I'm not reposting all the warnings. If you didn't read them in Pt. 1, then on your head be it.

[* * * * *]

Pt. 4

[* * * * *]

*"Jazz, there's a situation in the medical building."* Red Alert managed to convey urgency without volume.

The saboteur turned on his heel and headed for the nearest staircase. Energy was still too precious to waste on lifts; when Grapple and Hoist had refurbished the old building, they'd put in stairs instead. On the one hand: great, Jazz didn't have to wait for a free elevator. On the other hand: stairs were slow. But only if a mech let himself be slowed by them. He took them three at a time going down.

"Situation?" Jazz wasn't normally a religious mech, but he spared a thought for prayer: 'Please, Primus have mercy, don't let it be a fight.'

War still hung heavy over them.

*"Ratchet reported a courtship proposal,"* Red Alert responded.

It was questionable if that was better than a fight. Jazz had been procrastinating on trying to find Starscream all day. "Who?"

*"The Constructicons."*

Surprise made Jazz stumble, and only his infamous agility caught the fall and made it into a tumble a gymnast would have envied. He righted himself in a springing mid-air spin at the bottom of the stairs, almost on top of Brawl's feet, and offered the startled Combaticon a jaunty salute before pelting for the exit.

"…what, all of 'em?!" Six Decepticons, one Autobot. Never good odds. While Ratchet wasn't easily intimidated, standing up to an enemy combiner team was a bit much even for him.

*"Skyfire reports four Constructicons are still at the solar collector center. Mixmaster and Bonecrusher are the only Constructicons in the area, and Ratchet said they came into his office as a pair. They presented the proposition together as well. They wouldn't split up, would they?"* Red Alert seemed uncertain, and understandably so. Jazz's heads-up had given the Autobots warning that some of the Decepticon military units would be splitting apart, but a combiner team splitting? Could they even do that? *"He said he was going to tell them he'd give them an answer tomorrow,"* Jazz stumbled again, torn between shock (Ratchet was considering it?!) and embarrassment (Prowl had torn a strip off of him for agreeing without first consulting the other Autobots), *"but his transmission cut off!"*

"He's not answering hails?" Jazz was already sending out pings at the medical officer even as he cornered around the joint factions' main headquarters building and sprinted for the neighboring building.

Ratchet had claimed it for a hospital/engineering set-up. Optimus Prime and Megatron had simply stood aside and let him, because nobody stood in the way of a determined medic with two gestalts backing him up. As if the Protectobots and the Constructicons weren't intimidating enough, both factions medical corps. had united to give Shockwave the evil optic for protesting. Shockwave had quickly conceded that politics and repairs could happen simultaneously. Another building had been required because of, sadly, the huge amount of reconstruction their shattered world required in body, mind, and infrastructure. The main building constantly swarmed with guards, officers, and political dealings, but Ratchet's domain was a busy hive of physical work.

*"Internal comm. line seems to be off, but outer microphone activated. I'm getting nothing but feedback and unidentifiable background noise. There's a sound that might be Ratchet trying to speak. I'm not sure if it's mechanical failure or a malfunction in Ratchet's vocalizer, however. The line's wide open, and it doesn't sound like there's a fight."* The security director hesitated. *"There's definitely something going on, Jazz. Be quick."*

"I'm hurrying," Jazz assured him grimly, already part-way up the first flight of stairs. Ground floor was medical treatment rooms, repairbays, and construction supplies. Second floor was engineering, laboratories, and medical supplies. Third floor was offices.

The comm. line opened to his ping, and the transmission was everything Red Alert said: outer microphone only, and noises that couldn't be readily identified. There was a scraping, clanking noise, not loud enough for fists hitting metal, and starts and stops that sounded like someone's vocalizer failing to initialize.

Jazz pictured the aftermath of a beating. It could be the sounds of two mechs dragging a body. Had the Constructicons taken it as an insult that Ratchet didn't give permission? They weren't talking, but it sounded like somebody was trying to form words. Maybe they'd jumped him, knocked him for a loop, and had him down and dazed.

