Twists of Fate

by Lunar Mist

It was supposed to be their last hurrah after graduation, a tattoo to commemorate the end of college stress. She never imagined that a chance meeting with a corrupt god would forever change her life. Thrust into a world not her own, she struggles to cope while trying to avoid the mechanisms of a powerful puppet master. Slow build Persobots story. Future Jazz/OC? Maybe?

4. Chapter 3: The one with the hot neighbor

Wow, guys, this one was a monster! I was gonna split it up midway through and leave her interactions with Jazz for the next chapter, but it would've screwed with the flow. But seriously, guys, almost 20k words for this chapter! Phew! It also didn't wanna be written. Like, my brain is focusing on scenes seven to ten chapters down the line, where all the slag hits the fan, and it hates writing these set-up/necessary background chapters.

So, the action should start up in two more chapters, i think. We'll get some answers (maybe), and yeah. More questions will be raised by this chapter, be ye forewarned, and what look like inconsistencies. They are not, so don't leave me reviews being like, "Lunar! You said Jazz deleted her Insta!" I know. I wrote it. It will all make sense, I promise.

Thanks to SilverStorm5, Autobot Delta, Alice Gone Madd, and my Guest Reviewer for the comments and feedback! Enjoy!

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Chapter 3: The one with the hot neighbor

18,549 words

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May 28

"You're going to keep him, aren't you?"

I looked up from the field stripped gun to find Optimus's pensive gaze locked on me. He woke me up early this morning to watch the sunrise, and remarkably enough, I had actually enjoyed the calm moments. Few others were awake in my neighborhood during the early hours, especially now that they weren't burdened with 8 a.m. classes, and the lack of traffic noise had offered a sense of peace that Optimus and I hadn't experienced for a good year or so.

At the moment, I was seated on my couch, a towel laid out before me with my 1911 Rock Island broken down and placed systematically on the towel for cleaning and oiling. I was nearly done, prepping to put it back together, actually. A glass of orange juice rested at the corner of my towel, still half-full even after being poured an hour ago.

Optimus had settled himself about a foot away next to a large pot of PersoPrimer, one of Persobot Inc.'s sealant waxes. He held a scrap from a microfiber rag in his hand, and after nearly an hour of work, his armor was actually fairly shiny. The stray medibot from last night, as of ten minutes ago, was still deep in recharge behind my closed bedroom door. I had moved him to the east-facing window to give him a chance to take in some solar energy before facing his day, and the bot hadn't even shifted in his sleep. Poor thing must've been severely exhausted.

"Ratchet?" I questioned, making sure we were both talking about the same "him" because you really couldn't be that sure this early in the morning. Optimus raised a single eyeridge, an amused smirk rising to his lips at my typical morning confusion.

"Unless there is someone else I should worry about you adopting anytime soon?"

"I mean, the guy downstairs is pretty cute."

"Perhaps, but I doubt you'll be addressing him anytime soon, what with the disaster from yesterday."

"Which I'd pretty much scrubbed from my mind 'til jus' now. Thanks for that, Prime."

"So, the medibot?" I heaved a sigh at his determination, taking a gulp of my lukewarm juice like it was a heavy beer before finally forcing myself to have this conversation.

"What exactly d'you got against him?" I queried as I grabbed the small bottle of gun oil and allowed a drop to run down the left gun slide before repeating the action on the other side. "You jealous 'cause he got to snuggle last night, and you sulked on your pillow?"

And it should be known that Ratchet was a fantastic snuggler. I woke up with the little bot curled up on my chest like a strange, metallic cat. Warm puffs of air brushed across my skin as his little frame worked nonstop to combat the body heat sifting up from the organic form he rested on.

The Autobot leader's ridges furrowed as his face twisted into an expression of frustration. I could understand it a little. It was rare that I questioned him, that anyone questioned him, really. In most cases, I trusted his judgement because it was based off a literal millennia of experience, and he never inserted himself into decisions unless they were for my welfare or his own.

What we did for a day? Didn't matter to him.

Where we were planning on living for the next year? You better believe he threw in his ten cents when I initially looked at cost over quality. You'd have thought I was renting a home in Crime Central with how he went on.

In this case, though… honestly, it felt a little like when I had mentioned purchasing an Optimus Personal for $700 eight years ago during the pre-release. My dad had asked why, then had questioned my reasoning for the following six months, even after my Persobot arrived. My intuition for the purchase had been correct, and Optimus Prime became my best friend and the most important person in my life.

If I decided to keep Ratchet now, I wondered as I began the reassembling process, how would the outcome be any different? Of course, later on, I had discovered my dad's concerns that my relationship with Optimus would replace my relationship with him. Was Optimus having similar fears?

"You were hesitant before speaking with his owner." Optimus rose to his pedes, pacing over to stand beside my towel, keen optics following my hands as they as they replaced the barrel in its housing. "Why?"

"'Cause it felt weird?" I offered, my face twisting as I gave him a frustrated shrug. "It fel' too…" I struggled for the right word, "like kismet—no, like…predest'nation. Like a puppet."

"I concur. A few days before your Prowl Persobot is due to go on sale, a Ratchet shows up on your doorstep, conveniently lacking caring owners. If the timing was not suspect enough…" His optics narrowed as he glanced away, no doubt replaying his memory files from the night before. I kept my attention firmly on the task at hand, grimacing a little when the oil under my fingers smeared on the gun's casing. "My concerns lie in the obvious desperation he showed in retaining a position in our family unit."

Not gonna lie, that had been a concern of mine as well, but, "Dudn't that jus' mean 'is life b'fore's been so shitty that he's willin' t' take a chance with anyone over 'is old owners?" I asked, voicing one of the factors of last night's interaction that had worried me through the morning's sunrise. "What if 'is owners ditched 'im on purpose? What are we 'bout to send 'im back to?"

"That is another inconsistency. He claims that his owner's parental units disliked him because he frequently offered his opinion of their life and health choices out of turn. You and I both know, though, that a Ratchet Personal is programmed to worry only about his owner, and if that owner or the owner's condition changes, a simple programming adjustment shifts the Persobot's focus."

A heavy frown conquered my face as I set to returning the spring and its guide. That was both true and common knowledge. One of the factors that medical Persobots were marketed on was their easy ability to adapt by shifting a few lines of programming. If Ratchet's owner's parents didn't like him commenting on their habits, they could have easily just taken him to a local Perso-rep to get his programming updated. Hell, given a few weeks of studying and research, I'd probably be able to fiddle with his programming enough to personalize his care subroutes to line up with my own diagnosis. It would take some effort and learning, but if I could learn Optimus's programming within six months, Ratchet's couldn't be that much more difficult.

Regardless, though, it wouldn't have come to that because medical Personals were hardwired to only concern themselves with their owner's health. Ratchet wouldn't have focused on the adults because he would be programmed to only care for the child he was purchased for.

That fact alone kind of pushed Optimus's point down to the nail's head. Ratchet shouldn't have the ability to want to leave his owner. He should be worried sick about what was going on with the seven-year-old missing him. Even if his owner's parents were awful to him… he should still consider his child's health above even his own.

I shifted uncomfortably, pausing in my task to take another fortifying sip of OJ, unfortunately finishing the glass. Optimus wasn't going to budge on this one, I could tell by the solidity of his stance: the clenched fists and locked knees, the stiff set of his mouth and the bright flare of his optics. His armor hugged his frame tighter than normal. No, whatever was worrying him… he wasn't going to let it go without a fight.

"So wha'd'ya wan' me t' do?" I finally questioned on a sigh, shifting my body back a little so I could maneuver my elbows a little easier. My attention returned to the firearm in my hands, the lack of eye contact strengthening my fortitude a little as I settled in for what would doubtless be a rough conversation. I slid the upper casing back onto the gun, lining it the slide so I could place the slide receiver back into its notch. "Toss 'im out? You know that ain't right."

"I suggest we send him back to Persobots Inc. They can locate his purchasers and take the decision out of your hands." I paused in my movements to send the small robot a scowl.

"An' how terrified will he be the entire flight there? You saw how he reacted to the mention of reprogrammin'."

"Which is another inconsistency. Why would a Persobot fear reprogramming?"

"I recall you being less than thrilled at the thought."

"I disliked the idea of removing my memories of battle because those experiences, as traumatic as they are, have made me who I am. Orion Pax and Optimus Prime are two very different bots, and I do not believe my former self could have offered the support you required over the past six years."

Bits of memory flitted behind my eyes at the thought of that day. A broody Optimus on the couch. My brother's voice on speaker phone in the background talking to my mom. The smell of summer heat and late blooming apple blossoms as the warm breeze whispered through open windows. Royce McMallony's voice from a tv screen going on about how a reprogramming will give Optimus Personals new, peaceful memories of a happy Cybertron.

"I still don't like it," I muttered as I shook the memories away. "I feel like I'm s'pposed to keep 'im. Like he was sent to me." And god, if that didn't kinda freak me out, too. I didn't believe in fate or predestination. It didn't line up with my views on Christianity, but moments like these… moments where it felt like someone else was pulling the strings… I dunno, it felt wrong, like my life was suddenly a part of a bigger story taking a turn for the worst. It always gave me this weird dissociative feeling, and I'd have a moment where I wondered if this was how character in a book felt when the circumstances suddenly shifted, when that deus ex machina stepped in and fucked everything up.

No, I definitely didn't like it. I pulled the slide back up toward the front of the gun as I replaced the recoil plug. Holding the spring and plug in place, I grabbed the flat-head screwdriver I had abandoned off to the side and pushed barrel bushing neatly back into place over the recoil plug.

"Very nice," I complimented myself, racking the slide back smoothly a few times. I gripped the gun's beaver tail safety while pressing the trigger to pop the cock back up. My daddy would've killed me for dry firing it, but I just loved how it sounded. Besides, I didn't do it very often. "How 'bout this:" I began evenly, leaning forward to place my elbows on my knees as I looked into my Personal's optics. "I'll think about this at work, and you can observe our new friend in the meantime. Figure out what you can and report back to me."

"I was under the impression you reported to me," Optimus pondered, that mischievous grin back in place, "Lieutenant." He wasn't happy about the compromise, but he would allow it.

"Har, har, Optimus." My eyes rolled as I rose to my feet, gun still in hand as I reached over and grabbed the forgotten eight-round magazine on the breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the living area. The magazine slid smoothly into the gun's heel, and practiced hands racked back the slide, my trigger finger running safely down the side of the barrel. The sound of the bullet feeding into the chamber pulled a smile to my face as my thumb flicked up the safety to cover the little red dot.

"I'm on from ten to six in ICU." In other words, I'd be late home because of rush hour traffic, and I probably wouldn't be paying much attention to my phone or the comm device that connected me directly with my Personal. ICU didn't really allow for any downtime to check your messages.

"I'll hold down the fort." He hopped off the table, and I could hear his small footsteps as he followed me into the bedroom where Ratchet still snoozed in the windowsill. I sidled over to the open gun safe by my bed, a reinforced box about as tall and wide as a Kleenex box and twice as deep. I deposited the locked-and-loaded pistol in the box and with an even flick on my wrist, I closed the oven-style door to keep it safe. I'd have to go to the range soon. It'd been too long since I practiced my aim.

