imagined voice know something before he realized it himself, unless . . . no. That was an absolute stupid thought, but on the other hand . . .

“Prowl?”

Bumblebee’s voice distracted Prowl from his grieve and musing enough to actually react and look up. The young espionage seemed irritated for some reason, but even more worried and sad.

“Stop torturing yourself. Picking up his habits won’t bring him back.”

The Nissan flickered his optics in surprise and then noticed the music he listened to was loud enough for at least Bumblebee to hear it, too, but his comment still didn’t make much sense. He hadn’t done much since he arrived, so what habit was the youngling talking about?

And then he remembered that Bumblebee, although a valuable part of the team and a good friend, too, was still very young. When he had come to them as a sparkling after the youth sector in Iacon had been attacked and destroyed and around the time he should have his first clear memories Prowl had had already almost lost Jazz once too often, also because of a miscalculating on his side. After that he had only on very rare occasions enjoyed music in public, so it was quite natural that Bumblebee didn’t knew.

“Who says they are only his?” he finally answered, allowing himself a smile sadly. “How could I be Jazz’ bondmate, if I didn’t like music myself? I only just decided to enjoy it more often from now on again.”

He rose, feeling stiff and a bit shaky; even after sitting on his desk for orns if necessary had never felt so bad afterwards.

Bumblebee was even faster on his pedals, ready to catch the other one should he tremble.

“So you’re . . . going to be alright?”

Again Prowl could only muster a sad smile.

“I fear not. I’m never going to be alright again, but I think I’ll be able to deal with in a while . . . maybe.”

The tactician could see how relieved the yellow Camaro was to hear that – still sad, but he understood that even if there would have been a way to miraculously bring Jazz back the damage done by the shock would probably never heal, but Prowl promised, although not diractly, he would be as alright as possible in a while, and if there was one thing you could rely on it was that Prowl never lied unless he believed it to be the truth himself.

“And just were do you think you’re going?” Ratchet asked, informed over com. by the young espionage that their second in command was not only finally responsive again, but also standing.

“Just catching some fresh air and then straight into recharge” the Nissan answered honestly, heading for the entrance of the base, the large blanket still wrapped around him, but he noticed the look Ratchet gave Bumblebee, instructing him not to let Prowl out of his optics, but he didn’t mind. Ratchet was a medic by spark and an old friend, too; it was only natural he wouldn’t risk the black and white mech to try “something stupid” as he would put it.

Outside it was still dark, although a red light at the horizon told about the sunrise to come. Prowl had to admit he liked the view from where he stood, but it brought the loneliness back, too.

>Is it safe ta come out again?<

Prowl asked back, but in an amused and very relieved tune.

>And just when did I ever listen ta ye, especially when ye were angry? Since ye’re talkin’ with me again I guess ya decided ta live on, didn’t ya?<

>When did ya rediscover ye sense for games? Nay, who am I ta complain, so: Why?<

>An’ ya always called me a tease, but alright: Why did ya decide ta live on?<

>Because I am not insane. Jazz and I promised never to leave each other and since Jazz never breaks his promises and this is the only way to keep it as much as possible, I came to the conclusion that against all odds there is a high possibility that you are indeed Jazz< Prowl answered, satisfied with his reasoning. Maybe it was time to start anew with counting; earth days now until he was reunited with his bonded in Primus. Hopefully it wouldn’t be all too many days, but this time he at least knew where Jazz was and that he was alright, so he wouldn’t fasten it in anyway more than hoping. But by the look of it Jazz had never left him in the first place and that was a good thought to hold onto.

>. . . And it took ya this lon’ ta figure it out, luv? Honestly, ya should really have a nice long recharge or they won’t let ya back to work.<

Prowl protested, slightly shocked. Of course; if the others believed he had gone nuts, they wouldn’t let him do his usual work and he actually really liked it.

>Although I’ll never understand why, I highly suggest ye finally react ta Bee if ye really want ta keep ye job. He’s tryin’ ta tell ye somethin’ for about five minutes now.<

“Prowl? You still with me?”

Oh dear, talking to Jazz and paying attention to his surroundings would prove to be a problem.

“I’m sorry, Bumblebee. I . . .”