The Autobot skidded to halt outside Ratchet's open door and - froze, one step inside.

Ah…ha. Oh.

Well, he'd been right. They'd jumped him, alright, and that was definitely not the face of a mech who was all there any longer. Just…wrong circumstances entirely. And Ratchet wasn't wholly horizontal yet, at least until somebody moved the desk, so he wasn't officially down so much as listing a great deal to the side.

Besides, Bonecrusher was obviously prepared to catch him if he fell. In fact, the Constructicon was more than ready, and Jazz had no doubt that he was eager for Ratchet to lose his balance and fall into his arms. In the meantime, the bulldozer contented himself with encouraging such an act by running his hands over every square centimeter of the Autobot he could reach. Meet-n-greet, molestation style: getting to know a mech via wandering hands. Since Bonecrusher was all but plastered against Ratchet's back, there was a lot of ambulance territory open for exploration.

The Constructicon glanced up briefly when Jazz stopped short just inside the door, but he visibly dismissed the black-and-white Autobot from his thoughts. He was busy with far more important things. Such as the low moaning murmur that pushed out of Ratchet when Bonecrusher caressed the very edges of the wheel wells on either side of his torso. The moan hitched in the middle when the Consructicon's fingers slid inside and scratched gently.

Jazz's fans began to hum. That sound. He numbly matched with one of the odd sounds Red Alert hadn't been able to identify, and no wonder! He'd fooled around with the medic before, but physical foreplay always fell to the wayside too quickly to get - that. That sound. Ratchet made some tasty sounds when hooked up into a hardline interface, but nothing compared to the shaky warble coming out of the medic's slack mouth right this moment. It was the sound of a mech denied what he really wanted, a mech begging for what he needed, but too buried in pleasure to do anything about it.

It was a shame they'd never had the time or patience to do this themselves. Jazz could all-too-easily imagine teasing that moan out of the medic again, but if the sound was mouth-watering, the sight glued Jazz's feet to the floor and his jaw to his chest. He'd sprinted up here to stop a potential fight. Ratchet might start one with him if he interfered at this point.

The medic's optics were blown almost white, flaring overbright as Bonecrusher pinched thin metal edges between forefingers and thumbs. The Decepticon grinned like a kid handed a delicious piece of candy as experimental wiggling of the captured wheel wells produced a choked groan.

It grated around the lower tones like a stuck gear, indicating an extremely stressed vocalizer. Ratchet was trying to suppress his cries, and it just wasn't working. His elbows jerked in, trying to protect the over-sensitized wheel wells, but the move stopped almost before it started. As badly as Ratchet's left arm was shaking, it was still all that held him semi-upright against the desk. He wouldn't - couldn't - let that support go without falling back into Bonecrusher's waiting arms. As for his right arm…he could move it. He really could. Even from Jazz's place just inside the door, he could see that the hands holding Ratchet's right hand were infinitely gentle. Mixmaster was barely touching it with his own fingertips, just guiding it around.

If anyone had asked Ratchet, he might have managed enough coherency to say something about balance. Yes, balance. Truth was, Ratchet simply didn't want to take that hand away. But never in a million years would he admit that the slick of Mixmaster's tongue nimbly delving between his fingers had him dazed and knock-kneed, shuddering when the Constructicon switched fingers. Mixmaster lapped at the base of the two middle fingers, coaxing them into his mouth up to the third knuckle, and then he began to suckle. Not suck; the pressure wasn't hard enough to qualify. Yet it was all Ratchet could do to stay even vaguely upright as the Decepticon applied soft, rhythmic pressure to the lucky fingers. A warm, wet tongue rippling and flicking at them zinged charge straight to Ratchet's engine. His fans roared, stuttering and catching as he frantically overrode his body, but he couldn't stop the betraying cough of an engine trying to turn over.

Like Bonecrusher, Mixmaster had ramped Ratchet's sensitivity up by constant, teasing touches until every sensor strained to read even the slightest contact. Increasing the weight behind their hands might actually be painful at this point, but Mixmaster only suckled a moment longer before pulling the ambulance's hand free. Ratchet whimpered, faint and thankful, but regretted releasing his control even that much as teeth scraped deliberately across the throbbing sensors.

