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This might be their last night.
Rationally, Prowl knows that any night can be that night. One simply isn’t Second in Command of an entire army without the threat on their life constantly looming over their head, after all, but that threat has never seemed as real as now. Perhaps that is why the bottle of engex Optimus gifted him years ago seems to be calling out to him.
He is sitting at his desk, staring at the top of it without really seeing. For the first time, it’s empty: battle plans are useless. There isn’t much to be done against beings who want to exterminate them, and who not only have the weapons to make it happen, but also the will.
Oh, he’d tried. He had spent the days that preceded the meetings locked in his office, leaving only when Ratchet threatened to bring his door down if he didn’t fuel immediately. He’d reviewed the plan so many times he could no longer recall his original idea, but it was moot: it wasn’t good enough. None of them were.
He presented the final plan on the War Council of the previous day, when tensions still ran high and Starscream and Elita still had the energy to argue with each other, but no modifications were made to the plan and they all knew they would be useless, anyway. The loud voices and the insults were little more than a vain attempt at normalcy, a faint hope of keeping things as they were for a little while longer, for as long as they would be allowed.
They were living on borrowed time. Knowing it didn’t make accepting it any easier.
They now are on the acceptance stage, mostly. The hallways are empty, and the silence that reigns over the Nemesis is sepulchral, as it rarely is in a ship that houses so many mechs, and Prowl finds himself missing the noise. The lights inside the quarters are on – he had made a few rounds, once he had found himself too preoccupied to stand still, which was a behavior much more becoming of Jazz than of him -, but no one speaks. A great black cloud hangs over them, and it won’t be long until it consumes them. It isn’t an omen; simply a promise.
He only frees himself from his thoughts when he hears someone knocking on his door. He isn’t expecting any visitors, but he isn’t surprised by the figure that appears at the door.
Optimus Prime takes too much space on the best of days, but there, in the small office of his Second in Command, he makes a positively claustrophobic picture. He places a large hand on the door jamb, staring at the only mech occupying the room.
“May I come in?”
Prowl nods, and the commander bends down slightly to avoid his head banging against the top of the door. He looks at the desk in front of him for a few seconds, curious. Then, “You’re not working.” It isn’t a question.
Prowl shrugs. It seems useless to maintain his composure, and frankly, Optimus always saw past it anyway. “Imminent death seemed a good enough reason not to.”
He can’t see the lower half of his face, but he knows the truck is smiling when he takes the chair in front of him. “It’s a shame we had to reach this point for you to finally take a break.
“Hm,” is the answer. Then, because Prowl doesn’t appreciate people tiptoeing around him, he goes straight to the point. “What are you doing here, Optimus?”
The Prime doesn’t make social calls before a battle. He likes to allow his soldiers to spend their time with the ones they love, without having to see the face of the mech sending them to their deaths. Prowl would call him a coward if he didn’t understand the feeling.
Optimus, somewhat surprisingly, takes a few moments to answer. He looks around the office for a few seconds – it might’ve been housing an Autobot officer for the past few months, but it’s obvious the room belongs to a Decepticon ship. Prowl finds himself wondering if it still matters. Autobots, Decepticons; the titles seem so blurred ever since the Quintessons appeared and their fragile truce began. It doesn’t seem so fragile anymore.
(not that it matters, now)
Optimus turns back to Prowl and smiles. “Can I not visit an old friend?”
“Is that what we are?” The black and white shoots back. The silence that falls upon them isn’t entirely comfortable.
Prowl has had years to ponder over this question; years of denied plans, of misused tactics and idiotic decisions. Years of almost devotion that will never be enough to save him. He concludes that they can’t be considered friends, but colleagues… colleagues doesn’t even begin to cut it.
The mech in front of him straightens, looking him in the optic. Optimus was never fearful. “I don’t know. I like to think we would’ve been, under better circumstances, but…” He stops for a few moments, but it isn’t hesitation. Prowl has known him for long enough to be well-versed in the language that is Optimus Prime, and he knows he is merely looking for the right words. Optimus hates being misinterpreted.
It seems to Prowl that he thinks about something funny, because his optics shine with barely concealed amusement when he looks back at him. “I’ve always annoyed you. I don’t think I could not annoy you, even in another life.”
Prowl feels the corner of his mouth quirking up before he has the chance to stop it. “Everyone annoys me. You do worse: you frustrate me.”
