Chapter Text
‘Enough’ is relative. ‘Enough’ was based on your standards: your capacity. It is enough for a star to shine and burn out into space. It is enough for a mech to survive a war. Enough is the best you can do.
Feeling like you aren't enough, well… that was dependent on what you compare yourself to. The too high expectations you set for yourself alone and base your worth upon.
A mind running thousands of equations a second, keeping an entire army alive, and working to avoid an appointment, all while starving, well… that somehow wasn't enough. Not for Prowl anyways.
He was tired, but when was he not? Fuel gives you energy, otherwise your frame is simply forced to feed off of itself. Eating away the thick layers of mesh that contributed to his weight and the soft mass of his tank, thighs… everything. He starved himself and watched it disappear. That was, of course, the point, but it didn't mean the Praxian couldn’t feel his frame eating itself alive for survival.
Hadn’t anticipated all the side effects that would come with his disorder as it progressed.
The words on his datapad weren’t wording, and his tank was filled with a sinking empty hunger and he was tired. Working at least allowed him to ignore how hungry he was, but Primus, he just wanted to go to his quarters, do his sit ups, and rest. Leave all of this for a bit.
He probably looked like death, but that wasn’t his problem.
Although it was about to be.
Prowl wasn’t particularly squeamish, but he did have an aversion to medbays. Maybe that was just after getting caught though. Weight checks and check in chats essentially whenever Ratchet had time.
His servos were freezing and tinted purple, shaking slightly as he tried to write- what was he doing(?) -on a data pad.
It clinked on his desk as he set it down. Lowering his helm as well.
The SIC growled at the ping that flashed across his HUD.
His first assumption was a reminder from Ratchet that he needed to get his ass down to the medbay lest he face the medic’s wrath (87.35%).
Prowl was physically tired, but his processor was also tired, meaning it took a moment for him to actually process the message.
‘Compromised agent located.’
Well that was both a get out of jail free card for himself and pain in the ass incoming.
Regardless, Prowl stood slowly, his chair groaning in relief as he did, even as the SIC’s vision became splotchy, and the light headedness threatened to send him to the shiny ass floor.
It passed, it always passed, except well… when it hadn't and he woke up with so much fuel in him he had a panic attack. Purging it was not an option as really hadn't been for a while now.
He needed to get it together or Ratchet would get on his ass again.
The weights he’d had in his subspace all day in preparation could only do so much in tricking the scale,
after all.
He let his door slide aside, datapad in servo to go do his damn job.
Technically, all of this was Ratchet’s territory; Prowl didn't necessarily need to get any sort of assessment in until he got the actual field report. Still he wanted- needed to feel useful considering how little (by his standards) he’d gotten done all cycle.
Even before he’d truly and purposely avoided everyone, most left him alone or gave him a wide berth. He wasn't an extraverted person, nor did he have much of a reason to have anything more than a professional relationship with most anyone. His accidentally adopted children were the exception.
Hungry and sick and eternally annoyed, most didn’t bother him. That was fine anyways. He had things to do.
The medbay was a full two sectors away and the hallways weren't exactly short. By the time he neared the third building Prowl genuinely worried he’d fall over.
He always thought being skinny would make things easier. It does not. At least not like this.
Tacnet was chewing on the various things it could pick up on out of boredom. His optics wouldn't focus enough to read reports meaning it was understimulated.
That was of course until he got closer to the bright ass red doors.
Now, it wasn’t unusual to hear violent cursing coming from the medbay, it was Ratchet’s domain after all, but by Primus did he sound pissed. Like… more than usual. Which wasn’t a great sign, but-
“Jazz if you fragging die, I’m going to kill you!”
Finally entertained, Tacnet latched on instantly and started spitting out as many percentages as it could come up with. So many variables and things to figure out, even as it didn't have enough fuel to really work how it could.
Prowl was more focused on consequences.
Listen (Linda), Prowl and Pazz weren't friends by any stretch of the word: they could barely stand each other. Both hated the other from the bottom of their spark, and would have killed the other if there would be unthinkable results because of it.
Jazz was intentionally frustrating and irrational; a little too manufactured to be comfortable, and he breathed lies (although you could never catch him in one).
If it wasn't for the fact that the Poly could annihilate him -and would gladly do so, Prowl would have lost his shit by now.
However, by the universe's joke, they worked almost exclusively with each other, and that meant everyday was some new, passive way to stress Prowl out, or see how many nerves he could get on. It was miserable. As if he needed any more bullshit.
That was Jazz as whatever persona he used on a daily basis anyway. Prowl was pretty sure he didn't even have a real identity, and if he did, no one would ever see it. He could, however, drop his purposely annoying act and become one of the most capable and intelligent mecha Prowl had ever met.