Bonecrusher chuckled in his audio receptor as Ratchet arched and squealed. The hand on the desk seized into a claw, and the Autobot's knees collapsed against each other, propping him up by leverage alone. Since Ratchet stubbornly remained upright under his own power, Bonecrusher winked at Jazz over the medic's shoulder and drew his own hands away from the wheel wells. They disappeared behind the medic as Mixmaster released the red hand trembling over his palm. Ratchet had a second to look somewhat relieved - his shoulders even eased down a bit - but Bonecrusher and Mixmaster were part of a combiner team. Reading each other's actions was second nature.

They gave the medic a moment to recover, and then they attacked simultaneously.

Jazz saw it coming, too, and he stuffed the side of his hand in his own mouth to prevent…whatever it was that wanted to come out. A warning? It wouldn't do any good with an attack this well-planned. A moan? Please, he had some dignity left. He wasn't going to start working himself to overload right here in public.

Ratchet just might. Only eons of experience in a warzone kept a full-throated scream from escaping the medic as the Constructicons struck. Ratchet squawked, a purely mechanical noise of emergency vocalizer shut-down. It did nothing to hide how his now-free hands clutched at the Constructicon in front of him. Mixmaster went straight for the white chevron on his helm. The tip disappeared into the Constructicon's mouth. This time suction was so hard and loud Jazz could hear it from where he stood. Ratchet thrashed, pushing into Mixmaster's mouth with a toss of his head, writhing closer and up and into that wonderful pressure that spun specialized sensor suites into dizzy, buzzing disarray. Brilliantly lit optics went suddenly dark.

The medic's face contorted with silent yelling as, behind him, Bonecrusher sank slowly out of sight, hands and mouth manipulating back kibble as he went. Even hidden by Ratchet's shuddering frame, Jazz almost predicted when Bonecrusher found the underside of Ratchet's bumper. Hardline interfacing provided much more immediate pleasure, not to mention closer pleasure, but he knew some of his fellow officer's hot spots. The transformation joints where the front of Ratchet's altmode swung apart were located between his two front tires and that bumper. Jazz had smaller fingers; he'd gone after those joints before. He'd never gotten around to using his tongue, however, and therefore he'd never had the chance to see the reaction.

Ratchet convulsed hard enough to shake Mixmaster loose as emergency sirens wailed to life and the vocalizer lock failed. There were words to describe the passionate sound he made. Some of them would be considered impolite, even pornographic, in modest company. If Mixmaster's face was anything to go by, it'd take more than a thousand of such words to describe what a pretty picture the Autobot Chief Medical Officer made while making that sound. The Constructicon stood back, optics fixed on Ratchet like he'd seen a miracle, and it was good.

*"Status update?"* Red Alert asked weakly, and Jazz jolted when he realized that, yes indeed, the comm. lines were still wide open.

He said it before he could censor himself: "Do you really need t' ask?"

*"I'm going to need something to put on the shift report,"* Red Alert snapped back. *"I can't put 'Medical officer fragged by enemy forces.'"* He paused. *"I mean, we're not technically enemies anymore."*

Good point. Jazz took a moment to collect his thoughts, because thinking was really the last thing on his mind with Ratchet looking like that. The medic was still upright, although not by much. His knees had turned in, thighs clamped together, and his elbows had tucked in tight to his sides. His hands splayed with the palms up-turned in unconscious supplication, shoulders down and pulled as far back and together as they'd go. His helm was thrown back, and his mouth wordlessly moved in lusciously soft shapes as his head helplessly jerked in time with whatever Bonecrusher was stroking. His siren wailed, rising and falling like a wind-up toy on its last legs. It sounded like a Doppler radar, or maybe the mating call of the wild ambulance.