Optimus tilts his head in a gesture that shows his confusion, but that simultaneously invites Prowl the continue, and so he does. “You are… exceptional. Extraordinary. I wouldn’t have followed you until the end of the Universe, in a war destined to have no winners, if I believed you were anything less than. But you’re so…”
He stops talking, frustrated. Prowl doesn’t have a gift for words; he can’t express himself easily, and when he finally says something close to what he means, it never comes out well. Optimus, unlike most, is patient and always waits for him to organize his thoughts, but the only mech capable of understanding him without a single word is Jazz.
“Jazz told me something, months ago,” says Optimus, calm and thoughtful. His hand had moved to his chin as Prowl spoke, and now he finds himself leaning back in his chair, a leg crossed over the other, as comfortable as few get around Prowl. “If I’m honest, at the time I didn’t believe him. As good as he is at reading others, I thought he was completely wrong. But now it doesn’t seem so wrong after all, and perhaps it goes in the same direction as what you’re trying to say.”
Prowl kept quiet, but gestured for him to continue.
“He said we’re very different, you and I, but very similar at the same time.” Seeing Prowl’s confused expression, he smiles, “Yes, that was also my reaction. But then he explained: for example, he said you care as much as I do, but we react to that care and concern in fundamentally different ways. Your concern makes you act pragmatic; mine…”
“… makes you an idealist,” concludes Prowl. “And so, you frustrate me. Because I know what you’re feeling…”
“… but I don’t react the same way you do. And vice versa.” Optimus’s voice is warm, as if he’s happy, of all things. “Does that make sense?”
Prowl smiles. “Jazz is…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, because he’s not sure what he wants to say. Even so, Optimus’s expression becomes even more radiant, as if he understands him anyway and likes what he’s hearing.
“He is.”
They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of their systems working. Prowl can count using one hand the number of mechs who don’t mind sitting in silence with him – he needs even fewer fingers to count those who actually enjoy doing so. Optimus, much like himself, appreciates the calm that a quiet environment conveys, and he likes to simply sit in someone else’s company. The Autobot leader is looking at a point somewhere behind Prowl’s head, lost in thought: probably thinking about their relationship. In the ways it could’ve been better, and how he messed it up.
Prowl’s chest tightens uncomfortably with that idea. Optimus Prime and his martyr complex, always ready to sacrifice himself for all of them, always willing to carry the weight of all the sins in the universe on his back. The inherent narcissism to that action doesn’t escape Prowl, and it doesn’t escape his commander, either; but, perhaps for the first time, Prowl doesn’t want to point out his flaws.
He simply sees him for what he is: a good mech. The best of them. A mech that, Primus willing, might even keep Prowl honest.
Thinking that he doesn’t have anything else to lose, Prowl bends down slightly so he can reach the last drawer of his desk and grabs the bottle of engex and two glasses. Optimus stares with obvious surprise as Prowl opens the bottle and fills the two cups, placing one in front of his leader. Awkwardly, he clears his voice box and says, “I know you were the one who gave me this, but…” Prowl looks away and stares at a dent in his desk, frowning. “Well. I thought maybe we could share.”
Optimus keeps looking between the glass in front of him and Prowl’s face, completely and utterly speechless. Then, when his brain module finally makes sense of what’s happening, he retracts his mask and smiles openly at Prowl.
“I… thank you,” he says, devastatingly honest. Prowl has to turn his attention to his glass, incapable of maintaining his cool under those brilliant and earnest optics.
They drink in silence, and Prowl impulsively closes his optics as the first sip of engex touches his throat. He hasn’t drunk in vorns, and his body resents it. When he opens his optics again it’s to find Optimus staring at him with a spark of amusement in his expression, and before Prowl can tell him to go make fun of someone else, he speaks.
“It isn’t lost on me that the first time you accept to have a drink with me is when we’re faced with imminent death.”
Prowl feels the corner of his mouth quirking up for the second time that night. He hadn’t thought of that, but it’s true. Over the years, Optimus invited him many times for drinks, but Prowl always found a way to refuse. Be it because of work, because of his pride, or because he simply didn’t want to spend time with Optimus, he always had some excuse that kept him from taking part in this small indulgence.
He took another sip and said, “I’m a… complicated mech.”
Optimus widens his optics in false surprise, and his EM field conveys cautious amusement. “A euphemism! I thought you hated those?”
Prowl doesn’t dignify him with an answer, but the quirked corner of his mouth turns into a fully formed smile.
