Part 14

The Ark mess hall was large enough to hold a full brigade of regular sized Autobots at once, although usually mechs only stopped by to refuel and then return to their berth or one of the make-shift lounges created out of unused offices or bays. There was enough traffic in and out to reassure Jazz that help was immediately at hand, but far enough on the other side of the hall that his conversation with Prowl was private.

"Any new developments with Soundwave's terrors?" Jazz asked, looking askance over his energon cube. "Singing like canaries?"

"Not yet," Prowl said. He didn't comment on how Jazz twitched every so often, surreptitiously checking all escape routes. "They are still in recharge."

"'Still'?" Jazz echoed. "It's been like ten orn."

"Even so," Prowl said. "Ratchet confirmed they are not faking. He says they depleted their reserve batteries coming here. All of their fluids were on the last drop."

"Ouch." Jazz knew about driving in the desert at noon, running low on coolant and fuel, one step away from melting his engine. "Are they functional?"

"Mostly," Prowl said. "There are some scorchmarks and burned cables. Ratchet guesses that they had to fight to get away from the Decepticons."

Jazz chuckled. "Now that's a fight I'd of liked to Pay Per View. Four cassettes versus the Decepticon armada."

"I doubt it was the whole armada," Prowl said. "Probably one or two guards called to take them back from wherever Soundwave had placed them."

"Huh." Jazz tapped the table, watching the ripples in the glowing energon.

"What?" Prowl tilted his head.

"Just thinking," Jazz murmured. "Frenzy was right. I'd have shot them dead if they'd made one move, just one wrong move. And they were about to fall over."

"They were hardly helpless," Prowl pointed out. "If you were down on fluids, would you be helpless?"

Jazz grinned. "Don't get me wrong. I've been on the wrong side of Ravage's claws too many times to feel bad for 'em. Just...I been there, y'know?"

"...no." Prowl folded his arms on the table and leaned forward slightly. "What is it like?"

Jazz met his look for a moment. Autobots worked like machines within one huge machine, each of them serving a vital function. Prowl, Perceptor, Red Alert-they were the cortex and optics. Spec Ops was one of the many weapons they could wield. Sometimes, in the depths of their curiosity or excitement, the analysis bots forgot that another living mech was bringing back all their reconnaissance, sometimes ordering them deeper and deeper into danger forgetting that they were not a simple probe.

Prowl didn't make that mistake. He had a keen sense of what he was and what he was not, and although Jazz envied those dead silent systems, Prowl was not a Spec Ops bot. Just like Jazz was not a long term tactician. If he even thought about spending most of his days sitting at a console cataloging reams of data, his root mode trembled, itching to change into his alt mode and turn donuts on the road.

"It's a thrill," Jazz said. "It feels like flooding myself with coolant. And I'm still overheated. And all those Decepticons are trying to kill me, and they can't. 'Cause I'm just that good."

"You've come in rather bedraggled sometimes," Prowl said, smiling.

"Can't dodge 'em all," Jazz conceded, and he slouched in his seat, resting one arm on the backrest. "I dunno. Coming back home with nothing but the open road and Bob Seger blasting on the radio...there ain't nothing like it."

Jazz felt a little tension ease out of his frame, and he was sure Prowl saw it, too. He grew more aware of how much he was venting and fanning, and he manually turned down his cooling systems. The humming in his head he hadn't even been aware of began to fade.

"Feeling better?" Prowl asked.

"...yeah." Jazz nodded. "The, uh, headache's kinda going away."

"I'm glad," Prowl said, and he lightly ran his knuckles over Jazz's hand. "I don't want you to be afraid."

"I'm not-"

The automatic denial cut off. Jazz had to admit it. He was afraid. Subroutines in his cortex hovered at the ready, a hair trigger from playing out. Combat. Escape. Combat *and* escape. Imagine Jazz grabbing a table, braining Prowl, leaping onto the table behind them and climbing up into the maintenance ducts. He could just imagine the debriefing with Optimus.

"I'm doing okay," Jazz said after a klik. "Just...warn me if you're gonna do anything."