Jazz swallowed, unable to tear his visor away from the sight. Bonecrusher's powerful engine growled, all the force needed in construction behind that sound, and Ratchet really did scream this time. It was a throaty howl that did shivery things to Jazz' internals, and Mixmaster's optics went dim and very appreciative as Ratchet twisted, grabbing desperately for the desk with both hands. They didn't really work properly, red fingers scrabbling for a grip instead of closing. Bonecrusher stayed on his knees behind the medic and leaned forward to follow the sudden movement, continuing to chew on a tire all the while. The lightest flick of a finger spun the other tire, and Ratchet's siren climbed another octave.

The soft, irregular panting was either coming from him or over the open comm. link. Jazz wasn't really sure which, and it hardly mattered right now. He could see Bonecrusher's teeth indenting the rubber. They ground in and released, chewing gentle, then hard, and gentle again until Ratchet melted down to the floor as his knees gave way at last. The medic's expression was completely undone.

And, oh, look at that, Bonecrusher's lap was ready and waiting. The Constructicon sat back on his treads, letting go of the tire reluctantly but looking entirely too pleased with himself as he guided Ratchet down. The Autobot folded like a house of cards, ending up with his legs bent to either side of the Constructicon's. His knees spread indecently wide over the bulldozer's much wider frame. His head lolled back, pillowed on Bonecrusher's broad shoulder, and his bottom lip was tightly caught between his teeth in a pathetic attempt at stopping the little whimpers still leaking out. Not that it mattered, with the constant weebling of his siren picking up the slack as Bonecrusher started in on him again.

Jazz's self-repair stubbornly refused to find the heavy weight he could swear was standing on his vocalizer. He had to cough to free up his voice, and even then his normally smooth tone sounded ready to tumble in the berth. That really wasn't a tone of voice officers were supposed to use while logging a status report. "Medical officer is temporarily incapacitated due to," removal of higher functions via a hand crawling over one red hip. The look on Mixmaster's face was both hungry and immensely satisfied as he watched his fellow Constructicon's fingers walk. But Jazz really couldn't put that in a report, so he edited for polite company, "Constructicon interference."

"We did ask," Mixmaster said without moving his optics or otherwise acknowledging Jazz's presence.

*"He agreed to this?!"* Red Alert yelped, and Jazz obediently repeated the question.

This time, Mixmaster did turn. "Of course he did," he said blankly, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. Jazz just gaped at him. "He said he'd give us an answer tomorrow," the Constructicon said, looking a little irritated by Jazz's open disbelief. "Do you have any idea how frustrated Hook is right now? He hates changing schedules without warning, and your dimwitted shuttle - " he checked himself; patience, tolerance, and not insulting the other faction. Peace negotiations outside the meeting rooms, right here. "Skyfire doesn't seem to understand the urgency of the situation. The others have to be in time for the contract binding. Erm, uh." He glanced at the lovely tableau that was Ratchet quivering on Bonecrusher's lap as the other Constructicon ignored their conversation to go after the chevron conveniently now within his reach. "Not to say that we're assuming his agreement to our terms," Mixmaster hastily assured Jazz, apparently trying not to insult Ratchet's bargaining skills, "but it would certainly help to have the other Constructicons here to complete the courtship."

Scrap metal and rust. Four more mechs piled on Ratchet? The medic would be a helpless, pleasured puddle on the floor, and that floor would probably be located in the busiest hallway available. Had these mechs no sense of decorum?!

Bonecrusher nibbled roughly, highly conductive dental molds sparking off a sensor-packed chevron that hadn't been meant to be abused so. Ratchet twitched in time with each graze and skimming touch. Red hands opened and closed feebly, dragging across Bonecrusher's treads in a search for stability amidst the washing, uncontrolled tidal wave of system build-up. It filled his body, crackling charge under armor plating as the sensor input kept increasing, pushing the energy toward an inevitable peak. The Decepticon's touch could easily harm, easily hurt, and instead conveyed tender, torturous care. The contrast between expectation and reality made mere sensation into an agonizingly pleasurable flood of feeling that just kept surging.

Jazz stared as Ratchet arched and moaned, emergency lights flashing in tempo with the careful nip of teeth around the edge of his chevron. The medic was well beyond such foolish notions of modesty. Nope. No decorum here. Next up: the street outside headquarters. Come one and all to watch the Constructicons reduce the Autobots' Chief Medical Officer to pawing at them in public.