It hasn’t been that long when Optimus rises to leave, but Prowl feels the enjoyable sensation of engex buzzing through his systems. He isn’t drunk, far from it, but he finds himself uninhibited like he can’t remember ever being. His doorwings, always held high and stiff, sway softly with each of his movements and droop slightly. He hasn’t finished his glass yet (he’d refilled it not long ago), so he simply puts away the bottle and the glass used by his leader.
“Prowl.”
He raises his head, staring at Optimus. He has a hand on the door jamb and is looking back, as if he was leaving when he remembered there was something he wanted to say. With his face still uncovered, Prowl can see him opening and closing his mouth a few times before finally sighing and smiling softly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever told you how valuable you were to the cause. Even when I didn’t agree with you, even when I didn’t like your methods… I was always grateful for your brilliant mind choosing us. Choosing me.” His optics show Prowl all the truth behind his words. “I don’t know what you saw, but if you’re here, I know it was something good.”
Optimus’s unshakable faith in others is like the Earth’s oceans, insolent and a force of nature. Prowl finds himself being swept away by the current, and he needs to swallow hard to avoid drowning in whatever it is that he’s feeling. He isn’t as good as Optimus believes him to be. He isn’t sure if he’s good, even.
But when Optimus Prime speaks like this, in this tone and with this conviction… even the most cynical of mechs start believing in lies. Perhaps they even are the truth.
He pretends he’s still organizing the drawer to buy himself some time and then, as soon as he finds the courage (but still without looking at Optimus), he says, “I suppose that is what we are.”
The truck stares at him, confused. “What?”
Prowl finally raises and leans back in his chair, staring at Optimus with calculative and serious optics. Optimus, knowing him as well as he does, can easily recognize the warmth few see.
“The answer to the question I made in the beginning.” Then, to clarify, “That is what we are, yes. Friends.”
Optimus’s face opens in a radiant smile that makes Prowl’s spark stutter in its casing. His optics show joy that Prowl hasn’t seen since the peace treaty was officialized.
“Coworkers-who-can’t-stand-each-other-but-who-at-the-same-time-know-each-other-better-than-almost-everyone is a bit of a mouthful, I suppose.”
Oh, Prowl had forgotten how funny he thought he was. He rolls his optics at him without an ounce of annoyance. “And what am I, if not pragmatic? Good night, Optimus.”
“Good night, Prowl.”
Optimus leaves his office, and the door closes behind him with a soft woosh. Although alone, Prowl doesn’t feel lonely.
He’s nearly finishing his glass, a few minutes later, when someone knocks on his door again. Not expecting anyone else, and considering the time, Prowl is preparing to send a message asking who it is when he receives a comm from a very familiar number.
*Stop working, Prowler.*
He can’t avoid the small snort that escapes him. Without answering, Prowl allows the door to open and leans back in his chair, comfortable now that he knows it is simply Jazz.
Jazz, who had his mouth open to say something, but closes it immediately as soon as his visor falls upon the contents of Prowl’s desk. He observes the half-empty glass for longer than what is strictly necessary, and then he turns to his friend, clearly surprised. Jazz generally tries not to be particularly expressive, but the improbability of the situation appears to have made him lose some of the skills that make him such a deadly agent.
The door to the office closes, and that appears to bring him back to reality. He tilts his head slightly as he stares at Prowl and, without further ado, sits on top of his desk, a bit closer to the black and white than what would be advisable in a professional setting.
Of course, “professional” and “Jazz” aren’t words that could ever be considered synonyms, and Prowl finds himself leaning forward, to get a little closer to his friend. Jazz’s visor seems to shine momentarily brighter, but it goes back to normal so quickly that Prowl isn’t sure he didn’t make it up.
“You ain’t workin’.” Like Optimus, he isn't asking, but Jazz’s tone is considerably more intimate. Prowl hums low in a vague sound of agreement, and this time he knows he doesn’t imagine the way Jazz’s visor changes into a darker blue, and how the race car shifts almost imperceptibly closer to him.
“I thought I was gonna have to drag you outta here, as usual,” Jazz says, but Prowl is too busy observing the way his stomach shifts with each of his tiny movements to pay much attention to what’s being said. Normally, if his cognitive skills were intact, he’d stare at Jazz and say that there would be no need for that; but now, feeling slightly warmer than usual, and with the threat of imminent death looming over their heads, he can’t remember why staring at Jazz for a while is such a bad thing.