"If anything happens with Ratchet, definitely leave me a message or call the clinic," I requested as I made my way into the bathroom to wash the remaining gun oil off my fingers. I was honestly lowkey surprised that I hadn't gotten any on my scrubs. The cleaning had been a bit of a last-minute decision after prepping for work left me with more than an hour of free time remaining. Optimus hadn't said a word during our sunrise viewing, and I knew I'd need something mindless to do while we spoke about whatever had been on his processor. Namely, the medibot snoozing behind closed doors.

"I will alert you if anything is awry, Lieutenant. You have my word." And Optimus never broke his word. Heavens, I loved that little robot. Only my Personal could put aside his misgivings to keep an eye on another he didn't particularly trust. Or maybe that's why he's down for keeping an eye on him…

"Ok. I'll see you later then," I said absently as I wandered around the living room with purpose, collecting my phone and wallet from the entryway table and my keys from the hook beside the door.

"And I you. Drive safely." I grinned back at Optimus as I opened the door. As if I ever didn't.

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Sometimes, this job made me want to throw up. It wasn't like that all the time. Most days, veterinary medicine, especially ICU work, was incredibly rewarding. Probably eighty percent of what came through my door went back out within a week, either perfectly healthy or on the mend enough to where the patient could recover at home.

And then there were days like today.

"Nothing died," I reminded myself, slowing from my steady trudge as I approached my car. The parking lot had been full that morning, the heat of summer bringing with it a higher caseload. Unfortunately, we were the only clinic in the vicinity with a "no one gets turned away" policy, so while other clinics were at capacity, we were over capacity, and likely would be for the remainder of the season. And it wasn't even July yet.

The black paint of my Corolla radiated heat that had been absorbed throughout the day, and as I unlocked the car, I grimaced at the knowledge that the inside was going to be three times as sweltering as the outside.

I was right. I sank into the interior, the pleather warming the seat of my pants like a stovetop as the oven-like heat suffocated me. A single bead of sweat pilled at my hairline, spilling down my forehead like a drop of dew before I wiped it away with the back of my hand. My fingers floundered with the keys, searching blearily for the correct one, and a small relieved smile lit my face as I slid the correct key into the ignition and turned over the engine. My tired brain whimpered when warm air blasted into the car. Or maybe that was out loud. There wasn't really any telling at this point.

"Sorry, Rider," I apologized to my vehicle as I leaned my sweaty back against the seat as the car struggled to lower the cabin's temperature. "I'm really gross."

It was a weird habit that had started the day I had gotten the car. Talking to her, that is. My paranoia, an accessory to my generalized anxiety disorder, had latched onto the Transformers franchise in the strangest ways. The lack of posters in my room was one instance, and my weird treatment—and suspicion, in strange circumstances—of any electronic that could possibly be a Transformer was another. Don't get me wrong, I know Autobots don't exist outside of Persobots. I know that my car was manufactured in a factory, probably internationally. Didn't change the fact that I talked to her constantly, venting aloud my grievances and ranting about other drivers. Of course, I did that anytime I was alone, so maybe it was just a weird psychological thing I should probably mention to my doctor next time I went in to chat about my mental health. You know what, though? Doesn't matter right now.

Stormrider, my little black 2016 Corolla, had been named during a week-long line of severe storms. I had work and school every day, and my poor Corolla was rolling on two-year-old tires with barely any tread left. We hydroplaned more times than I cared to admit, but I remained level-headed, and my little Corolla had ridden through each fishtail. Yeah, maybe it was a mech-ish name, but I think my baby girl earned it. Now if only she was an Autobot, because I felt like a Cybertronian would at least be able to keep their interior cool under the Texas sun, and god, it'd be nice to not end a long workday sweating like a whore in church.

I released a heavy sigh at the very thought. "Work… Nothing died. I should be happy." But I wasn't, because despite the lack of death on my shift, I knew half the patients would pass during the night. "Midnight'll crash t'night," I predicted solemnly, my mind flitting back to the seventeen-year-old black tomcat. The cute squeaky groans he gave as he stretched to greet me conflicted with the slow lub-dups of his heart as it struggled to sustain him. The stethoscope picked up with throaty purrs, but even those couldn't cover the dry rasping noises his lungs made every time he took in a breath. Each hour, his vitals were taken, and inevitably, the numbers went down as his body function deteriorated. The bloodwork didn't lie. His kidneys would fail him tonight, compounding the anemia and subsequent hypoxia that suffocated his tissues.

"So'll the oxygen dog. Hell, I guarantee six of those patients'll be dead b'fore the night is out." And it shouldn't bother me this much; it never bothered me this than half of my twenty-two patients—and all seven of my criticals—had been senior pets, all animals that had lived long, happy lives. All animals that honestly should have been euthanized humanely far before they reached this level of bodily disfunction. Midnight had been rolling downhill at a steady pace since I had been hired on. He hadn't had any quality of life in months, barely able to move or urinate on his own, but instead of recommending euthanasia like a respectable vet, Dr. Farringer recommended hospitalization to bring as much money as possible from the owners before the cat would finally die in our care.

"You wanna know what I hate about 'umans?" I questioned Rider as I shut the door, basking in the cool air beginning to circulate. The car remained silent, but that didn't dissuade me in the least. I had to let out the frustration or it'd fester. Stormrider wasn't the most conversational like Optimus, but an outlet was an outlet, even a non-sentient one. "We can't let go. Like, this animal 'as lived with you fer years. At leas' give the thing the chance at a decent, painless death."

Stormrider had nothing to say about the shortcomings of the human owners I dealt with, so I added reluctantly, "Maybe I'm jus' too jaded, though." I pressed my forehead against my hands resting at the top of the steering wheel. "I mean, of all c'mpanions, I choose t' buy a robot." Does that say something about how I avoid loss or something? Maybe another thing to talk to Doc about when I visit.

Speaking of robots, though… I still had to figure out what I was going to do about Ratchet, the random medibot that had walked into my life during what I would consider a cornerstone stretch of time. I was due to apply to veterinary school in a few weeks, the last-minute decision based off Optimus Prime's reasoning of, "Why not? The worst thing they can do is say, 'No, try again next year.'" The timing and the circumstances, including his strange words… I shifted uneasily in the driver's seat, resisting the urge to scratch at my new tattoo when my scrub leg caught on the scab.

I honestly felt like I was supposed to keep him. There was no logic behind it, just a gut feeling like it was meant to be. Now, I don't believe in fate or anything like that, but… I dunno… something about the little robot just… clicked… like soulmates or something, as ridiculous as that was. It's kinda like how I felt when I met Nikki. As soon as we started talking to each other about homework in Pre-vet Club, I knew we'd be close friends. I couldn't explain it; we just clicked, kinda like Dylan and I had all those years ago. As expected, Nikki and I ended up doing everything together and—

"Nikki!" I gasped, grinning wildly as the answer to my dilemma showed itself. If anyone was good at giving third-party, unbiased advice, it was my girl, Nikki! I lifted my head from the wheel and yanked my phone out of my pocket. "Hey, Google?" My phone gave a small beep, and I continued with, "Call Trine Leader Nikki."

"Calling Trine Leader Nikki," my Galaxy Note narrated before giving a small chirp. The call immediately connected with my car's Bluetooth, and the phone's ringing filled the interior. Nikki picked up on the second ring.

"Yeah?" Nikki's alto voice filled the car, and I immediately jumped into the situation as I shifted the car into reverse and began backing out.

"Okay, so—"

"Oh, I love it when you start conversations like that. It's always something hypothetical and weird."

"Shut up," I grunted as I pulled forward and made my way to the clinic lot's exit/entrance. "So, hypothetically speakin'—"

"I told you! Are you gonna ask me about sex toys again this time?" I strongly resisted the urge to slam my breaks as my face heated up at the mere mention.

"Nikki!" I squealed, fully scandalized by the mere mention of our random 2am conversation, the one that had spawned from a dark google bunny trail that had led to more questions than answers… questions that one generally asked their mom… who wasn't awake at 2am. I had known without a shadow of a doubt I wouldn't be able to fall asleep without answers, though, and asking Optimus… oh, god, asking Optimus was out of the question. Luckily, enough, Nikki worked overnights and had been available during her slow shift. I can only imagine what the other night tech had thought of that conversation.

"Are you blushin' right now? Ten bucks says you're blushin'. Is it a guy? Do you need advice? Jus' take your pants off, and everything else will take care of itself."

"Oh, my god, Nikki, why would I be doin' that in the middle of the day?" Why were we even having this conversation? How had it gone in this direction so fast? According to the display, we'd only been talking for five minutes!

"Sex isn't only for night, Liz. You realize that, right?"

"Why d'you do this t' me?"

"B'cause you make it too easy. Besides, you called me while me and Ethan just finished—"

"I don't wanna know!"

"—paintin' the guestroom. What did you think I was gonna say, gutter-brain?"

"You know what? I'm gonna call Megs instead. I'm sure she c'n give me good advice."

"Aw, c'mon, Lizzie!" Nikki's voice took on a whining, pleading tone. "I wanna know what the hypothetical sit'ation is about! Spill!" I gave a longsuffering sigh before launching back in.

"Okay, so, uhm…" I trailed off as I searched for a suitable analogy. While Megan and I had extensive experience with Personals, Nikki was still on the fence, toeing the line between "Wow, those are cool" and "Wow, what a waste of cash." Explaining the importance and personalization level of a medibot would be difficult, if not impossible. "Okay, so 'magine a purebred Golden Retriever shows up at yer door. He's obviously been neglected, bu'chya also realize that 'e's been trained to be a seeing-eye dog or something specialized for a specific person, right?"

"I'm getting concerned about where this story is heading, Liz."

"Jus' hear me out, okay? So he's got obvious signs of neglect. He has mats, intestinal parasites, signs of malnourishment, all the signs that could possibly be b'cause of his time as a los' pet, BUT you know that, b'cause 'e's so highly trained, he wouldn't've jus' run off without easy retrieval or return commands."

"Lizzie, did you find a dog?"

"No." I shifted into the far lane so a speed demon could zip past me, silently praying he'd get pulled over as poetic justice for tailgating me for the past five minutes. "So, you call the number on 'is microchip, and the person on the other line is 'n ass and don't seem to know what dog you're talking about. As a good citizen… d'ya put up more effert to find the dog's home, or d'ya just keep it, knowin' you c'n give it a better life anyways?"

"Lizzie. Did you find a dog?"

"No, I found another Autobot."

"Wait, what?" Nikki's voice held confusion and disbelief, and my hands tightened on the wheel at the perceived judgement.

"Okay, well, it's more like he found me," I babbled anxiously, "but 'is owner is either 'n asshole or doesn't want 'im, which makes no sense, because who the hell gives up a personalized medibot? Especially a Ratchet Personal? I mean, Ratchets may not be the newest bots on the block, but they're still hella 'spensive."

"I'm lost, girl. Are we talking about robots, ratchets, or dogs?"

"Jus'… if the dog showed up, what would you do?"

