This one-shot story is brought to you courtesy of JordanfromFlorida who provided the 2,000th review of Turning Points. The request was a story that revolved around the trust formed between Ratchet and Prowl. We agreed that using the trip Prowl and Jazz took to the medbay following their sparring match in chapter 63 of Turning Points was a suitable setting.

I normally try to make these one-shots in the Turning Points verse stand alone, and while this one relatively fits that standard, I must admit that in order to get all of the innuendo of this particular story a familiarity with the history between Prowl and Ratchet would be very helpful.

To JordanfromFlorida: I hope this meets your expectations.

Note: This story takes place during the 63rd chapter of "Turning Points"

Ratchet moved about straightening up the med bay with a level of intensity that made his staff skirt around him with armor clamped closely to their frames. But Ratchet was more focused on his internal rant than the movement of the other medics. Or rather, he was too busy rehearsing how he was going to tear a new exhaust port in Prowl's armor the next time he saw the mech.

Though he was arguably one of the most brilliant mechs Ratchet had ever met, Prowl was an absolute idiot. The whole situation between him and Bluestreak was tragic and, considering Prowl had allowed a youngling to get fragmented during his first true synch was…was…

Ratchet's engine revved and the gears in his fingers strained as he wiped an errant streak of cleaning fluid off the countertop he had just cleared.

As if somehow able to sense the thoughts cycling through Ratchet's processor, First Aid spoke from just behind his mentor. "Bluestreak's processor is fine."

Ratchet managed hide his surprise at not having noticed his apprentice's approach. Instead he wadded up the cloth in his hand and swung around to glare at the white and red junior medic. "Physically, perhaps." His engine growled again. "But you know as well as I that some injuries aren't physical."

First Aid hesitated, his armor flattening over his frame, but before he could reply, the medbay doors opened and Jazz all but dragged the real object of their discussion into the main ward. The tactician was leaning heavily on the smaller mech, one hand pressed against his helm.

And both mechs were liberally dented and dripping energon. All over Ratchet's recently cleaned med bay.

Immediately recognizing the results of two mechs brawling with each other, Ratchet let out a stream of invective. With a short databurst to First Aid assigning him to look after Jazz while he took charge of Prowl, Ratchet closed on his patient.

Hand clamped around Prowl's upper arm, he pushed the Praxian onto a berth and interrupted his own harangue with an angry growl of his engine. "So, you weren't satisfied causing Bluestreak to suffer, you hurt your friend as well."

Prowl's doorwings flinched, "Jazz and I were sparring, Ratchet. It is inaccurate to imply I was willfully beating him."

The unperturbed nature of Prowl's reply momentarily stunned Ratchet. He opened his lip plates to reply but Jazz piped up from his perch several exam tables away where First Aid was sealing some energon leaks.

"Hey! I kicked Prowl's aft too, just so ya know!"

Prowls vents hitched, but Ratchet ignored that and looked over at Jazz, unimpressed, "Is that why your lateral pede strut is cracked?"

Jazz just stared at him for a sparkbeat then smirked and, for some reason, that smug, arrogant look was enough to light Ratchet's fuse.

"You… you good for nothing, slagged pile of rusted parts!" Ratchet pointed at the saboteur. "You short sighted enabler of galactic stupidity! Don't you know Prowl has more important matters to attend to than entertaining you in a sparring match?"

Jazz's visor flickered in shock, that expression of smug amusement disappearing. Prowl spoke before Jazz could. "Ratchet, such an accusation is unfair. Jazz was…"

Ratchet swung back to loom over the tactician. "Jazz is a short circuited fool. But you… you are an arrogant aft. What the pit do you think you were doing indulging in a fragging sparring match when you have a youngling you need to see to? Bluestreak is suffering and it is your fault, you sparkles drone!"

All emotion vanished from Prowl's mein, a carefully neutral expression sliding into place as his doorwings went still. "I am aware of that. I…"

Ratchet popped out a dent in the tactician's chassis with deliberate harshness, cutting him off. "And you still chose to indulge your own selfish, warrior-masochism and fight for the fun of it? You bitless scrap heap."

Just refreshing his memory cache concerning the youngling Bluestreak's mental agony from the fragmentation of his processor made Ratchet even more furious. Even if it was only inexperience with synched processes that caused Blustreak to break the connection while still within Prowl's firewalls, it was still Prowl – as the youngling's mentor and guardian – who should have taken steps to protect the youngling.

