Here Comes the Rain Again

By Ariel-D

Description: After the events of TFTM: 1986, Bluestreak ponders the loss of Prowl, who he loved like a father, and needs the grace to survive such grief. G1, obviously. No pairings. Angst/drama.

Disclaimer: Transformers is the property of HasTak. I am making no profit from this story and no infringement is intended. Likewise, all quotes from songs and television shows are the property of their respective copyright holders.

A/N: Warning—covers TFTM 1986. The “angst” tag is not used lightly on this story.

//comm. link//

Chapter One

The storm announced itself with a single plop of a raindrop hitting a leaf. Then two. Then three. Suddenly, the forest filled with rushing drops spattering on leaves and dirt, thunder rumbling in the distance, and to Bluestreak, the green plants and trees seemed neon under the nearly black clouds. Likewise, the orange of the crashed Autobot ship seemed almost gold in the warped evening light. He had not wanted to be the one who found it; he would have preferred a shift at the comm. But after the Decepticons’ retreat, all that had remained had been death, and so he found himself standing alone in a rainy swath of the Oregon forest, staring at a ship he knew entombed four of his friends.

“Primus . . .” he breathed, activating his comm. link. //Bluestreak to Hound. Ship found.//

//Copy that, Blue,// came the kind, quiet voice. //Stay here; I’m homing in on your position. And don’t enter until the rest of us arrive! Hound out.//

Don’t enter . . . Bluestreak closed his comm. link, knowing that Hound was trying to spare him the pain. However, in truth nothing could save him, and he didn’t think he could stand waiting. He headed for the nasty gash in the ship’s side—the torn metal angling outward like fangs—and ducked inside. As his optics adjusted to the low light, he saw that blaster burns cut up the walls, and he wondered why his species had to be so violent. Their war spanned the galaxy, leaving behind charred ruins and infecting innocent worlds like Earth. Sickening.

The first body he tripped over was Brawn’s, his optics blackened and metallic skin grayed out from energon loss; beyond that, he could see what was left of Ironhide and realized he was missing his head. He glanced away quickly, the energon roiling in his tank from sudden nausea, only for his gaze to fall upon the one he’d loved like a father.

“P-Prowl . . .” His vocal processor hitched, and he stumbled over to the prone form, finding his legs weak. He fell to his knees beside the grayed-out body and reached out with shaking fingers, running them down the cheek plate and seam. How peaceful he looked in death, his pale gray face relaxed, the weight of running an army lifted from his shoulders—how calm, how wise, like he’d seen and now knew the secret of the Creation Matrix.

“I never told you,” Bluestreak whispered, unable to stop himself. “I never told you how much you meant to me or how much I appreciated the way you looked out for me or how much I loved you.” He’d been so sure that someone as no-nonsense as Prowl would rebuke him for such emotional words; now all he could do was wonder if he’d hurt Prowl by never telling him. “I’m so sorry, Father.”

It broke him to consider the possibility that Prowl had wanted to hear those words and that Bluestreak’s lack of confidence had denied him such recognition. In the darkness of the wrecked ship, with the shadows bunching in the corners, Bluestreak doubled over and shook as dry sobs wracked his frame. I’m such a fool, he thought, hating himself. Such a fool.

Only the sounds of feet crushing broken glass and metallic shards pulled him from his misery, and then someone knelt by him, putting one hand on a trembling door wing.

“I told you to wait,” Hound said quietly, and when Bluestreak began sobbing again, he wrapped his arm around his shoulders and held him.

Eventually Bluestreak calmed and fell into a numb apathy. Megatron had killed Optimus Prime; Windcharger, Wheeljack, and Huffer had died defending Autobot City. And now he had to escort back the body of the mech he loved most. He joined the solemn procession, gripping one end of the hover pad on which Prowl had been laid, Trailbreaker guiding the other end. Hound and Mirage had charge of Ironhide’s hover pad, and Tracks and Smokescreen had Ratchet’s. Beachcomber and Gears guided Brawn’s. The weary band wound their way down muddy paths, ignoring the rain that pelted their frames, their optics dim with grief. Bluestreak found it fitting that the sun refused to shine, and with Optimus Prime and Prowl dead and Cybertron apparently under attack by some strange force, he wondered if their race had any hope left.

Who would lead them now? What were they even fighting for anymore? Bluestreak’s resolve to fight had never been strong, but it was dead now—as gray and lifeless as the bodies they were seeing home. Let the humans have their war on terror, he thought, dispirited. This world sees nothing but death—that earthquake near Sumatra, that resulting tsunami, those bombings in London, all those hurricanes . . . and now it will see the funerals of some of the greatest Autobots to ever live.

I’d say we should leave and never return, but where would we go? Apparently what is left of our planet is being destroyed at this very moment.