"Keep it." There was absolutely zero hesitation in my friend's voice. "If the neglect is there, then you'll be doing it a favor. Just be careful of any mental problems that come from the neglect. Wayne was a neglect case, and that dog had some serious problems. He wouldn't let Ethan anywhere near him."

Side effects of neglect, huh? I wonder if the desperation he showed last night was a sign of his past owner's negligence. Maybe he was so anxious because he was terrified of being returned to that situation.

You know what? All this thinking and second guessing myself was ridiculous. The person attached to the number didn't want the bot. I did. Problem solved. I was keeping him, and damn anyone who tried to change my mind. I was twenty-six. I could make my own damn decisions.

"Thanks for the advice, Nikki. I think you're right, and I'll—" I broke off when the line gave two successive beeps, signaling another call attempting to come through. "Nik, I gotta go. I got another line callin'."

"Okay. Lemme know how it goes, 'kay? And call me tonight!"

"I will! Later!" I didn't give her the chance to respond. I hit the hang-up button on my steering wheel, and the other call immediately patched through.

"Lieutenant." The bass voice of Optimus Prime rang through the sound system, ironically reminiscent of Bayverse intros. The wheel jerked a little as I turned onto the onramp heading south on the highway, and I made another mental note to get new tires for my poor Stormrider. The stray thought flitted away almost as quickly as it appeared, despite its importance, as I focused in on my commander's voice.

"Well, you soun' stressed," I noted with a little smirk, taking in the strained tone with the ease of someone who once dealt with overstressed child caregivers on a daily basis.

"We were incorrect, Tex," the Autobot commander informed me. His tone took on a severe quality, the same he used when he discovered that my nephew had stuffed two rolls of toilet paper into the commode, and I felt my face scrunch in confusion.

"Yer bein' purposefully vague, and it bothers me."

"We were under the impression the Personal staying with us was a Personal: Ratchet model, but I have it under good authority that the bot is, in fact, Red Alert."

Wait, what? My brain stalled at the matter-a-fact statement, given in a semi-frustrated tone. I opened my mouth to respond, then closed it again when nothing came out. I had fully expected some sort of complaint about the medibot by the time I got home. Honestly, I hadn't even expected Optimus to wait until I got off work to shoot me a text or even call me. Of all the complaints, though… this wasn't what I was expecting… like, at all.

"Your silence concerns me."

"As does your, uhm, accusation?" I stumbled over the word, uncertain if it was the one I was looking for.

"Lieutenant, this Personal… he was in recharge most of the day, and when he woke up to find you had left… Elizabeth, this mech is convinced you are…" Optimus trailed off with a weird warble, followed by a bizarre strings of electric clicks and buzzes that I'd never heard him make before.

"Optimus, you're freakin' me out," I informed him as my foot absently pressed down a little more on the gas pedal. The speedometer only increased the slightest bit in response to the movement, and I lifted my foot again when I saw the blue and red lights ahead of me. The clicks cut off, replaced by a weary sigh.

"Elizabeth…" That one word brought every ounce of my focus onto the conversation. Optimus rarely used my name, choosing to save it for when he felt he needed to add gravity to a conversation. "This medibot seems to think you've been captured by the Decepticons. Perhaps better phrasing would be that he is convinced you have been captured." He paused, whether to let that sink in or because he was searching for words, and I found myself unable to muddle together a reply myself.

"Ratchet… has mentioned some very specific… methods utilized by Decepticon interrogators. Elizabeth, I have concerns that Ratchet might have somehow been programmed with first-hand memories or the war."

"That ain't possible." My denial slipped from my mouth before I had the chance to stop it, because it wasn't possible. "A Ratchet with war mem'ries would be useless to a medical caregiver. And 'sides, who the hell's gonna spend all tha' time programmin' war mem'ries into a medibot? Don' tha' kinda d'feat the purpose?" And who the hell programs knowledge of Decepticon torture methods into a Persobot? What kind of sick excuse for a human-being owned this medibot?

"Regardless of the reasoning behind the actions, I believe returning him would be the best course of action."

"You're wrong," I interjected, because somewhere deep inside me… a quiet, mildly unreasonable voice whispered that this bot needed me. It was the same voice, I think, that goaded me into taking in three neonatal kittens that would have otherwise been euthanized. This wouldn't be as easy as dealing with those kittens, though. God, couldn't I just keep him, and this be kinda easy? Did we have to keep adding shit to the recipe?

"Elizabeth," Optimus chastised, "You need to understand this, because if this bot has war memories, that is likely why his owner abandoned him. If he had post-traumatic stress… Lieutenant, we have no idea if he lashed out in a way that injured or even killed his owner."

"Okay, first off, if a Personal killed their owner, tha'd've been all over the news. Second… Optimus, this is Ratchet," I reasoned. "As far as I know, only time he's been captured was post-war in IDW. And b'sides, as a medibot, his base programmin' prevents harm."

"We have no way of knowing that," Optimus argued. "For all we know, whoever installed those memories deleted his protective undercoding."

"Has 'e 'urt you?" My voice was curt, cutting through the increasing severity of my commander's tone. Because in the end, this was what mattered the most. "If 'e's touched you, then I'll send 'im away, but otherwise—"

"He has not." Part of him hated that fact. I could tell by the damning tone of his voice, the defeated timbre lacing his words. I couldn't blame him. If I chose to keep Ratchet and the medibot harmed me, I knew Optimus would take it as a personal failing, as if by telling me the truth, he had cemented Ratchet's future within our little family. Regardless, though, I appreciated that honesty more than he would ever know.

"Okay," I began with a gusty sigh, "well, here's what I'm thinking." I shifted onto the offramp that would transfer me towards the interstate. "When I get home, I'll have a talk with Ratch. We'll figure out exactly what he 'members, and I'll give 'im the same option I gave you: if he wants to r'member the war and work through the PTSD, then we'll work through it t'gether. If he wants to forget… we'll take 'im to a perso-rep for reprogramming. I'll do some reading up on Ratchet programming, and when he trusts us a little more, I'll take a gander at what's inside 'is noggin, maybe fiddle with some coding to make him a little less… Red Alert-y."

"Elizabeth, this is more serious than a bot's preferences." No kidding. I could tell that much with how many times Optimus had used my name. "If he is dangerous—"

"Then we would know." I allowed my smile to show in my voice. "Have a little faith, Optimus. And rejoice," I added as an afterthought. "If I'm gonna be rehabbing a Ratchet, I might jus' skip out on buying a Prowl."

I grinned at the notable pause on the other line that preceded a defeated sigh. "Primus above." And the line hung up.

Yup, I noted on a giggle as I merged into the slow-moving line of traffic. Nothing made my day quite like winding my Personal up. Probably a good thing, too, cuz with all the death and disgust pervading my days, delight was in short supply.

And I had my doubts, as the cars around me honked like that would make the vehicles ahead of them speed up, that that would change anytime soon.

Twilight rose in the distance as I pulled into my assigned spot, and I twisted the keys as I released the seatbelt. All things considered, the ride home hadn't been too bad. Only two people cut me off, and I managed to catch all my exits. All in all, a successful trip on the Fort Worth roadways. I grabbed my wallet and phone from the passenger seat and abandoned my seat, flicking the manual lock as I rose with keys in hand.

The heat waned only the slightest bit as the sun began its descent, the sweet melody of locust and crickets rising from the deep as the birds began to nest for the night. Dusk had always been my favorite time of day. The fading sunlight brought memories of summer evenings on the porch of our little two-story house, hotdogs roasting over the firepit while the younger cousins chased the dogs around the back yard. Red solo cups held all manners of iced drinks, the most common being Dr. Pepper and sun-brewed sweet tea, and every so often, you'd hear a curse when a bee flitted a little too close to my momma. As the night progressed, the lightning bugs would make their debut, small dots of light dancing through the warm darkness to a country song crooning about love and trucks. The youngins would squeal as they jumped at the bugs, clapping cupped hands around any flash of light they could reach, though they rarely caught their targets.

"I miss it," I mumbled to myself as I mounted the stairs with stooped shoulders. God, I missed it so much sometimes. I missed my daddy's tales from his military days and news of the hotrod he was fixing up. I missed Momma's matchmaking tendencies and the town gossip she caught me up on any time we spoke. I even missed sitting by her while she pointedly showed me ballroom gowns that I wouldn't have any occasion to wear, planning for a wedding or gala that likely wouldn't ever happen. How long had it been since I had seen my family? Before graduation.

"Leave it to Kaiden to come a month early." Because his birth was the reason my family had missed my graduation ceremony. It was immature, but I was still a little salty. They had made it Ben's graduations, attending each one from associate's all the way up to his master's. I had opted out of walking the stage for my associate's, but I had been damn proud when I successfully received my Bachelor of Biomedical Science. A lot of blood, sweat, and tears had gone into that degree, especially tears, and it bothered me that they had spent that day lazing about a hospital while my sister-in-law waited out the particularly long labor pains instead of supporting and celebrating with me as I accepted the piece of paper resulting from all my hard work. It wasn't like Kaiden was going to remember who saw him first.

I slid the key into the deadbolt lock and twisted, turning the knob as I did, and with a firm shove with my shoulder, the door swung open.

"Elizabeth!" The anguish-filled shout was my only warning before a small white blur rammed into my calf. Small hands wrapped around my leg as the foot-tall medibot clung to it for all he was worth.

Well… that was unexpected… I blinked down at him for a second before lifting my eyes to the Autobot commander currently standing beside the coffee table. His arms crossed over his chest as he held his weight on one cocked hip, his other foot tapping irritably on the ground. His face twisted into a particularly unimpressed expression, his top lip lifting into… was that a sneer? On Optimus Prime's faceplates?

"So…" I began in a carefully conversational tone as I closed the door behind me, automatically looping my keys through the hook by the door, "what'd I miss?"

"Primus, Elizabeth, we thought you were captured!" Ratchet exclaimed, his hands fisting into the fabric of my scrub pants as he turned wide, frightened optics up at me.

"You," Optimus corrected, his expression as flat as his tone. "You thought she was captured… despite my assurances that she was simply attending her function."

"My function?" What a weird turn of phrase. I hadn't heard him use that one before. He must've finally reached that part of the IDW comics. Huh… I wondered if he is integrating some of that as memory. Might be a sign of a glitch forming. I'd have to keep an eye on that.

"You had no way of knowing for certain!" The argument had apparently continued while I was woolgathering. I placed my wallet on the entryway table as I keyed back into the escalating verbal battle, grimacing a little at the violent quality of Ratchet's voice. "What would you have done then? You allow her outside while there is an enemy actively targeting our allies, and you—"

"Whoa, whoa, Ratch!" I broke in. I leaned down to scoop the medibot up. He relaxed into my arms, unexpectedly pliant as I straightened with his front pressed up against mine like a child's as I strode into the living space to plop down on the couch. "What enemy?"

The red and white robot scowled as he pressed his hands against my chest and pushed himself up. He turned his blue optics up to my hazel orbs and with all the seriousness of a soldier, responded, "The Decepticons, of course!"