"What's 'anything'?" Prowl asked.

"Touching. Moving." He lowered his head, wishing he wasn't on edge. "Venting too hard."

"I'll do my best," Prowl assured him. "Would you mind if I...hold your hand?"

Jazz swallowed reflexively. "Sure."

He closed his optics. The nice thing about the visor was that Prowl couldn't tell. The tactician's hand slid over his own, resting so lightly that Jazz could have pulled away easily.

"All right?"

"Yeah." Jazz nodded, looking at him again. "Yeah. ...you feel nice."

Prowl smiled, not put off by Jazz's anxiety.

"So," Jazz started again, eager to turn the conversation back off himself. "You read all of Soundwave's stuff?"

"I think so," Prowl said. "Your subordinates do good work. All of the stories they collected were clearly from the same mech, and since we have verification on one of them..."

"How can you tell?" Jazz asked. "I know it's got something to do with patterns of words, but I didn't get it when you brought it up."

"Something like that," Prowl said. "Some mechs use the same words over and over. You noticed that Soundwave has his own habit of not using linking verbs."

"His trashy little novels didn't read like that," Jazz said.

"Not everyone writes like they talk," Prowl said. "Soundwave has a habit of using human adverb phrases and dashes. And every single one of his stories involves you."

"Yeah, that I noticed," Jazz said. "That mech seriously needs a therapist."

"I would argue the entire Decepticon higher command needs therapy," Prowl said.

Jazz chuckled. "Now that'd be something. Megatron and Starscream, couples counseling. Imagine ol' Starscream...'Megatron! You never appreciated me!'"

Prowl chuckled, leaning against the table as he relaxed. As pleased as it made Jazz to see, he couldn't help spotting the other mechs in the mess hall. Prowl at ease and joking with the same 'bot that usually antagonized him with little pranks drew the attention of more than one Autobot, all of whom began to stare.

Jazz tossed back the rest of his energon. This wasn't something he wanted all optics on.

"I think we're just about done here," Jazz said. "Let's blow this joint."

Furrowing his brow, Prowl likewise finished his cube and set it down. "Are you certain?"

And it suddenly slammed home on Jazz exactly what leaving the mess hall meant. He went very still, meeting Prowl's look, and his vents sped up. Little tremors shook his whole frame.

"If you want to wait—" Prowl started.

"No," Jazz cut him off, then reset his vocal processor to a softer tone. "No. I want this to happen. Just...slow. Safe. Somewhere safe."

Prowl nodded. "I understand. I took the liberty of arranging a place."

Wordlessly, Jazz nodded, turning his hand and gripping Prowl's. The tactician stood, giving Jazz a small tug to prompt him to follow. Painfully aware of everyone's looks, Jazz went with him, telling himself he'd start a rumor that his time with Soundwave left his cortex compromised and in need of coddling.

Out the doors, through the halls...Jazz expected to be led to Prowl's berth. Or maybe his own berth. Maybe Prowl's office? Heck, maybe Jazz's office, little used as it was. He sort of hoped Prowl didn't want to use the Spec Ops office. There was ammo and gear inside that the Second in Command really shouldn't know about. They were heading closer to the main meeting room... Jazz snickered despite his nerves. Maybe Prowl wanted a happy memory to lighten up those boring briefings.

But then they took a left past the meeting room, and Jazz grew increasingly lost. His shoulders hunched as he the Ark looked alien and dangerous. Outside in a secluded cave? Or...

Medbay. Like a clean defrag, Jazz felt a load of tension lift. Ratchet's medical bay was the one place nothing bad ever happened, where any Spec Ops bot could take shelter after being chewed up by a mission. And Ratchet, acerbic control freak that he was, also knew everything about Jazz. Even the things Jazz didn't want to know about Jazz. If Jazz trusted anyone, it was the medbot who'd seen him at his absolute worst and never held it against him.

Ratchet looked up from his console, smiling faintly, then went back to cataloging data. "I was wondering when you'd drop in. Lock the door behind ya, huh?"