“. . . didn’t listen; I noticed. It’s okay, really, just be careful were you space out like that.”
Prowl smirked in slight amused. “I really need a decent recharge if I look so out of things that you of all people start to lecture me, Bumblebee.”

The young espionage frowned, signalizing that he was unsure if he should answer honestly or polite. It gave the tactician a hint about in what a bad shape he really appeared to be.

“Then how about you tell me what you really want from me?”

“Oh . . . yeah you see . . . I . . . eh . . . here!”

On a lost for words Bumblebee hold out something in his hand to Prowl. It had the shape of a crescent moon and shone blue in the light from the base entrance.

Jazz’ visor.

“Where . . .?”

“We found it in Mission City, yesterday. Jazz always said he was yours, every single part of him, so . . . I just thought I should give back what rightfully belongs to you” the yellow Camaro blurred out, praying to Primus as well as all human gods he hadn’t made everything worse just as the tactician seemed to recover a bit.

Prowl took the visor carefully in his hands, caressing it lovingly.

“Thank you” he said. “Would . . . you mind leaving me alone for a while?”

“You know, if Ratchet finds out, I’d be lucky if he only hands my aft to me” Bumblebee said, insecure, but made up his mind when Prowl promised not to move from where he stood right now. Well, that alone wouldn’t have been enough, but since Bumblebee knew for a fact the tactician was unarmed, too, he believed it was alright if he at least went back to the entrance of their base and kept an optic on Prowl from there; after all had Ratchet never mentioned from where he had to watch the Nissan.

>Well, I miss the special view on things it gave me, but it’s alright, I don’t need it right now. Just take care ye don’t break it; was rather expensive, ya know.<

Prowl said, allowing himself a small smile. It was almost funny how life sneaked its way back to him. A few hours ago he had had nothing left and because of these strange creatures called humans and their music he now had hope again, memories, something new to count and at least the voice of his lover in his mind.
It would never replace what Jazz had been to him, still was, but it would keep him going until he would be able to stop counting permanently.

Speaking of Jazz; he always wondered . . .

>Hey. That’s my visor, Prowl. Ye’re not supposed ta . . .<

the tactician answered jokingly and held the visor over his optics, seeing his first sunrise on earth through his lover’s eyes.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Time went one and so did Prowl.

He found his way back to his old self, at least to a high percentage, but when the night came so did the loneliness and dreams. During the day his private chats with Jazz kept it at bay, but when he laid alone on his recharge-berth, curled together under the blanket – it was silly, but he really needed the fabric, needed something to clink onto and keep him at least physically warm – it became unbearable. Often he found himself wandering through the base, Jazz constantly telling him to calm down and then singing him lullabies – something even sillier than the blanket, but it worked most times.

He counted 40 days until he considered himself (with Ratchet’s agreement) stable again, always pushed back a bit when someone new arrived on earth – and many did – asking for Jazz, but he managed that, too.

And then the war started anew on day 152.

As expected not only Autobots, but Decepticons alike followed the coordinates hidden in Prime’s message.

One of the first among them had been Soundwave. His fury about the loss of Frenzy was only topped by Megatron’s – or Galvatron, as he referred to himself now – madness.
How Megatron had been brought back to life remained a mystery for a long time and he reunited the Decepticons and led them against humans and Autobots alike.

But Megatron/Galvatron’s revival had negative consequences for the Decepticons, too.

The seekers were the firsts to turn their backs on their former leader.
Starscream had been on the receiving end of Megatron’s anger before, but after his reactivation it became even worse. The poor sod had been reduced to a fearful – not only a cowardly, but truly fearful – shadow of his former self by the time his trinemates managed to get him out of that smelting pit and to the Autobots.
Broken in body and mind no one questioned Starscream would never even think about returning Galvatron and also never be seen on a battlefield again, and since seekers, especially this three seekers, were by nature more loyal to their wingmates than to anyone else, Thundercracker and Skywarp were also accepted, although with more resistance. In return the two seekers didn’t liked to be referred to as Autobots, as did others who followed their example and defected, nor did they agree very much with Optimus Prime’s human-policy, but they considered to live on Autobot-terms or be imprisoned by them far more liveable than to serve under a mad Decepticon and proved their decision in every fight.

