Author's Note: Because I keep forgetting to mention this, and Prowl names a pretty high number. I'm been rounding with a few of them, and have one definite answer because of how it works out. Because I don't read the TF comics, I've taken liberties and now I'm paying for it. So here you go.

Breem = 8 minutes
Joor = 8 breems, just over 1 Earth hour (64 minutes)
Orn =1 lunar day, 28.125 joors; (30 Earth hours)
Deca-orn = 10 orns (10 lunar days)
Vorn = 1 lunar year; 30 deca-orns (300 orns)
Decavorn =10 vorns; 300 deca-orns (3000 orns)

.o.

Prowl was a proud mech, some said. Others called him emotionless. Arrogant. Haughty. Incapable of happiness. Incapable of showing any form of emotion, even anger.

Most heard these words from Sunstreaker or Sideswipe.

None heard Prowl himself conspiring with those two in the early days of the Great War to make sure that everyone knew that he was emotionless and without any sort of emotional vise whatsoever. It made people less likely to try to buy him off or buy their way into his good graces. Each mech on the command team had made themselves untouchable for a reason. Optimus, while dangerous on the battlefield and could cuss out the best of Decepticons, was noble, philosophical, and all but Primus' right hand. Ratchet had his (admittedly honest) anger issues. Jazz was a party mech that nobody really took seriously until they found him in the training rooms testing himself against Prowl. Ironhide was all about his cannons and his Sparkmate. (Which was true, but not to the extent that he made it seem to be.) Red Alert played up his paranoia, then laughed with the other officers about the newest insults aimed towards them all because of his strategic placement of cameras. Bumblebee, who had made his way up the ranks with shocking ease, had his youth, though mechs would often try to corrupt the bratling or take advantage of him.

That was usually when they found themselves waking up in the brig beside Sunstreaker, wondering what the Pit had hit them and how not to get themselves killed by the resident sociopath grinning down at them.

Speaking of the slagger, he was sitting in Prowl's office. Well, sulking really. The slightly-larger SIC opened the door and stood in the doorway. "What now?"

"Threw Cliffjumper through a wall."

". . . you're slagging kidding me."

"Nope. Made a pretty noise, too."

If it wasn't Sunny causing a ruckus, it was either Cliff or Hot Rod. Closing the door after himself and locking it, Prowl settled himself not behind his desk, but in the other "guest" chair, facing Sunstreaker, cutting straight to the chase. :What's the real problem, Sunny?: He was one of the few who could get away with the nickname, and only when Sunstreaker was feeling lenient.

:I miss Sideswipe. Spark hurts. Cliff is just the icing on the cake. That mech doesn't shut his vocal processor long enough to listen to what he's saying.:

Making a noise of understanding, Prowl replied, :I wish we could do something about your problem, and if you had left yourself open and eligible for relationships, you could have had some comfort here.:

:Oh, go swallow the Smelter's rod. I don't want to frag Bluestreak without Sideswipe. He and I are good, but we need Sideswipe to make it an even match. We know this. We're fine as friends and for keeping the berth warm for each other in the most innocent of ways, but . . .:

:I know. I know, Sunny. It's not the same.:

:Yeah. I'm half of a whole. And I don't know how Blue handles me on some days.:

:He loves you. Why do you think that I have as much patience with you as I do? I've mentored you, I understand what makes you tick. Did you two have a falling-out?:

:No. He's mad because I threw Cliffy into a wall.:

:You said through it.:

:It dented.:

Snorting a laugh, Prowl shook his head and reached over to rest his hand upon Sunstreaker's helm, careful not to scratch the paint. "You vain bird. You know the drill. Off to the brig with you."

"Datapad this time?"

"How much damage did Cliffjumper take?"

"Less than the last time I trounced him. Dented dorsal armoring, nothing that he can't pop out himself."

"Yeah, take a datapad. Bring some art back to me."

"Thanks." Standing, Sunstreaker looked down at the Autobot Second in Command, then rested his hand upon the mech's shoulder. "Missing Jazz?"

"The moment I see him again, Primus Himself couldn't keep me from dragging him into the nearest place of privacy and interfacing him into stupidity. Once he's sane again, then I'll Bond with him." Prowl sighed, doorwings drooping. "I miss him, Sunny. I really miss him. It's been seven hundred decavorns. That's too fragging long. Sideswipe's been following them for barely a quarter of that time."

