Thank you so much to each of my reviewers, Optimus Bob, Bluebird Soaring, Dragonrider2203, Refracted Imagination, Faecat, flamingmarsh, PrancingTiger86, lastditch, Mirage Shinkiro, Flight of Insanity, Player3, Jinx, Anon., FunkyFish1991, renegadewriter8, Independent C, Alangrieal, Ragnarok347, Chloo, Randomstrike, Peacewish, and Sebastian Nyte. It's thanks to all of you that this story continues~ I could never thank you enough for the encouragement, support, Jazz/Prowl love, and warm fuzzies! =D

Special thanks to FunkyFish1991 for being the Spock to my Kirk… minus the possible gay innuendoes that surround them. ^^;

You all said keep the Jazz/Prowl story coming, so here it is! *cheers*

Chapter 3

Ratchet returned not long after Optimus's departure. He looked to be in a fractionally better mood, which usually was the case after a brief visit with Wheeljack. As convenient as it was for an accident-prone engineer to be so deep in a relationship with a medic of Ratchet's temperament, as far as Prowl could tell, their friendship suited them. However, there was no shortage of confusion on Prowl's part in trying to understand how either mech- Wheeljack with his almost logic-defying accidents, and Ratchet with his ridiculously overblown temper- had come to hold positions of such high regard in the Autobot forces.

When the medic leaned in, Prowl leaned away. Not consciously, of course. More like an unconscious reflex to avoid the discomfort he knew was coming. Ratchet noticed, and didn't appreciate it.

"Hold still," he ordered. To enforce the order, he grabbed Prowl's shoulders and anchored him to the berth.

"Could this not be put off until after I recharge and have the energy to deal with the backlash?" Prowl sighed, trying to shake off the medic's hands.

Ratchet met Prowl's gaze evenly, a firm frown pulling down his mouthplates. "No. The longer you have it off, the worse it's going to be." He performed a few scans as he spoke, even visually appraising the storm-grey mech's frame for any damage he might have initially missed. "Besides, with such low energy reserves, if the backlash becomes too much, you can always pass out. Consider it an advantage."

Prowl's neutral stare narrowed fractionally. "That does me no comfort."

"Deal with it."

Next to them, First Aid peered up warily from the sections of spare armour and temp plating he and Ratchet had collected from Wheeljack. It wasn't enough to deal with all of Prowl's injuries, but continuous supply shortages practically guaranteed there was never enough for everyone. Thankfully, what they had was enough to put Prowl on the right track to recovery.

Prowl caught First Aid's gaze, held it, and then glared. First Aid accordingly went back to his work organizing the parts for when he and his mentor would apply them to Prowl the next orn.

"If you are going to do this to me, can I at least have my humiliation be less of a public spectacle?" Prowl requested, still staring at First Aid.

Without looking to his apprentice, Ratchet replied, "First Aid is a medic. He doesn't count as the public."

"Even so, I would rather deal with my condition privately. You are Iacon's chief medical officer and I trust that you can see to me without the assistance of your apprentice." Prowl inclined his head to First Aid. "It is nothing against your abilities, First Aid, but I would rather have privacy during my… transition."

First Aid offered a small nod. "I understand."

Ratchet still frowned, but the gesture was not as severe at it had been. His gaze slid to his little red assistant and he said, "There's inventory that still has to be taken care of. Do you mind seeing to it for now? After you're done, you can get some recharge of your own."

First Aid took the dismissal with good graces, bowing and leaving promptly.

Prowl relaxed marginally, still wary of Ratchet's hands on him.

"Are you ready now?" the medic asked.

"Yes." One could never be completely prepared for what was about to happen, but Prowl was as steeled for it as he could be. Internal tension roused because of it bordered on painful.

"Do you want to engage it, or shall I?" Ratchet enquired.

Prowl drew away, bracing himself against the wall at the head of his berth. "I will," he insisted.

Ratchet respectfully backed off, moving to the other side of the aisle to give Prowl room enough to do what needed to be done. The procedure Prowl was about to undertake was not necessarily a dangerous one, but bots' reactions to the backlash often ranged from mild to extremely violent. Considering the traumas the mech had been exposed to over the past orns, Ratchet could bet anything that Prowl's transition back to emotionally operative was going to be less than smooth.