Well, shit. This… yeah, I guess nothing can simple, can it? I didn't have to look at Optimus to know he had that "why do you ever doubt me" look on his faceplates. Instead, I kept my eyes locked with the little robot in my arms, watching closely for any indication of a glitch: a twitchy joint, dilated optic, a spark from the vocal processor, anything that would tell me this wasn't a programming… error…

Only, it wouldn't be an error, would it? Some asshole not only programmed this poor medibot with war memories but didn't modulate them with any sort of simulator buffers. Even Optimus models had been programmed with basic buffers, even if those programs hadn't been as stringent as they were supposed to be now. Standard buffers, like what Ratchet should have, led the Personals to understand that the war never actually happened, that the memories were secondhand to prevent trauma. Basic buffers, like what my Prime came with, allowed them to at least acknowledge that if the war happened in their memories, they weren't living in the war anymore. It allowed them a sense of safety in their homes and with their owners. No bot was supposed to even imagine that the Decepticons were still a functioning threat.

"Well, ain't this a cluster?" I released a heavy sigh, allowing my shoulders to drop dramatically as I rubbed two fingers against my right temple where a migraine was beginning to blossom, ever aware of the little mech's position in my arms and his grip on my shirt. I closed my eyes against the wheedling pain as the implications began to flow.

I'd have to send him back. There was no way around that. Optimus had firsthand memories, but he had the programming to deal with them. Ratchet… Ratchet was a whole 'nother can of worms. Not only would his trauma feel more realistic… but he would live in fear of enemy attack every waking moment of his life, and… that just wasn't fair.

Still, the idea of sending him back to be reprogrammed rubbed me the wrong way. I had no history of purchasing a Personal: Ratchet, so I wouldn't have to worry about getting a strike against my ownership, but it just… it didn't feel right. Maybe it was because I knew about shadowplay and about mnemosurgery, but the idea of reprogramming a Persobots: Transformers model always felt wrong…

… I could learn his programming, though…

I could. I knew I could. It took me around six months to learn Optimus's, but the resources were far more abundant now than they were then. Seven years of production with more than fifty differing Personal models had created a niche of collectors that wanted to know everything about their Persobots, from their molding to their personality components. I had watched videos of Persobot programmers taking apart the lines of coding, explaining what they did and how they integrated into the rest of the coding, had even made some videos about it as I edited some of Optimus's more grisly recollections. I had read blogs of techies who fiddled with their Personal's programming to bring about specific personality quirks.

TFrobomaster48 fiddled with his Drift model to push an IDW-like romance with his Ratchet model. I didn't really get it, personally. I mean, Personals didn't have sparks, or spikes, or anything, so the two bots just acted a little flirtier around each other, but to each his own, I guess.

C0d3r1995 recoded her Ironhide to be more sarcastic and to embrace his self-defense teaching skills. Acting as a drill sergeant of sorts was already programmed into his model's base memories, but C0d3r1995, having been the victim of sexual assault, wanted her Ironhide to have teaching capabilities along with his evolving combat AI. Ironhide stood beside her in one of her videos, offering support and positive reinforcement spattered with insults and backhanded compliments as she worked through a self-defense routine designed by the little robot. And as she learned, he did passive research, downloading new techniques involuntarily as she progressed. Eventually, when she felt she was proficient enough to feel safe, she'd stop learning, and his passive downloads would also stop.

There had to be some educational videos on Personal: Ratchet models. If not from others who had muddled around in his coding, then from a well-meaning Persobot Incorporated programmer working to help troubleshoot glitchy Ratchet models who buckled under the compassion fatigue they acquired while working in the medical field alongside their humans.

I wasn't gonna send him away, though. He was supposed to be mine. It was as true as the sky being blue. I'd just have to put in the time to do the research.

After a shower.

And probably after an eight-hour nap, cuz, fuck, today sucked.

"Elizabeth?" Ratchet's concerned voice rang from right in front of me. I quickly returned my hand to his back when two small hands reached up to rest on my cheeks. I opened my eyes to meet his unguarded, sincere optics. "Are you experiencing pain? I am stocked with various over-the-counter pain relievers that I am capable of prescribing to you."

I stared at him, my eyebrows puckering at this bot's very existence. How did this medibot look so innocent yet have such a traumatic past? How could he act like this with me when he was so panicked a few moments ago, when he was evidently panicked all day? Moreover… how could this Ratchet… be nothing like what I expected a Ratchet to act like? Was it the medical subprogramming? Was it because he dealt with a seven-year-old before me? Where was the crotchety old field medic I knew from the comics and cartoons? This… compassionate and—I cut through the useless line of thought and yanked my brain back to the here and now.

"I'm fine, Ratchet." Because focusing on his peculiarities would be pointless right now, especially since I fully planned on keeping him around long enough to learn all his little quirks and maybe fix the more detrimental ones. The small robot visibly perked up at my assurance, armor puffing out before settling again to match the happy little smile on his faceplates. Sweet Jesus, I never thought I'd say it, but Ratchet was fraggin' adorable.

"Frag." Optimus's rare muttered expletive reiterated me his stance. He had seen my face and the determination it held. "Texas, no."

"Op, he needs us. He needs me." My left foot slid backwards as I clutched the little white robot closer to my chest, shifting my body as if it could act as a shield against the harsh realities Optimus spat.

"Elizabeth—" The warning tone sent a shiver down my spine, and God, it was a struggle to not bend to that commanding tone, that familiar timbre built through millennia of trial and error whilst leading armies into battle. It was the same tone that I had yet to refuse or disobey, and for some reason, for the first time I could ever remember… that fact prickled.

"Don' you first name me," I growled, because what right did he have to make a decision like this, one that affected not just me and him but also another innocent bot. "He needs s'me minor program doct'rin', not—" Optimus cut me off, taking a step forward as he jabbed a finger in my direction emphatically.

"You have no idea what he needs, Lieutenant."

"I know he don't need a terrifyin' flight back to a mnemosurgeon—"

"A Persobots programmer is not a mnemosurgeon." Optimus threw his hands up in frustration, as his optics looked briefly to the ceiling to ask help in dealing with his unreasonable human before focusing back on said human. The gesture made my face twist in irritation because I was not being unreasonable, and by heavens, I was not being difficult. This was my life, and damn it, I was allowed to make my own decisions! "Primus, Elizabeth—"

"It don't change the fact that I'm s'pposed to help—"

"Please stop!" Ratchet's shrill cry carried above the argument, yanking my eyes back to his face. Ice rushed down my spine at the agony enshrined on his faceplates. God, the trauma in that expression. His armor clamped tight against his frame, and his optics flicked from myself to the small robot glaring at him from five paces away. Prime's fists were clenched at his sides, his optics blazing over his facemask. I cuddled the small medibot in my arms, a comfort for both of us, I was sure.

… And silence.

It seemed almost out of place after the shouting match. Optimus and I disagreed sometimes, but never this severely. I don't think we ever shouted at each other aside from small squabbles.

But this was different.

"I can help him." My voice was low and firm, because as much as I loved him, I couldn't let this robot run my entire life. Optimus had been important to me, had been instrumental in the treatment of my depression and in my own personal growth… but that didn't mean he had the right to make decisions for me like this. Because in the end, he was just a progressive artificial intelligence with memories of another life that he didn't even live. He was no different than a robot in, say, I Robot or Terminator.

And yet, calling him that still felt so wrong. He wasn't a robot; he was a mech. And no matter how much I hated it… it kinda hurt that he wasn't agreeing with me on this. How far had we come that his approval meant so much to me?

"I'm supposed to help him," I pleaded on a whisper when Optimus retained his silence. Because somehow, I knew this medibot was supposed to be involved in my life, or perhaps I was supposed to be involved in his. Someone had placed this little mech in my life, and I wasn't sure if it was God or just a twist of fate but sending him away was the wrong decision.

"Elizabeth…" My name came out on a sigh, and in a very human gesture, Optimus ran his hand over his forehelm before letting the fingertips rest on his temple, his other arm hanging limply at his side as he flicked his optics offline. Was he simply tired, I wondered, or was he too disappointed to even look at me? Another pang of hurt.

Both of us jolted when a jaunty knock resounded from the front door across the room from me, resonating in the most jarring fashion through the tense silence that had overtaken the room. I twisted to stare at the reinforced wood with narrowed eyes and puckered lips. Darkness had begun to creep into the apartment, the sun taking with it the natural lighting that I so enjoyed and leaving behind what should have looked from the outside like a dark, empty apartment. I should've turned on the lights by now, but the thought hadn't crossed my mind, despite the growing dimness around me. It must have been the shouting that tipped the visitor off…

Which meant they were probably here worried about what likely sounded like a domestic. Great. Just what we needed right now: a person concerned about my welfare or irritated about the noise.

"Frag," I hissed as I slid off the couch and took the two paces to return to the entryway, flicking on the livingroom light beside my keyhook as I placed my hand on the knob. I pasted a small smile on my face, taking a quick, deep breath to wash away any remnants of my disappointment and frustration from my face before I opened the door, keeping one arm wrapped securely around the suspiciously quiet medibot in my grasp.

Bright blue eyes set in a dark face beamed down at me. A suave smile lifted the left half of his lips even as he opened them to talk.

And I slammed the door shut before he could get a single word out. My palm settled on the door as I felt my attention zoning as mild panic and horror set in because oh, my god, why was he there?! Had he heard me arguing with Optimus? Shit, I was still a mess from work, and he was flawless, and he had no right looking that beautiful while I looked like this, and—

Fuck, I shut the door in his face! What the hell, Lizzie?

I resisted the urge to slam my forehead into the door, not because it would injure me, but because the man on the other side would definitely hear it. Frag, why did I shut the door? Shit, what should I do? Was there any way to salvage this? There had to be a way to fix this.

"Lieutenant?" Optimus placed a hand on my calf, having evidently approached me quietly during my minor breakdown.

"It's the guy," I whispered, my tone a frantic hiss as I turned mildly crazed eyes down to my commander.

"That's incredibly vague."

"It's the guy. From earlier."

"Less vague, however—"

"The guy on the stairs with the bra and—" I cut myself off with a miserable groan as I turned to press my back against the door and slid down, letting my legs splay out haphazardly. "Jazz." The name finally rose in my mind, and how had I even forgotten it? A guy with that voice and those eyes, and I forgot his name? Not to mention how fond I was of the special ops bot that shared the designation.

"I fail to see the logic behind slamming the door like that."

"There was no logic," I bemoaned, "jus' pure, stupid instinct."

"You have some fragged-up instincts, femme." I glared down at the medic in my arms.

"That ain't c'nstructive or 'elpful."

"I wasn't trying to be." Ah. There's the Ratchet I know and love. Forgot I missed him.

"Well, Lieutenant," Optimus began, the twinkle in his optic matching his mischievous grin, "Be it far from me to state the obvious, but I believe you would best open that door and greet your visiting neighbor."

"Right. Yeah. Yeah, solid plan." I nodded along with my words because Optimus's advice was fairly sound in this instance, aside from one key factor: "What do I say to him when I do?"

Optimus's indulgent expression was soft, fatherly. "Try 'hello.'" Hello. Yeah. Totally logical. Definitely the best course of action.

I took a fortifying breath as I hefted myself to my feet with one arm, taking no delight in how sore my body was from work. I'd have to stretch tonight after my shower to keep my muscles from tensing up. I placed a hand on the door, and ignoring my spurt of anxiety, I swung it open again.