"Chin up. Prime's transmission today had them with Bee again, who's on some planet in the Sol system. I hate that we get delayed transmissions. It takes forever to get messages back and forth, which'll stop with Siders getting to them. Don't worry. You'll get your chance under some luscious tropical, organic setting. Waterfalls. Some pretty insects. Maybe an avian or five looking on jealously. I would be looking on in jealousy. Jazz could be pretty. You're too . . . you."

Prowl finally gave in to the weary chuckles, feeling the twin's hand patting his shoulder reassuringly. "Come lecture me again, if you need to."

"Get outta here," Prowl chuckled, moving behind his desk, only to find a cube of high grade waiting for him, hiding behind a pile of datapads. Sniffing it after Sunstreaker left, he found himself calming instantly. It was the spiced Iacon brew that they had used for their celebrations before the war started. Memories of what felt like a different life sprang to mind. He really did take his life for granted. He took recharging with his wonderful mate as a constant. He took the time spent with his Sparkling as a constant.

Neither were with him.

Shaking his head, he sipped the nostalgic cube, enjoying the taste of the blend. It was liquid comfort. Not even a Praxian high grade gave him this type of comfort. With a sigh, he had no sooner picked up a datapad when he heard a ruckus in the hallway. Sunstreaker yelling, cursing, but something felt off. It wasn't the cursing of anger. There was . . . something else in his tone.

Sighing, putting the datapad down, he walked out into the hallway to see the golden mech on his knees and clutching at his chest, right over his Spark. Prowl cursed and ran to his side, looking up to see Bluestreak and Smokescreen coming out of Smokey's office, the door almost coming off of the hinges. Infantry mechs were looking down the hallway in shock.

Nobody had ever seen Sunstreaker lose it like this. Primus, even Prowl hadn't seen Sunny like this since they were Younglings. Cliffjumper even looked shocked and confused. Prowl grabbed Sunstreaker's shoulders. "Sunstreaker! Sunny, Primus damnit, what is it?"

First Aid came rocketing through the crowd, his snarls truly like that of his mentor's. "Move! Move! Sunstreaker! What's wrong?" He came with Spark-dampeners, used to sometimes running into trouble with the twins and needing to give Sunstreaker some forced recharge while his Spark continually adjusted to the pain of separation.

Moaning wordlessly, he keened with loss, causing Bluestreak to fall to his knees beside the twin. "Sunny!"

There was nothing pulling him out of the state he was in. So Prowl pulled his fist back and rocketed it into Sunstreaker's perfect cheek with a roar. "Snap out of it, frontliner! What is it?"

Holding his cheek, staring in shock at the mech who never struck him without holding back, even when they were training, Sunstreaker's keen whispered into his voice as he spoke. "Prowl, I'm so sorry . . . I'm so sorry . . ."

"Sorry for what? You throwing Cliffjumper into a wall is mild in comparison to what you used to do! What's wrong?"

"No . . . I'm sorry in advance. I'm so sorry . . . Sideswipe is on Earth, with Prime. A-arrived this morning. Sent me a message . . . Spark-code." Choking over a keen, the golden twin looked up at his teacher, a mech he called brother. "Jazz is dead."

Rocking back as if Prowl himself had just been hit full-force by his student, the mech hissed, "No. No, no, no." He sent out a location ping, which would take all of a nanoclick for it to bounce and return off of Jazz's Spark signature.

It returned with errors.

"Prime's words. Sideswipe was weeping. Felt it. Spark aches. I'm so sorry, Prowl!"

"No!" Standing to try to run (where would he run to?), Prowl got three steps before feeling his knees give out and he fell to the deck, shaking. "No. No, he couldn't . . ." He sent another ping, stronger, and it was returned with more errors. The errors that came when the ping found a frame . . . and no Spark.

"He's gone."

"No!" Prowl roared, slamming his fists into the ground, hearing the keens starting to be taken up by mechs who knew Jazz. He felt arms wrap around him, and he struggled against them, but couldn't get away from the mechs who held onto him as he felt a hard crash coming closer to his consciousness. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no . . ."