The tactician took a deep drag of air, preparing himself for the build up of emotions that was about to be released on himself. As rational as he was at the moment, he knew it was going to be all the worse in a few astroseconds' time. Pressing his back into the wall, he shuttered his optics and leaned his head back, appreciating his emotionless state for one last moment. It was very… peaceful. Not cumbersome at all. Girding his innards, he then delved into the familiar regions of his well-organized, diamond-sharp, impenetrable mind, seeking out one particular center. Access was easy, seeing as he had much experience turning it on and off. The proper alert for it appeared across his shuttered optics, flashing red in warning as it informed him of how long the center had been shut down.

Accessing emotional center manual controls: Switching emotional center on.

A disconcerting feeling, as if a physical switch were being flipped, slithered through his head. He suffered a curious moment of being caught in between two realities- one terribly rigid and ordered, the other convoluted and chaotic. He hung on the precipice for an astrosecond. Teetered there, waiting for his world to catch up.

And then crashed over the edge in a nauseating nosedive.

Ratchet's medical instincts rang to full life as he saw Prowl's faceplate fall. "Prowl-!" He dove forward to catch the mech, only to be too late. A horrible retching sound filled the med bay before Prowl wrenched to the side and purged his tanks across the floor. Having not been given proper energon for the length of his incarceration, there wasn't a lot to spill. It was a dull, murky greyish-blue sludge.

Prowl tried to look up as he heard his designation called, but the movement was too much for his suddenly sickened tanks. He retched again, emptying reservoirs. A new wave of nausea hit on the tail of the last, forcing him to spit the last dregs of congealed energon from his tanks. A dribble of it stuck to his mouthplates, rolling down his chin. Of its own volition, his mind ran through the events of the last few orns: he relived his capture, his incarceration, his torture… Saw each event, and suddenly experienced the terror for it all. What he should have experienced in those singular moments he was experiencing now all at the same time. It was a churning, roiling, sickening storm, causing his limbs to shake and his vision to black out.

Strong, dusky yellow hands grasped his arms and eased him back. Ratchet was trying to say something, but his words were lost in the gurgling, wild noises leaving his own vocal processor. The overwhelming ache of his spark feeling several sizes too large for his sparkcase burned straight through his chest. As Ratchet tried to seize him, tried to control the convulsing, it only made the terror of being caged as a prisoner rise to the surface. Prowl's reaction was stronger still, involuntarily crying out, frame bowing backward until it seemed he would snap in half.

With a grunt, Ratchet backed off, hands raised as that particular convulsion rocked the tactician. He moved forward once he deemed it safe, just as Prowl turned to the side, gripping the edge of his berth as memories and backlash emotions caused him to uncharacteristically sob. The medic determinedly stuck by the tactician's side, ensuring that Prowl did not accidentally throw himself to the floor. The experience as a whole did not last long, only a few breems. However, for one experiencing the trauma, it felt a thousand times longer. Calmness took a while to be restored in the aftermath. Prowl remained in a protective curled position, locked that way as occasional spasms rocked him.

Sensing the worst was now over, Ratchet eased Prowl back to lean him against the wall. "How do you feel?" he asked concernedly, his faceplate hovering closer-than-necessary as he assessed his patient's condition. Thankfully, there was no judgement in the medic's optics; had there been, it may have been too much for Prowl to handle in his vulnerable state.

"I feel," Prowl stated dourly. The metal of his frame rattled as he continued to involuntarily shake.

"That was the point. At least the initial wave has passed," Ratchet replied, hands smoothing over Prowl's faceplate expertly, moving down his arms, down his chest, over his legs. It seemed an odd gesture, even for a medic, but the extra heat generated by the heating elements in his palms was designed to sooth, unlocking seized joints and easing painful tension. "Are you in control of yourself now?"

Prowl scrubbed at his faceplate weakly. He still felt ill. Not hollow, but too full of too many things. A storm felt contained inside his frame, expanding and retreating in time to the burning pulse of his spark. His thoughts did not come to him as organized as he would have liked, and concentration was hindered by inflections of emotion. However, for the most part…

"I believe I am in control now."

Ratchet did not reply right away. He watched Prowl for a moment more, gauging his stability. Finally he said, "Good. That was a pretty nasty episode."

"Not something I want to repeat any time soon," Prowl sighed, now feeling exponentially more tired than he did before. With his tanks and reservoirs emptied of their energon and his energy reserves beyond drained, he had very little keeping him from falling into stasis. Surely his optics were nearly white from energy deprivation?

Ratchet frowned. "Are you in any intense discomfort?"

"No more than what you would expect." He wavered for a moment, optics dimming.

"Would you like something to ease the discomfort?" Ratchet offered, already moving to a drawer for the appropriate injection. "I was going to administer something that would numb the pain when you turned your neural relays back on. Throwing in a minor tranquilizer won't do you too much harm."

