Author: gatekat
Chars: Jazz/Prowl
Rating: PG-13
Codes: AU, Slash
Summary: Sirenis is thinking too much.
Notes: klik = 1 minute; joor = 1.2 hours; orn = day/32 joor; metacycle = 6 years; vorn = 83 years
Reference to the ritual in First Binding by antepathy
pt 1: (community .livejournal .com/shadow_vector/95090 .html)
pt 2: (community .livejournal .com/shadow_vector/97326 .html)
The rest of her Drift/Wing is my canon, BTW.
(community .livejournal .com/shadow_vector/tag/wing)
This Winter Won't Last Forever 13
Ten vorns.
It's been the fastest and slowest ten vorns of my existence.
Prowl's remained on edge, expecting that at any moment either Prime or I would appear and demand he resume the treatments to prolong his functioning.
I have to admit, I've wanted to more than once. I have no doubt Optimus would dearly love to have his SIC back, though Mirage and Bumblebee, and half to my surprise the twins, have made sure he leaves Prowl alone until now. Until it matters little if he does order Prowl back to the Autobots. I've learned that too. Prowl loved his work as much as he loves anything. Probably as much as that messed up processor can love.
If he hadn't already been dead, I was ready to grab the first ship to Cybertron and take Ratchet apart bolt by bolt when I worked out just how much the mess of a mech Prowl is was his fault. Even I know not to fiddle with systems once they get too complicated. If a specialized upgrade has a 'don't add this too' warning, there's a damn good reason for it.
Prowl was condemned to be tormented for the remainder of his functioning once the emotional protocols were installed. I feel my fists clench at my sides and a low growl rumble from my upgraded vocalizer. It's enough to catch the attention of my manager, who slides over and puts a gentle hand on my arm.
"We don't need to practice now," her voice is as lovely and soft as her frame. She is a creature that would have no hope of surviving in my world, yet fate has allowed her to grace my existence for a time. She's offering to let me spend time with Prowl. She may not grasp what's going on or why, but I'm too famous in the city for it not to come out that he's nearing the end, while I am not.
"No, now is when I need to perform," I shake my head and force my hands to unclench. "New songs come, it burns off the extra charge."
"All right, Sirenis," she inclines her head in acceptance of my statement. She's learned, the hard way, that it is simply not a good idea to do anything but capitulate when I say I need something. Even with my combat and Ops protocols decommissioned, a war's worth of surviving has left me with a propensity towards violence that few outside the Knights can grasp.
Strangely enough, the Knights have done more to help us, and all the former Autobots that have come, than any other group here. They're warriors. They understand how to control and channel what we've become into something useful. Not everyone can take to their methods, but I've found more peace in their contemplative (and occasionally masochistic) meditation and sparing than I have in anything save dancing to loud music.
Prowl has too. It's been good to see the results, even if seeing him through some of the meditations is enough to completely freak me out. He's calmer afterwards, but in a good way, not the cold, suppressing everything way he did in the war.
It was during one of my lessons that it hit me. Bound with a red rope, my arms stretched overhead and behind me, kneeling and facing outward from the wall. I wasn't playing anymore. I wasn't with Prowl for mutual comfort. I'd be with him even if we no longer shared a berth. I'd try to be with him even if he no longer spoke to me. I'd hold him close to my spark even when he's gone.
That was three vorn ago. It resulted in three of most painful, distressing vorns that I've had in a long, long time.
I won't go back on my promise. I won't ask him to live for me. I can't ask him to be anything more than he is to me. Public or private, he's made it clear by words, hardline and spark that as important as I am to him, he doesn't love me.
I know better, but there is nothing I can do to make him understand and I curse Ratchet and Prime all over again for doing that to him, for not listening to him. For not respecting him as a sentient being who deserves to choose his own life.
After one vigil I had over his bound, shaking, nearly broken body and processor he shared memories with me while he used my body to settle himself. Even having gone through it many times, I still do not understand why those long nights of self-evaluation invariably lead to an undeniable need to interface.
But that memory. I knew of it, or ones like it. It was repeated after every treatment when the door to his quarters closed and locked.
The first time was the most potent though. He didn't understand what was happening to him, not really. Emotional protocols freshly installed, the agony of having his spark injected with fresh energy to keep it strong long after its time. All he could find in himself to do was to sink to the floor right there in front of the door, curl into as tight a ball as he could manage and break down. Trembling, sobbing, keening ... all those emotional releases activated, but all they did was distress him more. He'd never been so out of control in his functioning, and he understood one emotion out of the myriad going on.
He understood fear for the first time. He learned what hate felt like.
I wish I'd known it was happening, that anyone who had known had cared what it was doing to him. Maybe ... he would have understood something other than fear and hate that night.