"Aid! Get over here! He's crashing!"

"Primus! Get me a port, now!"

"He's sealed it shut!"

"Prowl, don't crash!"

"Prowl! I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!"

"I don't care if you tear off that armor, get me that port!"

"No," the mech whispered, before blessed oblivion took him.

.o.

Bluestreak watched as Smokescreen pulled his cord from the medical port in Prowl's frame. He sighed and looked at the inert face before turning to First Aid, Bluestreak, and Sunstreaker, who wouldn't even let his face be repaired until Prowl came back online. "He's in there good and tight, but stable. His mind is intact, even if he's grieving for Jazz. He tried pinging Jazz right after you told him, Sunny, so that's why he crashed immediately. Found out the hard way that Jazz's frame is without a Spark."

"So his mind and his psychology is stable."

"Well, as stable as a grieving mech can get. I have two solutions. One is to leave him in this state until we're with Prime and we can give him some comfort by being close to Prime's Spark. Primus knows that they were close friends before the war, and were all but brothers by the time we launched the AllSpark." He ticked the other finger off. "The other option is something that I'm fielding to you, Blue. We can bring him into our family, as a brother. It'll keep him from suiciding."

"He's not likely to suicide, not with Barricade still sharing a Creation Bond with him," First Aid stated bluntly, even if it was with a sneer for the wayward son of Enforcers. "That would keep him from suiciding over the loss of a Mate-Bond."

Smokescreen raised an optic-ridge. "You know that he and Jazz were never Bonded, right?"

Scoffing, First Aid retorted, "That's slag. They had to be. They've always worked together like a Bonded couple."

Sunstreaker sighed. "They were being cautious. They didn't want the Cons to kill off two officers with one shot if they Bonded. It killed them, but they knew that if they took their relationship to that level, one of them had to go into hiding, just like Elita and Chromia have." He shook his head, bringing his hands up to cradle his helm. The twin whispered, "Prowl and Jazz have always just been that close. Their Sparks called to each other the moment they met. Ratchet was there. He told us about them."

"So, essentially, we're sitting on a problem that could cause us to lose two of the top three Autobot officers anyway." Sighing, First Aid rubbed at his forehead. "Days like this I wish that Barricade hadn't broken his Creators' Sparks."

Bluestreak and Sunstreaker shared a grimace that they knew would be misinterpreted by the medic. They knew what had been going on with Cade, but they were sworn to secrecy. Hell, the only person who didn't know what Barricade was up to in this room was First Aid, and that was because as a psychologist, Smokescreen had tested that kid's mind seven ways to Primus and thirteen ways to the Smelter. He simply compressed his lips disapprovingly. "Mourning over what could have been won't help us with what is. Yes, Barricade had the skills to become an officer—"

"Did, according to intelligence. He was one of Megatron's frontline officers, remember?"

"We still kicked his aft!" Sunstreaker snarled, the expression on his face made more savage by the injury to his face. "But it doesn't matter. Prowl's . . . Prowl's in pain. What can we do?"

"What do you care? All you do is cause him trouble!" First Aid exploded, sweeping his hand to indicate the prone Autobot Second in Command. "All you do is make his job, his function, harder to complete! If you're not brawling, you're brewing high grade! If you're not brewing, you're drunk off of your aft! If you're not drunk, you're brawling!"

"You forget yourself, First Aid," the golden twin snarled menacingly, optics hard as he looked up at Ratchet's apprentice. "When I'm doing none of the above, I'm protecting his aft in battle." He paused, then stabbed a finger at their medic. "And yours. Why do you think I'm always close at hand to keep mechs off of you? I have standing orders to keep your aft from being on your own berths."

They glared at each other, silent in a standoff until a lanky mech glided into the room with more supplies from their stores. He paused, huffed, put the supplies down and grumbled, "Me Swoop see him Prowl on berth and no injuries. Why you First Aid and you Sunstreaker make big fight while him Prowl need rest? Him Prowl has Spark-ache. He no need hear more pain." Hands on hips, the apprentice (and all puns aside, almost-fledged) medic blinked his large, orange-gold optics and looked from one mech to another calmly.