They'd done this before, medical exams and programming baselines before Jazz went out to infiltrate a base. He knew the routine so well that even with the nervous static in his head, he shifted and held the side of the door. Stood for several kliks, venting deeply. Closed the door. Didn't run. Turned the lock. Then let go of the lock and turned back.

"This is really weird," Jazz said, laughing once at himself. "Feel like I'm about to go on a mission."

"That's not a bad way of looking at it," Ratchet said. "But maybe not the best way. I don't wanna have to put both of you back together after this."

"'Both of us'?" Jazz said, glancing at Prowl warily. "I'm the bundle of nerves right now, not him."

"Yeah, you are," Ratchet said with his usual tact. "I admit it, Jazz, I'm glad you're doing this here, but it ain't just to spare your delicate sensibilities. If you freak out, you're the one with the lethal subroutines and combat programs."

Jazz didn't argue. He'd had to squash those routines only minutes ago. And here he was about to go...do whatever it was mechs did before interfacing...consensual interfacing. The sheer amount of unknowns he'd never experienced had him on high alert. And if his threat flowcharts overrode his good sense, he could end up attacking Prowl point blank.

He would have flooded himself with coolant again except he was already in the middle of a coolant cycle. His heat dumps were less than room temperature. One more flush and he might develop condensation on his cables.

Jazz had killed mechs up close before, and the most vivid memories played over for him. Optics going dark, the mech's voice processor screeching into shut down, the flagging grip as they slid down his body. Even warbuilds had exposed cables and cords between that thick armor, and Prowl...a tactician's armor was nothing compared to that. Prowl ran quiet, not strong. He wouldn't even need a blade to wreak havoc on Prowl.

"Ratchet..." Jazz whispered. "How do you know I ain't gonna blow this all to hell?"

"'Cause you're just scared," Ratchet said, leaning back in his seat as he regarded their saboteur. "And you've done good work while you were scared before."

Jazz pressed his hand to his helm. "Slag. Getting that headache again."

"Well, that I can take care of," Ratchet said, reaching into a drawer at his desk. "Prowl, how about you go get the back room ready? I gotta talk a few things over with him."

"Of course." Prowl turned back to Jazz. "Whenever you're ready."

Jazz tightened up at hearing that, nodding once. As Prowl turned the corner to head further into the private rooms, Jazz half-raised his hand, already wanting to call him back. He stood like that, stupidly watching where Prowl had been.

"Do you wanna call this off?" Ratchet asked when Prowl disappeared. "'Cause you can. Ain't no shame in it."

Jazz lowered his hand, mouth pressed in a hard line. He activated their internal comm line, not trusting his voice.

No, he said. I can do this. I'm just...

"Scared," Ratchet said, not scolding him but not letting him retreat onto their internal line either. "It's okay. Everyone's nervous their first time, and you got more reasons to be than anyone else."

"Will it...hurt?" Jazz asked. Immediately he felt worse. He'd dragged himself back to base on shredded tires a few times, leaking energon, armor scratched and dented to the pit. A little plug and play shouldn't have scared him so badly.

"No," Ratchet said, "it won't. And quit beating yourself up over it. You wouldn't be this hard on anyone else. Quit acting like you gotta be the Jazzmeister all the time."

"Argh..." Jazz turned enough to lean his hip against the console, putting his hands over his face. "This is crazy. Ratchet, tell me I'm crazy."

"I could'a told you that a long time ago," Ratchet said, reaching over and pushing him off the console. "You gotta get over your fear, and better you do it with your best friend under my care than...I dunno, acting out one of those Spec Ops stories."

Jazz swung his arm in a backhanded swat that grazed Ratchet's prongs. The medic chuckled.

"Just relax," Ratchet said. "You're in good hands. And just a pro-tip, but the joints in Prowl's armor? Really sensitive."

If his faceplate heat flushed any harder, Jazz was going to start steaming. He turned to follow Prowl, then paused.

"I owe you one," he said softly, not turning.

"Just yell if you need help," Ratchet said. "Or, y'know, a third partner to help get those hard to reach places."

"Go slag yourself," Jazz said, laughing despite himself, and followed after Prowl.

TBC...