Prowl nodded. "I would appreciate it."

"Just don't get used to it," Ratchet warned, only semi-playfully. "You should learn better emotional control so sessions like this don't have to happen." He faced Prowl with a loaded injector in hand.

The tactician regarded the tool without aversion. A small frown graced his mouthplates. "War is not the best teacher, nor is it an easy medium to work in."

Ratchet looked down, shaking his head minutely. "No, I don't suppose it is. This, at least, will ease you for now."

There was no armour on his arm to peel back for Ratchet to have access to the appropriate energon line, so the injector was inserted into a valve and released. The effects were thankfully immediate.

A dozy look crossed Prowl's faceplate, relief sweeping his features. "If it is all right with you, I think I will recharge now."

"Of course," the medic chuckled, turning for the door. He set some drones to cleaning the floor where Prowl had purged. "Should you online and need me, I'm merely a comm. line away." When he received no answer, he peered over his shoulder, only to find Prowl was out cold. With a shake of his head, Ratchet left for his own quarters.

The graveyard shift was notorious for being as exciting as watching paint dry. It seemed to be a universal constant among all factions, distributed among all bases: nothing ever happened during the night shifts.

For Jazz, it was the perfect time for a walk. Yes, a walk.

The quietness of the night did something for him. Helped him get his thoughts in order, which were usually along the lines of how he could disrupt such peaceful quietness. In the past, it had been too easy to waltz into a base, take whatever he needed, and waltz back out. His favourite jaunt, before he'd been invited into the Decepticons, had been the night he simply walked into a base with nothing more than a simple signature modulator and the right attitude.

Not a single bot had stopped him. Granted, if a bot had tried to stop him, they would never find the frame of the unfortunate spark.

Becoming a Decepticon had not exactly curbed Jazz's nightly habits; they merely took on more creative attributes. Like, say, stalking into random Cons' quarters while they recharged, stealing a few trinkets, and planting them in other Cons' quarters. The practise kept him sharp. Watching chaos bloom in the morning was always rewarding. Even Megatron garnered some form of twisted entertainment from the night-wanderings, if only because they showcased Jazz's considerable talents as a saboteur.

And Jazz had very considerable talents as a saboteur, if he did say so himself. He had yet to encounter anyone as gifted as he himself was.

Granted, Megatron would not be so impressed if he knew what kinds of things Jazz had been doing in his quarters while the Decepticon leader recharged… He could only guess what old Meggy was thinking of him now.

Chuckling to himself, Jazz leaned back on the berth he lounged on. It actually was a rather comfortable one; internally warmed, layered with a relatively soft polymer layer. In the med bay.

Jazz chuckled in self-satisfaction, glancing about the darkened room. Iacon's med bay was interestingly cleaner than Straxis', though no less foreboding. Medical intimidation was yet another universal constant that remained unchanged by faction.

By far, the interior of the med bay was much more appealing than the brig.

It had been too easy to get out of that sorry excuse for an Autobot brig. A little hacking here, a little physical force on a few guards there… It wasn't like a Decepticon brig at all. At least in those ones, they usually mangled you in some way to prevent you from escaping. The Autobots were too damned noble to do the smart thing. Kind of sad, really. Not that the encryption codes that kept him in his cell weren't impressive- he'd have to give whatever Autobot who wrote the codes some credit; some work had been necessary to crack them. However, the guards left something to be desired. Poor things had just about jumped out of their armour when Jazz crossed the threshold into the aisle. They fought valiantly despite being outmatched. For their efforts, Jazz left them alive. It was the least he could do.

The fun part had been sleuthing down the corridors. In truth, not exactly smooth sleuthing when one took into account the amount of hacking into security cameras and visual/audio looping he had to do so no one was the wiser to his walk, but a pleasant game nonetheless. Even better, it was a game played at the expense of the rest of the base.

How easily Jazz could have snuck into the command center, shot everyone dead, and called in the Decepticons to raid the place.

He could have found his way down to the energon stores and detonated the stash.

There were endless possibilities for what kinds of fun Jazz could have on an Autobot base.

Of course, he wasn't there for that sort of thing. No, he was in Iacon for an entirely different reason, hence being in the med bay rather than in the command center, or the energon stores, or anywhere else he shouldn't be. One particular Autobot of interest laid unconscious on the berth parallel to him. In the dark, he could make out the distorted outline of the mech; storm-grey armour patched in sections, the most damaged of it removed. Not peaceful, but not entirely on guard either- some strange place in between.

Prowl.