Sunstreaker finally looked away from the officer, then muttered, "He's going to need some comfort. I'm . . . I'm telling you, as an officer, First Aid, that I'm stockpiling Praxian high grade." Turning away, he was about to leave when Swoop gently rested a hand upon his shoulder, turning him towards a berth so that they could treat his face.

"Why? Why tell me this?" First Aid asked softly. This wasn't like Sunstreaker.

"Because he's too much like Ratchet when he's grieving. He'll numb the pain somehow and Praxian is the fastest way to numb a Praxian processor."

Smokescreen nodded, his gaze upon Prowl's, which was starting to show signs of him coming back to consciousness. "I'd rather him be drowning in high grade than allowing his battle computer to take over. He won't process his emotions; won't process the grief. At least for a while, we can handle the troops while he takes his time to process this. They know now that he's not as Sparkless as he's made himself appear."

"Me Swoop hear many Autobots say they trust him Prowl more now. Them Autobots see how deep him Prowl's emotions run." He looked up from making sure that the repair on Sunstreaker's face was absolutely perfect. The Dinobot knew how fussy the mech was when it came to appearances, and he picked up a handheld buffer to smooth out the weld, turning back to his work. "Them Autobots trust him Prowl more, see that him Prowl pushed emotions away to serve us Autobots to best abilities."

Bluestreak sighed, for once not having the words for this situation up to this point. So he looked to his brother, then over to Prowl. "Let's invite him into our family. He's already been a brother to us, to me, since our Caretakers passed away. I want to be able to give him something to hold onto, after everything that he's given us to hold onto when we needed someone the most. I mean, it's the only thing I know of that we can do, aside from letting him grieve, that will help him stay with us."

Resting his hand on his little brother's shoulder, Smokescreen nodded, walking over to the far side of the medical berth. "Best time to take care of that is now, between the crash and consciousness." Sighing, he muttered, "It's different than just claiming a brother Bond between two mechs. This is . . . going to be a lot more personal, because we're drawing him in."

:And Barricade will feel us, too, through this, like in a true Bonded family.:

Smokescreen nodded. "Are you sure?"

"He needs us."

"Right."

Bluestreak pulled the partition around the berth, effectively shutting everyone out and creating the semblance of privacy. Prowl hated private things happening in public. Just before the partition closed completely, he looked up to see Sunstreaker watching him, intense blue optics locked upon his own. :Blue . . . I'm proud of ya.:

:I wish that our personalities were more compatible, just you and me like this . . .:

:I'm only half of a whole, you know this.:

:You still going to the brig tonight?:

:You'll have your hands full with Prowl. So yeah. I'll do my brig time tonight.:

:Fine. Tomorrow night, I don't care how it happens, you and I are interface ourselves off-line. I am fragging tired of seeing you and feeling my fans kick on without any way to satisfy my longing for you.:

And just like that, Sunstreakers own cooling fans kicked on, much to his embarrassment and Swoop's entertainment. Snickering, Bluestreak ducked into the semi-private room to face his brother's amused-but-chastising look. Shrugging, he sighed and centered himself, looking at his brother, then down at the slowly-coming-back-to-consciousness Prowl. With a nod, they opened their brother-Bond right over Prowl's Spark.

.o.

Sunstreaker lived up to his name as he darted through the halls, three orns after Prowl had returned to the land of the conscious. Cliffjumper had come to get him, and had volunteered to stay out the rest of his shift. The urgency of the little (but garishly) red mech's voice was enough to have gotten Sunstreaker moving at any point in time, but when he heard "Prowl" and "locked in," he was gone from the monitor station. He'd process the situation and its implications later. Right now, he was honing in on the location ping from Bluestreak that had started up the moment he was in the hallways.

Skidding to a halt to change direction down the hallway of a T intersection, he narrowly avoided hitting the wall and running into First Aid, seeing Bluestreak ahead, his helm pressed to the door, Smokescreen beside him with his hand on the sniper's shoulder. Slowing to a walk, Sunstreaker walked up to the door and scanned inside the room. Gusting air out of his vents, he pressed his hand to the door and whispered, "Open up, Prowl."

