Disclaimer : Transformers is the property of Hasbro et al.

Title : Cryin' for Me

Rating : K

Timeframe/Setting : Bay'verse. Earth.

Summary : Sometimes you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. And sometimes you know all too well what you've lost. (Prowl & Jazz. Tissue warning?)

A/N : Another Toby Keith bunny. I have no idea where they're coming from. This one follows the lyrics of the inspiring song rather well, though, and you can find it easily enough on YouTube. For those of you who asked for a sequel to "How Do You Like Me Now?" this might be it, if you turn your head and squint. Don't thank me just yet.

True to form, Prowl's arrival on Earth caused very little fuss. He made landfall, selected an alt-form, and got right down to work without missing a beat. He accepted the oddities of the planet and the changes on the warfront with nary a comment. Nothing seemed to faze him – the alliance with the humans, the destruction of the All Spark . . . the death of his best friend.

Many accepted this as typical of the reserved tactician. But there were no few bots who watched with sad and wary optics, waiting for the stoic mech's façade to break.

ooo

He knew that there were bots disturbed by his lack of reaction to, well, everything. However, he had learned long ago to not let the opinions of others bother him (facts were the most important things in life, and opinions were only a very distant second) and he wasn't about to change. He was bothered, of course – sad and angry and guilty and frightened and hurt – but his grief was a private thing and he felt disinclined to share. Besides, all the grieving in the multiverse wouldn't bring Jazz back, so Prowl put the matter out of his mind and carried on much as he always had.

It was a vidfile that did him in – a short, unnamed file on an unmarked datachip that somehow found its way into a datapad on the tactician's desk.

Curious, and understandably cautious, he scanned the file carefully before activating it. He felt his spark falter as the vid began to play; he very nearly turned the thing off, but couldn't quite force himself to do so.

It was Jazz. He was singing – and laughing and dancing and flashing his trademark smirk. It was everything that was so wholly and perfectly Jazz that the sights and sounds of him were almost physically painful. Just when he was sure he could bear no more of it, the song ended and Jazz sauntered out of the shot.

Only then did Prowl recognize the walls and tables behind Jazz's impromptu stage and notice the background noise of chatting bots. The vid must have been taken in the rec room at Iacon headquarters during one of the many parties the saboteur had insisted upon throwing. There was no telling how old the file was. It might have been made before Prowl had even been transferred to the unit.

He expected the file to end when the music did, and stared at the screen in surprise when it continued to show the clutter of furniture pushed against the walls and out of the way. The hum of conversation continued in the background, but whoever had made the vid had apparently been distracted and left the recorder running.

"Enjoyin' yourself, are ya?"

He flinched when Jazz spoke, and took a moment to remind himself that his friend's voice came from the file. He missed the other bot's reply, but automatically focused on the sound of Jazz's laugh.

"Nah, I think I'm gonna turn in for the night," the saboteur was saying.

"Really?" Prowl recognized Hound's voice. "Seems a bit early for you," the tracker continued.

"Yeah," Jazz said. "But third shift ended a cycle ago, and I'll bet my left hand Prowl's still in his office and hasn't even refueled."

Hound laughed softly and Prowl automatically bristled until he heard the rest of the mech's reply. "Good thing he's got you to look after him."

"Heh. Lucky slagger," Jazz muttered, and Prowl could hear the grin in his voice.

"Get to it, then."

"I'm goin'. G'night, Hound."

"You too, Jazz."

The vid continued a while longer, picking up the indistinct hum of conversation until a muttering Hound turned off the recorder, but Prowl wasn't paying attention. He stared at the screen without really seeing it and cautiously lifted a trembling hand to touch its surface.

"Oh, Jazz," he murmured, ignoring the flicker in his processor reminding him of the irrationality of speaking to a dead mech. "What am I going to do without you?"

He escaped his office for the relative security of his quarters. As per his rank, he was one of few bots with private rooms. He thanked Primus for small favors as he curled up on his berth to vent his sorrow alone and undisturbed.

Jazz would never have allowed him to mourn privately. The saboteur would have been there to hold and comfort him, and to chase off any other busybody mechs, if necessary. Prowl knew that the very person he was mourning was the only one he would have ever permitted to join him in such a time of weakness.

And that knowledge only made his loss that much harder to bear.

ooo

"Thank you, Bumblebee. You can put it on the far left stack on the corner."

Bee had placed the datapad containing his report in the right spot and was almost to the door before Prowl looked up at him curiously.

"Bee?" He glanced from the energon cube perched on the stack of datapads on his desk to the suddenly anxious scout who had almost escaped his office.

Even with his antennae drooping, Bee managed a quiet chirr of amusement before answering over his comm line to spare his damaged vocalizer.

::Jazz always said you worked yourself too hard, sir. I figured you could use it.::

"I . . ." Prowl realized he was gaping like an idiot. "Thank you, Bumblebee," he said, managing to sound both decisive and sincere. "It is very much appreciated."

Bee chirred again and murmured a soft "Y're wel-come" before slipping out.

After a moment, Prowl picked up the cube and strode for the door. He paused to look back before he turned off the lights. There were still a fair number of pads stacked on his desk, but he was reasonably certain that the world would not end if he waited until tomorrow to finish them. With a stern nod to himself, he turned and headed for his quarters.

He sipped the cube as he walked and felt an unbidden smile on his face.

Thank you, Jazz.