Mixmaster ran a hand down his own face, a look of unhappy, nervous tension replacing the irritation and underlying lust that had been there previously. "I hope we're doing this right. Scrapper had it all planned out, but none of us counted on Ratchet giving us just one day before deciding. Scavenger had a whole line-up of gifts to give him, and Hook's really better at courting than either of us." He waved a hand vaguely. "I'd know what to do if he were a warbuild or an industry-make, but he's a medic." The chemist had the look of a mech really out of his comfort zone.

He turned an oddly appealing look to the Autobot saboteur as if suddenly realizing that Jazz had experience with this particular medic. 'Teach us, oh wise, experienced Autobot.' "He's a specialty build, I can tell, but we're making this up as we go because we don't know what he likes! We're going to lose the contract if we don't get it right." The unhappy tension deepened, as well as the imploring 'Help us?' gaze. "He hasn't even brought up what kind of terms he's interested in."

Despite the tempting scene before him, Jazz's attention transferred to the Constructicon at that. The unexpected insight into the Decepticon side of this bizarre courtship process lit a strange pang of empathy under his spark. "He hasn't said anything because you've got him pretty well speechless," the black-and-white saboteur said a little dryly. "I think you've gotta good handle on what he likes." He debated potential pros and cons a short second, then added, "Go for the headlights."

There was a breathy squeal from Ratchet, and a pleased grunt of assent from Bonecrusher. When Jazz glanced at the two, Ratchet's headlights were being thoroughly mapped out by Bonecrusher. Even as he watched, the big Constructicon contorted, half-twisting himself and half-pulling Ratchet around until tongue could replace hands, and Ratchet's engine hiccupped blissfully. Sirens bleated, momentarily shrieking unspoken ecstasy when a particular headlight corner was probed. These Decepticons seriously wanted to get this courtship thing right with the medic.

Red Alert coughed over their connection, seemingly shaking himself from whatever fantasies Ratchet's various noises were conjuring over on his end. *"A time limit. We can set those?"*

"Apparently," Jazz said, starting to find some amusement from the whole ordeal. The office was hot enough to steam up his windshield, but standing around like a spectator made him think he should get a cube of mid-grade and settle in as some kind of supervisor. Mixmaster shot him an inquiring look, and Jazz filled him in. "What's the rush, anyway?" he asked when he got a nodded confirmation on the time limit question. "You can only court a mech once?"

Bonecrusher paused, taking short break as his engine rumbled solid vibrations into Ratchet. "We can ask again, but why would we? Who wants a mech who doesn't want you?" His vents heaved air to cool him down, reaching for self-control as Ratchet shuddered on his lap. "This isn't a military contract."

"Besides," Mixmaster tacked on, "we got lucky asking first. Ratchet's a good catch for a social bind." His expression darkened. "We'll have rivals if we wait."

"I suppose this explains why Scrapper's asked for immediate transfer back to headquarters," said a scratchy voice behind Jazz, and the Autobot whirled to see Starscream leaning against the doorjamb. The Seeker was all shiny red angles, gold cockpit, and lazy smile. Jazz felt like a very small glitch-mouse, frozen to the spot under a predator's optics. The Air Commander's optics gleamed with heat and a hunger that fed a different appetite, however, and Ratchet's renewed groaning really wasn't helping Jazz's composure any.

The hot gaze released him in order to look over Mixmaster, and the smile dropped. Starscream made the mental sidestep from questionable intent to Official Business, and it flung up all sorts of red flags in Jazz's head. "You do have a rival," the Air Commander said curtly. "I came to warn you, actually."

Bonecrusher stopped what he was doing so abruptly Ratchet managed an actual word in protest: "Please…"

The plea - and accompanying siren-blip - hit the room like a shot of highgrade. Jazz's engine revved. Starscream's optics blinked through an impressed reset. Mixmaster ticked, stopping himself from automatically stepping over to continue his teammate's aborted action. When Jazz dared looked, Ratchet was wriggling into Bonecrusher's motionless hands, sprawled wantonly over the Decepticon's lap.