The Poly was head of Xops, and that was for a reason. Jazz was the best: like when I say “the best”, I mean there is no other bot in the entire army that could do what Jazz does. He could be truly brilliant, and amazingly capable when he wanted to be. That bitch had survived more than Prowl thought even Primus could, and he’d done it again and again.
Prowl could almost respect the mech and appreciate what he was able to do; the way he was a monster and a weapon, yet showed no weakness for it, never let anyone really know. Except what the two of them exploited.
The SIC could respect that; they were alike in that way.
Then the little cunt would open his mouth, and stick his annoyed ass facade back on, and Prowl would go back to wishing he could punch the Poly if not for the fact that that would end in his dismemberment.
It’s not like this was sided either, if they passed in the hall, there was a decent chance they would get into an argument over literally anything, and Jazz would make it clear how much they both despised each other.
Because Prowl was generally disliked, seen as heartless, a killjoy, and a cold bitch, especially compared to Jazz’s earned popularity, everyone took the Poly’s side. It didn’t really hurt, Prowl was used to being bullied and outcasted, he didn't even really fault the TIC, it just strengthened their bickering.
Yes, Prowl could at times be very petty, but if for no other reason than Jazz’s death being a pain in the ass, he did hope he would recover just how he has before.
The Praxian did, however, not want to do this damn appointment, so it would be nice if Jazz could die for a bit longer.
The door came up faster than he’d have liked and he just stared at it for a bit, steeling himself to pretend he was eating and could feel his hands.
He stepped that last bit closer for the sensor to recognize him and open. Oh if he thought Ratchet’s yelling was loud outside, now he got the full blast of it; also having to narrowly dodge a wrench to the face. Opening one optic to look for anything else heading for his cranium was step one before he rose from covering his helm and glared at the CMO.
Ratchet, however, could win that particular battle with anyone, and his expression in response made Prowl wince and back off.
Ratchet however did not.
“I swear to fragging Primus if you come in here and ask me for a report I am going to beat the scrap out of you.” It was mostly a lie. Maybe.
The medic was running around the medbay, tracking energon everywhere without a lick of concern as he barked orders and grabbed every clamp and welder in sight. The rest of the medics had dropped whatever they’d be doing to collect everything Ratchet was yelling for, or trying to get assorted things into the Poly with varying levels of success. So many people were gathered around the stretcher Jazz was presumably bleeding everywhere on, Prowl could barely see him.
The Praxian stepped out of the way, although he didn’t leave, just watching the scene through tired optics with mild interest. There was a lot of energon though. He should get someone to clean that; the SIC had plenty of people who needed disciplinary assignments.
Ratchet and First Aid were the only ones read in enough to see Jazz after an assignment. This appeared to be pretty much every medic the Autobots had. They would need to be vetted later. Prowl just sighed.
Ratchet took the time out of frantically losing his shit to whip around to Prowl, optic twitching and looking like his do no harm code was actively fighting him bitch slapping the SIC. “Shut your fragging intake, and get out of my fragging medbay!,” Ratchet screamed. The rest of the med staff froze for a moment hoping to not attract the CMO’s ire before remembering they had shit to do, and kept working to get the mech on their table stable.
Ratchet growled, his plates puffing out in a challenge before he went back to running about frantically trying to just keep Jazz alive.
He darted somewhere new and gave Prowl a clear view of Jazz’s condition and damn.
Jazz was fragged up. He was laying flat on his back so Prowl had to raise on the tips of his pedes to see the extent of the damage on his right side, but wow.
Head going down: his right audial horn was completely snapped off leaving the wires to spark minutely, dripping energon slowly. The entire right side of his head was smashed in and dented, and well… shit. His right optic was… Primus, he didn't even know what was going on there. The blue visor he always wore was completely decimated leaving his optics visible. The right side was so mangled it was hard to tell, but it seemed like the glass of his visor had been jammed into the optic and… melted flat? The whole thing was weakly attempting to light and utterly failing. There was no way he would see out of it again. Not even Ratchet could perform that miracle.
His entire frame was battered and dented, discolored and covered in cuts, but that was Minor considering everything else.
His chassis glass was broken and his left arm was smashed terribly, badly leaking blood. The spilt halves of his backplate were sitting next to him in a gruesome display. and then… holy Primus.
His side.
It looked like someone just took a chunk out of him- actually that's exactly what happened.
His right side was just gone. Bleeding profusely with all his protoform, wires, etc. exposed and visible. Prowl thought he was going to faint and it wasn't even because of his eating.
