Archive of Our Own

If Prowl was even a fraction less himself it wouldn't be an issue. He could go into denial, or repress the emotions, or perhaps he wouldn't even feel anything of this sort at all.

Instead he watches Jazz slide in beside Hound on the mess hall bench and settle himself intimately close. Hound's face lights up with a welcoming smile, his arm goes around Jazz's waist, and that's that. Jazz won't be seeing his own berth tonight.

And Prowl feels jealousy twist in his spark.

It is like tar. It clings, and his best efforts to scrape it off only seem to spread the infection further. It gums the workings of his CPU with useless emotion. It clogs his memory files with pointless fantasies. It makes his gears grind and his joints lock and his patience wither to nothing.

It is all the worse because he can't blame Jazz for this. Jazz will give generously of himself and his time for the lonely, for the insecure, for the lustful, the loving, the curious and the craving. He'll go anyplace he feels wanted and partner with anyone who'll share his enjoyment of interfacing.

Which is why he's never been in Prowl's berth.

If one were to be delicate, one would say that Jazz and Prowl are incompatible.

The blunt truth?

'You just lie there with this blank expression on your face,' he'd been told by his last partner. Signal had stayed longer then most, willing to try since Prowl was so obviously doing his best, interfacing to please his partner and give him what Prowl himself disliked. In the end, though, it hadn't worked. 'You don't like me touching you, you don't like the mess, you don't even like the overload, and half the time I swear you're running economic simulations in your CPU you look that bored. I don't want that. I don't want you miserable, and I don't want me miserable, either.'

Prowl hadn't blamed him. Still doesn't. And he doesn't want Jazz miserable, either.

But he's spent vorns working with Jazz. The Autobot circle of commanding officers is small and tightly knit, the brutal hammer of the war forging them into something less a unit and more an alloy - a strange whole of new strengths, intimately familiar with one another, and none more so then Prowl and Jazz.

Ironhide's scouts are useful, but it is Jazz who Prowl must trust implicitly to bring him trump card intel. It is Jazz who Prowl can rely on to assess moral on either side of the war. And it is Jazz that Prowl can point at a desperate situation and count on to come through despite all odds. Jazz is Prowl's optics, his audios, his hands and will and weapon on the battlefield.

And his mind-! He isn't intelligent the way Perceptor or Prowl himself is, ponderous calculations that work out solutions with implacable steadiness. Instead there is a quicksilver brilliance, an ability to make snap judgements that are uncannily accurate and instant decisions that might not always be the best, but are always good. He brings to the table intuition and an off the wall originality Prowl finds himself craving when Jazz is away.

It's a hunger that's stayed with him more and more, and now he finds it aching inside him every orn. He wants to talk with Jazz, spend time with him, ask him his opinion, his advice. He wants Jazz at his side to shed that quicksilver light into every corner of Prowl's life and it's ridiculous because never mind the war and the risk, the simple fact that Prowl can't bring himself to think of interfacing without an uncomfortable flick of his doorwings is enough to blot out any chance.

He has tried, in the idle time he should have spent on tactics and instead wasted on this ludicrous infatuation, to work out a solution. The obvious one is to simply let Jazz continue interfacing with others, claiming only a deeper sort of friendship for himself. It's tempting, pulling at his mind like a magnet, but that ugly jealousy keeps him stuck in place. Jazz, so intimate with others? Giving and sharing to countless mechs, leaving Prowl with only the scraps?

That's the second problem, of course. Prowl is. . . possessive. It was an asset as an Enforcer and now as a tactician, making him extremely motivated to protect what he views as his, but it is decidedly an issue when one is dealing with Jazz, who has seduction as part of his job description and is intensely social by nature. His file even contains cautionary notes by various spec ops psychs that he's prone to depression if isolated for too long.

When Prowl thinks of his urges to keep Jazz to himself he finds it hard to imagine anything worse for Jazz then a relationship with him. Really, he's got no business feeling this way. Every circuit of his logical mind is telling him this is a losing battle.

So why can't he stop?

Jazz and Hound rise together, still sharing a cube of energon as they laugh and jostle one another on the way out. They pass by Prowl's table, and Prowl meets Jazz's gaze.

