It's been a little while since I've been able to update this story, but Where You and I Collide is an extraordinarily dense and complex piece of writing for me, so it takes a lot of brain power to formulate a single chapter. Jazz and Prowl, as they appear here, are stubborn and tricky little bastards to write and sometimes they make me want to bash their heads against a wall. *sigh* But enough complaining on my part. Honestly, I just hope that this chapter offers enough enjoyment, and perhaps a bit of mystery, to satisfy my many readers out there. If you have a good time reading, don't hesitate to leave a review! Inspiration usually comes faster that way. =P
My sincerest thanks to the amazing and enthusiastic reviewers of the last chapter: femme4prime, WolvesFire77, Gatekat, Christina, phoebe turner, Bluebird Soaring, LionLover190, PrancingTiger86, BoredTech, Kai-Chan94, Peacewish, Anon, Ayumi, Fiera Sabre, FoghornLeghorn83, shantastic, shadowblade-tara, smoking caramels, Yami Dragoness of Dark, CNightJoy, Maverick1997, animelover1993, Anasazi Darkmoon, SavvyEnigma, Kasuto Vero, kyleisdabest, Swedish Dragon, Faecat, Cynthia, renegadewriter8, chaitea16, MissyMoo, DitzyMusicLover, Chloo, wynterarrow, Got Buttermilk, Midnight Marquis, ElementalFallenStar, and Mokoto-chan92. Honestly, there's no way that I can express how grateful I am for your consideration in reviewing this story~ Thank you so much from the bottom of my heart!
Chapter 15
With a well-placed kick from her spring-loaded legs, Jazz's body was flung high into the air.
His mouthplates opened, but he didn't cry out when he was struck. His vocal processor had already been crushed. He couldn't scream anymore. Not that he would have bothered if he could. He'd stopped screaming a lot time ago. There was no point. No one would hear him. No one would care.
He felt his plating cave in with the impact of the kick, metal cracking and his innards burning in agony. Gravity left him for a few astroseconds while he hung in the air. It was a freeing, weightless moment when time seemed to freeze. The pain almost seemed to leave. His escape was only temporary; he didn't hope for anything more. Hope was for fools. After that brief moment, gravity came back. His arm was grabbed before his faceplate could smash into the floor. His frame was flung around and around, gaining momentum like a hurricane. The world became a blur, only to stop abruptly when he was let go.
Again came the sinister feeling of weightlessness before he hit the wall.
All the air rushed out of him. His fans stuttered, barely able to work anymore. The force of the impact dislodged one of his optics, jerking it out if its socket. Wires kept it attached to his head. He crumpled to the floor, too weak to even curl into a ball. A weird rattling noise came from all around him. It was his frame trembling uncontrollably. He could feel his optic dangling against his faceplate. It was still working, so he could see distorted images through it.
He could see her coming for him.
Out of a sense of self-preservation, Jazz forced himself to be the master of his own pain. He swallowed the searing agony, reined in the burning torture, and rolled over. He commanded his broken arms to work. Energon spurted out of split lines as he tried to sit up. Sparks from frayed wires hissed and spat. Something in his back cracked so loud it was like a shot from a gun, followed by a terrifying numbness spreading through his lower half. Nearly every part of his body was broken.
There was a part of him that didn't see the point anymore. To lie down and let it happen; let her abuse finally take him into oblivion. A secret part inside his spark welcomed the idea of the end.
A bigger part of him railed against the idea. He'd come too far to just lie down and take it. He was a survivor!
He was a fighter, damn it!
He could see her feet standing next to his head, the tips of those sharp feet stained blue with energon. She wasn't moving. She was watching him with those hard, sparkless optics of hers. They weren't normal, those optics. They saw more than Jazz could ever hope to see in the universe, and they hated everything they saw.
She nudged him with her foot. Jazz attempted to shove her away. He only managed to brush her with the back of his hand.
There came a sigh, and then she crouched next to him. He could see her faceplate; it was not beautiful. It was frightening, covered in centuries worth of scars and protected by heavy layers of armour. Glowering amongst the dark metal was a pair of unblinking optics. Jazz raised his arm again to try and defend himself. It could have been a hallucination brought on by pain, but Jazz almost wanted to say there was pity on her faceplate.