The last to leave the Decepticons were Soundwave and his remaining cassettes. From the once feared communication officer had been nothing left but a . . . it could only be referred to as tamed, broken mech, his creations always clinking to his chassis, too afraid to stay outside after seeing their second youngest brother being ripped apart by the same mech they had always called leader with honest respect, but at the same time loving their creator – now even more than before – too much to leave him to deal with the outer world alone.

Given their reputation they were threatened as captives nonetheless for quite a while, although it was soon clear enough that the four of them together were nearly as harmless as Starscream, and when the huge among of information Soundwave gave the Autobots voluntary finally lead to Galvatron’s downfall on the day Prowl reached 813 with his counting they were considered as integrated as they wanted to be.

But it was also a memorial day because of another occasion: Sunstreaker stopped being a ‘sociopathic sunflower’, as his brother called him from time to time.

The reason was information Soundwave had held back so far: Unicron, the planet eater and reason for Megatron’s reactivation, was on its way to earth, but the direct cause for Sunstreaker’s change had been the revelation that something they had thought to be an urban legend was actually very real, but Prowl’s reaction to the news. It had given his thoughts a dangerous direction, which the yellow twin just couldn’t allow to remain for longer than he needed to notice them.

“Look at the old trash bin Megatron. Do you want that to happen to Jazz? Do you?” he had jelled and literally scared every thought – and there had been quite a few of them – on this topic out of the Nissan’s circuits. Afterwards he and with him Sideswipe never left Prowl’s side until they had managed to put him back together again, continuing to drag him to their quarters at night even then, so he would never be alone with his thoughts for too long and get some decent recharge.

Another side-effect was that they finally matured into a state where their pranks became rare enough to actually be entertaining again, also for their victims.

Exact 150 days later Unicron reached earth’ solar system and the joined forces of Autobots and what was left of the Decepticons fought him to protect their current home; current, because they were too many and, above all, too different to remain on earth, even with the losses during the war and those in this last fight.

One of these last causalities was Prowl.

He never got to know were the blast came from or how bad he really had been injured; he only knew that it broke the visor and fragments of it damaged his spark. He lost every feeling for his lower half instantly, but smiled nonetheless, shutting down his optics.

The voice, nearer now then ever before, sounded shocked as well as hurt.

>Don’t say somethin’ like that. It’s . . . it’s like that one time ye said you’d hate me. I may always come back ta ye, but it really hurts, ye know.<

Guess I’m just still afraid of dying.>

The feeling vanished from his fingers, hands and then arms; head becoming dizzy.

>’s alright. Everyone is< the voice soothed.

Instead of a reply Prowl felt his consciousness slip away and suddenly a pair of arms around his waist.

“I’m already here, stupid. Promised never ta leave ya, didn’t I?”

The tactician spun around, rebooting his optics almost too fast, meeting a broad smile and golden optics.

“Where . . . is your visor?” was the first clear thought he could muster, the second that this was one of the most ridicules questions he could have asked in this situation.

That was Jazz, his Jazz, his bonded, eyeing him with light worry, but with at least as much love as he had before their way parted after the battle of Tyger Pax, more even considering how long it had been.

“You’re kidding me, right? Who was the last mech lookin’ through it – without my permission I might add?”

Even if he had anything more to say Jazz got no chance to do so when Prow’s processors finally managed to analyze all information.

He was here, with Jazz, with his bonded, finally.

The next moment he clinked to the former third in command very much like the Cassetticons did to their creator, only that they were smaller and lacked the pure sexual passion he shared with the monochrome mech, tried to show in one single kiss.

“You won’t leave me again, will you?”

“Of course not. I promised and by the way, this is afterlife; here does nothing exist that could separate us” the usually visored mech replied and pulled Prowl back into an other passionate kiss that lasted eternally.

END

Description
WARNING
Contains slash as well as character's death
Don't like, don't read, don't tell.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Very single mech passing by either looked at him with pity and worry all over their faceplates, or they just hurried away, unable to bear the sign of their proud and usually composed second wasting away like this.
From time to time someone would sit down and try to talk to him – even grumpy old Ironhide had tried once, telling him they had received message of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. The mischievous twins would arrive soon, a bit too soon for most peoples liking, but still two more of them who survived. By the sound of it they also knew something about the whereabouts of at least Mirage, Hot Rod and Arceen, but right now Prowl couldn’t care less and no one would even think about holding it against him; they hadn’t the right to do so anyway, or the experience.
Prime had. He knew what it meant to lose someone this close and because of that very reason he let the military tactician be, let him grieve, while he himself managed to life on. How was a miracle to Prowl and a small part of him admired Optimus for the strength he himself just couldn’t muster, but it was overshadowed by an other, much lager part saying over and over again that no one could possible understand his pain.