He’s stunning, but Prowl supposes he has always recognized that about him. It’s difficult for someone not to, with Jazz – he’s always around people, constantly talking and cracking jokes, always being the soul of the part and the one no one can avoid looking at. He moves beautifully, all alluring curves and sleek plating, and every time he speaks he showcases such a delectable intellect that Prowl has long ago started to ignore the way his spark spins wildly when he’s next to him. Jazz’s mind is dangerous, manipulative and kind in equal measures, and Prowl feels so attracted to him that sometimes it seems he can’t even think.
The soft touch of an EM field against his own brings him back to reality, and the strategist comes across Jazz’s visor fixed in his optics, a small, mischievous smile playing on his lips. “See somethin’ you like?”
The flirting isn’t new. Jazz does it ever since Prowl can remember, even at a time when they didn’t particularly like each other, and he’s come to accept it as simply another part of Jazz’s personality. It’s not like it’s something exclusively for him – Jazz flirts with virtually all of his friends, and everyone knows better than to take his word for it. But Prowl, perhaps stupidly (and he would blame the engex for it, later), believes that there is something there, as small as the odds are (and they are: he’d made the calculations a few times throughout the years, and he never managed a percentage higher than 17.2653840%).
Without thinking, which appears to be a recurring theme in this conversation, Prowl says, “You know I do.”
Surprise overflows from Jazz’s usually obscured EM field, and the fact that he doesn’t even try to hide it speaks volumes of his trust in the strategist.
“Prowl,” he says, in a low tone that Prowl can only describe as incredulous. “Please tell me the only thing needed for you to respond to my advances wasn’t a bit of engex.”
Prowl makes a sound that would be described as a laugh had it come from anyone else, and he looks back at his glass. After a few seconds, he grabs it and inspects it better under the light, following the way the liquid inside moves side to side as he rotates the glass.
“I’d argue that imminent death is a bigger incentive.” And before the atmosphere can grow heavy, he places the glass in front of Jazz. “But you can have the rest. I think that’s enough for me.”
Jazz’s face contorts into an expression that Prowl can’t decipher for a few moments, but it quickly morphs into one of his easy – but fake – smiles. Prowl hates when he does this, when he hides and acts as if Prowl can’t read him as well as Jazz can read him, but he knows better than to take it personally. Jazz has many defense mechanisms that are as automatic as singing along to a song, and calling him out brings a 98.9879% chance of making him feel like a cornered animal. Prowl opts for allowing him to control the flow of their conversation.
Jazz makes a small sound of pleasure as he drinks the engex, and Prowl turns his attention to a dark spot on his desk. The engex is good, as is to be expected from a gift from Optimus Prime, but the saboteur is good enough at masking his reactions for Prowl to be fooled.
“Who were you drinkin’ with, anyway?” He inquires as soon as he puts down the now empty glass. “I can’t imagine who’d convince ya to drink a glass.”
Oh, but he can, in the same way he always knows everything. Even still, Prowl allows himself to humor him, mostly because he knows it’ll make Jazz happy to make him say it out loud. “With Optimus, actually. He dropped by to… talk, I suppose.”
Jazz's small, fake smile is replaced by a genuine and brilliant grin, an expression that makes Prowl's spark spin wildly in his chest. It’s a better reward than anything he could’ve hoped for.
“Look at that! My two favorite mechs in the whole universe, finally gettin’ along. Is peacetime finally rubbin’ off on ya?”
And Prowl smiles, then – he can’t not when he sees how happy that little development makes Jazz, and the way his visor shifts into a darker blue isn’t lost on him. Jazz scoots closer, touching Prowl’s chair with his leg.
“You’re not gonna spend the rest of the night here,” he murmurs, back to that intimate bubble that seems to wrap around them without apparent reason. Or perhaps it is more than apparent and Prowl is just used to ignoring it. “Let’s go to your room.”
Let’s. Not go, not I’ll take you to your room, simply let’s, as if that’s a thing they do, as if it’s as natural as consuming energon. As if Jazz doesn’t see another alternative than spending time with Prowl, as if he wants to.
As if spending his last night with Prowl is the only thing that makes sense. Oh, and that- that’s-
Prowl stands up abruptly and takes a step to the side, standing directly in front of Jazz before placing his hands on either side of his legs. Jazz, on his end, looks with obvious interest at the image in front of him, Prowl’s doorwings flared wide and his chassis in his line of vision.
Prowl knows he’s attractive – not in the gracious and easy way Jazz is, but he is used to interested stares.
Just not from Jazz.