Both Constructicons were too focused on Starscream to give the medic the attention he so dearly desired. Their heads tilted, asking something over internal comm. lines, and Starscream shrugged carelessly as he replied the same way. The two exchanged quick looks of alarm while the Seeker plainly felt his duty had been fulfilled.

Jazz felt a dreadful sinking sensation in his tanks. *"That doesn't sound good,*" Red Alert murmured, and he could only agree. Who could stand rival to the Constructicons that would cause them so much worry? More importantly, was Ratchet in danger from that rivalry?

Starscream met his visor with an expectant look. They had to talk, and the Seeker knew it. Duty over, the Air Commander backslid toward his own goals. Such goals likely involved the way the red optics swept over the short Autobot, cataloguing vulnerable points in a distinctly non-combat fashion.

There was another sensation in Jazz' tanks, and it wasn't a sinking one. It kind of felt the way Ratchet sounded right now.

Something that had been nagging at the back of his mind popped up, now that the Constructions were distracted by their own problems. The saboteur tore his visor away from the Air Commander to look at the Constructicons. "What exactly," he said, stretching the words out slowly, "did Ratchet say to you?" It was a bit weird to talk about the medic like he wasn't present, but Ratchet wasn't all there at the moment anyway.

Mixmaster and Bonecrusher blinked at him. "He said he'd decide tomorrow."

*"That matches what he told me he was going to say."*

"Not the shortest courtship on record," Starscream noted, "but short nonetheless." The Constructicons gave him exasperated looks of 'Tell us something we don't know!'

"Uh-huh," the Autobot Third-in-Command agreed with all of them. "And what was he deciding on?"

The office fell into silence. Mixmaster and Bonecrusher seemed confused, but Starscream straightened sharply, giving their supposed innocence a second look.

*"Interesting question,"* Red Alert said quietly, hard and stern. Jazz nodded just slightly.

"Bonecrusher," Starscream rasped in a voice of whetstones and dull knife blades, "may I speak with outside for a moment?"

"Do I have a choice?" Bonecrusher said under his breath, but he began untangling himself from Ratchet. "Yeah, sure."

The medic optics were returning to blue gradually, but there wasn't a whole lot of logic in them yet. His siren weedle-beeped, giving dying chirps of sound in time with the fitful flashes from his emergency lights as his systems leveled off. He kind of draped over the desk chair when Bonecrusher gently set him in it. The Autobots really needed to try tactile overloading more often if this was the kind of response it typically got. Or perhaps the reaction was so strong because they didn't typically practice it?

But that was a question to experiment with later, after Jazz finished backing Mixmaster into a corner. "Well?" he demanded, and instead of the Jazzmeister who gave interface advice, this was a superior officer of the opposite faction talking. 'For the purpose of ending our Great War, your answer had better be a good one.'

The Constructicon chemist looked uneasy but defiant. "He said he'd decide tomorrow. We had to pay court before then, so we started immediately. There's nothing wrong with that."

"It didn't occur to you that Ratchet was gonna decide whether or not to give you permission to court him tomorrow?" His voice rose, and Mixmaster seemed unsettled by that. The Jazzmeister didn't lose his cool, especially not in front of Decepticons. He was the Autobot Third-in-Command, the scary little black-and-white saboteur who disappeared into the shadows of the Decepticons' own bases and laughed about it later on the battlefield while shooting a mech in the face.

"Well…I mean, it did, but why would he say it like that if that's why he meant?" There was genuine confusion behind the question, but there was also a lot of intentional ignorance. This was a Decepticon on the defense, knowing he was in the wrong, and Jazz made a sound like a transmission seizing up.

"Because I already briefed you morons on courting the Autobots, and I know I mentioned how astoundingly inaccurate their information is on courting customs," Starscream snapped from the doorway. Bonecrusher lurked shame-faced behind him. "An entire war of spying on us, and you don't know ritual phrasing when you hear it?" the Seeker said to Jazz, and the Autobot lost his rage in a rush of indignation.