With a muttered curse, Ratchet moved on to splicing wires in Prowl's arm where it looked like one of Jazz's blades had scored a hit.

"You were using weapons?" Ratchet demanded of the Praxian who had wisely remained silent.

"Of course not." Prowl lifted an optic ridge. "That would be illogical."

Ratchet snarled at his patient. "Of course it would. But pummeling each other with your fists and pedes isn't. Just like letting a youngling get fragmented during his first synch. Do you have any idea how much mental trauma that can cause?"

That got a reaction out of the otherwise stoic mech, at least.

Prowl's optics blazed, even though he winced as Ratchet's verbal blow hit true and Ratchet began to suspect it was emotion that was causing Prowl more pain than the physical injuries he had suffered in that sparring match. It matched the symptoms.

Prowl's engine revved quietly yet he somehow managed to keep his tone even. "Bluestreak fragmented himself. I did everything I could to keep it from being worse than it was. And yes. I know exactly how traumatizing a processor fragmentation is, as you well know."

This time it was Ratchet who felt the verbal slap at the reminder of his own role in purposefully fragmenting Prowl's processor back when Prowl had still been a Decepticon POW whom they thought had betrayed them. Remembering his own burning guilt over the matter – when his duty had been to restrain Jazz but he had, in his own anger chosen not to – served to both cool Ratchet's fury at Prowl and yet stoke the vague, targetless frustration he felt on Bluestreak's behalf.

"Heya, Ratch…" Jazz spoke again, this time with a hint of earnest sincerity rather than smugness. "Lay off Prowler there…"

"Why, when the glitch cares nothing…"

"Woah!" Jazz actually pushed First Aid aside and slipped from the berth to grab Ratchet's arm. Ratchet was dimly aware of the hurt flinch of Prowl's doorwings and the tightening of the tactician's field, but most of his attention was now centered on Jazz. The normally carefree mech was now very serious, a seriousness that few ever got to see.

Seeing he had Ratchet's attention, Jazz nodded. "Ratch, he triggered that failsafe of yours several times last night that I know about. One time it took him almost two joors ta reboot. Ya know as well as I that wouldn'ta happened if he wasn't feeling anythin'. "

Ratchet's optics twitched at that news and he forced them to reset and reboot.

Jazz was right. Ratchet knew exactly what it took to trigger that failsafe. It had been over a vorn since that failsafe had been triggered at all. For it to have happened more than once in less than an orn could only indicate extreme emotional strain. He swung his gaze back to the tactician in question and finally allowed himself to see the carefully guarded expressions, the tense expectation of pain and – even though he had defended himself verbally against Ratchet's accusations – Prowl had never protested the rough medical treatment.

That only made Ratchet feel guilty all over again and that, in turn, made him even more irritable. He leaned over, getting in Prowl's faceplate. "You suffered multiple failsafe activations and a prolonged reboot and you didn't think to tell me?"

Prowl's doorwing flicked. "I never got the opportunity, Medic."

The words were delivered with absolutely no inflection and, for some reason, even though he knew that meant Prowl was very emotional, and that only irritated Ratchet anew. "Fragging aft-helm. Open up. Now."

Ratchet yanked his own cord out of its storage compartment and tapped on the armor covering Prowl's primary port.

Prowl stilled all systems for a long second, his optics flicking back and forth between Ratchet's. Ratchet continued to meet the tactician's gaze, determined to do what he had to in order to diagnose and treat whatever had happened inside Prowl's processor. A stray fragment of thought reminded Ratchet that he had not exactly given Prowl any reason to cooperate, but he brushed that thought aside because…because…

Fraggit! Prowl's ethical programming wouldn't give the tactician any choice. Ratchet was Chief Medical Officer and that made any order he gave – especially inside his own med bay – an order that the revamped ethical programming Prowl had hard-installed in his command systems would force Prowl to obey. Ratchet's inkling of guilt over doing so vanished just as quickly as he identified the cause. Realizing it was that same act of stupidity that had caused the glitch in Prowl's processor that ultimately led to the mech's current problem, Ratchet felt a sudden justification for making Prowl suffer the consequences.

Prowl must have read something of Ratchet's thoughts in his face or his field because the tactician's armor clamped a fraction tighter to his frame.

Then Prowl cycled his vents, releasing a warm draft of air that brushed against Ratchet's frame. "Yes, Medic."

Though impassive, there was a clear sense of resignation from Prowl as, with another visible hesitation, the cover of the dataport was slid obediently aside.

