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If you had asked Prowl, before the war had even been a vague concept, exactly what the Second in Command of a military force would spend the majority of their time doing, he would have undoubtable said paperwork . After all, paperwork was always a necessity, mostly important and frequently unwanted- all aspects which made it suitable for one whichever well-organised, well-trusted mech would end up in that position.
He wouldn’t, however, have been quite aware of just how tedious some of that paperwork could be.
Now, Prowl didn’t dislike paperwork. Mostly, it was acceptable if not actively enjoyable: shift schedules had to be frequently updated depending on mech availability, making them an admittedly invigorating exercise in social study- challenging his processor to assign mechs to shift teams that would function effectively while utilising further data from his collaborations with Jazz to create team layouts that would sooth over any current fractious attitudes in the army. Battle plans were an effort of the whole command team, and usually involved a great deal of both collaboration and petulant whining from his fellow officers that stopped any potential tedium such an activity could create.
The source of Prowl’s current major processor ache, therefore, was the constant Human Outreach and Association Assignments that the great Optimus Prime himself believed were most important to their continued survival on this planet.
You would have thought that the Human Outreach and Association Assignments would be some of the easiest to arrange- certain mechs were definitely not suitable for certain duties, which should lessen the pool of mechs who could be reasonably selected. Unfortunately, some seemingly obvious good choices could end in disaster. Bumblebee, for example, was usually a good bet for school outreach. His relatively youthful and charming nature was a hit with students and teachers alike… typically. If he didn’t carefully consider who to send as the second mech on the assignment, however, they would end up getting a call from a headteacher apoplectic with rage wondering why sweet little Bee thought it was a good idea to start juggling sharp, Cybertronian-scale weaponry in the presence of unarmoured youths.
Again.
Prowl sighed and added First Aid to the assignment. Surely he’d keep the yellow hellion in check.
He’d thought that about Hound, and that had ended… badly. Well, manageably badly, which in this army may as well be a resounding success. He should probably have a blanket organisational order- don’t send more than one Spec Ops mech out at once unless you have someone else to keep them in line.
Speaking of Spec Ops mechs…
He was alerted from his slump at his desk by a sudden slam of his office door- not surprised , as Prowl would never be surprised at his door opening suddenly and loudly when he knew that Jazz was around, but alerted nonetheless. Although the weariness settling through his form should have marked any small movement as unnecessarily energy inefficient, he couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at his faceplates as his partner and fellow officer entered the room. Jazz slumped down with an exhaustion that matched Prowl’s own and a waning agitation that didn’t into the chair on the other side of the desk to Prowl’s.
It was not a chair Prowl would have chosen for himself, human in styling and far too mobile and ‘spinny’ for his personal preference, but he watched as Jazz easily manoeuvred himself so his pedes were thrown over one arm and his servo pushed on-off against Prowl’s desk in a way that rocked his chair back and forth. His partner seemed so at home, as he always did in this office, that once again his personal office chair preferences screamed irrelevancy. After all, what was the point of a second chair if not for it to be appreciated by the one who used it most?
“Prowler,” Jazz almost groaned, “you would not believe the day ah’ve had.”
“Jazz.” Prowl looks up from his datapad, aware that he is unlikely to get any more work done for the foreseeable. “Given that it is currently 02:34 PST, your ‘day’ has been simply a few of the early hours of the morning. Unless you mean ‘day’ as in ‘time past since you most recently recharged’, in which case…” Prowl frowned at his partner. “When was the last time you recharged?”
Flickering his visor in an approximation of an eye-roll, Jazz huffs out a laugh. “Same time as you, Prowls. Ya know tha’ already.”
It was true. Whenever both of them were present on the Ark, neither of them seemed to be able to achieve a sufficiently restful recharge cycle if their partner was not also present. At this point, it seemed more logical to simply… wait until they could be together. Prowl knew this before asking the question, but there was something comforting in asking anyway. It was the same as his statement about actually construed a ‘day’- of course he knew what Jazz meant, but there was a familiarity in the conversation that kept their processors comfortably occupied in their tired states.
“I do indeed. Well, since you are here to pester me and I doubt that you will leave, what exactly has made your day seem so exhausting?”
“The twins.”
“Ah.”
“An’ Blue .”
“Ah.”
Jazz chuckles. “‘Ah’ indeed, Prowler. It’s neat ta see ‘em bringin’ Blue out his shell, it really is, but… crikey the three o’ them are menaces ! I love ‘em, but ah’m sure they’ll be the death o’ me!” Grinning, he continues. “Blue came up ta me, all sweet an’ innocent like, an’ asked if ah knew I’d got a sticker on ma back, righ’ in th’ middle. He’s all on his lonesome, so ah got no reason ta no’ believe him, y’know? An’ he skips off all jolly for his shift an’ there ah am, middle o’ the corridor tryna get this sticker off ‘cept it ain’t movin’ an’ it’s on ma back so ah can’t see it! So ah leave it, an’ when ah run inta Hound ah ask him ta’ help, but that fragger is in on it too!”
He stops for a moment and gives Prowl a ‘can you believe this??’ expression. Prowl can very easily believe this.
“So there ah am, goin’ around all day wit’ some sticker tha’ ah can’t see tha’ nobody will explain. An’ ah see Blue again, so ah think ‘ah can get this all sorted out!’, an’ Sunstreaker an’ Sides are wi’ him, so ah ask Blue an’ he, no joke, says ‘what sticker?’ wit’ his innocent face back an’ ah just look at him an’ all three of ‘em just start laughing!! There ain’t ever been no sticker, Prowler, they got me!” Jazz leans against the desk, helm in his servos.