"We didn't exactly associate courting with Decepticons, alright?" Jazz retorted. "We just thought you didn't trust each other enough for frequent hardline 'facing. It's not like we didn't get enough footage of 'Cons overloading each other whenever and wherever you could!" Seriously, an entire faction that wouldn't trade cables except to close negotiations, but they'd pin each other against the nearest wall and tease to overload no matter who could see? There was something wrong with the Decepticons.

"Footage? I know some mechs who'd pay to watch." Bonecrusher flinched back when Starscream jerked a wing at him, but his grin was sly. "No, really, that's some kinky stuff."

"I will put you on extended patrol duty for the next three orns," Starscream spat coldly, "and good luck paying court while stuck in Kaon."

Bonecrusher wisely shut up. Mixmaster seemed about to say something, too, but a glare from the Decepticon Second-in-Command silenced him before he could start.

"They deliberately took advantage of a cultural misunderstanding," Jazz said, equally cold, and the two Constructicons had the grace to look guilty. "They didn't wait for Ratchet's consent. They used the advantage of size and mass t' take him by surprise and prevent him from struggling. This was done against his will. Among Autobots, this's considered a crime. As his superior officer, I'm demanding they - "

"We asked!" the Constructicons protested as one.

"He gave consent!"

"I asked him twice if he was okay with us continuing! He said yes!"

"I asked him if he liked it when I had my hands up behind his windshield, and he nodded!"

"Okay, so he didn't really say yes, but that was a definite yes."

"Right! His mouth was kind of busy because I had my thumb in it at the time, but c'mon, it was still a yes."

"If we'd waited, you'd have talked him out of giving permission before he even gave us a chance to make an offer!"

"It was kinda a dirty trick, but it's just courtship. We're not at agreement of contract yet!"

"We'd never take a mech into contract against his will!"

"Autobots have different levels of consent," Starscream interrupted them, looking unsympathetic as the Constructicons got more frantic with each protest. "Physical intimacy is held at the same level as data interfacing, evidently."

They seemed taken aback. "That's crazy," Mixmaster said, too surprised to be anything but blunt. "How do they enter negotiations?"

"They never actually spell it out by outright saying that they'd like to enter contract negotiations. There's some kind of social taboo against explicitly signaling interest through open touching as well. It's supposed to be vague signals that the other mech will take as hints if there's mutual interest. Verbal exchanges are discouraged as interfacing is an obscene topic."

Bonecrusher and Mixmaster were looking back and forth between Jazz and Starscream as if hoping the Autobot would say the Seeker's factual analysis was a joke. Jazz was as taken as aback as they were. He'd…never really heard Autobot friendships and interfacing customs described quite so clinically. The outsider viewpoint was disconcerting. Put that way, it was amazing any of the Autobots ever got consent at all!

"So how do they negotiate?" Bonecrusher asked in a small voice. "A blindfold and a dartboard with the terms on it?"

"Their social negotiations are nonbinding, as I understand it. Unspoken agreements instead of actual defined contracts." The Air Commander shot Jazz an uncertain look. "So the theory goes."

For the first time, Jazz got an idea of just how adrift they all were. The Decepticons had apparently already had a briefing on courting the opposite faction, but the Autobots had kept it within the command staff present in Vos. The Decepticons had already researched the Autobots' customs, even if they had some of the details wrong. They were trying so hard to make this work, but they were working around a massive culture gap. The Autobots hadn't even gone so far as to acknowledge that same gap as more than a strange eccentricity. Both sides thought the other was almost unforgivably rude for following their own faction's unwritten rules.

In this, it seemed the Decepticons had more organization.

*"Blaster's been enhancing the audio on the transmission from before you came in,"* Red Alert said, still harsh but more thoughtful. *"It's muffled, but we have what sounds like at least one question asking if Ratchet wanted them to continue. No confirmation from Ratchet, however."*

"I agreed," Ratchet finally chimed in, and his voice was hoarse. He didn't lift his head from resting on the back of the chair as everyone turned to stare at him. "They asked if I was okay with what they were doing, and I said - well, indicated that I was."