“See something you like?” He doesn’t know why his voice is so low. Maybe it is because they’re standing so close; maybe it’s because he doesn’t want his words to be heard by anyone else but Jazz. The repetition of the question made by Jazz a few minutes ago is for him, and for him only, to hear.
Jazz, appearing to be suddenly overwhelmed by their positions, as if this wasn’t what he was expecting from this night, looks at the frame in front of him for a few long seconds before looking back at Prowl’s face. He doesn’t seem any less interested in what he sees there. “Primus, Prowl. You know I do. You’re gorgeous.”
The compliment stuns Prowl for a few moments. Attractive he understands, he’s been called so a few times, and it makes sense; a compliment, but disconnected enough that it holds no emotional meaning behind it. Anyone can be attractive, even your enemy, but gorgeous…
He’d describe a few people as gorgeous. Perceptor, Elita-1, even Drift. Jazz, of course. But Prowl isn’t like any of them. People feel attracted to him, but they didn’t look for long enough to see anything else. He isn’t someone that people want to be around, someone whose company is coveted like it is the rarest of gemstones. That is Jazz.
And suddenly, Prowl has to know. He can’t not ask, and even if the question sounds weak and needy, he doesn’t care. “Why are you here?”
Tell me the truth, are the words he doesn’t say, please, don’t tell me anything that isn’t the truth.
Jazz is elusive on the best of days. Despite his ease, despite the obvious happiness whenever he’s around people, he never speaks about anything that truly matters. He doesn’t trust easily, and Prowl has always respected that about him – no self-respecting Spec Ops agent speaks of themselves freely, much less Jazz, who bases his work on his ability to hide, mask, and act. Many people know Jazz, but few know Jazz.
Prowl feels like he does, sometimes. Feels like Jazz wants him to, and that makes no sense, and his tacnet has already crashed multiple times when following that line of thought, but it’s alright. Prowl doesn’t mind trying to take a leap of faith when it comes to Jazz.
Jazz is looking at him attentively, visor fixed on Prowl as if he’s searching for something. Prowl doesn’t know exactly what it is he’s looking for, and he gets nervous about the possibility of not being able to give it to him, but then Jazz places his hand on Prowl’s wrist and the touch makes his mind settle.
“We’re probably gonna die tomorrow,” he starts, and although the words are heavy, they’re said with the tone and finality inherent to someone who doesn’t have the luxury of being afraid of death. “I wanted to spend my last hours with you.”
Prowl’s chest feels so, so tight, and his spark is euphoric and terrified. His tacnet, idle due to not running battle simulations, starts working overtime trying to unravel the truth behind Jazz’s answer. Percentages, simulations, hypothetical scenarios; every scenario starts running through his head at an insane speed, and he can’t do anything else other than watch them. He drowns a little more in the anxiety of it all with each passing second and, for a moment, it’s abundantly clear: he will never have peace, will never be able to give that to Jazz. He can’t understand if that’s even what he wants.
He can follow Jazz wherever he goes, without fear or plans, but despite his good intentions, Prowl was never good at jumping without looking.
Jazz’s hands, blessedly cold against his face, allow him to focus back on the mech in front of him. “Prowl. You with me?”
His head throbs, but Prowl still nods. He vaguely feels like his hands are denting the desk, but he can’t expend any mental energy to worry about it.
“Yeah? Look at me, baby, c’mon.” And Prowl does, despite everything in him screaming not to, that it will all end up like every other time, that Jazz’s words are pretty, but they’re just that. Prowl knows what pretty words are – knows that hollow promises are like dynamite, knows that a good speaker manipulates as well as a maestro, but-
But he looks at Jazz, because he asks him to. Prowl would throw himself into a star if Jazz asked him nicely and with a smile. Not for the first time, he finds himself thinking that no one should have that kind of power over another.
“There you are.” Jazz’s voice is soft, as if he’s talking to a wounded animal, and Prowl would have stepped away from him and shot some words to kill if he didn’t feel so much like an open wound. It’s for the best; Jazz won’t hurt him. That he knows, even if the tacnet doesn’t agree. 74.735% chance of being wrong. It’s alright. “Do I have to call Ratchet?”
Prowl groans and Jazz laughs, low, near his audial. “You ain’t doin’ too bad, then.” Jazz’s hand goes from Prowl’s wrist to his back, to the space between doorwings. He tries to decipher the patterns Jazz is drawing, but ends up giving up and focusing solely on the sensation. “What do you need?”