"I wish you'd figure this out soon," she sighed. Her hand came up, grasping his raised limb. For a moment, she contemplated the thin arm, the broken metal, the energon that stained her palm… and then she twisted that arm until it came out of its socket.
Jazz's whole frame arched from the floor, driven blind and insane from the fury of pain that consumed him. In the aftermath, he writhed. He did not cry. Did not scream. But he twitched and jerked and panted like a rabid animal. Every move he made was watched with cool disinterest. She never took pleasure in what she did. Then again, she never seemed to dislike what she did, either. When she released his arm, she laid her hand to his head in a pseudo-kind gesture.
"You're almost there," she said, neither praising nor admonishing. It was merely an observation of fact.
Wherever "there" was supposed to be, Jazz could only guess. Like every time at the end of these so-called "lessons", he stared up at his master with silent imploring, hoping to discover when it would all end.
His master was not blind. She could see the question in his optics. She rose to her feet and brushed herself off. There would never be a straight answer for Jazz. He would never have an answer that would satisfy him to the core and absolve him of the torture he endured. Not right now, at least. All she could give him was a couple of words to fill the wretched silence:
"You've got to break it down before you can rebuild."
She turned on her heel and was gone.
Jazz was left alone.
Always.
Alone.
After the initial strike, Jazz jerked back and watched Prowl's reaction. The motion of Prowl's head jerking back was like the coiling of a whip before it cracked. Jazz had hit with all his strength, so the metal of Prowl's olfactory sensor caved in. An energon line must have been sliced, because energon started to ooze down the tactician's faceplate. He stumbled back a step. In the same motion, his hands shot to his faceplate as the shock and pain commanded him to recoil and protect his faceplate.
Through it all, Prowl did not make a noise. He was utterly silent.
Jazz glared. He had screamed the first time his master had struck him. He'd learned not to scream after, but that very first time, he'd screamed. Like Prowl, he'd never seen the attack coming. Unlike Prowl, he'd been young. Fresh from running away from the Youth Sectors, stolen into Xerxia's care; that first time his lessons began, he'd screamed, kicked, punched, cried, and fought as hard as he could. Not that it helped him much. The rational part of his processor accepted that Prowl's experience of war would have curbed his instinct to scream, yet there was still that seething irrational part of him that didn't want to be less when compared to another.
Prowl felt Jazz's glare, but ignored it for the moment. Instead, he gave attention to the injury he just won; his hands fell away from his faceplate to observe the energon now coating his palms. In a matter of astroseconds, energon flow was rerouted so the wound would stop oozing. It wasn't the first time someone had broken his olfactory sensor, and certainly not the first time anyone had punched him in the faceplate, so he dealt with the matter as he usually did: calmly and internally. There was no sense in broadcasting his shock or immediate confusion. Because logic dictated he should, especially with Jazz watching him as he was, Prowl assumed a ready defensive pose.
"Keep your emotional center on," Jazz ordered, eyeing his opponent coldly. "And don't bother turning off your neural circuits."
Prowl's optics flashed for a moment, then he resumed his normal neutral expression. "Why?" he asked, more out of polite habit than an actual need to know the answer. He could only assume, and rightfully so, that training to control emotions required a functioning emotional center.
"So you can feel it when I do this," the silver mech replied, shooting forward to strike Prowl again in the faceplate. His first strike was deflected, a testament to Prowl's own training. Jazz snorted, undeterred. His second strike was a fraction faster than the first, cutting through Prowl's defense. The saboteur's fist hit its mark on the side of Prowl's jaw with a satisfyingly violent crack! The power behind the punch was enough to dislocate the tactician's jaw.
Prowl could not even scream in response to the searing pain that shot through his faceplate. He could feel the metal joints grinding out of place. It was not the worst pain he had ever experienced, but the suddenness of it shocked him. His defence dropped. Once more, his hands shot to his damaged faceplate. Under his touch, he felt the crookedness of his jaw. It was jerked to the left in a grotesque position, locked in a way that prevented him from moving it. A vague gurgling sound fell from between his asymmetrical mouthplates. His optics shot to Jazz. For a brief moment, there was something of regret on the saboteur's faceplate, but it was quickly replaced with a neutral expression.