It looked like many, many knife cuts… just over one spot. A lot of them.
God damn.
And then there was his left thigh because of course there is more.
It was clearly melted, the entire thing misshapen, and shiny, and deeply unsettling. The whole thing was.
But it certainly wasn't his problem and he wasn't gonna act like it was. Plus, Ratchet didn't seem all that concerned with his appointment anymore so that was a win.
He met the gaze of First Aid who was frantically, and honestly, fantastically doing their job; working alongside Ratchet almost flawlessly.
The Praxian nodded at them as the mecha was grabbing a syringe before the SIC left. All available medics crammed into the operating theater to resurrect their TIC.
—-
He was hungry, as always, but he was also exhausted and dizzy from walking that far.
Sleeping sounded soooo nice, but alas… he did have work to do… and an appointment to wait for.
He could at least take out the weights he’d had in his subspace all day in preparation for his check-in, and more so, when Ratchet checked his mass.
The point of him healing was both helping him have a healthy relationship with food again, but also because he was dangerously underweight and malnourished. He wasn't beating his disorder if he was still starving himself, and he wasn’t getting better if he was still deathly thin.
Unfortunately for Ratchet, Prowl had little interest in recovery.
Bullshiting it was.
—-
By fuck people need to stop texting him. What do you need?
‘Appointment time changed.’ And an alert with the updating expectation. Set for five kliks from then, with an additional, ‘Get your aft back here’.
It was unfortunately inevitable.
He sighed and stood once again, checking the time as he did.
It’d been about 11 joors since Jazz had come in, and Prowl had in fact fallen asleep at his desk. Whatever; that made 4 cycles in a row.
And now he has to go and pretend he was getting better and have fuel forced down his throat.
He placed the weights back under his seats, carefully measuring out the mass increase he’d been manufacturing and vented because fuck.
—-
The energon had been cleaned up, as had the general feeling of death. Prowl wondered who’d been put on that because he wasn't responsible.
He didn't know where Jazz was, but it was rumored that he had his own quarters since he was in the medbay so often. didn't really matter, he certainly didn't want to be near all the gore unless he had to be- despite his morbid curiosity.
Prowl wandered into the exam rooms to which Ratchet was already in, typing away at a monitor while he sat on a too small stool.
The Praxian raised his wings in greeting despite Ratchet having no way to read it, and probably not even be able to see it. When he received no reaction, he coughed lightly into his servo which made the medic startle. He glared in Prowl’s direction, but his optics seemed a little far away.
Despite the yelling that had happened earlier, Ratchet’s voice was understanding and gentle: trying to be clinical and failing because he’d been through this before. He knew that the professional neutrality made it worse: made you feel like a failed science experiment rather than someone struggling and desperate.
He’d watched this exact same thing happen to himself, knew what Prowl was doing, knew that he wasn't getting better… Unfortunately Prowl wasn't as lucky as Ratchet had been; he couldnt be admitted to a ward and made to work on his eating.
Even if the hospital had been pretty bad to him, he at least did improve… the medic didn't have the ability to monitor the SIC all the time and make him eat… and they couldnt really take him off duty either.
So he just… came to these appointments looking frail, make up some bullshit about how he’d been eating that they both knew was a lie and Ratchet would weigh him, sighing when the number didn't match his figure, but there wasn't a whole lot he could do about however Prowl was making himself seem heavier.
Then, despite it being awkward and Ratchet was pretty sure it didn't do much, they would share a meal together, even if it meant he just got one in his system.
It also had the added benefit of Ratchet eating as well in his busy schedule, and having to sit the fuck down for a second. Also meant he was relaxing and sober. Wild.
“Alright, you know the drill,” he sighed, standing, waving in the direction of the scale in the corner while taking the time to actually look at Prowl. Getting better my ass.
Regardless, the Praxian took a blind weight, turned around, facing the opposite direction of the reader.
Like all the times before, the measurement flashed a number that continued the pattern of a steady weight gain. A number that didn’t match the emaciated look of the mech in front of him.
He only sighed.
“Is there anything heavy in your subspace?” he asked.
And like every time he’d asked before the Praxian shook his helm, sunken in optics look at him like he could convince him.
Prowl was a grown mech and Ratchet couldnt force him to submit to a cavity search. He wasn't even going to ask either because he knew the mech would say no and there really wasn't a point.
If Prowl looked any worse he is going to have to tube feed him though… and that would be so much worse…
Ratchet just vented out into the vaguely chilly medbay air and turned to grab his datapad, which Prowl took as an invitation to sit.
The disposable sanitary tarp crinkle under him uncomfortably.