:I don't want to.:

Raising an optic ridge to Smokescreen at the Youngling-like reply, he got a motion indicating that Prowl had been drinking quite a bit. Well, slag. They'd been trying to keep him under surveillance while the mech drank himself into oblivion. First Aid tried to keep him from drinking, so he had his sober hours there. Kup drank him one-for-one and Prowl went under the table. Sunstreaker let himself get tipsy, but was careful not to get completely overcharged. Turning back to the door, Sunstreaker answered, "I can take the door out, and I'll do brig time for destruction of Army property later. You're not drinking alone."

:Frag off.:

"Maybe later. C'mon, open it up, or I open it up for you."

The lock clicked off a quarter-breem later and Sunstreaker strode in with Bluestreak and Smokescreen, closing it in First Aid's face and soundproofing the room with the activation of the lock. Prowl saw who entered with overcharged optics that were bright with emotions, then looked down at the cube in his hands. Three other cubes lay around his feet and by the smell of the brew, it was the Praxian stash. Thankfully, there was at least fifty more cubes hidden elsewhere. Unfortunately, Prowl also knew where they were all hidden.

Another unfortunate fact: Praxian high grade was the most potent brew that had been invented. Kaon took a close second, but the roughness of the Kaon brew was almost corrosive, so it didn't count.

"You removed yourself from the active duty roster," Smokey said, taking a seat on another storage crate, not moving to take the high grade from his new brother's hand. Bluestreak took up a position on the floor halfway between the other two Praxians, leaving Sunstreaker to pick up an untouched cube and crack it open, taking a sip and humming appreciatively before settling himself on Prowl's crate, right behind the mech, careful of the doorwings.

"Can you please let us be with you and mourn with you?" he asked softly, looking into the cube. "Yes, he was your mate, but he was our friend, our brother, too. He helped us become who we are, me and Blue."

Prowl didn't look at any of them for a long moment before he downed another long swig of the high grade. "I wish Cade was here . . ."

"Me too," Bluestreak whispered. "I wish he had taken another assignment."

"I miss his Spark." Drawing his knees up and resting one arm around his legs, he rested his forehead against his knees, optics off as his vents stuttered in sobs. The cube dangled negligently from his other hand. "I miss my son. Primus, I want Jazz."

Bluestreak dared to reach up and rest his hand on his new brother's foot, saying nothing. He didn't know what to say to a mech who has lost his mate, his other half. Sunstreaker sighed, sipping at the high grade again before sealing the cube and handing it around Prowl to Bluestreak. "Here. I'm going to find some Old Iacon brew."

"Why Old Iacon?" Smokescreen asked, frowning.

"Because it's bitter and won't cloud my processors like Praxian does. Your systems handle your city's high grade best." He opened a few more crates before finding the one where he had hidden the right brew. Pulling out a cube, he closed it again and looked up to see Prowl throwing back the last of the fourth cube, letting the empty vessel tumble out of his fingers and onto the ground. That mech was plastered. He'd seen two cubes cause Smokescreen to stumble and eventually blow a fuse and pass out.

He'd seen Prowl down three once. And only once.

Then again, it had been celebrating the anniversary of his creation date, and he had turned 200 decavorns old at the time. That was a great party. Nobody knew that Prowl could dance as well as he did, and even Barricade, fresh into his adult frame, was stunned at how Prowl had danced with Jazz, even when he was completely drunk off of his aft.

So he pushed one of the last Polyhex cubes into Prowl's hand. "Here. If you're gonna blow a fuse, might as well blow it right."

Opening it, Prowl keened at the scent, but didn't refuse the sweet brew. He sipped it, then took a long swig before staring at the sweet high grade, vents stuttering and the keen unending. He was crying into his drink. Prowl shuddered, weeping openly before those whom he trusted, feeling the hand of a little brother on his foot, and the touch of two Sparks that were as pained as his own resting upon his own.

Barricade.

They didn't flinch, didn't turn away when the whisper of pain from his son commiserated with his own pain. They welcomed him, and that brought comfort to Barricade's broken Spark. He pressed his emotions towards his Creator, aware that the mech was inebriated and about to pop a fuse, but it was as if he were a Youngling again right after a night horror, finding shelter beside his Creators in the middle of the night.