The pain itself wasn’t new through; it had been there before, but there had also been hope.
Hope, that he soon would be allowed to stop counting the orns they were already parted, more hope even when Optimus’ message reached him and led him to this strange, organic planet. It had almost been fun to see the surprised faceplates of his comrades when he drove in, disguised as a black and white Nissan GT-R from the local Highway patrol, but the shocked expression when he transformed and, without any word of greeting, asked for Jazz . . . he should have known something was wrong that very moment, but he just hadn’t wanted to. He had been so full of hope, joy and longing for his bonded . . . and then everything had stopped, as if some kind of almighty being had just grabbed time itself. There had only been this feeling, like his very spark had been ripped out and thorn into pieces – he had wished it to be true that time, still wished it to be true so he could just fall over, dead as dust, but the only thing in pieces was his beloved Jazz and the world started turning around again, leaving him functioning, but far from whole.

Prowl couldn’t remember how he’d managed to get into this corner of the recently made up base – judging from the dirt on his hands and knees he had embarrassed himself by crawling at least a part of the way, but it wasn’t like that mattered anymore. Nothing mattered with only a half existing – but he remembered crying like he never had before and being cold, so very cold. He still was shivering like a youngling not able to control its own body temperature, but what was worse was the loneliness. It felt as if he was the only sentinel being in the whole universe, although another being sat right in front of him, trying to coax a response or at least the smallest reaction from him, unwilling to give him up, to accept that he had already given up himself and everything else.

A blanked was laid around Prowl’s shoulders and Wheeljack was replaced with Bumblebee. The normally very livid yellow bot didn’t try to force a conversation on him, at least not by using his vocals, but the Nissan disguised Autobot had turned off every communication line when the first one had tried to reach him this way. He just didn’t want to talk to anyone in any way. He just wanted to sit here in the dark and grieve, grieve and sit until his body shut down form exhaustion forever and his spark, his soul was finally allowed reunite with Jazz in Primus.

But then a signal reached him.

It was strange and reminded him of Cybertron, but it was of human origin and actually horrible to listen to.

>Tha’d be music, Prowler. Ye should still be able ta recognize it or ah’ve failed badly.<

Ah, there it was again.

Prowl had forgotten when his processor had started this particular glitch, creating comments sounding so very much like his bondmate, but on the other hand had he never judged it important enough to remember. He had heard about mechs becoming insane, literally, when their bonded died, and compared to them he considered himself still pretty sane. After all was it just a voice he had begun to imagine long ago when the absent of Jazz became unbearable, and it was harmless. The voice never made him do something, except maybe “take it easy” from time to time. It just sounded like his lover, made remarks no matter if they were appreciated or not and held the loneliness at bay. Viewing it from this point he was to a certain degree even relieved to have that particular glitch acting up again.

>You’re spacin’ out again, luv. Change tha channel; this is a really bad example of human culture.<

Prowl replied, not aloud, nor through a com. link. He just thought what he would have said if it would have been a real conversation. This way no one would ever know he had that glitch and he had long ago discovered that just ignoring it completely didn’t work at all.

>That’s still open ta debate, but it’s your own logic anyway: there are really many humans out there and ya can’t expect them all ta listen ta one radio station. There must be more on air, especially when this one sends stuff even I would permanently ban from existence. It’s damagin’ ma audios.<

The Nissan refrained to remember the voice that it had no body thus also no audios to damage, but imagined or not, it was indeed a logical conclusion, so Prowl searched a radio station with more appealing tunes and fond one, even if it was a bit to cheerful for him right now, but he had discovered a new problem now. Humans didn’t seem to be able to express themselves only through tunes. The main focus laid obviously on the lyrics, but Prowl didn’t knew the language humans used.

