Title: Working It Out
Rating: K+
Continuity: G1
Characters: Prowl, Bluestreak, Ratchet, Wheeljack, Jazz, Optimus Prime
Disclaimer: Don't own
Prompt: 5. Scenario: a space bridge malfunctions and sends your chosen character(s) back in time. What happens?

It wasn't Wheeljack's fault. Not really. Prowl didn't blame him.

Well, that wasn't true. Prowl did blame him. It was his fault, after all.

Then again, it was almost always Wheeljack's fault, so Prowl couldn't really hold it against him.

But... To relive this...

Smoking ruins. Charred out remains. Graying frames of dead mechs.

And this time, he wasn't in shock. He had no rescue effort to direct to help him cope. He bore the full brunt of the pain on his shoulders and processors.

Praxus was fallen.

Of all moments to be sent back to, why this? Why? Why did it always happen this way?

He fell to his knees, doorwings sagging so low they were practically pressed against his back. Mist and smoke blew around him, obscuring short strips of the destruction for short moments before they were blown away.

"I've got a spark signature!" a voice shouted in the distance, and Prowl's doorwings perked up.

There was something... he remembered this! They had reported someone getting away. A strong spark signature, not like that of one who had survived this. They had all assumed it was a lingering Decepticon, or a looting Neutral, but... if it had been him all along...

He had to get away! Somehow. They hadn't found him. Changing that would have untold repercussions on history.

As fast as he could, the time-transported tactician stood and started running, his long legs easily carrying him over the ruins. There was no time now to grieve. No time to waste mourning. Later. That could be done later, when he was back home.

Right now, he needed to get away. There couldn't be two Prowls in one place, in one time. That wasn't how this worked.

As he ran, he did what he did best; thought. That report... so many vorns ago, but... Hadn't they said the spark signature just disappeared, right under their nasal plating? If that were true, something would come up, something... Though it still felt as though he was forgetting something...

Vents cycling heavily, he flared his doorwings, activating every sensor he possessed, searching for something similar to what he sensed as he was walking by Wheeljack's lair. A portal, or malfunctioning space bridge, or whatever it was that had taken him here.

And... There! To the right!

Prowl took a sharp turn, pedes scraping on rubble and shards of broken metal. A blown-out house. He stumbled as he raced toward it, and, when he looked down, almost froze. There, huddled under a sheet of metal, was a small, gray youngling. His optics were fear-bright, his little doorwings tucked tightly to his back. His thin armor was rattling.

The tactician stared, blinking, for a long moment. Something came back to mind. That report...

It was...

"Bluestreak?"

The youngling squeaked and ducked its helm down, hunching up.

"No, no... Bluestreak, it's okay... Shh... listen to me. I'm not supposed to be here. I... People are chasing me, and I need to go. I won't remember you next time we meet, but you can trust me. My name is Prowl. Do you understand?"

Bluestreak slowly lifted his helm, red chevron shining faintly under the dust and grime covering it. "I..."

"I know you do. Now listen. Do you remember I said I had people following me?"

A slow nod.

"Well, they're friends. They'll find you and bring you back to where I... live. And remember what I said?"

"You won't remember me. Why?"

Prowl vented, doorwings twitching as he leaned forward slightly, reaching out to touch the youngling on the helm. "For the same reason I am not supposed to be here, Young One. I will tell you sometime, but... I will bring it up. Never speak to me of this. Promise?"

"I promise."

"Thank you."

Standing, Prowl nodded to the youngling. "Remember, Bluestreak."

"Wait! Don't go! Don't leave me!"

"I have to. You will not be alone for long, Bluestreak. I promise. The other mechs, the friends, will be here soon. Call to them, go with them, and you'll find me again. Unders- okay?"

The youngling's armor rattled again as his doorwings drooped and his optics dimmed. "Okay. Promise?"

"I promise, Young One. Now, I must go."

Turning his back on the youngling, Prowl ran into the only half-standing building. A small swirl of light was sparkling in the corner, and he dove toward it without hesitation.

A moment later, he was sitting, sprawled out on the floor of Wheeljack's lab, the inventor hovering over him nervously, Ratchet glowering beside him.

"Prowl," the medic growled. "Report. Anything injured?"

"No, Ratchet. I'm fine. Thought I do wonder what happened?"

Wheeljack's helm fins flashed an embarrassed pink, and Ratchet thwacked him on the back of the helm with a wrench. "The idiot here mixed up some wires while trying to build a space bridge. You just happened to be walking by at just the wrong time."

"Hm."

"You're lucky to be back, though!" Wheeljack said. "I had to mess around with it for a while, but I finally got it working again, and you just sorta fell through..."

"'Finally'?" Prowl asked, optics going wide. "Wheeljack? How long has it been since I... was walking in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

"Eh heh... Um... would you believe me if I said two days?"

"No."

"Oh. Um..."

"You were gone for almost a week, Prowl," Ratchet answered lowly, optics dim. "We've all been worried sick. Jazz, too, though he was a little better. He kept insisting you were alive."

Prowl nodded. "I see. Well, I believe it is time for me to reassure the crew, and Jazz?"

"Past time."

"Very well, then. I will see you... later."

. . .oOo.

When he arrived at the Rec Room, he was practically mobbed. Jazz was immediately at his side, stuck to him like he was magnetized there. Other mechs swarmed around him; Sideswipe and Sunstreaker flanking him, almost touching his doorwings. Optimus Prime was standing close to his side, in the same position Prowl would be had their positions been reversed, had this been any other day.

Other mechs swarmed around him, talking over each other, until, finally, Prowl gestured for them to quiet down. Everyone did so immediately.

"I... Where I was sent... I..."

Everyone glanced around. To hear Prowl at a loss for words was... odd.

But then someone else spoke, surprising everyone.

"I understand, Prowl," a certain gray gunner said, smiling. "You don't have to say anything else."

Prowl smiled back, the faint expression looking a tiny bit strained. "Good. Very well, then. Prime, you will have my report at the end of the orn. The rest of you... I'm sure if you don't have anything to do, I can find things for you."

The room was empty in moments, save for Prowl, Bluestreak, Jazz, and Optimus. Then, Prowl nodded to Bluestreak and left, Jazz trailing behind.

"Bluestreak?" the Prime asked, glancing from the sniper to the door.

"It's a very long story, Prime, and I think you'll understand when Prowl gives you his report, and it has to do with a long time ago, but... Um..."

"I understand, Bluestreak. No need to tell me if you do not wish to."

"Thanks, Prime."

Slowly, the gunner stood and left the room, leaving the Prime alone to muse on thoughts of absent-minded inventors, misbehaving space-bridges, and time traveling tacticians; for he was a Prime. He knew all.