Prowl wept harder, feeling a warm frame shift closer and avoid his doorwings, but found a way to huddle against his back, shielding his weak spots. He tipped back the last of the Polyhex brew, shaking his head at the sweet taste, and held onto the cube this time. "I wish I'd had one last night with him. Jazz . . . my Jazz . . ."

With a soft fizzle of a blown fuse, he slipped offline, and Sunstreaker moved to hold him upright, despite sagging doorwings. "Right. Let's get him to a berth, mechs."

"What's in the Polyhex?" Smokescreen wondered, feeling Barricade fade back away again. They were still too far away for the kid to keep up the contact for very long.

"I've never seen a mech stay awake for very long after chasing even a half cube of Praxian with a quarter cube of Polyhex. There's chemicals in them that conflict and cause a short-out, knocking mechs offline." Sunstreaker wrapped one of Prowl's arms over his shoulder, supporting his waist and standing, easily carrying the mech. "After four Praxian, all he would have needed was a sip of Polyhex, but . . ."

"You have this down to a science."

"My brother's a lush; what do you expect?" Sunstreaker grumbled. "I test everything out on him."

Bluestreak took up Prowl's other side with a wry smile. "And for Praxians?"

"Doorwings mean that you need more to knock you out if it's just straight high grade. Doorwings and the battle computer that he has? Yeah. He already defaults to medical grade as his backup emergency energon, so he's got a better tolerance than most. Ratchet, however, can still out-drink him. Frankly, I'm not sure who would out-last each other, Ratch or Kup."

They opened the door, and found themselves staring up at Ultra Magnus.

"Well, slag."

.o.

Bluestreak looked into the training room two orns later, yelping and closing the door as a poled energon shiv went through the metal and barely missed his helm. Staring at it with wide optics, he moved away from the door slowly. :Sunny, are you still in the brig?:

:Just got out. Magnus is still pissed that I let Prowl get drunk, even if he knows that I have no control over what that mech does.:

:Yeah, no slag. Uh . . . need your help. Prowl's in the training room, and he's decimating the place. He's not drunk, but at the rate he's going at, he'll find a way to breach the hull.:

:. . . dammit.:

:Yeah.:

:Can you report this to Ultra Magnus? I'll be right there to deal with that.:

:Thank you, because I don't feel like getting my doorwings ripped off today.:

:No problem.: The gunner walked his way up towards the bridge, where Magnus was bound to be, actually passing Sunstreaker. They touched hands in passing, and Bluestreak felt the leading edge of one of his doorwings touched feather-light.

:Sunny!:

:So I'm horny. Deal with it.:

:Cocky bastard.:

:You love it.:

Chuckling, he turned away from his lover, shaking his head. Sunstreaker watched as his sometimes-berthmate walked off, then continued on his way to the training room. Once outside the door, he saw a hole where a pole weapon had been ripped free from the door. He slammed it open and dodged not to the left, as he normally would have, but to the right, rolling and coming up with fists raised. "Prowl!"

"Get out!" the mech roared.

"Not until you calm the frag down!"

"Get out!"

"No!"

Prowl attacked him, plain and simple, and he was somehow able to fend the blows off, even getting a few hits in to Prowl's helm, analyzing the way the mech moved. He wasn't overcharged, so he hadn't hit the high grade today. Yet.

They exchanged blows for almost a full joor before Prowl finally stumbled to a halt and looked at his hands, which had golden paint embedded in them. Wavering on his feet, he looked up at Sunstreaker, whose usually-perfect finish was dented, scraped, and had matching white and black paint sitting in his wounds. What had he done, attacking one of his subordinates?

Seeing the change in demeanor of his superior officer, Sunstreaker marched up to him, grabbed his dented elbow, and half-dragged the shell-shocked mech out of the training-room, through the back hallways to avoid being seen, and into the SIC quarters, bringing him directly into the washracks and shoving him under the warm spray. Shifting a few times, he popped out some of his own dents, wincing at the stinging sensation while doing so. After being a fighter for most of his life, he knew how best to get a dent out without pulling armor off. He grabbed a brush and some cleanser, shoving the trying-to-escape Praxian back into the water. "No, you're staying there."