Muted systems hummed, fans whirred, and intakes sighed as they exchanged air to cool his insides. One little slip of Jazz's finger and the Autobot would be dead before he knew it. Daringly, Jazz leaned over and traced the tip of his claw against Prowl's faceplate, as if mocking the mech with how close to death he really was.

"So close," Jazz teased.

Prowl gave a muted snort, disturbed by the touch, and suddenly his optics were open.

"Well, well, look who's online," Jazz purred, lightly taking his hand back.

There was a moment of confusion as Prowl took stock of where he was and who the silver mech watching him was. In an instant, he was up, rigid, and reaching for a weapon he didn't have.

"Calm down, now. No need for gettin' antsy," Jazz laughed, hands up in a placating gesture. "If Ah was gonna hurt ya, Ah would have done it by now."

Prowl did not relax with the reassurances. He quickly tracked where all the exits were, where all the drones in the room in the room where, where each piece of equipment was and what could be used as a weapon. Lastly, he tracked how far away the comm. buttons were, should he need to call for help. Once done with the rapid assessment, the mech did relax somewhat. He was still rigid, but at least not cagey. His faceplate fell into that calculating mask Jazz had memorized during their time together in interrogation.

"What are you doing here?" Prowl asked. The few joors of recharge he'd scored had been enough to give him some edge over his faculties. He was weak, but at least he could pretend he wasn't.

The Decepticon leaned back with a nonchalance that was as relaxed as it was danger incarnate. "Just visitin'."

Prowl blinked, and then narrowed his optics. "Visiting me?"

"Is there someone else Ah should be visitin'?" Jazz asked, both optic ridges arched high in mocking incredulity.

"No, of course not. You should not even be here."

"Ah'm hurt. Here Ah thought Ah was doin' a nice thing for ya."

"One good deed and you think you are a philanthropist?"

"Maybe, but Ah think it's two good deeds, three if ya count yer rescue."

"Two?"

"Ah'm here visitin', an' Ah didn't kill ya while ya recharged." He slid from the berth, into the shadows of the med bay. The vibrant glow of his visor dimmed and then disappeared as he adjusted its settings. He wasn't leaving, just trying to make himself invisible to unnerve his company.

"Which begs the question of how you are here at all," Prowl stated. Jazz may have slunk into the shadows, but his spark resonance was loud and clear on the tactician's scanners. It was a wonder how no one else was picking up the Decepticon signature and raising the alarm. Was everyone else recharging on their shift? Or had Jazz done something to their sensors to disrupt them?

Suddenly, a pair of hands gripped the other side of the berth, opposite to where Jazz had been sitting. A serpentine silver frame leaned into view. He leaned in too close. Close enough for Prowl to want to lean away. He was not to be intimidated, though, so he stayed his ground and stared back into that dark stretch of crystal that covered Jazz's optics.

"Ya invited meh here, remember?" the saboteur purred.

"I remember extending my hand to you, yes."

"So here Ah am."

Prowl leaned forward a fraction, his forehead almost touching Jazz's. "You are supposed to be in the brig."

Jazz grinned. Instead of backing off, his hand came up to curl around the back of Prowl's head, pressing their foreheads together intimately. "'Supposed to be' is the key phrase there, Prowler. Ah got bored." He wedged his knee on the edge of the berth to lever himself up, pressing his sleek silver chest against Prowl's dulled storm-grey chassis. "Ah think Ah missed ya."

Prowl went rigid, his optics flashing. For a moment, Jazz had the disappointing thought that intimacy was all it took to break the icy bot. But, no, Prowl was not to be broken so easily. A very strange smile crept onto the tactician's faceplate, an expression that shouldn't have been possible on a mech who wasn't programmed with emotions. His stance relaxed, becoming fluid and sensate against Jazz's. His hands slid up along the saboteur's front. Icy optics turned deep and rich, hands firming against silver armour.

"And I believe I missed you, as well."

"Did ya now…"

"Oh yes."

Like the sensuous whisper of a lover. The sudden change in Prowl's demeanour was enough to surprise Jazz, giving the Autobot the upper hand. Seeing Jazz's lapse, Prowl's expression hardened. With a snarl, he used what little energy he had to throw the Decepticon off and away.

Stumbling into a berth, Jazz laughed. "Damn, ain't you full of surprises!"

Prowl's faceplate lost all traces of warmth, a glare livid in his optics. "As are you, it seems." He brushed his hands down his front as if to slough off any remaining presence of the Decepticon. "I shudder to think what you have done to get out of the brig."