"Pain is like emotion," said the saboteur. "Ya gotta learn ta control it, or it controls you. Ta control it, ya have ta feel it first."
Prowl's expression hardened, his head jerking in a barely perceptible acknowledgment of the order. He might not have understood what was happening to him and the orders he was being served made no particular sense, but he was bound to obey. There was determination in his optics. He wanted to rid himself of his weakness so badly that he was willing to die a thousand times just to live. With shaking hands, he reached up and took hold of either side of his disconnected jaw. He steeled himself, and then jerked the part back into place. There came an audible crack-crunch and grinding noise with the motion. With his neural circuits on, Prowl felt every moment of the self-torture. His frame coiled tight, so tense it looked as if it would snap.
Morbid curiosity struck Jazz in that moment. There was nothing quite like watching someone suffering through torture. "Are you EMO about physical pain, too?"
There was a long interim of silence as Prowl continued to process his dislocated jaw being put back into place. His gaze flickered to Jazz with an unquestionable glare simmering in them, but he didn't dare say anything to the saboteur in his current condition. Increment by increment, his frame relaxed. Finally, he dared to open and close his mouthplates with a grimace, his level of discomfort finally reduced to a manageable level.
"Well?" Jazz prompted.
"I am only EMO about emotional pain. However, that does not mean physical pain doesn't hurt," Prowl managed to reply, though his tone was strained. Not only did it cost him dearly to speak aloud, but he hated having to admit to that dreaded condition. EMO. What a humiliating name for a condition! His glare was caustic as it met Jazz's gaze.
"Figured as much," replied the saboteur, undaunted by Prowl's glare. There would be many glares and other angry looks in store for the future. He shook out his fists, loosening his stance. He jigged from foot to foot, testing his own weight, his own balance. Just a bit of a warm up before the real show began. Prowl, as always, watched with calculating optics. Jazz almost wanted to laugh at him, but more out of pity than cruel amusement. There was no mystery about this session that could be calculated. No logic that would give credence to the beating he was about to receive. It was one of the most important parts of the training, but that didn't mean it had to make sense. It just had to hurt.
"Sparring is part of the training, then?" enquired the tactician. His eased into a defensive pose as he spoke, arms rising a little higher than necessary to better protect his faceplate.
This time, Jazz did laugh. It was cold sound. "This ain't no sparring match."
"Then what is it?" Prowl asked uneasily.
"An initiation," Jazz replied, launching into a third attack. It would have been a lethal series of attacks if Prowl had not been able to counter them as well as he did. The short break they had had in between had given the tactician enough time to gain his bearings. He was now ready for a proper fight. When given incentive, he could easily give as good as he got.
Jazz always liked coming upon a good opponent. It was such a rare occasion to enjoy a proper fight; he liked to savour the challenge before thoroughly beating it into the ground. For as long as he had known Prowl, the mech had always presented a great challenge. If all went well with this training, then the tactician would become an even more formidable challenge to Jazz… which he could not deny made him eager to complete the training. However, in the context of this initial phase of the training, determination to fight was only going to draw it out longer than it had to. Jazz had been young when he'd gone through the same thing; he'd only lasted a handful of sessions before it was over. Prowl was both strong and stubborn; his initiation would take much longer and hurt a lot more.
Much like their first sparring match in the courtyard, they quickly synced with each others' movements. It was their private dance of rhythm and power. Punch. Withdraw. Counter. Block. Kick. However, this match was far more intense. The intimacy with which they knew each other brought their exchange to a whole new level of extreme. They knew each other's movements, their timing; how fast they were, how sharp their reflexes.