"But—"

"No." This time, the word was said softly, gently, and Sunstreaker took the time to brush out and buff down the places where golden paint had streaked across white or black. He paused at the doorwings, then said, "Turn your sensors off, Prowl."

"Why?" he whispered, pain holding his voice low. "You don't think that I'm worth 'facing?"

Snorting, Sunstreaker muttered, "I interface with Bluestreak. Doorwings are a big thing with me, all right? They're attractive. They're expressive. They're an easy way to bring a partner to overload if you know what you're doing and know how to make your partner squirm with arousal. But you're not mine. And Sideswipe will have my aft on a platter if I try to seduce you. We worked hard to have Bluestreak come to trust us, and we will not betray him."

Doorwings lowered in understanding, and Sunstreaker felt the systems shutting off, effectively rendering Prowl half-blind to his normal way of seeing. He scrubbed at the appendages, making sure to get under all the plates, giving them a thorough cleaning. With a sigh, he muttered, "Prowl, what was that in the training room?"

"Angry. Jazz wouldn't make a stupid mistake to get himself killed. He would have put himself in harm's way deliberately. He got himself killed to save someone. He had to have."

"Yeah. Sounds like you, too. You've done the same with us, but not to that scale." He moved the doorwings upwards to get the bottom edge of them, followed by moving his hands to start scrubbing down Prowl's spine and along his lower back, eliciting a groan of appreciation from him. As he went along, he shifted plates and popped dents, which was the only damage he had dared to inflict upon the SIC.

"Why are you doing this for me?"

"Because I'm a frontliner and can take the hits. And because I refuse to paint dirty armor."

"You're . . . repainting me?"

"Later. When you're not drinking yourself either to sleep or into oblivion. When you're not throwing temper tantrums in the training room."

"I'm sorry . . ."

"Ssh," Sunstreaker murmured, rinsing the mech off and grabbing a towel to dry him off, quickly drying himself off with swift, sure movements before he hung it up to dry. Taking Prowl's elbow again, he brought him over to his berth. "Your systems haven't settled down and really rested since you crashed."

"You're—"

"Not leaving you alone. And I'm not going to frag you. Ain't how this thing works."

"How what thing works?" Prowl asked in a murmur, feeling his systems lag a little from the washing and care that he had been shown.

"The thing where we make sure that you're going to be all right." He helped Prowl sit down, but when he turned to grab a chair, he felt his arm grabbed by a strong hand. Turning, he looked down at the black-and-white with a curious look upon his face, seeing how Prowl even looked confused, shaken. Sighing, Sunstreaker asked, "What is it?"

"I . . . I . . ."

Shaking his head, Sunstreaker crawled into the berth as well, moving to cradle the mech against his chest. He wished that Sideswipe was with him. They'd done this many times for Bluestreak when their friend was in Spark-deep pain over the death of his Caretakers, and later on, after the destruction of Praxus. "Easy, now. Easy."

He and Sideswipe, between them, could echo their Spark across any mech who was settled in just the right position. It was a gift, they were told, to those whom they trusted. They, unwittingly, imitated the exact feeling of complete safety in Primus' arms before a Spark separated and was channeled through the AllSpark and into this plane of existence. "I have you."

Prowl shuddered and fell into keening again, holding onto Sunstreaker as if he were the last lifeline in the universe. There was no safer place to be than settled between two frontliners, after all. And even if there was only one, there was no better place to be than to be beside him. He felt the mech slowly begin to rock side to side, curling around him protectively and whirring reassuringly.

He wept, turning his head away from the world and towards Sunstreaker's Spark, rocked into slumber by one of the last mechs he assumed would ever do something like this for him.

.o.

Smokescreen and Kup stood in the doorway, not believing what they were seeing. Clicking softly, Kup gained Sunstreaker's optics, which onlined slowly. He spoke softly, wanting to know what was going on before the psychologist blew a fuse, literally, from anger. :Lad, what're we seeing?:

:You saw what happened in the training room?:

:Yes.:

:Good. Here.: He sent along his memories, with his emotions dulled through them, but not completely taken out, so that they could see his intentions and his motives.