"Good to see you outta your office, mech. Proof you ain't welded to your chair like the rumours say." Light flickers in Jazz's visor. His hand settles briefly on Prowl's shoulder, touch that from anyone else would have been invasive somehow comforting instead. "Try to unwind a bit. You've been running yourself too hard these past few cycles. Yeah, I've noticed. You keep it up and I'll bring the wrath of Ratchet down on you, see if I don't."

He grins. Bright, sudden, and gone as he walks out the cafeteria. A shooting star.

And Prowl still can't stop wishing.

~

Seizing unexpected opportunities is a key factor in winning war. Jazz is a past master at it, so much so that Prowl sometimes wonders if Jazz doesn't actually have some sort of latent prophetic ability. Prowl isn't as adept, but he's become much better at it then he originally was, his programing slowly adapting to the constantly shifting variables around him.

An emergency meeting no longer sends him into a tailspin of rescheduling; he's learnt to delegate that to his subordinates. He grabs his datapad and some energon rations from his personal stash in case the meeting runs long and heads down to the briefing room. Optimus and Ironhide are already there, Red Alert comes in moments after Prowl. Ratchet isn't needed for this sort of thing, but his empty chair feel somehow wrong. Blaster arrives at a jog, then Wheeljack and Jazz-

-is late.

It's not by much. A few breems, nothing more. But it's conspicuous, out of character for someone who's usually so on the ball no matter what gets tossed his way, and all of them settle into chairs and turn uneasy gazes toward the door, waiting.

Then Jazz waltzes in and the bubble of tension pops, leaving grins and poorly stifled laughter in its wake.

"Little tied up with your latest fling, Jazz?" taunts Ironhide.

Jazz pulls a credit chip from his subspace and flips it at Ironhide, the motion making the broken stasis cuffs around his wrists glint and glitter. "Get yourself a new set of jokes, would you? On me. Wheeljack, help a mech out." He takes a seat beside the engineer and thrusts his hands at him.

Wheeljack squints, probing at the cuffs. "I dunno, Jazz, you busted 'em up pretty good. Don't think I can salvage 'em."

"That's fine. Just get 'em off. Now, what's so important I just lost my next paycheck to a replacement pair?"

"Just got word from sector nineteen," says Blaster. "They've found an energon well in the sublevels, bright and pure as highgrade and twice as sweet. They need reinforcements asap to make sure the 'cons don't snap it up."

That brings the mood to outright gleeful, and they hunker down to figure out who to send and how to keep it under wraps, all of them more then happy to lose recharge over good news.

Prowl and Jazz linger behind as everyone else leaves, still debating over the need for a diversion to cover troop movement. Jazz is always in favour of a little extra misdirection, but Prowl has too many other projects in the works to want to risk spreading the Spec Ops thinner then it already is.

Jazz plays idly with the remains of the cuffs, twirling them across the tabletop, spinning them around long, agile fingers. "If you won't use my people, how 'bout you move your push into the Spires forward a few orn, then? You got a division set up to try and take the old glassworks, right? Same result, different tool."

Prowl turns the idea over carefully. "Ye-ess," he draws out. "Yes. I believe you are correct. A good suggestion. I'll take care of it."

"Good." Armour gapes as Jazz twists himself into a sensual curve, arms stretching out high and backstrut arching gracefully. "Ooooh, Primus. I'm all stiff from coolin' down so fast. Gonna need a hot oil soak to work out the kinks. Sideswipe don't know how lucky he is to stay and take care of business in the nice, warm berth." A sigh. "He totally owes me for loosin' the passkey to the damn cuffs. I'm gonna have to listen to Ironhide gloat for the next vorn at least."

"Make him pay for the replacements himself, then," suggests Prowl. He hesitates, then reaches out and picks up one of the cuffs. It's heavy in his hand, reinforced titanium with heavy-duty energy sinks, and he can't imagine how Jazz managed to short them out.

Jazz watches him. Watches how he traces the curve of the half-melted circle, touches the broken clasp. "Like 'em?"

Prowl looks away. "I'm surprised you'd play such games. Don't you get enough of it on the job?"

"And what makes you think anyone's ever managed to slap those on me 'on the job'?" Jazz demands, crossing his arms in fake outraged. "I'll have you know I ain't been anything close to caught and chained in my whole career as an Autobot. Been that way before, though," he admits. "You Enforcers got so uptight about things like property rights and trespassing." He studies Prowl a moment longer before reaching out and touching Prowl's hand to draw his gaze back. "It's different when it's someone you trust and it's somethin' you want," he says, his voice low and deep. "I ain't always easy to be with. And I ain't always safe to be around. Something like this . . . helps." He shrugs.