Prowl pivoted, avoiding another punch to the faceplate. Jazz ducked, evading having his olfactory sensor clipped. The saboteur recovered fast from the evasion, feigning to the left, then slashing on the right. Prowl weaved out of the way. The paint on their forearms quickly was scraped away as they continued to stonewall each other through blocks and parries. Sparks would light the air with the power of metal meeting metal. The sounds of their clashing frames echoed loudly through the holographic dojo, creating a deafening crescendo accompanied by their grunts and the occasional snarl or curse.
In a particularly brilliant display of viciousness, Prowl grabbed Jazz by the horns and rammed the saboteur's faceplate into his upraised knee. The impact cracked Jazz's visor, large chunks of crystal falling out of it. They both stumbled back. Prowl did not look perturbed by the damage he inflicted. He looked rather smug.
"Revenge for the faceplate?" Jazz laughed, pulling the whole visor off and tossing it to the side. He was impressed by the attack. He honestly hadn't seen that one coming.
"Revenge is such a harsh term. I was settling a score," Prowl replied, arching an optic ridge daringly. He extended a hand and motioned for Jazz to come at him.
"Don't get cocky, half-bit. You'll regret it," Jazz warned. It was time to get down to business. Heeding Prowl's invitation, he attacked yet again. They met several times blow for blow, but Jazz came through with the superior hand. His extra training gave him the advantage in the fighting style, while his age gave him greater experience with the movements. Regardless of all of that, it was his willingness to fight dirty that allowed him to grab a hidden blade from his arm and stab it into Prowl's side without a care.
This time, Prowl did cry out.
Upon hearing the noise, Jazz did not feel the satisfaction he thought he would. Instead, he felt reluctance for the act. He did not want to hurt Prowl so severely. Whatever the case, what he felt mattered little. He was committed to seeing the motions through. Instead of wrenching out the weapon as he might have done for any other occasion, Jazz dragged the serrated edge straight through Prowl's side, carving a deep gouge. When the blade finally emerged, it was tangled in sparking wires. With a quick flick, the squirming wires were discarded to the floor. Hot energon poured out of the newly created wound.
Jazz almost felt something at the sight of the wound he's inflicted. Unlike Prowl, he was the master of himself and refused to feel something he did not want to feel. He took the unwanted emotions and thoroughly locked them away where they would not distract him from his business. This was not the time nor place to feel anything for his opponent. He watched dispassionately as Prowl's hands became drenched in his own life-giving fluids. Energon pulsed from the wound with every beat of his pump. There was accusation in the tactician's optics as he stared up at Jazz.
"Ah said it was gonna hurt," said the saboteur. It might have been an apology. On the other hand, it also could have been an 'I told you so'
Prowl's glare intensified.
"Having second thoughts?" Jazz wondered, his optic ridge arching harshly. If Prowl was was, that was too damn bad for him. He was just going to have to suffer.
There came a curt shake of the tactician's head. "Not… backing out," he grunted. The hands holding his side tightened. He grimaced in pain; the urge to shut down his neural circuits was there, but he heeded Jazz's orders. He felt his innards squirming, the burn of his gouged plating seared into his processor. "I… don't know what… you want from me."
Jazz shook his head. "This isn't about what Ah want."
In a blink, he was on top of Prowl. They rolled like a whirlwind across the dais, their arms and legs flying as one mech tried to defend himself while the other simply went for the kill. Jazz's serrated blade landed twice more in the wild struggle. It dug into the upper half of Prowl's right arm, cutting a tension wire. Instantly, the arm was turned useless, unable to move with any purpose. The second attack lodged the blade in Prowl's back, shoved deep into the sensitive part where his wings attached to his back.
Another scream fell from Prowl's mouthplates, his whole frame arching.
The edge of the dais came; gravity took over as their writhing frames fell to the floor. Jazz's reflexes were quick, turning so that Prowl was on the bottom. Though the fall wasn't far, the impact sent a shockwave through Prowl's frame. A choking noise guttered from him, mixed with desperate gasping. He jerked, spasmed, metal wings flapping around uselessly, his frame groaning and creaking with every move. The knife in his back dug its way deeper.