>Ye’re kiddin’ me, right? Humans have many languages and only very few know more than three; Ratchet told ya so. Ye should start ta listen ta what others say ta ye or they’ll stop listenin’ ta ye, too. Ye said so ye self.<

>How should I know? Use the Internet and learn English; we did, too. Most humans understand it and it’s tha language they speak in this country anyway.<

From another point of view his little insanity started to become annoying fast, too, but he wanted to at least listen properly to the songs he indented to drown himself in, so it seemed he would have to learn their language.

>And geographic. Ye can’t call ye self a tactician when ye don’t even know where ye are.<

>And what do ya intent ta do ta someone who isn’t even solid?>

Prowl didn’t even grace that attempt of a humoristic statement with a reply. Instead he connected him self to this Internet-thing and downloaded the first attainable lexicon.

>Are you done jet? Come on, Prowler, don’t ye wanna know what that song is about?<

Very annoying, indeed, but the song was over anyway and a male voice reported about the traffic in Mission City. He remembered seeing a traffic sign reading “Mission City” when he drove here, but at the memory his spark cramped painfully, remembering the soon to be devastated hope and joy about finally being able to see his bonded again.

>Oh no. And I just got ye distracted enough ta calm down. Now I have ta start a new.<

>But I’m right here, luv.<

>But . . .<

No reply; the voice had either vanished or just gone mute, but he didn’t care.

Prowl tried to make himself smaller in new awoken grieve and anger at himself, moving for the first time in quite a while. The traffic news was through and another song was played.
The tunes were at least not very cheerful, but the beat was far too vivid for his current likening.
The Nissan was about to change the channel again – he wanted something dark and depressing, something to dwell and drown in – but then he heard the first line and again everything seemed to stop, only that this time just the music existed.

This song . . . the lyrics seemed to be about him, about them. Not word by word, but close enough to be depressing, to a certain point even scary considering that no human actually knew their story, but it brought up so many memories, joyful memories. It just fitted like a clove.

The refrain made the tactician’s lips twitch, as did the memory of their first meeting.
He had been out that night to have a drink or two and maybe pick up someone for a meaningless night of passion. It sounded strange even to him now, but he had still been young that time and not marked by the war.

Some humans would have called their meeting destiny and he wasn’t far from believing it himself.
The club had been new and crowed and he had lost himself in the dancing masses for a while before retreating in a darker corner of the large room, drinking some high-grade and considering his possibilities. There had been quite a few femmes as well as mechs – while his short research he got the impression that for most humans it was a huge difference, but he didn’t quite understand why, nor did he care right now – trying to catch his attention, but none had been of any interest to him. He’d thought about changing the location when a sudden change of music had made him look at the DJ and Primus had that mech been beautiful; salvation for sore optics.

The rest of the night was somewhat blurred. He remembered the feeling of optics following his every movement when he rejoined the dancing crowd to prove it wrong, but it didn’t stop until he suddenly found himself chassis to chassis with that black and white beauty while someone else managed the music. What followed . . . was better not thought of in public, but it had been amazing and had made his pedals enter the same club again and again, just to meet him, Jazz.

Later, when their meetings had long stabilized into a steady relationship of trust and love, but also some time after reality (or rather the nightmare called war) had caught up with them, too, he had asked Jazz why; why had he, who could have everyone, chosen him? Prowl had known he could have been considered quite handsome himself, having heard that one or the other time from various people before, but he would have never imagined he stood out enough to catch the interest of someone as livid as his soon to be bonded. He did everything with style, even admitting that he had not the slightest clue what exactly had caught his optics that night, while Prowl was always organized, even in his ‘wild vorns’ if one could call it that.

“Ye whole existin’ had been so stunning, I couldn’t keep my optics off of ya” he had answered and for a change it hadn’t sounded like a pickup-line.

For the tactician on the other hand was the answer quite simple to give: the Nissan never got to see Jazz’ optics at the beginning of what had led to their bonding; it always gave the other bot a mysterious aura. Of course was it also Jazz’ character, his personality that had drawn Prowl to him like a moth to the light, but there had have to be something special about a mech who wears his visor also in a room with dimmed lights he had thought that first night and with everything new he had learned about Jazz he had become more fascinated by his whole being, but his visor still remained reason for Prowl’s curiosity.

Visors were equivalent to human sunglasses and – except for a few occasions with only the two of them in private – Jazz not even removed his visor at night.

He wore his sunglasses at night.