That’s easy. “Clarification,” he asks, voice rough. He tries to gather the strength to explain, afraid that might not be clear enough, but as always Jazz hears what he doesn't say.
“Hmm.” Jazz’s hand goes higher, from his back up to his neck, and pulls him up softly so that their foreheads touch. Prowl can’t see his face properly due to the awkward angle, but he can tell he’s smiling. “I’ve spent most of my life pretendin’. I just… in my final hours, if they’re all I have left, I wanna be myself. With someone who’ll see me for who I am.”
Prowl closes his eyes. The tacnet settles. He didn’t need to beg for the truth, after all; Jazz wanted to give it to him, freely, even with the knowledge of what that entails. For a few moments, Prowl tries to think about something to say, in words that will perfectly describe what he’s feeling, but finds that he can’t. There’s nothing in the entire universe that can translate the mess of feelings inside of him, but it doesn’t matter.
Jazz knows. And that’s what matters.
“Let’s go to your room?” Jazz murmurs. This time, when he stretches his hand out to Prowl, he takes it in his.
They’re lying in Prowl’s bed, after. Jazz rests his head on Prowl’s chest and has an arm draped around his waist, and Prowl draws little shapes on his back. Their engines purr contently, a low and comforting sound, and if they try hard enough they can pretend nothing is wrong; it is as if the world outside of these four walls doesn’t exist.
It’s a nice thought, but that’s all it is. Prowl, a realist bordering on the pessimist, knows it better than most. In a few hours, they’ll both be dead. In a few hours, Prowl will be praying to an entity he doesn’t believe in for salvation as he watches Jazz’s frame lose all color, or vice versa, and there’s nothing they can do to stop it. In a few hours, even if by some miracle the battle goes in their favor, Jazz will understand Prowl can never give him the peace he’s looking for, and he’ll leave.
“I can hear you thinkin’ from here.”
Prowl startles when he hears Jazz’s voice. He looks down and sees Jazz staring at him with his ruined optic and his good one, still without his visor. Prowl doesn’t dwell for too long on why he still hasn’t put it back on.
“Talk to me,” Jazz starts again, voice low and earnest. “What’s wrong?”
Prowl swallows and looks away. A lifetime spent talking in numbers and percentages has made him brutally honest, but incapable of talking about his feelings. His inability to talk about his emotions drew him away from potential friends, and would eventually draw him away from Jazz.
Except that Jazz knows what he’s like, and here he is anyway, waiting for him to speak. And Prowl doesn’t want to disappoint him.
He opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to think about what to say. In the end, he allows himself to say it simply, and hopes that’s what Jazz wants to hear. “I don’t know if I can give you what you need.” “Then, because he feels like that’s not enough, he adds, “I want to, but I’m not sure I can.”
Jazz’s optics soften and he props himself up on his arms. When his face is a few inches away from Prowl's, he lowers himself and joins their lips in a slow and sweet kiss. Prowl sighs and places a hand on his cheek and another on his neck in an attempt to bring them closer.
When they part, Jazz’s mismatched optics maintain that softness and fondness that Prowl was used to ignoring. How had he never noticed before?
“All I want from you is what you’re willin’ to give,” Jazz says against his lips, as if it’s obvious. “I’ve trusted only myself for long enough. I… I look at you and I know I can trust you. Whatever you’re willin’ to give me, as long as you’re by my side, is enough.”
Prowl’s throat is dry, and he needs to restart his voice box twice before he can say anything. “I’m difficult. I want… I want to be better. For you. But sometimes I-“
“You are,” interrupts Jazz. “And so am I, and you put up with me anyway. So?”
Prowl doesn’t know what to say to that. Jazz smiles and kisses him again.
“If we survive tomorrow, I’m takin’ you out on a date, and we’re gonna do this properly,” he says. “Yeah?”
Prowl can say no. He can say no, and Jazz will sigh and lie next to him, and they will both act like this was just a one night stand brought on by complicated feelings about death. Prowl can say no, and they can both go their seperate ways with the knowledge that it was for the best.
Except no, he can’t, because Prowl saying yes to Jazz is as inevitable as the death of the Universe. So, he smiles and squeezes Jazz’s hand, and for the first time thinks of nothing else but this very moment.
“Yeah.”
But I’m a fire, and I’ll keep your brittle heart warm
If your cascade ocean wave blues come
All these people think love’s for show
But I would die for you in secret
The devil’s in the details, but you got a friend in me
Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?