The moment Prowl entered the room he’d smell paint thinners and cleanser. In between the berth and the small waskracks sat the lithe mech half dark silver, half black with gaudy orange and yellow. Faint sounds of what had been cloth scrubbing against armor would stop the moment the door silent slide shut behind Prowl.
Two pale hues shone in the dimly lit room snapped upward, staring directly at the Praxian with unforgiving intensity. Once carefree, handsome features strained with stress shifted– whether in the softening of his frown or flickering of his optics– showing the barest trace of relief that soothed the hard edges of the battle-worn agent.
He knew who was here. Who had come.
The quiet sentence broke the palatable silence. Slowly he returned to striping parts of his frame removing his alternate persona. Gradually he would work his way back to Jazz. Step by step. Piece by piece.
“I was nervous ya might not see it, but that ain’t true. Ya always see it. You always know how to find me,” Jazz added carefully.
The Praxian acknowledged the door sliding shut behind his back with the tiniest twitch of the doorwings, datapad he held in his servo instantly disappearing into his subspace; it wasn’t needed anymore and won’t be needed anytime soon.
The quiet, tense mech in front of him was unmistakably Jazz and yet at the same time not yet Jazz; not entirely. Prowl has spent a lot of time wondering how such thing was even possible, then decided to discard all the thoughts and simply accept it all exactly the way it was.
“Your messages will always be noticed,” Prowl voice was smooth and calm, quiet enough not to disturb the silence that surrounded them. “And you will always be found, as long as this is what you want and need.”
Jazz wanted him to know and to come, and so the tactician came, just like so many times before. It was perfectly logical and it was right.
Despite his attention to details, if the Praxian was to pinpoint when exactly all of this started, he probably wouldn’t be able to. He remembered the first time when items on his desk mysteriously started to get rearranged without his permission and how they argued about it until Jazz finally confessed that it wasn’t a prank but a message, but hasn’t the spy tried to find ways to reach out to him after returning from his missions even before that? And after all those years, it has become a natural thing for Prowl.
With doorwings gracefully shifting into a more relaxed stance the Praxian crossed the distance between them to kneel on the ground next to Jazz, blue optics glimmering with a mix of concern and hints of something warm studying his friend intently, looking for any signs of injuries.
“Welcome home,” Prowl added in voice softer than his usual tone as he slowly reached out, white digits brushing lightly against the other’s servo and the cloth he was holding. “Would you like me to help?”
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