The song came to an end, but Prowl didn’t wanted it to. He wanted to remember, to relive Jazz in his memory, their love, even if it was only for fife point one four earth minutes.
Desperately he searched for another radio station playing it and found other songs, other memories; their first argument – he didn’t remember what it had been about, but he remembered that he hadn’t even known the reason when he had come online after a round of make-up-interface that had almost been worth the argument in the first place – their first real date and all these small things that didn’t seem to be important in the grand scheme of all things, but made a life worth living, and somewhere between lyrics and memories he began to understand what the voice had tried to show him: Jazz wouldn’t have wanted him to drown in shed and unshed tears. He had always valued life – especially Prowl’s life, if not to say his very existence – and some good music – higher than anything else.

But how should an imagined voice know something before he realized it himself, unless . . . no. That was an absolute stupid thought, but on the other hand . . .

“Prowl?”

Bumblebee’s voice distracted Prowl from his grieve and musing enough to actually react and look up. The young espionage seemed irritated for some reason, but even more worried and sad.

“Stop torturing yourself. Picking up his habits won’t bring him back.”

The Nissan flickered his optics in surprise and then noticed the music he listened to was loud enough for at least Bumblebee to hear it, too, but his comment still didn’t make much sense. He hadn’t done much since he arrived, so what habit was the youngling talking about?

And then he remembered that Bumblebee, although a valuable part of the team and a good friend, too, was still very young. When he had come to them as a sparkling after the youth sector in Iacon had been attacked and destroyed and around the time he should have his first clear memories Prowl had had already almost lost Jazz once too often, also because of a miscalculating on his side. After that he had only on very rare occasions enjoyed music in public, so it was quite natural that Bumblebee didn’t knew.

“Who says they are only his?” he finally answered, allowing himself a smile sadly. “How could I be Jazz’ bondmate, if I didn’t like music myself? I only just decided to enjoy it more often from now on again.”

He rose, feeling stiff and a bit shaky; even after sitting on his desk for orns if necessary had never felt so bad afterwards.

Bumblebee was even faster on his pedals, ready to catch the other one should he tremble.

“So you’re . . . going to be alright?”

Again Prowl could only muster a sad smile.

“I fear not. I’m never going to be alright again, but I think I’ll be able to deal with in a while . . . maybe.”

The tactician could see how relieved the yellow Camaro was to hear that – still sad, but he understood that even if there would have been a way to miraculously bring Jazz back the damage done by the shock would probably never heal, but Prowl promised, although not diractly, he would be as alright as possible in a while, and if there was one thing you could rely on it was that Prowl never lied unless he believed it to be the truth himself.

“And just were do you think you’re going?” Ratchet asked, informed over com. by the young espionage that their second in command was not only finally responsive again, but also standing.

“Just catching some fresh air and then straight into recharge” the Nissan answered honestly, heading for the entrance of the base, the large blanket still wrapped around him, but he noticed the look Ratchet gave Bumblebee, instructing him not to let Prowl out of his optics, but he didn’t mind. Ratchet was a medic by spark and an old friend, too; it was only natural he wouldn’t risk the black and white mech to try “something stupid” as he would put it.

Outside it was still dark, although a red light at the horizon told about the sunrise to come. Prowl had to admit he liked the view from where he stood, but it brought the loneliness back, too.

>Is it safe ta come out again?<

Prowl asked back, but in an amused and very relieved tune.

>And just when did I ever listen ta ye, especially when ye were angry? Since ye’re talkin’ with me again I guess ya decided ta live on, didn’t ya?<

>When did ya rediscover ye sense for games? Nay, who am I ta complain, so: Why?<

>An’ ya always called me a tease, but alright: Why did ya decide ta live on?<

>Because I am not insane. Jazz and I promised never to leave each other and since Jazz never breaks his promises and this is the only way to keep it as much as possible, I came to the conclusion that against all odds there is a high possibility that you are indeed Jazz< Prowl answered, satisfied with his reasoning. Maybe it was time to start anew with counting; earth days now until he was reunited with his bonded in Primus. Hopefully it wouldn’t be all too many days, but this time he at least knew where Jazz was and that he was alright, so he wouldn’t fasten it in anyway more than hoping. But by the look of it Jazz had never left him in the first place and that was a good thought to hold onto.