Blue eyes blinked down at me, and I wondered why the hell the guy had stuck around. I mean, personally, I would've dipped if someone slammed a door on me, so he must've needed something important. Icy eyes dipped down to the robot I had forgotten rested in my arms and widened as a boyish grin overtook his face.

"Hey, ya got anothuh one?" The genuine excitement in his voice broke through the anxiety, and I blinked in confusion at the abrupt shift in conversation. Okay, well, not shift because there hadn't been a conversation initially, but a different direction of sorts because—shut up, brain! My eyes flicked down to the bot in my arms before immediately shifting back up to beautiful blues. A breathy huff of amusement escaped my nose before I could stop it, and a genuine smile rose to my lips.

"Sorta? He showed up and kinda 'dopted me, so now's he's part of the family." I shifted my weight to my right hip as I turned my attention down again to the medibot in my arms… The same one that was sending the most derisive scowl towards my new neighbor.

"He is not staying!" The irritable growl from the space beside my knee pulled my attention from the agitated medibot to the Autobot leader sending a near identical snarl at the robot in my arms. Sweet Jesus, why me?

"We ar'n't kickin' 'im out." I gave a comical sigh with a mildly demeaning half smile. I was not about to continue this argument in front of a guest. If it took playing out like a joke and redirecting, then so be it. "Primus, what happ'n'd to housin' the weary?"

"That is the church, Lieutenant, not the Autobot army."

"Bullshit!" I smirked down at him. "You'd take in a straggler at your own detriment. Ten bucks says Jazz's had to d'spose of a' 'ssassin that tried t' stab you after you let 'im in outta the goodness a' yer spark."

Damning silence. I opened my mouth to crow my delight, but Optimus was quick to cut me off.

"Elizabeth, you are neglecting your visitor." I gasped as my eyes whipped back up to the man standing across from me, his arms crossed as amusement showed openly on his face.

"Oh! I'm sorry! My momma'd be ashamed!" A good hostess never ignored her guests.

"By all means, I'm enjoying the entertainment, but I gotta say, I ain't killed nobody for your robot." My triumphant grin gained an eyeroll from my commander.

"He thinks I'm funny, Prime!"

"I assume you aren't here just to gawk at my lieutenant's newest Personal, Jasper?" Optimus prodded, no doubt hoping to end this interaction so that we could go back to arguing over the fate of the poor medibot in my arms.

"Just Jazz. Fits bettuh than the full name." He shifted a little on his feet and ducked his head as he spoke, almost as if he was nervous or embarrassed. His left hand rose to his bald head, as he shifted again, an inexplicably nervous laugh rising from his throat as he looked up at me through thick eyelashes.

I blinked back at him in confusion. Was I supposed to say something? I was fraggin' awful at small talk if that was what he was hoping for. Was he anxious because he was used to talking to people with comparable social skills? Was I making him uncomfortable with my silence? Shit, what was I supposed to say? Should I comment on the weather?

Anxiety began to slither down my spine as the silence carried on, tensing muscles as it moved. This was why I never interacted with people: I ever knew what I was supposed to say. Jazz shifted again, finally straightening as that same hand slide from his head to the back of his neck, squeezing there a little as if to self-sooth through some sort of unease. Huh, he was definitely nervous, but the possible reasons why escaped me.

Finally, he gusted out a huffy breath before shoving his arm abruptly in my direction. I jolted, hugging my medibot tighter as I skipped back a half step like a skittish bunny. He didn't move any further, though, so I dispelled the brief concern that this guy was about to assault me.

"If this's the bes' cookie ya evuh tasted, ya gotta come have dinnuh with meh." My mind blanked a little at the dare. Slowly, my eyes travelled down his shoulder to the hand he had thrust out in my direction. In his palm was an innocent-looking baked good of some sort wrapped haphazardly in saran wrap. My brain stalled more on the words than on the offered cookie, though.

"You wanna have dinner with me?" I questioned as I reached for the cookie, feeling more like I was holding something made by my nephews than something baked by a however-old-this-Jazz-guy-was. Had he forgotten that incredibly painful introduction we'd had yesterday afternoon? I had thought myself to be fairly forgettable, what with my introverted tendencies and general social awkwardity, but surely that uncomfortable exchange had left some sort of prickly mark in his subconscious linked to my face.

"Yeah." A boyish smile accented his easy reply, his thumbs sliding into the front pockets of his denim pants as his beautiful eyes met mine. God, they were so beautiful. I could almost swear they looked like they were glowing a little, but I guess icy eyes just reflect light well. "You're pretty cute, an' Ah'd like ta get ta know ya." One of my eyebrows raised of their own volition.

"Really." The word dripped with suspicion. I had been a cheerleader in high school and an active member in nearly every clique on the campus. Despite that, I had failed to hold a boyfriend for longer than a month. A lot of that, as Dylan and Optimus both argued, was due to self-sabotage. But, damn it, let's be honest! I've got the personality of a wet paper bag and the conversational skills typical of a socially anxious grizzly. Sure, I was pretty when I put in the effort, but this guy had only seen me in a simple base coat of foundation. Nothing to write home about, especially when the guy was as good-looking as this man.

So, what was the catch? Cuz if he was interested, there had to be a catch.

My skepticism didn't dissuade him, to my immense surprise. Instead, his grin deepened into a smirk that had no right being as sexy as it was. He gave a short laugh before questioning, "Why you doubtin' yourself? Ain't no other shoe hangin' 'round, and I got no ulterior motives. Jus' dinnuh and s'me stimalatin' convuhsation."

So that's what it was: he was an extrovert looking to make friends. Poor guy wasn't gonna get much conversation from me, though. My social battery was pretty much dry. Plus, I still had this issue to hammer out with Optimus. I couldn't imagine walking away from him while we were still irritated with each other. It felt wrong, like walking out on my granny without hugging her goodbye.

"You c'n bring ya li'l robot along if it'll make ya feel safer."

"Mech," I corrected automatically, filthy hypocrite I was. I turned my attention to the cookie in my grasp, evidently the deciding factor in this whole ordeal. Maybe I'd luck out, and it'd taste awful. Of course, that would take away my excuse to eat with arguably the most beautiful person I'd ever seen. Seriously, what would it feel like to kiss those plump lips? That smirk made his lower lip pop out just a little more than necessary, and thank God I was too busy unwrapping the cookie to be creeping on him like I did yesterday.

My inner paranoia demanded I ask, "There's nothin'…" How could I say this without sounding like I assumed there was a chance he was drugging me? Shit, what if he thought I was being racist? I would ask this of any guy that randomly gave me a cookie. Shit, did that make me sexist? "Nothin' bad in this, right?"

"Nope." He popped the 'P' sound in a way that grated on my nerves just a little, but I pointedly refused to hold it against him. "Jus' chocolatey goodness."

It certainly didn't look like it'd be chocolatey goodness. The cookie was lumpy. At first glance, I had assumed that it was loaded down with chocolate chips, but I could see the little air bubbles peeking through the obviously overbaked dough. I wasn't much of a baker, but I was pretty sure that wasn't a good sign.

"Okay…" I gingerly bit into the cookie, fully expecting to taste this proclaimed chocolatey goodness, praying that it was good.

It wasn't good. I chewed painfully, grimacing when my teeth ground down on a small rock-hard piece of something mixed in with vanilla and chocolate chips. The texture, rough and crackly, rubbed up against my soft palate like a rice crispy, and I fought valiantly against my gag reflex as I forced myself to swallow the bite. I was not going to throw this small bite up onto this beautiful man.

I tried not to let the disgust and discomfort show on my face. I swear to God, I tried. Southern-bred good manners battled viciously with self-preservation as I considered exactly what kind of meal I could be trapping myself in by lying about the baked good's taste.

"Shit, is it tha' bad?" Okay, so I obviously hadn't kept my face as neutral as I thought I had. I briefly considered reassuring him, but an abrupt sense of motherly reproach brought me up short.

"Did you not taste this b'fore you gave it to me?" I questioned as I wriggled the cookie at him. An abashed cough escaped the man's lips, and he rubbed at his head again. Definitely an anxious tick.

"I followed the rec'pe, an' it smelled okay." Indignant irritation surged as my eyes narrowed. Did he think I was easy enough that I'd just swoon over a half-baked romantic gesture – or overbaked, in this sense? I knew that this particular texture came from basically throwing all your ingredients in a bowl then shoving them into the oven. The fact that the cookie was overbaked suggested he had likely put them on then walked off to play a video game or something and had probably forgotten about them. Yet instead of remaking them to the proper acceptable ranges, this idiot decided to just give me one from his failed batch. Primus, if he couldn't even put the proper effort in, why would I waste my time on him?

"You used an untested cookie t' win a date? Why'uld you do that?" A little voice in the back of my mind chided me for my aggressive tone, pointing out that this was one of the reasons I was single, and could I please stop judging the beautiful man for being lazy? Logic reared back in open affront, growling that beauty didn't excuse the principle behind a half-assed romantic gesture. Jazz looked properly chastened, and his hand rubbed the opposing bicep through his t-shirt sleeve as he looked anywhere but my face.

"Well, it sounded romantic, and I though' it'd be a smooth way t' 'pproach ya, but I was worried you'd be in bed by the time I worked up the nerve, so I kinda jus' grabbed one 'n' ran." He finished his sentence with a self-deprecating smile, eyebrows puckered as he finally met my eyes. So, what, he just baked these or something? Did he just get home in time to make them? Was waiting until tomorrow to try again not a possibility his feeble brain had offered up as a viable option?

"Lieutenant, you should go." I blinked before turning my attention down to the bot that I had honestly forgotten about. Oh, yeah. Optimus and Ratchet were still here, observing this man's lame attempt at romance and my stony response to it. Before I had a chance to answer him with a scathing reply that hovered along the lines of my thoughts, though, Ratchet all but exploded in my hands.

"Are you insane?" The red and white bot leaned over my arm, gripping my scrub shirt tightly as he glowered down at the Autobot commander. "I don't even know this boy! Have you vetted him at all? Do you think it's coincidence that he shares a name with the Autobot Head of Special Operations?!" Well, that was a jump in logic. I mean, logical connective reasoning of sorts, but unlikely. Still, I latched onto the more curious part of his statement.

"You can't tell me tha' there was only one mech named 'Jazz' on all a' Cybuhtron." That'd be like there being only one chick named "Elizabeth" on planet Earth.

"This late into the war?! And how do you know he's not a Decepticon holoform?!"

"Oh, my god, Optimus, he really is like Red Alert."

"I resent that! Don't scoff at my safety regulations!"

"You ain't been here long enough to make any sort 'a regulations!"

"Negative! In fact, I've already formulated a schedule to normalize your sleep patterns, and I've put together a food plan to regulate your calorie intake."

"I should'a gotten the Prowl," I mumbled quietly before adding louder, "I don't really need either 'a y'all's opinion."

"That remains to be seen! This boy—"

"Uhm, I'm twenny-nine. I qualify as 'n adult," Jazz interjected hesitantly, his free hand still squeezing at his neck as blue eyes flicked from Ratchet up to my eyes and back again. A grimace twisted his lips as something akin to resignation settled over his features. So he knew the attempt was weak. He thought his chance at friendship was blown.