He was still mentally preparing for eating and had fully zoned out, his pede taping until Ratchet waved to get his attention.
It hurt him to see Prowl like this. It really did because he knew there wasn't a whole lot he could do. Taking him off duty would get a lot of people killed, but he couldn’t make the mech eat and keep it in his frame without literal supervision that he just couldn’t do. They were at war.
The SIC needed in-patient care and Ratchet had no way to give it to him.
“Rate your mood on a scale of one to ten.”
Prowl didn’t even stop to think about it, “Five.” It was really more like a one- two at best, but he was healing so he had to project better than he was.
Ratchet just looked tired.
“How many meals did you skip in the last orn?”
And so he continued to fabricate answers, nothing too good -he was trying to seem believable- but certainly far better than he actually was.
They both knew it. The lying was pointless really, but if Prowl was honest he would legally have to be taken off duty, and the effects of that on the war and himself would be detrimental.
So they bullshited for four breemes, Ratchet dutifully writing down Prowl's pre-determand answers.
“And are you seeing or hearing things that aren't there?” The medic asked the final mandatory question, already heading back over to the little desk.
“No,” and that was at least honest, the first truth in twenty-five minutes.
Ratchet checked the ‘no’ box on his paper work, and set the datapad down to be filled into Prowl’s chart later, even if it was all lies.
He pulled the desk chair over and pulled two cubes from his subspace, one regular for himself and a pale green one.
Prowl glared at it, and then at him. “Why are you givin me medgrade?” he muttered low, his wings high and stand off-ish. Processor already readjusting for the percentages and the faster absorption. Fuck.
Ratchet wasn't a patient person and he never would be. “Because if I get one meal in you every- whenever, I will decide what it is and what you need.” he snapped, not even sorry about it.
Prowl worked his jaw like he was debating whether to start a fight or not, and just grabbed it from him. “I just told you I'm eating, damnit.” Primus, he was so hungry… He had to physically stop himself from chugging the damn thing then and there. At the same time he wanted to throw it across the room.
The CMO just leveled him with a glare because they knew that wasn't the truth, but both were too tired to get into an argument over it. Ratchet had yelled for joors straight that day while being far too sober: he was done.
“Uhuh,” was all he mumbled before taking a sip. He hadn't eaten since Jazz came in, and his frame welcomed the fuel. He always drank first because it took some pressure off Prowl. He tried to not watch either as disordered eating people often interpreted it as judgement. He knew from experience.
So he just stared off.
Prowl watched his drink for a moment. Primus. His tank was growling and he couldn’t decide if it was because he wanted the fuel, or because he didn't.
He vented in and took a gulp quickly before he could psych himself out and forced himself to swallow it. And then it was like the floodgates had opened and he had to force himself to not down the whole thing in front of Ratchet. His story may be bullshit, but eating like he was starving wouldn’t help his case.
“Prowl… you’ve gotta stop this… Please, you are going to die.”
“I did stop,” the Praxian said too quickly.
Ratchet just looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “No you haven't and you know it. I'll run out of words trying to convince you that you deserve better, but please, for everyone else: we need you. If we didn't I would have taken you off so long ago. If you don't care about yourself, think of the job you care so much about… Prowl you have to eat. I know how hard it is, I do. I've done all the same things you are doing. I know all of your tricks- used all of them. I don't want you to die from something we can work on. Please, let me help. It gets better…”
If Cybertron had a constitution, Prowl invoke the 5th. Instead he just said nothing, wanting to disappear and his wings dropped low and flat to his back.
Ratchet didn't really know what he was expecting.
He crossed his arms, allowing himself to actually relax even if for a moment. The goal was to stay there for at least a half joor, or a full one if the medic’s schedule permitted it. The longer they stayed there, the more the fuel was able to digest before he purged it- which Ratchet was sure he was doing.
The silence was tense and Prowl seemed to be stewing in his feelings. field just out of reach, but the edges he brushed were dark and miserable.
He hated doing this, he really did. He just didn't have a choice.
The CMO might actually have fallen asleep if not for Prowl speaking up. “How is Jazz?” He wanted the attention off of himself.
Ratchet sighed, but both understood and also didn't necessarily mind.
Patient/doctor confidentiality was a thing, but the main worry with Jazz was Xops security. Prowl had the highest clearance possible, so that of course, wasn't an issue.
He switched from lounging back in his chair to shuffling and resting his forearms on his knees, his helm down. “I think… he’s going to be alright. Against my better judgment, I believe that because he is Jazz, and that glitch could survive anything.” A trait that he was both thankful for everyday, and also drove him up the fucking wall.