Jazz gave no indication that he heard anything at all. His fists kept flying, slamming into Prowl's frame. Both of the lenses of Prowl's optics cracked, and then the left optic popped out of its socket and rolled out of sight. The bright red chevron that decorated his forehead was bent backwards, half of it broken off. A powerful magnetic pulse to Prowl's shoulder short-circuited his left arm, leaving it paralyzed. Without the use of either of his arms, he was essentially powerless to defend himself. Helplessness did not stop him from trying. Determination shone in his optics somewhere beyond the pain; his frame continued to twist and writhe for freedom. Jazz held steady, continuing to damage whatever he could get his hands on.
While Jazz did this, he did not look directly at Prowl. He fixed his gaze on a spot above Prowl's shoulder on the energon-soaked floor and refused to look anywhere else. His frame moved on autopilot. If he looked at Prowl, he knew he would feel something that he did not want to feel. Even without looking, he felt a twisting, slimy sickness in his spark, spreading beyond the cage of his control like a disease. It had been a very long time since he'd felt something like that. It might have been guilt, or something like it. He knew that there had been a time when he might have taken delight in seeing such a broken side of Prowl as he gasped and squirmed on the floor, but there was no enjoyment now. Instead, that sick feeling continued to churning inside him.
A physical ache began to bloom in Jazz's chest that had nothing to do with injury. A part of him wished to tell Prowl the secret to the initiation that would make it end, but that would defeat the purpose. If Prowl knew, then he would never truly accept what was supposed to happen to him. It had to be his choice. He had to make up his own mind without help from anyone.
Until Prowl figured it out, Jazz was forced to keep breaking him down.
In an act of sparklessness, Jazz plunged his claws into the open wound in Prowl's side, grasping the energon-soaked innards. He squeezed, trying to wrench them out.
A sharp keening noise wrenched from Prowl, drawn up from the very depths of his spark. He arched high, his frame caught in a violent spasm. The light in his one good optic flashed bright before going dark. Tension drained out of his frame as consciousness fled.
Jazz hovered above the storm-grey frame, his claws lingering in the wound. Slowly, he withdrew. He flicked his fingers to dislodge congealing energon from them. In a fluid movement, he was on his feet to assess his own damages rendered by Prowl. They were not severe. Finally, he looked at Prowl's broken frame. Everything he saw had been done by his own hands. He stared for a short moment before he looked away. A long, heavy sigh drained from him. This would not be the last initiation session.
He turned on his heel and left Prowl's side.
However, he did not leave the room.
He could not bring himself to leave Prowl alone.
It took a little effort and some crawling on his hands and knees, but Jazz eventually found Prowl's missing optic. It was cracked and dusty, but still workable. He shined it up with a polishing cloth from his subspace pocket, then wandered back to Prowl's prone form. He sat down next to the frame but did not look at it. Even as energon soaked the floor and smudged his plating, he did not look at Prowl. He did, however, scan the mech to make sure he would live. While the wound in Prowl's side was severe, he would survive it. As some kind of twisted politeness, Jazz slid his hand beneath Prowl's frame and extracted his blade from the mech's back. Prowl was so deeply unconscious that he made no indication of feeling the discomfort.
With the knife tucked away and the whole room silent, Jazz was left to think. He had not expected that hurting someone else would hurt him just as much. It had never really hurt before. Why the pit should empathy kick in now? Just because his own master had did the same things to him didn't mean he had to get all soft and sentimental on Prowl. That was completely useless. It would help neither of them and only hinder the both of them. To distract himself, Jazz turned Prowl's optic over and over in his hands. No matter what way he seemed to turn it, it felt like it was watching him with accusation in its gaze.
Eventually, Prowl came back to consciousness. When his one remaining optic lit up again, it was dim and unfocused from injury and energon loss.
Jazz felt his stare. He turned to the tactician and reached for him. Prowl tensed, waiting for the next assault. Jazz shook his head, revealing the optic he held in his hand. "It's over. No more fightin' for today. Ah just wanna giva ya this now."
There was a fraction of relief in Prowl's gaze. He dared to nod, then grimaced when it hurt.
It took some effort, but the optic was finally jangled back into place, though it wasn't properly set. With every little movement, it rattled in its socket.