Smokescreen was so shocked that his armor lay flat against his frame and his doorwings went limp. :So . . . you . . .:

:Have no intentions of fragging the mech senseless. Didn't you two ask Bluestreak? I told him what I was doing as it was happening.: Sunstreaker didn't move from holding Prowl against his chest, keeping him warm and keeping him company.

:He said to come and talk directly to you, because we wouldn't believe him.: Smokey sighed, looking like he had ingested sour energon. :Sorry. I shouldn't have leapt to conclusions.:

:Most anyone would, if they saw me like this with Prowl. Look, he's twitching, he knows that there are other people here. He'll tolerate Bluestreak cuddling up to him right now, but you two have to get going before he wakes up and feels embarrassed. And tell First Aid nothing about his psych profile right now, Smokey. Yes, he's got issues, but my reasons for being here right now has to go in the official sealed psych report for Prime and Ratchet, and not into the general officers report. First Aid doesn't know me, and he doesn't know why I do what I do for you mechs.:

Kup nodded, turning and leaving with Smokescreen in his wake. The twin looked down at the SIC in his arms, feeling the keen that they couldn't hear. Prowl wept even in his sleep. "Jazz, why'd you go and get yourself killed? Don't you know what you've done?" he whispered into the air before curling Prowl closer and pressing his helm against the red chevron.

.o.

"NO!" Shooting awake, Prowl scrambled and struggled against the arms around him, hearing voices yelling in shock until someone tackled his legs and pinned him down from behind.

"Prowl! Prowl, it was a night horror! It's all right, mech, I'm here, I'm alive, it's all right."

Coming back to the present, Prowl trembled, looking over his shoulder to see Jazz's concerned optics hovering in the dark, people around him, Ratchet, Optimus, Bluestreak and the Twins, all watching him with worry clear on their faces. Thankfully, those who didn't know him as well were all in the new buildings, getting firm recharge. Prowl had been feeling claustrophobic in the cinderblock rooms, sensing odd echoes because of his doorwings from the unfamiliar acoustics.

Prowl groaned and rested his helm in the dirt. "Oh."

Jazz's strong, nimble touch soothed him as he rubbed at his back, his doorwings, murmuring softly, "I know, mech, I know."

"Thought you'd died again," he whispered hoarsely.

"I know."

"How?"

"You were speakin' in your sleep. I've been tryin' to wake you up for the last five minutes."

"Oh." He pushed upwards with his arms, then felt Jazz remove himself from his frame. Sitting up, he turned to look around. "I'm sorry."

"Psh, mech, it's all right. Ya startled Hudson, though."

Wincing, he looked for the mechling, who was currently pushing his way out of Sunstreaker's arms. As soon as the golden form saw that Prowl was back in his right mind again, the twin put the child down, who shot over and into Prowl's arms, pressing against his Spark and whispering, "You were sad."

"Yes, my little one, I was. I am."

"Jazz left you for a while?"

"Yeah, I did, but I'll tell you the long story later," the mech murmured, feeling more at peace with a child in his arms, and his silver mate resting a hand on his knee, watching his face expectantly. Leaning in, they pressed their foreheads together in a Cybertronian kiss, then settled back.

Until they heard that unmistakable midnight voice rasp in Cybertronian, "Jazz? How the frag are you alive?"

.o.

Author's Note: Many, many, MANY thanks go out to two people who are better at math than I am: my Mum and my brother's plumber friend. Because without them, I would NOT have had how many joors were in an orn in this universe. I'm a writer, dammit, not a mathematician! /Bones.

Right, so here's the start of the Revenge Arc. Revenge coming from the title "Revenge of the Fallen," which this arc will deal with in its own unique way, and in a variety of sarcastic and playful connotations. Prowl will have his revenge on Jazz, Bluestreak will find some revenge on the Twins, and just you wait to see who will be coming to play!

Just to reiterate: Fanfiction means that I'm not making money off of it. I'm making money off of a costume commission at the moment.

Song is: "Far Above the Clouds" by Mike Oldfield

.o.

HOLY MARY MUDDER O' GOD DIDYE SEE DARK O' T' MOON? /Irish rant

Yes, yes, I was thoroughly impressed with it. And I feel like I was hit with a brick wall with some of those plot-twists. Nearly cried twice. Okay, three times. I'm gonna go back and see it again. DAMN what a light-show!