Prowl puts on a frown, keeping his voice steady and serious. “But, Jazz. If there was no sticker, then what is that currently attached to your back?”
Jazz whips his helm up, twisting around and reaching for his back in a very unbalanced manner, letting out an incredibly undignified squawk as his chair falls over, depositing him ungracefully on the floor of Prowl’s office where he remains. Prowl can’t help but laugh, especially when his partner notices and looks up at him with theatrical betrayal.
“There’s nothing there, Jazz. You truly must be exhausted- I’m sure that would be the only reason that they could ‘get’ you like this.” He smirks.
Jazz groans, and then perks up at some sudden idea, raising his helm from the floor despite the rest of him remaining horizontal. “…You’re doin’ outreach assignments, yeah? Perhaps ya could…” he trails off, grinning.
“No.”
“Aww, c’mon Prowler, it would be funny !”
“If you are willing to personally complete the inevitable mountain of reports that would come from sending Sunstreaker and Sideswipe on whatever Human Outreach and Association Assignment you would consider ‘funny’, I may be persuaded to assist you with this poorly planned revenge. However, given that the vast majority of your actual paperwork ends up overdue or missing or in the volcano I am not going to give you that chance. No outreach revenge.” Prowl keeps his tone light and amused- it most likely would be funny.
“Spoilsport!” Jazz huffs, his helm clonking against the floor for just a second before perking back up. “Well, if ya ain’t gonna assign ‘em, does tha’ mean you’re done workin’ for the night?”
Prowl just looks at him, unimpressed.
“Well, if ya won’t come ta berth wi’ me, I’ll just hav’ta sleep… right… here…” Jazz flicks his visor off and begins making rather unsettling noises that Prowl believes are meant to resemble human snoring but in fact just made it sound like Jazz needed his vents replaced. He rolls his optics and lets out a soft laugh as Jazz lights his visor again, making a woefully pleading expression at his partner.
Prowl sighs, knowing his fond expression counteracts the typically aggrieved seeming noise. He can immediately tell that Jazz knows he has won- the pleading vanishes from his expression, his visor lighting up in such genuine bright joy that it almost hides the strut-deep exhaustion that haunts them all. Jazz, letting out a quiet “yay!” that almost has Prowl laughing, wiggles back up from his forlorn position on Prowl’s floor and practically steals the last datapad directly from his partners servos, seemingly unbothered by the fact Prowl had already been attempting to shut it down.
He stands up before Jazz can decide he isn’t being quick enough, tugging his datapad back from his partner and quickly filing it away with the rest of the tasks he must save for tomorrow. As practical as he knows he can be and as much as he likes completing his work swiftly, he wouldn’t miss recharging with Jazz for anything but an active emergency. Paperwork cannot become more important than the mechs of the Ark, and Prowl intends to keep it that way- he may have a reputation for hard work and keeping their soldiers in line, but part of that is making sure that everyone has appropriate and frequent off-shifts with their friends and comrades.
If the mechs of the Ark did not have opportunities for frivolity and fun, did not have a chance to laugh and explore and try, despite everything they have been through, to live , what would be the point of the war? They were fighting for a reason, for a future, and they couldn’t have that without hope.
He could work them harder. More training, more planning, more sacrifice- it could work. If he sacrificed his soldiers, Optimus Prime’s soldiers, their family… it may win the war. But the Cybertron they would build from that victory? It wouldn’t be the Cybertron that they fought for.
“Thinkin’, Prowler?”
Jazz is still waiting, visor soft with warmth despite the cool colour tone and servo outstretched. Prowl reaches for it, the familiar pressure reassuring. Jazz holds, gentle and patient and everything that Prowl could need, ever.
Prowl holds him back.
“Yes. I was. But… that is for ‘tomorrow Prowl’ to consider, as I believe you would say?” He is rewarded for his phrasing with a soft laugh from his partner and a squeeze of his held servo as he uses his unoccupied one to shut off the lights and lock his office door for the night. It won’t be long until he is back at his desk, but for now he can banish the room from his processor and not ponder how the rest of the Human Outreach and Association Assignments will need to be divided. Most certainly that shall be Tomorrow Prowl’s problem.
Jazz sets their pace down the hallway of the Ark, practically dragging Prowl the short distance to their room. When they reach the door, Jazz stalls and looks at the keypad in exhausted confusion. Prowl, now that he knows recharge is near, feels an extra wave of tiredness sweep over him and almost joins Jazz in his blank staring before swiftly shaking himself out of it and inputting the code, taking over and gently pulling Jazz into their room before shutting the door behind them.
His servo is let go and by the time he turns back around from locking their room, Jazz has already practically melted onto their berth, taking a moment to rearrange himself so that he is sprawled comfortably directly in the centre. His limbs are stretched to make as little room for Prowl as he can physically create. Prowl stares at him, unimpressed but unsurprised, as Jazz makes dramatic grabbing motions with his servos in an attempt to summon him.
“C’mon, Prowler, there’s plenty of room… if you don’t mind bein’ ma blanket!” Jazz grins wickedly in a way that would have almost been leering if it hadn’t been for the warmth shining through his expression and the fact they had been in this position so many times before. Prowl rolls his optics in fond exasperation, making his way around the berth before gently taking his place almost on top of Jazz, the two of them fitting together as if they were some oversized metallic jigsaw. Jazz let out a content little hum and shoved his face firmly against Prowl’s neck, pressing a few gentle kisses along his plating on the way. Prowl responded in kind, tilting down to ghost his mouth over Jazz’s helm, the mech underneath him relaxing further with each caress until the two of them had formed a puddle of warm and content metal, drifting softly into recharge as one.