"Ratchet will fix that," Jazz said lowly.
Unable to say anything at all, Prowl scarcely nodded.
"Good thing Ah said sorry in advance, huh?" Jazz joked weakly, but neither of them laughed. There was silence, then the saboteur deflated. "There's a reason for this, Ah swear. Ah went through the exact same thing, and Ah probably wondered about the same things you're wondering about now. You're smart, so one way or another, you'll figure out what ya gotta do ta make this stop. When ya figure it out, we'll be able ta move on."
That was little consolation to the tactician, who was in pain now.
The saboteur revved. "Ya need ta go ta the med bay."
There was no way that Prowl would be able to move on his own, so Jazz took most of his weight. He did not mind being the crutch that Prowl leaned on. They arranged themselves so that the least amount of injuries were disturbed on either mech. It took much longer for Jazz to adjust their fields to create the dampening field, and even when it was activated, it was imperfect. Both were just too damaged to support a perfect field. Jazz watched Prowl carefully with every move they made. He knew just by looking at the mech that Prowl had heeded his orders, keeping his neural circuits and emotional center on. He also knew Prowl must have been in a lot of pain, but dealt with it impressively well. That would mean a lot for the future.
The hologram of the dojo turned to pixels and fell away. The energon left behind from them stayed on the floor, stained there until a drone came to clean it. The door to the training range hissed open. It was a slow trek through the hall, during which they met no one. An excruciating experience met them in the maintenance corridor where the walls pressed in from all sides. Prowl nearly passed out, depending solely on Jazz to get him through. In the lift that would take them up, they met Tungsten, Wheeljack's tiny pet drone. It squeaked for them, stepping aside and folding into a hoverboard to keep out of Prowl and Jazz's way. When they came to their exit on the floors above, Tungsten automatically followed them out to clean up the trail of energon they left behind.
"This is the story; we were attacked," Jazz said lowly, whispering into Prowl's audio. "A group of Decepticons found us while we were doing the perimeter run. They wanted ta take meh back ta Megatron. Ah got out of there an' left ya behind. Ya fought them off."
A weak rev vibrated Prowl's frame. "No…" He was too weak to look at anything except the ground while Jazz guided him around base. He leaned to the side, letting his head rest against Jazz. "You… stayed. Fought them. …saved me."
Jazz paused, absorbing the words. "Ah saved ya?"
Prowl grimaced, then managed to nod. "Yes. Better… lie."
"Alright."
They continued on their way through Iacon's open courtyards, following the way they had come to keep up the appearance of a botched perimeter run. Their only unusual detail was Tungsten's insistence to keep following them, determinedly cleaning up the energon that spattered on the ground. It must have been an ingrained response in the drone after so long of cleaning up after Wheeljack's accidents. Whatever the case, he was a comical addition to their sad group, squeaking along behind them, content to keep cleaning. Since drones were often ignored by living Cybertronians, only a truly curious bot would ask about the tiny drone's presence.
Red Alert must have seen them on one of his many security cameras because a brief alarm went up. Not for an imminent attack, but a warning bell to get bots' attention. Several Autobots looked up immediately. Some drew their weapons. Jazz shifted Prowl around to drop both their dampening fields so their spark resonances were able to be scanned. The moment they were recognized, a small crowd was rushing forward. More than a few bots were demanding to know what happened. There was anxiousness written on several faceplates, and shockingly enough, some of their concern even seemed to be directed at Jazz. Before any excuse could be given to the crowd of concerned bots, Prowl and Jazz were swept away to the med bay.
Ratchet took one look at the pair given into his care and immediately demanded: "What in the fragging pit happened?"
Jazz shrugged. "We were attacked."
"You attacked each other?" Ratchet exclaimed, incredulous. Of course he would immediately think the worst.
"No, Decepticons showed up, half-bit. We fought. Prowl took the brunt, but Ah got both of us out of there," Jazz drawled, irritation lacing his tone. He turned so that Prowl's limp frame came into the fore between them. "Just fix him, would ya? That's what you're supposed ta do."