Snorting air through his own vents, Ratchet slammed his cord into place and ran right up against Prowl's firewalls. They did not budge.

Ratchet glared at Prowl. "What the pit, Prowl!"

Prowl glared right back at him. Or at least the somewhat fiercer than normal emotionless stare suddenly had more meaning through the hardline connection. "You ordered this, Medic. Are you going to force the scan as well? We both know you have my overrides."

Ratchet jerked back in surprise. "Slaggit all, Prowl…" His irritation finally abated enough and he sighed air, his armor relaxing over his frame. "I don't want to force your mind."

Prowl continued to regard him for several astroseconds, then his doorwings dipped just a fraction. "Thank you, Medic."

Still, Prowl hesitated and Ratchet realized his own systems were still running hot. The CMO forced himself to cycle his vents to cool his own systems. As he regained control over his own emotions, he saw Prowl offer a tiny nod of approval before, with a resigned gust of air, the tactician lowered his primary firewall. Prowl lit a path to his command cortex, and Ratchet's engine almost stalled.

No longer buffered by those massive firewalls, it was impossible for the medic to miss that Prowl's stoic façade hid a riotous flux of emotions. Well, they would be riotous in any other mech. For Prowl they were a maelstrom. No wonder his emotion and logic centers were unable to deal with the mater.

"You slagging imbecile!" Ratchet hissed, wheeling a little at the onslot. "Why the pit would you let this go on?"

Even as he asked the question, Ratchet knew the answer. None of the medics, and especially the CMO himself – who was the only one with the experience and knowledge to deal with this particular problem – had exactly been approachable by Prowl. Indeed, Ratchet knew he had been far from encouraging any kind of personal confidence from Prowl.

That deep in Prowl's processor the medic could not help but see the memory – as well as the evidence within the coding matrix itself – that Prowl had willingly let Jazz examine his command cortex. That he would allow Jazz do so instead of coming to the med bay felt like a slap to the faceplate.

Prowl flinched at whatever he caught of Ratchet's thoughts, and yet he never even threw a single firewall back up.

Very aware of the discomfort the synch was causing Prowl, Ratchet proceeded to scan the affected coding as gently as he could manage. Slowly, Prowl relaxed as he gained confidence that Ratchet was not going to rip into him while his processor was so vulnerable.

"That was still a stupid, glitched thing to do." Ratchet told Prowl.

Prowl's optics shuttered over a wince. "I seem to have a penchant for stupidity lately."

Though he spoke quietly, the maelstrom of emotion welled again and Ratchet had to blunt the force of it once more, or the damaged artificial framework in Prowl's processor would have been overwhelmed again. With that blatant demonstration, Ratchet had to admit that Prowl had not escaped the incident with Bluestreak unscathed.

Outwardly he just glared at Prowl. "You are a glitched up fragger."

Prowl winced, but it was only half-sparked. "Noted, Medic."

Ratchet paused both mentally and physically, realizing that Prowl's posture and mental stance was eerily similar to what it had been when he had been a recently defected Decepticon POW. The tactician was braced for a very unpleasant experience, resigned to it and yet not even considering an attempt to avoid that discomfort. No, Ratchet realized, Prowl's mental stance was not exactly identical to what it had been back then. There was not the near consuming terror that Ratchet would abuse the privileged access to his command center.

Yes, Prowl was worried that Ratchet would use the opportunity to berate him and make it as uncomfortable as possible. But Prowl was not worried that Ratchet would use the opportunity to reprogram him.

Guiltily Ratchet recalled all the harsh insults and cruel words with which he flayed the mech within less than two breems, and that after all Prowl had done to help him and the other medics learn to defend themselves in the field. Guilt pounded at Ratchet and that made him even more irritated, except that he no longer had a convenient outlet for that irritation. He huffed a loud burst of air through his vents as he shuttered his optics, bowing his helm.

When he finally onlined his optics to look at Prowl, he saw that the tactician was regarding him with a touch of reserved amusement. It was not mockery – Prowl never mocked – but sympathetic.

Ratchet grunted and went back to repairing Prowl's damaged command cortex.

Perhaps recognizing Ratchet's more congenial approach to the repairs as the truce it represented, Prowl's frame relaxed a fraction further. Ratchet just shook his helm, but nothing else needed to be said between them. After all, this was not the first time that Prowl had volunteered to bear the brunt of Ratchet's emotional outbursts.