>. . . And it took ya this lon’ ta figure it out, luv? Honestly, ya should really have a nice long recharge or they won’t let ya back to work.<

Prowl protested, slightly shocked. Of course; if the others believed he had gone nuts, they wouldn’t let him do his usual work and he actually really liked it.

>Although I’ll never understand why, I highly suggest ye finally react ta Bee if ye really want ta keep ye job. He’s tryin’ ta tell ye somethin’ for about five minutes now.<

“Prowl? You still with me?”

Oh dear, talking to Jazz and paying attention to his surroundings would prove to be a problem.

“I’m sorry, Bumblebee. I . . .”

“. . . didn’t listen; I noticed. It’s okay, really, just be careful were you space out like that.”
Prowl smirked in slight amused. “I really need a decent recharge if I look so out of things that you of all people start to lecture me, Bumblebee.”

The young espionage frowned, signalizing that he was unsure if he should answer honestly or polite. It gave the tactician a hint about in what a bad shape he really appeared to be.

“Then how about you tell me what you really want from me?”

“Oh . . . yeah you see . . . I . . . eh . . . here!”

On a lost for words Bumblebee hold out something in his hand to Prowl. It had the shape of a crescent moon and shone blue in the light from the base entrance.

Jazz’ visor.

“Where . . .?”

“We found it in Mission City, yesterday. Jazz always said he was yours, every single part of him, so . . . I just thought I should give back what rightfully belongs to you” the yellow Camaro blurred out, praying to Primus as well as all human gods he hadn’t made everything worse just as the tactician seemed to recover a bit.

Prowl took the visor carefully in his hands, caressing it lovingly.

“Thank you” he said. “Would . . . you mind leaving me alone for a while?”

“You know, if Ratchet finds out, I’d be lucky if he only hands my aft to me” Bumblebee said, insecure, but made up his mind when Prowl promised not to move from where he stood right now. Well, that alone wouldn’t have been enough, but since Bumblebee knew for a fact the tactician was unarmed, too, he believed it was alright if he at least went back to the entrance of their base and kept an optic on Prowl from there; after all had Ratchet never mentioned from where he had to watch the Nissan.

>Well, I miss the special view on things it gave me, but it’s alright, I don’t need it right now. Just take care ye don’t break it; was rather expensive, ya know.<

Prowl said, allowing himself a small smile. It was almost funny how life sneaked its way back to him. A few hours ago he had had nothing left and because of these strange creatures called humans and their music he now had hope again, memories, something new to count and at least the voice of his lover in his mind.
It would never replace what Jazz had been to him, still was, but it would keep him going until he would be able to stop counting permanently.

Speaking of Jazz; he always wondered . . .

>Hey. That’s my visor, Prowl. Ye’re not supposed ta . . .<

the tactician answered jokingly and held the visor over his optics, seeing his first sunrise on earth through his lover’s eyes.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Time went one and so did Prowl.

He found his way back to his old self, at least to a high percentage, but when the night came so did the loneliness and dreams. During the day his private chats with Jazz kept it at bay, but when he laid alone on his recharge-berth, curled together under the blanket – it was silly, but he really needed the fabric, needed something to clink onto and keep him at least physically warm – it became unbearable. Often he found himself wandering through the base, Jazz constantly telling him to calm down and then singing him lullabies – something even sillier than the blanket, but it worked most times.

He counted 40 days until he considered himself (with Ratchet’s agreement) stable again, always pushed back a bit when someone new arrived on earth – and many did – asking for Jazz, but he managed that, too.

And then the war started anew on day 152.

As expected not only Autobots, but Decepticons alike followed the coordinates hidden in Prime’s message.

One of the first among them had been Soundwave. His fury about the loss of Frenzy was only topped by Megatron’s – or Galvatron, as he referred to himself now – madness.
How Megatron had been brought back to life remained a mystery for a long time and he reunited the Decepticons and led them against humans and Autobots alike.

But Megatron/Galvatron’s revival had negative consequences for the Decepticons, too.