At least, that's how I would feel if I were irresponsible enough to let something like this happen. Assuming I was a raging extrovert looking for friends in the weirdest way possible. On that note, who the hell bakes cookies as a friendship incentive, then only gives the possible friend one cookie? At the very least, I would've packaged two, and I don't know that I would've trapped the other person into having dinner with the new friend. Assuming friendship was truly his goal. I severely doubted he wanted anything more. My paranoia and lowish self-confidence wouldn't allow it, but this was the definitely weirdest way to go about finding friends.

Coming from the chick who has turned to BumbleBFF for her friendship opportunities then subsequently ignored every chat request sent so far. Maybe I wasn't the best judge. Maybe this was just an extrovert thing that I could never hope to understand…

"Look, I ain't aimin' ta trap ya into anythin' that'd make ya uncomf'rable." Jazz's disappointed baritone yanked me from my thoughts. Shit, had I missed the rest of the conversation?

"Oh, no no, it's not you—" I shut my mouth so quick I almost bit my tongue just to keep the words 'it's me' from slipping out. I was not going to give this guy a cliché that he could misunderstand. "I've 'ad a long day, and I start zonin' out when 'M ti'ard. Get caught up in my head, ya know? Ain't nothing you done wrong, honey." Now that I thought about it, my accent was getting pretty thick with my exhaustion, too.

And I still had to cook dinner…

Unless… unless I ate with this handsome man, who may or may not be a worse cook than me.

I offered Jazz a wry, lopsided smile that I hoped looked as cute on my face as it had on his. "I'd love t' have dinner with ya, but I can't guar'ntee I'll be good company. I get quiet when I'm ti'ard."

"Then I guess I'll jus' haf'ta talk enough for the both 'a us. Ya down? Promise I cook bettuh th'n I bake."

"Which is good, b'cause this," I wiggled the rest of the cookie in my hand, "was awful."

"An' I was bein' serious 'bout your… mechs, was'it?"

"Yeah. It really don't matter much. It's jus' habit to c'rrect."

"Elizabeth," Ratchet broke in. I looked down into distraught blue optics as fists gripped tightly at my top. "You can't honestly—"

"Ratch," I gently pulled his hands from my top and set him down beside my prime. "I gotta make muh own choices an' mistakes. If 'e tries to do anything, I'll hit 'im with a fryin' pan. I got good aim." And I honestly doubted he'd be interested in doing anything to me. If he did, well, Momma didn't raise no victim. I could incapacitate him long enough to escape. I ignored Ratchet's huff as I turned my eyes to Optimus's, taking in his solemn gaze without flinching as I remained kneeling to close the height gap between us.

"Please don't kill 'im while I'm gone."

"I knew he wanted me dead!"

"Deepest gratitude," Optimus grumbled, cutting his optics towards the medibot raising his fists as if to defend himself, "for making this evening more difficult than it needed to be."

"Revenge is a beautiful thing, Prime."

"I'll remember that, Private." His mildly teasing tone garnered a false-offended laugh, and I placed a mocking hand over my heart.

"Stripped my rank jus' fer siccing the Hatchet on you? I'm hurt." Optimus vented shortly.

"A mech who could bring even Megatron to his knees."

"And you would know. I'll be back soonish." I rose to my feet gracefully, thankful of my dance classes and my debutante manners that allowed such a move to be ingrained in muscle memory despite my aches. "Don't wait up."

"Indeed." Optimus turned back into the apartment, grabbing a waspish Ratchet by his arm to drag him along. I reached in far enough to retrieve my keys, ever aware of the shifting man behind me. "And Jazz," Optimus paused in his movements as the taller man gave his attention to the 'bot addressing him, "if you hurt her, realize that I have 8 million years of war experience to make you regret it. Personals are officially unable to harm humans. Elizabeth and I have since figured out how to circumvent that prohibitive programming."

It wasn't 100% truthful. We knew how to circumvent it, but I hadn't ever gotten around to actually editing the code to make it possible. At the moment, Optimus was very much a harmless threat, but I wasn't about to steal his thunder. Jazz raised a single bemused eyebrow at the direct threat, a frown pulling down at his lips. I ended the confrontation before questions were raised by shutting the door and keying the deadbolt locked.

"Pretty protective guy, huh?" Jazz mused as his lips began to tip upwards again. Thank God he was deciding to find the humor in the threat instead of reporting it like a responsible citizen probably would.

"We've been together for a while," I offered by way of explanation as Jazz stepped aside to herd me to the stairs.

I couldn't believe I was doing this. My head whirled a little as I moved down the stairs one step ahead of my downstairs neighbor, whom I had only met one other time. My brain spat out false statistics, horror stories of what happened to girls who did stupid stuff like this. Logic batted them away, though, because that actually didn't happen all that often, and well… I actually wanted this…? I think?

I could feel the heat in my face as his hand hovered just behind the small of my back, not touching but still radiating a level of heat that told me that the black man would be a fantastic cuddler once the winter months rolled in. I appreciated the thought, too, behind not actually touching me. It was something that actually turned me off to so many guys I had dated so briefly in the past.

I was tactile, incredibly sensitive to touch, and whenever a guy couldn't keep his hands off me… well, it almost felt like foreplay every time. I wasn't sure if that was because of my personality or if it had something to do with being a virgin, but it made my dating life, well, muddled? Every guy I dated always wanted to cuddle on the first date, and I wasn't interested in even a hug until I had a legitimate interest in the other party. It didn't help that talk of sex generally preceded or immediately followed said touch. Maybe I was just thinking into it too much. Primus knew my brain liked to pick at things until it killed them.

"So you got another one?" Jazz's voice pulled me from my thoughts again. Crap. That was, what, three times I'd zoned out on him so far? Not looking good for the rest of our dinner not-date. We were at his door, I realized. First floor and across from the apartment that was two floors under mind. He twisted the knob without taking out his keys, and I wondered why he hadn't bothered locking it. Had he felt safe that it would be left alone? Or perhaps he had assumed he would be returning quick enough to douse any concerns, whether he was successful or not?

"Not technic'lly." I shrugged as I watched light filter through the opening. "Ratchet came to me."

"Ratchet. Like the tool?" Jazz stepped aside to allow me entrance first, and I smothered a smile at the gentlemanly gesture. So chivalry wasn't dead.

"Sorta." I trailed off a little as I moved fully into the apartment.

I wasn't sure what I was expecting. Boxes, for one. He had just moved in two days ago. I knew this because the previous tenant had been here last weekend. While I hadn't been close to the man, I had still seen him in passing.

The apartment, while it looked lived in, held no hints to having been just moved into. Paintings that looked to be hand-painted hung on the tan walls, a contrast to the family photos that clogged the taupe walls of my own apartment, and the living space was immaculate with a brown faux-leather couch that sat perpendicular to a matching loveseat in front of a large flat-screen tv that played a soundless football game. Between the tv and the couch sat a stained oak coffee table. The hardwood flooring was shined to perfection, and it raised a little jealous flame inside me. I was stuck with carpet. Nice for winter, but annoying during the rest of the year. It always felt dirty.

There wasn't a dining room set, leading me to believe Jazz ate from his couch like I did, and like my apartment, a small hallway branched off into what was probably a bedroom and full bathroom. In all, the apartment was immaculate. Not what I had been expecting from the guy that hinged a friendship on an overbaked, untried cookie.

The smell of pasta sauce wafted through the air, mixing with the stale scent of overbaked cookies, and I could see a large plate filled with what looked like failed batches on the counter of the open-concept kitchen. On the electric stove sat a four-quart pot. That must be where the pasta small was coming from.

The observations all happened in the blink of an eye, and I carried on the conversation without missing a beat, much to my relief. "Ratchet's an Autobot medic. You've never heard of him?"

"Can't say that I have." Jazz shut the door behind us and stepped around me toward the kitchen, pausing to toe his sneakers off. "Haven't heard of the other mech you hang around with, either. Make yourself at home."

"You've never heard of Optimus Prime?" I questioned as I hesitantly took his advice and followed his example. It's kinda funny how I once harangued my brother for failing to untie his shoes before removing them and now, I did the exact same thing. "How? The dude's a pop icon!" Jazz laughed, a loud "ha!" sound that loosened the muscles in my shoulders.

"Well, I definitely keep up with pop culture," he claimed over his shoulder as he loped into the kitchen. "I'm not sure how I missed him if he's that big." I had to snort at the unintended pun, and Jazz sent me a weirdly successful smirk over his shoulder before turning his attention to the lidded pot seated on the front burner of the stove. Two more uncovered pots sat beside it. It smelled heavenly, and that scent only got better when he lifted the lid to stir. I trotted to stand beside him, leaning obnoxiously close to get a better look at the simmering red sauce. The pot beside it, I discovered, held boiling spaghetti noodles, and the one behind it boiled sweet peas that had likely been canned.

"Even if you don't know about Transformers, I'm surprised you don't know of him through his Persobots line. That smells amazing, by the way. Optimus was one of the first Personals to come out." I didn't pause in the statement's delivery, hoping he wouldn't read into it too much and say something sappy like, "you smell better." Guys always did shit like that. Made me uncomfortable.

"Nevuh heard of Persobots, eithuh, and thanks." The sideways grin he shot me made my cheeks heat a little, even as his first statement made me want to frown. "Momma's recipe."

He had to be lying. Not about the recipe, but about the Persobots. Who the heck hadn't heard of Persobots? While they had started out expensive, they had become mainstream enough to be kinda, sorta affordable. If not, they were definitely circulated enough to be a household name. In fact, I could count on two hands how many people I knew that didn't own a Personal. And this guy hadn't even heard of them?

"I'd love to hear more about them while I slave ovuh this fantastic meal." He bumped my shoulder in a friendly manner, and I stiffened a little as I fought the urge to shy away. It was my fault, after all, for getting so close to watch him work. I covered the aborted movement by shifting to the nearby counter that sat perpendicular to the stove, close enough to keep the conversation easy, but far enough away to not impede his work.

"Personals or Transformers?"

"How about you tell me about Transformers," Jazz suggested with a sly smirk, "And why your bot—mech thought I was the Head of Special Ops or whatever."

"Oh, sorry about that, by the way," I offered with a small wince as I pulled myself up onto the counter out of habit. I'm not even sure when that became a thing for me. Just anytime I'm leaning against a counter or a table, I always have the urge to sit on it. Maybe it was a laziness thing. "Jazz is the name of the Autobot Third in Command, and he heads Spec Ops. Ratch has some programming glitches that I'm gonna have to sort through, and one of them causes acute paranoia."

"Yeah, you said he was like a red alert."

"Ah, no. Red Alert is the name of the Autobot Security Director. He's got a paranoia glitch. Uhm," How could I explain this to a person who's never heard of Persobots or the fictional robots they were based off of? "He thinks everyone's out to get him. Great for security, but not for interpersonal relationships." Speaking from personal experience.