"That's still agreement under duress," Jazz pointed out, and the Constructicons bristled at him. "Would you have stopped if he said no?" Jazz challenged them right back.

The two Decepticons scowled. "Of course!"

"If the courtship isn't consensual, it's not worth the time put into it. A forced contract isn't binding!"

Jazz eyed Starscream, considering. The Seeker was frowning at the Constructicons, but his earlier anger had eased off. *"Ratchet,"* he said into the internal comm. channel, *"Screamer seems to be takin' this fairly seriously. Say the word, and I think he'd throw them outta the city to get 'em away from you."* Whether to appease the Autobots or impress Jazz was debatable.

*"You don't have to say you agreed to prevent an incident,"* Red Alert said gently. *"This will be reported regardless of your actions. We can't afford to not inform the others about it."*

"I agreed," Ratchet gritted out, and now he looked at Jazz. And - oh. Ah ha. Jazz recognized that look. It was a look of I'm Embarrassed to Exist if he'd ever seen one. Well, that explained a lot. "I was curious. They wanted to court me, and I didn't think it'd go that far, but like the Pit am I going to complain that they tweaked my gyros to spinning." The words looked like they'd cost the medic his pride to force out, and Starscream coughed delicately into his hand to conceal a wicked grin. The Constructicons lit up like incandescent lightbulbs of relieved happiness.

Ratchet was determinedly not looking at them. He hauled himself to his feet, using the desk because his knees were as bendy as rubber, and stomped around it. "Now, get off my back and get out of my office. I have work to do!"

"Yes sir," Starscream drawled, letting himself be herded.

Jazz grinned unrepentantly, skipping ahead of Ratchet as his own relief swooped in strong enough to bottom out his tanks. There would still be inquiries and a practical interrogation of the medic and probably enough briefings on the subject to scar the Autobots for life, but Primus be praised if they hadn't dodged a bullet here and now. A rape accusation would have been horrible for all involved, especially if the Constructicons' protests of Ratchet wanting it were believed at all. Starscream might be putting on an indignant act now, the Constructicons making emphatic denials, but Jazz could easily see how the Decepticons would have laughed and congratulated the Constructicons behind an official censure. Even some of the Autobots might have raised a few doubts about burying the incident to smooth the peace process.

Truthfully, Jazz had hesitated to interfere at first because it'd looked like Ratchet was practically begging for it. It wasn't like the Constructicons had been hardlined in make the question moot. How was tactile interfacing consent judged? He could see, uneasily so, how consent could be hard to argue that way. That kind of unresolved smear added to the Autobot Chief Medical Officer's reputation was the last thing any of them needed, much less keeping Ratchet himself together through the ensuing whispers and rumor-mongering.

But it hadn't happened, and relief had Jazz dancing with it. "Sure thing, Ratchet. We'll just leave you with your - ?" He cocked his visor inquisitively at Starscream.

"Suitors," the Decepticon Second supplied helpfully. "Plural. Six of them today. Seven by tomorrow, if I'm correct." He sniffed disdainfully. "Which I am, of course."

Mixmaster and Bonecrusher looked briefly murderous, but they were handily distracted by Ratchet shoving them bodily toward the door. He pushed them out between Jazz and Starscream and turned on his heel to key the door shut - but hesitated.

"Yes."

The Constructicons snapped to attention, riveted. "Yes?"

"Yes?" Jazz repeated dumbly.

*"Did he just say yes?"*

"Yes," Ratchet said firmly, and shut the door.

"Yes!" Bonecrusher hooted, and Mixmaster punched him in the shoulder. They slapped hands like adolescent humans and ran down the hall in an exultant storm of joy.

*"I'm going to kill him,"* Red Alert growled, and his comm. signal blared static before signing off, presumably to link to Ratchet's comm. system for a private harangue.

Which left Jazz standing in a public hallway with that conveniently empty floor with the Decepticon who just so happened to be courting him.

Jazz, there's a situation in the medical building…

[* * * * *]

End Pt. 4

[* * * * *]