Now the saboteur was even more interested in the tactician than he was before. Yet another assumption he had made of the Autobot was wrong; Prowl was not devoid of emotion, but simmering with it. He could see it now, smouldering like banked embers in his optics. How could he have missed something so very interesting? Yet another thing Prowl proved to make Jazz fail at; reading mechs.

Easing onto the berth he had been shoved into, Jazz smirked, assessing Prowl anew. Not a speck of his own annoyance at missing details showed. "You know better than anyone here that that brig wouldn't have held meh. Ah didn't do nothin' ta hurt no one… much."

Prowl's optics narrowed fractionally.

Jazz shrugged. "The guards will be fine by mornin' with only a couple new dents, Ah swear." And most of their processors assessed and copied into Jazz's own for future reference and/or blackmail. He wasn't about to admit that part, though.

Prowl gave a shallow nod, but did not bother to trust Jazz's word. It was a sixth sense that told him the saboteur had done more than simply knock a few bots around. Something also informed that that the Decepticon had not brought anyone to permanent harm. At the very least, he hadn't killed anyone. Considering who Jazz was, the fact that no one had suffered irreparable harm was a boon.

The saboteur leaned forward, inky shadows hiding most of faceplate and frame. Prowl did not correct his optic settings to see the Decepticon better.

"Tell meh, Prowler… that special little sparkle Ah see in your optics- is that a new addition, or were ya just hidin' it from meh?"

"It is none of your concern."

"Isn't it?" In the gloom, Jazz's smirk turned dangerous. He tapped the side of his head. "Because accordin' ta the report Optimus Prime just submitted, you're now in charge of mah presence in Iacon. Ah think Ah'd like ta know what kind of surprises ya have hidden away in that processor of yours before ya think ya can assume command of meh."

The tactician's optics flashed, revealing more than he meant to, before his expression dimmed into something far more neutral. It wasn't enough to hide all traces of emotion, though. Now that Jazz knew they were there, he was looking for them. Beyond anything, it intrigued him that Prowl had been able to hide them for so long. Not just hide them, but make them disappear all together. Not even a glimmer of knowing had come to him during their time together. Jazz knew of no one else with such… strength.

"My processor is my own," Prowl stated. "You had no business in it in Straxis and you have no business in it now."

"Ah'll make it mah business." In a surprise move, Jazz's visor suddenly lightened, and then it drew back. The deep red glow of his optics glinted off the sharp angles of his faceplate. There was curiosity in those diamond-sharp optics. Intrigue. He was already scheming for the orns ahead, looking to do what he failed to do in Straxis: get into Prowl's head, crawl under his armour, and break him.

Already seeing the gears begin to turn in that unpredictable head, Prowl straightened. His resolve was wavering, exhausting beginning to creep back up on him. He only needed the strength to coax the beast back into its cage and then he could rest. However many steps Jazz was ahead, Prowl had to be several steps ahead of that.

"Why did you come here, Jazz?" Prowl suddenly asked. He remembered the flash of uncertainty that had crossed the saboteur's faceplate in that one wild moment. A moment when Jazz had not been in control.

Jazz canted his head. "Like Ah said, Ah missed ya."

"Why did you agree to come here, to Iacon?"

Finally, Jazz tripped up. Despite all his ponderings on the subject, he still had no answer as to why he had followed Prowl. He had no answer for why he was in Iacon. His gaze met Prowl's squarely, and superimposed over the moment was the instant Prowl had frozen on the boundary between Straxis and freedom-

"Come with me."

"Ah can't."

And yet Jazz did.

"Have you no answer?" Prowl asked, quirking an optic ridge.

Sliding like oil from his berth, Jazz braced his hands against Prowl's berth and leaned in. He did not go for unnerving intimacy this time. The intensity of his stare was enough. He opened his mouthplates and delivered his answer on a smooth murmur.

"Ya asked. Ah came."

A severe optic ridge rose. "That's all?"

The saboteur nodded tightly. "That's all."

"So if I asked you to return to the brig?"

"All ya had ta do was ask." Jazz smirked, backing up and sauntering to the door. He paused before leaving, turning to assess the storm-grey mech he was leaving for the time being. Distance between them allowed for shadow to fill in the space, leaving only the glow of their optics piercing the gloom. Smouldering red meeting icy blue. Jazz's smirk widened as he considered the game that was slowly taking shape between them.

"Ya know," he said airily. "Whatever sort of thing is between us now, it's only just begun."

Prowl inclined his head. He, too, sensed the challenge brewing between them. "Don't worry. I have every intention of seeing this through."