"So their names're what they do or somethin'?" I hemmed, hesitant to give a solid answer to a fairly loaded question, cuz designations varied so greatly. After all, Wheeljack was either an engineer or a Wrecker, depending on the universe, and I had yet to figure out how his name coincided with his function.

"I guess it depends on the 'verse they're in. But yeah, a lot of times, designation kinda d'notes function."

"So then wha' does jazz music gotta do with spyin'?" He replaced the lid on the pot and shifted over a little so that he could lean against the counter beside the stove and fix his gaze on me. I resisted the urge to kick my feet like a child as I blushed at the attention. Good heavens, I needed to get a grip! I was an adult! There was no call for me to be blushing at the drop of a hat!

Though in my defense, his voice sounded like liquid velvet, and his small grin and heavy eyes made my poor, exhausted brain shiver. And he was actually listening to me. There had to be a catch.

"I, uhm," I began, fighting my brain for control of my mouth, "I guess b'cause he's so fluid? Uhm, like how jazz music is unpredictable? He loves music, too. He plays an electro-bass, and most people say he pro'bly plays a bunch a' other instruments, too."

"A musician and a spy." His attention turned to the oven when a timer went off. "And your Ratchet thought I was him 'cause a' my name?"

"Yeah, paranoia. Nothin' is coincidence." His movements were fluid as his name as he opened the oven door to peer inside. There was something odd about him, I decided, something otherworldly in the way he moved. I had seen male dancers move, could recognize that sort of innate grace in a dancing man, but Jazz… his movements held that sort of smoothness I'd expect to see in a dancer, but there was something else accenting it. Some sort of predatory grace that poked out at my attention, irritating like an itch.

Then the smell of melted cheese and chicken wafted to my claimed spot, and those thoughts faded away. My mouth began to water without my permission. Okay, so this guy's baking skills sucked, but if that tasted half as good as it smelled, he might just be redeemed.

"I can't disagree with 'im on tha'." Jasper opened a drawer just to his left and pulled out two black oven mitts. I watched with a strange sort of fascination as he pulled them on and removed a flat bar pan from the oven. Why did it feel weird that he was using oven mitts? Like, that was a perfectly logical and genuinely normal thing for him to do. Maybe it was because his name was Jazz. Ratchet had put the thought of him being a holoform in my head, and now all I could think about was how solid light couldn't get burned.

Maybe I was just tired.

"I lean more t'wards fate, I think," Jazz continued after a notable silence that I'm pretty sure I was supposed to fill. I had warned him that I'd be zone-y and quiet. "So wha' does Ratch do since 'e ain't fixin' mechs nomore?" I leaned back a little as he placed the pan on the stovetop, placing a calm expression over my façade just before he glanced my way. I offered him a shrug.

"He's programmed to assist with medical procedures, emotional support for healthcare workers, an' home medical care fer term'nally ill or disabled folks. Again, though, 'e just showed up at my door."

"How does it work?" He puttered around the kitchen, opening drawers to glance inside them before he finally located what looked like a meat thermometer. Huh. So he actually checked the temperature of his meat before serving it. That was a good sign, at least. "'M sorreh if 'm asking too many questions. 'M jus' curious."

"No, it's fine. If you get bored of the topic, lemme know, though. I get pretty wrapped up when I'm talking about Personals or Transformers, and I babble when I get tired." Jazz paused in stabbing the probe into the thickest chicken breast to glance over at me in askance.

"Wait, so they ain't the same thing? Are Autobots Personals or Transformers?"

"Oh, I forgot you're new to this." I reached behind my head to tighten my ponytail anxiously. "Sorry, normally people at least have a vague idea of what Transformers and Persobots are." Okay, how to steer this convo… "Uhm, okay, Transformers are alien sentient robots from the planet Cybertron. It was a kid's show in the 80's initially. The comics were a bit darker—still are. My brother and I grew up watching the newer versions of the show."

"Older brother or younger?" I paused only for a second at the change in topic.

"Older. Ben's three years ahead of me." I smiled at the thought of my ever-lucky older brother. "He's got a wife and two kids as of three weeks ago."

"Congrats!" Despite the chipper lilt to his voice, Jasper grimaced at the chicken before yanking the probe out. He seamlessly lifted the pan and popped it back into the oven and reset the stovetop timer for another three minutes. I remained awkwardly silent during the whole process, my increasingly sluggish brain grasping at wires for a proper response. The obvious question ("Do you have any siblings?") had only just creeped into my mind when he continued with, "You enjoying aunt life?"

"When I can get down to see them, yeah." God, how long ago had that been? Four months? "They live down by Burnet, Texas. The older boy, Benny the third, he's a pip. I bet Kaiden'll be the exact same."

"Your brother gonna make sure they're into Transformers, too?" Jazz shifted back to his perch against the counter, gazing over at me. My shrug felt exaggerated to my tired mind, which meant it probably wasn't.

"I honestly got no idea. I think he'll pro'bly steer 'em away from anything connected to Persobots. Personals are e'spensive, and 'e already got miffed at me fer allowin' Benny to play with Optimus. Now Ben wants one, an' Bee can't swing one righ' now."

"Optimus!" Jazz exclaimed as if this was a big revelation, something that he had been searching for. "That was the name!" He snapped his fingers proudly before turning his attention back to me. "So, tell me about your Optimus. Ratchet's paranoid. What about Optimus?"

"Optimus is…" How did one describe Optimus Prime to someone who had never heard of him? "He's… Optimus. He's fair and noble, and 'e gives the best advice…" I laughed a little, smiling fondly as my brain skittered around for the perfect words to describe my small commander. "He likes wakin' me up to watch the sunrise. I'm not a morning person, but I nevuh r'gret it. Almos' nevuh," I amended, because there were days… "We've been t'gether for almos' eight years now, an' he's always been there. We've 'ad struggles, but we always make it through. It's kinda sad to say it, but 'e's my best friend." And I had just spent twenty minutes arguing with him and belittling his existence in my mind.

"Why's tha' sad? He sounds like a good 'bot."

"Because even if I told you to call him a mech, in the end… he's 'n AI. I've fiddled with 'is programmin'. I know 'e ain't real. I wonder if there's any research on the psychological effects of Personals." That would actually be an interesting topic of research. I wondered idly if my database access with the university had run out after graduation. Maybe I could glance through some scholarly articles or research publications on the effects of Personals on an individual's psyche.

"So you a codin' specialist?"

"Huh?"

"Ya said ya fiddled with 'is programming. You good wi' code?"

"Oh, I mean, I dabble. I learned enough to be able to safely work through his glitches when he has a bad memory dump. I changed some of his nastier memories, too, made 'em more palatable. But naw, I'm a vet tech."

"Ya work wit' puppies 'n' kitt'ns?" Jazz leaned forward just the smallest bit in interest while his lower half remained propped back against the counter. "Soun's like the dream job!" My immediate response was a non-committal shrug. Everyone always assumed working in the veterinary field was all about cuddling dogs and cats and comforting them. They always thought it was the animal lover's dream.

"I work in the ICU, so I mostly deal with olduh fur babies. I don't mind it though," most of the time, "an' it's pretty r'wardin' ov'rall." Another half-truth. With parvo season in full ramp, I was dealing with far more puppies than I'd care for, and most of them weren't in even passable condition. And it was pretty rewarding in some instances. In so many others, though…

"So ya're like a VIP tech, yeah?" He was trying to cheer me up, I think. Trying to at least make me feel like my position made me special. I opened my mouth to disagree, because I really wasn't, but he continued before I got the chance, "I know people who work in ICU, and it's ten times worse th'n workin' GP. Don' sell yaself short, Liz."

Can I just say that I loved how my name sounded in his voice? The smooth baritone seemed to embrace the three-letter word as if it were a song, a minute rhapsody that rolled off his tongue and danced across the room. I wondered how my name would sound if he said it a little lower, as if he were—

And we are stopping that train of thought right there. Sweet Jesus, I need sleep.

I jolted when the timer dinged cheerfully. Jazz was slower to respond this time, those cerulean eyes almost lingering on me before he pulled himself back to the oven to recheck the chicken temp.

"So ya work at a vet clinic," Jazz continued seamlessly, picking up the conversation that I'd let drop yet again. "Ya got any hobbies outside'a work?"

"I dance a little," I offered hesitantly before quickly adding, "and I'm pretty involved in social media."

"Yeah?" Jazz prompted, pulling the chicken out of the oven when the meat thermometer beeped shrilly.

"Yeah," I chirped as I patted the pocket at my calf for my phone. "I've got an Instagram with my Optimus and a tiny followin' on Youtube. I think 'm up t' 4k on Insta, and like three thousand on Youtube? I think ev'ryone jus' watches for Op, though. He's very charismatic." As I spoke, I clicked the center of my Note 8's screen and pressed my pointer finger to the sensor beside the camera's flash to unlock it. A screen filled with icons flared to life, and I tapped the one shaped like a polaroid camera in the bottom right corner.

"Soun's like ya pretty famous t' meh," Jazz commented as he puttered around the kitchen space, opening cabinets as he probably struggled to remember where he had placed all the cutlery he'd unpacked.

"I'm really not," I hummed with a nonchalant shrug as my feed opened up, displaying pictures of foster kittens from the accounts I followed. I resisted the urge to scroll through the feed and clicked instead on my profile picture at the bottom of the screen. "I get a lit'le money fr'm it, but not enough t' make it a career. Ain't like nobody's gonna rec'gnize me on th' street or some'in'. Look'it."

I offered Jazz the phone when images pulled up beneath my name. The most recent was from two nights ago, a picture of Optimus holding a spatula nearly his same height as he stared down at a totally burnt mass of brownish-white. It had been an attempt at fettuccini alfredo. A very failed attempt. It probably would've been worse if Optimus hadn't been wearing that broad smile. I would've felt stupid if he hadn't have started laughing as I fanned frantically at the shrieking fire alarm with a flat cookie pan. Kinda funny how I would've felt awful if anyone else had laughed at me, but with Optimus, I knew it was a friendly laugh, a sort of "laughing with me" instead of "laughing at me."

Jazz hummed as he took the two and a half steps to lift the phone from my hands, and I had a very brief instinctive moment of panic that he might drop it. His eyes shaded a little as he scrolled slowly through the images lined in blocks of three, and his lips drooped into a pensive frown. Was he… judging my photos? I suddenly wanted to rip my phone back from his servos. Hands. God, I hadn't even read any fanfiction since finals, and I was still thinking in terms of TF anatomy. Speaking of, I should probably get back onto the writing train now that I had some free time. Ish.

Pfft, let's be honest with ourself, Lizzie, we aren't touching a computer until Cornerstone Vet Clinic calms down a little bit. Which was a pity, really, because my Ratchet/OC fic had been gaining a small following. Hmm, and I'd have to end it soon now that I had a Ratchet in my apartment. Just as I refused to write Optimus/OC fiction out of respect for my Personal, I'd sustain from Ratchet/OC fics now.

"Pretty interestin' feed ya got, Liz. Ya got a good followin', too. 'M impressed." His words soothed the anxiety that had briefly flared up before my distraction had brushed it to the wayside. I shrugged again as I took the phone back, clicking the lock button on the side as I turned my attention back to Jazz as he placed a colander into the sink for the noodles.