Ratchet looked as if he wanted to say a whole lot more in that moment, but his function took precedence. He hefted the burden of Prowl's weight and laid the mech upon an empty berth. He made an absent clucking noise as he looked Prowl over from head to toe, after which the tactician was beset with scans to properly assess the damages. With a surreptitious look over his shoulder at Jazz, Ratchet leaned down to Prowl's audio and asked if Ironhide should be summoned to the med bay. Perhaps Jazz needed an escort elsewhere?
With a grunt, Prowl forced himself to shake his head. "Jazz… stays. Saved me."
Forced to believe the explanation for now, though he wasn't at all convinced by it, Ratchet began repairs immediately. While he worked, he cursed and scolded. It was part of his usual ritual, so it was almost a comfort to know he was cursing and swearing. If he wasn't making noise, there would be something to worry about. Prowl's injuries were extensive, though not life-threatening, so it took a significant amount of time for the medic to see to them all. First Aid was called in to assist with the matter.
Jazz watched the meticulous process for a long time. When he was sure he had Prowl's frame memorized from the inside out, he decided to look after his own repairs. He'd never trusted a medic to look after him before, so he'd always treated himself no matter the severity of the wounds. Taking a seat on a nearby berth, he stripped both his arms of their damaged armour and started rewiring. It would take the better part of a joor to complete the task properly on his own, which he was prepared to do. He let himself become distracted by his work. So distracted was he that he did not realize that someone had come to stand in front of him. The toned-down yellow paint belonged to Ratchet, as did the downturned faceplate when Jazz looked up.
"Can Ah help ya?" Jazz drawled, arching an optic ridge. He hadn't realized the medics were done their work on Prowl. A brief scan of the room revealed that First Aid was long gone now.
The medic nodded to Jazz's open arm. "It would be faster if I did that."
Surprised by the offer, Jazz stared. His gaze darted to Prowl, but the tactician was offline, stabilized and resting. With no help on that account, Jazz returned his gaze to Ratchet. It took a moment to assess the Autobot; he was reluctant of his offer, resisting the urge to back down. He obviously did not like Jazz, but there wasn't outright distrust in his optics at the moment.
"My time is valuable, Neutral," Ratchet intoned when Jazz took too long for his liking.
"Haven't ya heard? Ah steal valuable things," Jazz replied, smirking.
"I'm not in the mood for your quirks. I offered to fix your arm- take it or leave it."
"Ah'll take it," Jazz said, holding out his arm. He didn't trust Ratchet, so he watched the rewiring process closely. Never once did the medic make an untoward move. When he was finished, he backed away and leaned against a nearby berth. For long, silent breems, the two mechs sized each other up. Ratchet was the first to relent, giving a sharp shake of his head.
"I have no idea what is going on between the two of you…"
"Nothing is going on," Jazz cut in.
Ratchet rolled his optics. "Like I'd believe that. Something is going on, but I'm not sure I want to know what it is."
"Then don't ask," Jazz replied curtly.
"I'm not asking," Ratchet snorted. "All I know is that I've been a medic a long time, so when I see claw marks in a mech's armour, and I see claws that match on another mech, I can do the math."
Jazz tensed, preparing to do… something, even if it meant ripping into Ratchet's mind and stealing some memories.
Ratchet sensed the danger, though he didn't move away. "Don't bother coming after me. As much as I can't believe I'm saying this, I'm not going to tell anyone what you did."
That almost shocked Jazz as much as the offer to help him fix his arms. With narrowed optics, he demanded, "Why?"
The medic pursed his mouthplates, as if the words he was about to say had an awful taste to them. "Prowl usually has a good reason for the things he does, even if no one else understands those reasons. I thought he had finally lost his mind when he first brought you to Iacon, but I'm starting to think he really is as smart as most bots seemed to think he is. I'm not saying I'm beginning to like you or anything, but you're definitely not the same mech you were when you came here."
"Insult meh, why don't ya?" Jazz muttered.