Prowl nodded along, “Jazz is resilient,” he agreed. The SIC saying something nice about Jazz: crazy.
Ratchet clenched and unclenched his servos a few times. “His frame is fragged though. If his injuries weren’t bad enough as I'm sure you saw, his fragging-” he stopped himself to vent because he’d already cursed around the alphabet about this. “I take it you know of his mods?” That technically was medically confidential, but most of high command was somewhat aware.
Prowl nodded, wings flicking behind him.
He allowed himself another sip of his cube which he again wanted to consume in 10 kliks flat. Stopping himself, instead he suffered and pain in his tank, his depleted frame struggling to digest the fuel.
He needed to purge it… the percentages…
“Generally,” he murmured, mostly calm, “What about them?”
Ratchet, who was attempting to not get worked up again, stayed firmly seated, even as he wanted to pace and yell.
“Well, one of the- I don't even know how many- is preventing me from giving him anything, and it is going to kill him.
Prowl blinked. “Elaborate.”
The medic gestured wildly, “I don’t know what it is, all I know is it wasn’t there before, and i have tried to give him everything from medgrade to medication, and nothing will stay in his system. It just gets purged immediately.” Ratchet deflated and half sighed, half groaned. “He is going to die if I can't so much as give im energon, and nothing will heal without medication.”
Prowl, who wasn't expecting all of that, took a sip to allow time to think of a response. Something he had picked up on in social situations, however when it touched his glossa, he again tried to not seem starved.
“I see…” he murmured, coughing. “Have you tried talking to Wheeljack?” There was a rumor that Wheeljack put them in because the mech would do pretty much anything someone asked just for the fun of it. Whether that was true or not, the engineer did have a chance of being able to help (62.98%).
Jazz dying would be incredibly inconvenient after all.
Ratchet’s helm whipped around to look at him, and he startled slightly. “That little-” the CMO looked like he was gonna go get Wheeljack that instant, and Prowl gulped the rest of his cube so Ratchet had nothing to be mad at him for. The mech was scary. But, then he remembered he was supervising, and sat back down heavily, crossing his arms, taking note that Prowl had finished. “Regardless… I am unsure how well he will recover. He has come back bad, but not like this. He is blind in one optic and well… I can't fix that. He is comatose right now. I don't know for how long…”
Immediately Tacnet got to work on the repercussions that would have for Xops, leaving Prowl spacey. “Hm.”
Ratchet waved his servo violently in front of the Praxian’s face. “Prowl, no. Whatever you are thinking, stop it. You need to rest. Having two officers down won't help anyone.”
It's not like Prowl had really any control over Tacnet, or that he could just stop it from doing stuff. It was always in the background. Anything Prowl saw, felt, or thought of was free game, and subjected to its analysis. To ‘stop’ the hundreds of simulations and equations would be a dream, but noooo- so now he got to spend however long trying to figure out how to handle Jazz and Xops now… Fun. He didn’t need to sleep anyways.
“PROWL.”
He startled and managed to zone back in enough to what the medic was saying. “Ratchet, if Jazz’s mission failed, I have a lot of stabilizing to do right now.” Like a lot, and without Jazz it was gonna take a lot longer.
The medic sighed. “I don’t know why I bother… might as well add fuel to the fire.” He reached into his subspace. “Now don't yell at me, and just take it, it's not my fault he was dying, security be damned.”
He handed over an incredibly small black drive that Jazz was tasked with bringing back his mission info on.
The little bar on the side was blue all the way up.
The drive was full.
the mission hadn’t failed.
“Primus, Ratchet, thank you,” he breathed.
Yes, it was an absurd breech of security for Ratchet to even know this existed, but it didn’t even matter at the moment. Prowl was just relieved that the incoming missions would be fine, and that the vital intel Jazz was supposed to get was recovered.
He would have to vet the fuck out of the CMO later though.
Jazz was a fucking bitch that he hated with all his spark, but he could get shit done.
Ratchet looked at his chronometer. He should check in on Jazz and Prowl seemed like he was going to run off to analyze the little chip right then and there.
So he sighed, “Alright, you may go.”
Prowl got up, immediately looking dizzy and like he was trying to hide it, but stayed standing and nodded at Ratchet once. Then bolted for the door.
“PROWL!” The mech looked at him like a deer in headlights. Ratchet just shook his head in disappointment. “I understand you have to handle whatever that is, but then please rest and eat. I swear to Primus if you lock yourself in that office-”
The Praxian was already humming his agreement, and quickly left.
Ratchet had two sick and dying officers and nothing he could do for either.
Fragging why.
He needed a drink.