To Bluestreak, life suddenly seemed utterly pointless.

Sitting at the comm. and watching the monitors, Bluestreak found himself the unwitting audience of a pending shuttle departure. Now that the mass funeral had been conducted, a ship was preparing to leave for Cybertron, carrying various mechs and femmes to their new posts. Ultra Magnus was staying at his post as commander of Autobot City, but past that, everything else seemed to have changed. Dark clouds bunched up on the horizon, obscuring the morning light, and crows circled over the forest beyond the city. The command center’s florescent lights seemed glaring by contrast and made Bluestreak’s optics hypersensitive.

“They tell me yer not talkin’.”

Feeling far too numb to be surprised by the sudden voice, Bluestreak rotated slowly in his chair and stared at Jazz. Despite the smile pinned to his lips, Jazz’s paint seemed dull, like it needed a good wax, and his optical visor glowed dimly. A fake smile, Bluestreak decided. The realization was all that kept him from screaming at him under the assumption he wasn’t grieving for Prowl. “Not much to say,” he replied.

“That’s not like ya.” Jazz wandered into the room and leaned his hip against the control board, crossing his arms over his chest. “Hey, man, are ya okay?”

Bluestreak clenched his fists against his legs. “Of course I’m not okay!” What kind of question was that? “I looked up to Prowl like he was my father, and now he’s dead!”

Nodding once, Jazz sat in the seat beside him. “Prowl was like my brother,” he whispered, the fake smile gone. “But ya have to do somethin’ with all that grief. ‘Bee says yer just kinda holdin’ it all in.”

“Do what with it?” Bluestreak hissed. He knew Jazz was trying to help; he knew Jazz had to hurt as much as he did. But he really just wanted everyone to drop it—it would never be “okay,” not ever again.

Jazz paused, then reached over and took one of his hands, squeezing it gently. “Well, Sides an’ I came up with somethin’ that we think’ll work for us, but everyone’s different, man. Ya gotta come up with somethin’ that’ll work for you.”

Bluestreak ignored Jazz’s words, his processor immediately leaping to the topic that bothered him most; he could feel his door wings quivering on his back from the tension. “Jazz?” he whispered.

“Yeah?” Jazz scooted closer, still holding his hand.

“I never told him.” Bluestreak clutched the comm. board with his free hand, and the metal groaned under his suddenly brutal grip. “I never told him I loved him! I never told him how much it meant to me that—” The harsh, wracking, dry sobs returned, cutting off his words.

Jazz hugged him tightly, pulling him halfway onto his lap in the process. “Shh. It’s okay. He knew.”

“Don’t just say that!” Bluestreak wailed. “I don’t want to be patronized.”

“I’m not.” Jazz began rocking him faintly. “Prowler talked ‘bout ya a lot durin’ his free time. He raved every time ya got a commendation. Nearly had a cow when ya got promoted. He totally looked at ya like you were his creation. He wasn’t the touchy-feely type, ya know—not the kind ta gush all over ya. But I could tell how ya’ll felt ‘bout each other, an’ there was never a doubt in my mind he knew how much ya thought of ‘im.”

Bluestreak shuddered in his embrace and hugged him back, but he was able to bring his sobs under control. “A-Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Jazz helped him to sit up straight again and gave him a more genuine smile. “No one knew Prowler like I did. Not even Optimus. I’m totally sure he knew how ya felt.”

Some of the guilt seemed to ease out of Bluestreak’s spark. “If—if I can’t have him here with me, then at the least I need—needed—him to know that.”

Jazz stood and clapped his shoulder lightly. “No doubt. An’ he was one proud adoptive creator.” He grinned. “Now ya keep talkin’, ya hear? I’ll have a tour of duty here at some point, an’ the first thing I wanna hear is yer voice. Got it?”

Giving him a wan smile, Bluestreak nodded. “Got it.” I’ll do my best, anyway, he thought, but don’t be surprised if I’m never quite the same. He waved goodbye as Jazz bowed out of the room, but he suspected that while the destruction of his home had made him talk too much, this new trauma might very well steal most of his words. Still, as long as Prowl knew he loved him, it would be enough for him to push forward.

“So many words,” Bluestreak muttered to the empty room, uncaring at his lack of audience. “But we never say what we really need to say.”

With those words spoken, the room fell into unbroken silence save the pattering of falling rain.

A/N: Thank you in advance for any reviews or favs. Darkhelmetj and I RPed a little Jazz and Prowl friendship story—nothing tragic, I swear—but I’m not quite sure yet whether I’ll be converting it to prose. We’ll see. Oh! And I forgot to say that my source of inspiration is Beregond 5. Be sure to read her stories!

This story ties into chapter 2 of “A Bond So Special."