"It ain't much. I only get, like, two dolla's a video, but I ain't complainin'. I love my fans." If I put in a little more effort and expanded my collection of Personals, I'd probably get more, too. C0d3r1995 had 100k followers on Youtube and more than 500k on Instagram from her videos, and hers were mostly just vlogs and adventures with her Personal: Ironhide. I mean, I could go hiking with Optimus and vlog it. And grocery shopping! Our grocery adventures were hilarious and totally marketable… if I just actually remembered to record any of them. I guess it just felt weird to let people into that part of my life. I didn't mind sharing some of my special moments with them, moments like when Optimus and I spent the first day in Fort Worth unpacking or when we missed our stop on the Trinity Rail Express and ended up going to the State Fair instead of shopping in Arlington like we had planned. But everyday stuff, the laughter and tears that Optimus and I shared… I hoarded those moments like a scrooge.

Maybe I was just too private, too closed off. I had been told that before, after all, during my days in debutante training when the other girls giggled and shared their secrets in the pillow circle at the junior year lock-in. The younger cheerleaders in my high school squad had considered it a sign of maturity, I remembered. The older girls called it superiority.

I figured it was probably a mix of both.

"All done!" Jazz's cheerful declaration pulled me from my mind, and I blinked down at him. He was standing maybe a half step in front of me, close enough that my knees were almost touching him. When did he get so close? His hands held a steaming plate of food, everything evidently made by his own hand, and it smelled fraggin' delicious.

"My, my, quite the gentleman," I complimented as I relieved him of his warm burden. He flashed me a disarming grin before turning away to make his own plate. And hopefully grab me some cutlery.

"I aim ta please. So tell meh more 'bout Personals. I ain't heard 'bout 'em, and I'm intrigued."

"Not much to say." I watched as he loaded another plate up with food, wondering how long it would take for him to figure out that he'd forgotten silverware. Meh, he'd figure it out eventually. "They're a self-learnin' AI made to be anythin' from a toy to a personal assistant. There's, I think, fifty-somethin' now? Hasbro has a huge line, 'nd Disney 'as a big contract, too."

"So is Prime yar pers'nal 'ssistant, then?" There was a tinge of mischief in his voice, and I took a brief second to wonder what joke I was missing before banishing the thought. It wasn't like I didn't have moments when something funny or ironic shot randomly through my head.

"Nah, 'e's a companion. We just 'ang out, 'nd he berates me for my awful life choices."

"Like takin' in a stray robot?"

"In his defense, I'm pretty sure Ratchet spent most of today runnin' around the house accusin' various electronics of being Decepticons."

"D'cepticons. Makes sense." Jazz set his plate on the counter and hopped up beside it only to pause in the most comedic fashion when it finally hit him. He glanced around himself as if to locate the cutlery that he had to have gotten, cuz who grabs hot food then forgets a fork? His eyes glanced up to mine, and I could swear his face flushed a little. I kept my face carefully expectant, one knee crossed over the other as I blinked with innocently wide eyes.

"So, I'm guessin' you don' this caveman style?" he questioned hesitantly, ducking his head a little as his hand went up to his neck. I snorted.

"Well, I still have feelin' in my fingers, and burns make pullin' blood difficult."

"Right, so fork then?"

"At least." I watched with no small amount of amusement as he hopped off the counter to rifle through drawers, systematically searching for unpacked cutlery. "So getting off the topic of my two housemates, what do you do that gave you so much free time this afternoon?"

"I'm military." It was said with a self-confident aura as he handed over a knife and fork. "Head of special ops, so I make mah own hours." I gave a huff of amusement as I placed my plate on the counter beside and shifted to face it, one leg hanging off the counter as I cut into the chicken. I was actually fairly impressed by the layout. A bed of noodles supported the chicken parmesan, and the fresh red tomato/marinara sauce oozed over the entire dish. The side of peas was hilariously small compared to the massive pile of noodles and chicken. It was such a teenage guy thing to do, and it tickled my fancy for some inexplicable reason.

Jazz tickled my fancy. Which was a really, really bad thing, because I highly doubted this guy knew just what he was getting into with befriending an introvert. Dylan had been highly extroverted, too, and there had been so many times when our friendship drove him to madness because my social battery had been drained.

Of course, my battery had been drained before I came down to dinner. Yet Jazz kept me talking… Of course, I could always talk about Persobots and Transformers. Maybe our next hangout/not-date would be a better tell.

"Yeah, I ain't buyin' that," I finally responded after a bite. Oh, my god, this was fantastic. The chicken retained all its juices from the bake, and it broke apart easily against my tongue and soft palate. Which I almost burned. I discretely took three mildly open-mouth breaths to the side, hoping my dinner partner hadn't noticed, but a glance in his direction revealed an amused smirk.

To my delight, he didn't comment on it, choosing instead to respond, "I'm 'urt! I'll 'ave you know I'd make a fantastic spy."

"What'uld your spy name be?" I questioned as I turned my attention back to my plate for a second bite. The sauce was a marinara, and definitely homemade. How long had he simmered it? It had to have at least been an hour. And that'd be a minimum. Gran used to make marinara like that. Tomatoes and herbs picked from the garden in the morning, then combined into a beautiful concoction that simmered all day to perfection. Those peas may have been canned, but that sauce was not.

"I dunno. James Bond is taken. What d'ya think my spy name should be?"

"Jack Meister." I glanced up from my plate at him just in time to see his expression shift from suspicion to curiosity. Huh. Was it a weird name or something? Well, of course it was a weird name. Who ever heard of the last name "Meister?" Was his middle name Jack or something? I let my thoughts run away away for only a second before adding in explanation, "Jack of all trades. And Jazz's name in the Japanese market was Meister. Kinda fits."

"Cuz he's the best at what he does?"

"Yeah. Jazz is the best, period." I stifled a yawn, glancing around for a clock. It had to be ten o'clock, cuz my body was whispering about the benefits of sleep.

"He your favorite Transformer? I lowkey hope so. Might give me a foot up."

Okay, that was definitely flirting. Jasper was flirting with me. Okay. Was I supposed to flirt back? Why was he even flirting with me? He'd known me for less than a day. I mean, we met in front of the apartment, but I didn't count that.

"I thought we were talking about you," I redirected. "So spying is your night job. What do your official job?"

"I run a body shop a few miles from here. I like fixin things, and I like cars. Seemed like the right choice."

"This might work in my favor," I hummed lowly. "I don't have to drive to Belton to get my sparkplugs changed anymore if we get close."

"Lizzie, I'd be honored to fix up your engine." His sultry tone brought heat to my face, and my sluggish brain scrambled to figure out if that was supposed to be an innuendo. If he said it in that tone, it had to be an innuendo, right? But how did changing sparkplugs equate to anything explicit?! Or was it the engine thing? Wasn't there an innuendo that had to do with engines? Shit, I'd have to text Nikki after this to ask. I decided to continue on as if he wasn't flirting with me. I was too tired for this shit.

"I appreciate it," I mumbled. "God knows I can't do anything with it myself." Jazz snorted and looked away, and I grimaced when I realized that he was trying not to laugh at me. Okay, so that evidently wasn't the right thing to say.

This was a bad idea, I decided. There was a reason I'd given up on dating apps, and this was one of them. While I was interested in someday having sex, I wasn't interested in it at the moment. I had too much on my plate to risk pregnancy or emotional attachment, and when most of the guys out there only wanted me because I was a nice body… well, it was off-putting, and I always felt flatfooted whenever they inevitably brought it up. Like I'm pretty sure I should know, if even remotely through social interactions through the years, what an engine meant – seriously, was it supposed to be a uterus or something? But even that was weird, cuz who wanted to work on a uterus?

It didn't help that I was exhausted half to Hell and back.

"'Ey." The softly spoken word brought my wavering attention back to the man hesitantly sliding off the counter, repentance apparent in his ocean blues. "I didn' mean nothin' by that." I blinked heavily, watching blearily as he sidled up in front of me. Great, now he thought I was offended because I hadn't responded. I mean, I was a little miffed—nobody likes being laughed at—but we also had maybe two hours' worth of interaction. It wasn't like I was invested enough to care what he thought of me.

"'T's no big. 'M j's' ti'ard," I murmured. Oh yeah, definitely crashing. Jasper radiated warmth as he lifted my limp hands into his, a soft expression gazing into mine. Part of me wanted to rip my hands away, the muscles tensing up in preparation to shove and run even as my brain whispered that I wouldn't have the energy.

"Good ta know ya like mah cookin' that much," he chuckled, the deep sound sending a shiver down my spine. I always had had a thing for deep voices. I could've sworn his was a little higher earlier, though. "We should do this again t'morrow when ya ain't as tir'd."

I was making no promises, but I offered him a weak smile because my brain couldn't think of any other course of action.

Jazz gently dropped my hands and shifted his to my waist to help me off the counter. My skin twitched where it felt the heat through the scrubs, even though there was a solid layer of fabric between his flesh and mine. My legs, thank god, didn't waver when I stood on them.

"Y' cook good," I complimented as I shuffled toward the door where my shoes waited patiently. I wasn't putting them on, though. That would take time that could be used sleeping. Instead, I leaned down to grab the knotted laces without breaking stride.

"Whoa!" Jazz shouted, wrapping steady arms around my shoulders when my laziness was rewarded with a bout of vertigo. Oh, my god, he was warm. Like, I could fall asleep right here and die happy when I woke up the next morning kind of warm. I could imagine how nice it'd be, too. I'd be the little spoon all night, tossing over only to cuddle into his chest, and tomorrow morning, he'd kiss me awake with those beautiful lips, and I need fucking sleep before I say something stupid.

"'M good. Brain d'sn't like when I stan' up that fast."

"No kiddin. I'll see ya t'morrow?" His voice was cool, only the slightest hint of nerves. Was I supposed to be receptive or cool? I couldn't ever remember. I knew I wasn't supposed to call him tonight, tho.

"We'll see." Yeah. That was neutral, right? I opened the door—when had I pulled away from Jazz's embrace?—and with a small wave began my ascent to the second floor. If I had looked behind me, I would've seen the strangely calculating expression on my dinner partner's face as he edited the new information he had uncovered. Of course, I wouldn't have known what to do with that expression, though.

I traded words with Optimus and Ratchet when I stumbled into my apartment, locking the door behind me before tromping into the bathroom to wash the day away before passing out for the night. I apologized to my prime. His concerns were valid, after all, and he had yet to steer us wrong. Optimus offered one of his own that I would forget by the time I climbed into the shower. He laughed at my absentmindedness, and ten minutes later, he was curled up against my head on my pillow, a small hand that felt somehow softer than normal rubbing at my temple as Ratchet curled up on my chest, engine purring like a comfortable cat.

Huh. Personals didn't have engines.

I must have imagined it.

---

Lizzie noticing and subsequently ignoring things makes me uncomfortable. Did anyone else get sleepy reading about how exhausted Liz was, cuz I get secondhand stress reading about her not-date with Jazz-I mean Jasper! ;)

On a side note, do all y'all want me to respond to reviews in the chapters like I did with Tidbits? I love having that opportunity to connect with y'all, but I want the opinion of people actually reading the fic.