The sides of Ratchet's mouthplates twitched. "You might have beaten the slag out of Prowl for whatever reason, but you brought him back to be repaired. If you meant to kill him, you would have. You've been on this base for a long time and I haven't seen anything worse out of you than you tormenting Mirage- which I think he needs every once in a while anyways. If you were planning to hurt this base, you would have done something by now. As far as I can tell, something is going on between the two of you, and it's important enough to Prowl that he's willing to lie to protect you. If he's willing to go that far and put that much faith in you, then I want to be able to give you a chance."
"You give meh a chance?" Jazz wondered suspiciously. This was just getting weirder and weirder. Weren't bots supposed ta get more suspicious when one bot beat the slag out of another? Not more generous. Or maybe Ratchet was just strange like that. He was definitely strange in a lot of other ways.
"It sounds completely unlikely, I know. Just hear me out before you shoot me down," Ratchet said wryly. "If Prowl is willing to go this far for you, then the least I could do is stop thinking about you like a wretched, murdering Decepticon psychopath."
"Gee, thanks," Jazz drawled.
Ratchet snorted. "Like I said, you're different now. If I'm willing to call a truce between you and I, then I want you to give me something in return. Just give me your word that you won't kill him."
Truly, that was the absolute last thing Jazz ever expected out of the medic. He sat for several long moments, stunned beyond belief. If he had been Prowl, his logic circuits would have crashed- luckily, Jazz was not big on using logic, so he mostly ended up stunned.
The saboteur's silence prompted Ratchet to sweeten the deal. "If you give me your word, no one will ever know it's you beating the slag out of Prowl. I'll only say whatever story you give me."
The offer was too good to be true, which is why Jazz didn't like it one bit. His gaze narrowed dangerously on the medic. "Why are ya doing this?"
Ratchet's gaze turned pensive, briefly considering Prowl's resting form. "There's a lot about Prowl that he keeps secret from everyone else. I know a lot of it because I've been treating him for vorns, but he guards himself from everyone else. For some reason, though, he's showed you, of all bots, some of the most hated parts of himself. You're the last bot anyone would ever think to confide in, yet Prowl trusts you above any other with his secrets. I think that means something. At the very least, I'm willing to take a chance on it."
Jazz cast his optics to the floor, wishing that Prowl hadn't knocked his visor out so that he could hide his optics. There was a lot to consider in Ratchet's words, and not just his offer. The revelations would have to wait, though. He considered the offer that was being laid before him; an unlikely ally in the Autobot's CMO, someone who would repair the both of them without question and support their alibis. An invaluable service for the foreseeable future. In return, Jazz merely had to resist killing Prowl, which was something he planned on doing anyways. Win-win.
"Ya have mah word," said the saboteur, then dared a smirk for his co-conspirator. "Believe it or not, Ah'm trying ta help him. That's mah goal in the long run, anyways."
Ratchet gave a tired sigh, scrubbing his faceplate with his hand. "Don't ask me why, but I believe you. If you can somehow help him when I haven't been able to, more power to you." He popped away from the berth he'd been leaning against. He stretched, cracking armour back into place. Once done, he fixed the silver mech with a measuring stare. "It's going to be a long night, so you might as well stay here. I'll be in my office getting some work done. Keep an optic on Prowl for me."
Jazz nodded his acquiescence.
Ratchet turned on his heel and retreated.
Jazz glanced to the side, watching as Prowl laid there quietly, recovering slowly. The storm-grey mech might not realize it, but he was much luckier than Jazz had ever been. There were many Autobots on this base that cared greatly for him, even if he himself did not know or understand it. He was not alone as Jazz had always been. That would help him through his training.
Ratchet returned from his office a moment later, a small cube of energon in his hand. Surprisingly, he offered it to Jazz. "You look like you could use this."
"Thank you," said the saboteur, accepting the cube.
The medic donned a crooked half-smile, as if he couldn't quite believe he had just given a cube of his best hidden energon to someone like Jazz. With a private laugh at himself, he returned to his office. His door was left open a crack in case anything happened.
Jazz considered the cube of energon he now held. He took a sip, appreciating the quality. He would have preferred high-grade, but that might have been a little much to ask for. He took another sip and came to a curious conclusion about his life. For the first time in a long time, it seemed that he was not alone anymore either.