The seekers were the firsts to turn their backs on their former leader.
Starscream had been on the receiving end of Megatron’s anger before, but after his reactivation it became even worse. The poor sod had been reduced to a fearful – not only a cowardly, but truly fearful – shadow of his former self by the time his trinemates managed to get him out of that smelting pit and to the Autobots.
Broken in body and mind no one questioned Starscream would never even think about returning Galvatron and also never be seen on a battlefield again, and since seekers, especially this three seekers, were by nature more loyal to their wingmates than to anyone else, Thundercracker and Skywarp were also accepted, although with more resistance. In return the two seekers didn’t liked to be referred to as Autobots, as did others who followed their example and defected, nor did they agree very much with Optimus Prime’s human-policy, but they considered to live on Autobot-terms or be imprisoned by them far more liveable than to serve under a mad Decepticon and proved their decision in every fight.

The last to leave the Decepticons were Soundwave and his remaining cassettes. From the once feared communication officer had been nothing left but a . . . it could only be referred to as tamed, broken mech, his creations always clinking to his chassis, too afraid to stay outside after seeing their second youngest brother being ripped apart by the same mech they had always called leader with honest respect, but at the same time loving their creator – now even more than before – too much to leave him to deal with the outer world alone.

Given their reputation they were threatened as captives nonetheless for quite a while, although it was soon clear enough that the four of them together were nearly as harmless as Starscream, and when the huge among of information Soundwave gave the Autobots voluntary finally lead to Galvatron’s downfall on the day Prowl reached 813 with his counting they were considered as integrated as they wanted to be.

But it was also a memorial day because of another occasion: Sunstreaker stopped being a ‘sociopathic sunflower’, as his brother called him from time to time.

The reason was information Soundwave had held back so far: Unicron, the planet eater and reason for Megatron’s reactivation, was on its way to earth, but the direct cause for Sunstreaker’s change had been the revelation that something they had thought to be an urban legend was actually very real, but Prowl’s reaction to the news. It had given his thoughts a dangerous direction, which the yellow twin just couldn’t allow to remain for longer than he needed to notice them.

“Look at the old trash bin Megatron. Do you want that to happen to Jazz? Do you?” he had jelled and literally scared every thought – and there had been quite a few of them – on this topic out of the Nissan’s circuits. Afterwards he and with him Sideswipe never left Prowl’s side until they had managed to put him back together again, continuing to drag him to their quarters at night even then, so he would never be alone with his thoughts for too long and get some decent recharge.

Another side-effect was that they finally matured into a state where their pranks became rare enough to actually be entertaining again, also for their victims.

Exact 150 days later Unicron reached earth’ solar system and the joined forces of Autobots and what was left of the Decepticons fought him to protect their current home; current, because they were too many and, above all, too different to remain on earth, even with the losses during the war and those in this last fight.

One of these last causalities was Prowl.

He never got to know were the blast came from or how bad he really had been injured; he only knew that it broke the visor and fragments of it damaged his spark. He lost every feeling for his lower half instantly, but smiled nonetheless, shutting down his optics.

The voice, nearer now then ever before, sounded shocked as well as hurt.

>Don’t say somethin’ like that. It’s . . . it’s like that one time ye said you’d hate me. I may always come back ta ye, but it really hurts, ye know.<

Guess I’m just still afraid of dying.>

The feeling vanished from his fingers, hands and then arms; head becoming dizzy.

>’s alright. Everyone is< the voice soothed.

Instead of a reply Prowl felt his consciousness slip away and suddenly a pair of arms around his waist.

“I’m already here, stupid. Promised never ta leave ya, didn’t I?”

The tactician spun around, rebooting his optics almost too fast, meeting a broad smile and golden optics.

“Where . . . is your visor?” was the first clear thought he could muster, the second that this was one of the most ridicules questions he could have asked in this situation.

That was Jazz, his Jazz, his bonded, eyeing him with light worry, but with at least as much love as he had before their way parted after the battle of Tyger Pax, more even considering how long it had been.

“You’re kidding me, right? Who was the last mech lookin’ through it – without my permission I might add?”

Even if he had anything more to say Jazz got no chance to do so when Prow’s processors finally managed to analyze all information.

He was here, with Jazz, with his bonded, finally.

The next moment he clinked to the former third in command very much like the Cassetticons did to their creator, only that they were smaller and lacked the pure sexual passion he shared with the monochrome mech, tried to show in one single kiss.

“You won’t leave me again, will you?”

“Of course not. I promised and by the way, this is afterlife; here does nothing exist that could separate us” the usually visored mech replied and pulled Prowl back into an other passionate kiss that lasted eternally.

END