All Prowl can think to say is, "I can't believe you trust Sideswipe."

It makes Jazz laugh, which is beautiful, but also has him pulling away. The intimacy is ruined, Jazz back into his joking, teasing, relaxed and utterly unreachable self. "Believe me, I am seriously re-evaluating. Sucks, though. There just ain't many bots I feel comfy handin' the steering to, and of those I do, only a handful are interested. And then you gotta factor in matching up postings, then working around crazy war schedules."

"It seems like a great deal of effort for momentary gratification," Prowl says, making idle timeframe estimations. 'A handful' would suggest no more then a dozen bots. Spread that out across the planet wide reach of the Autobot army, account for incompatible schedules, factor in the occasional breach of trust and war casualty. He frowns and refines his equations: Jazz likely wouldn't have had time to form a strong enough bond (or do a good enough background search) to trust the average frontline soldier, has a greater likelihood of confiding in Spec Ops bots and medical personnel, and he's stated that a significant percentage won't participate in such activities. "You can't have been able to satisfy yourself that way above twenty times in the four hundred and sixteen vorn since the war started."

There's a brief moment of silence.

". . . I don't wanna know how you got that number," says Jazz, burying his face in his hands.

"It's accurate, then?"

"When are you not?"

Prowl can't help but flash his doorwings wide in display, smile a little, tilt his head. Preening at Jazz's confidence in his abilities. There's a bit of guilty pleasure, too, in seeing Jazz disarmed and embarrassed by Prowl's assessment. It's not an expression many bots have seen on Jazz - the head of Spec Ops is known for his unshakable poise even in the heat of a mission gone wrong.

But Prowl gets to see him this way.

Only Prowl?

It's a niggling little thought. Prowl fingers the cuffs again and wonders, does Jazz show this side of himself when wearing them? Just what does he look like? How does he act? 'I'm not always safe to be around,' gives Prowls some clue but what could 'I'm not always easy to be with' imply?

"I would never loose the passkey." It seems at once pointless and infinitely important to say, to put into words how careful he would be with that kind of trust, with Jazz's trust. Even though-

"You also wouldn't overload me into a blackout."

-yes. That.

The words might be harsh fact but they are softened by the wistful smile on Jazz's face. Pretty as that curve of lips might be, though, it's the incredibly gentle touch of Jazz's hand cupping Prowl's face that makes the bitter envy of what others have had twist inside him again.

Jazz lets out a huff of air from his vents in a long, deep sigh. "Don't brood over what you can't give me. I appreciate what we already got, and I ain't gonna ask for more."

I want you to, Prowl doesn't say.

"I gotta hit the baths. I wasn't kidding about needing the heat." Jazz stands and stretches again, shifting his shoulders and making the gears creak. He grins. "Keep the cuffs if you want. You're definitely someone I'd trust with 'em."

And all of Prowl's carefully nurtured tactical subroutines come alive. The sudden cascade of possibilities triggers his overrides, locking him into his chair and leaving him oblivious to Jazz's departure, the swish of the closing door, the cuffs tumbling from his hands to clatter to the ground.

All he is conscious of is the fact that Jazz would trust him with cuffs. It's out in explicit terms now, and in those words Prowl's battle computer reads an opportunity.

Cuffs mean no touching. None of the grasping hands that paw and scrape at one's finish, pull too hard on wires, make sensors buzz and itch. They mean . . . They mean . . .

He opens up his schedule file and makes an appointment. He needs to talk with Ratchet.

~

Prowl has always liked Medbay. It is a place of quiet, cleanliness, and meticulous order, and Ratchet's volcanic temper is an excellent goad for bots to keep it that way. One walks softly in Medbay, speaks softly, moves slowly.

The burnished steel walls and floor are a comfortable storm grey. Ranks of medical equipment are silvered by the harsh white overheads. There are blessedly few patients this time - just three of them, settled on berths at the back and being doted on by First Aid, though none of them seem in the critical condition to warrant it.

Ratchet leans out the door of his office. "Quit spoiling those lugs," he snaps at First Aid. "It just encourages them to get hurt again. If you need something to keep busy then start tracking bots down for tune-ups and maintenance. They never come when they should unless someone tows 'em in. You." He points at Prowl. "Inside." Then, "Sit."

Prowl sits on the indicated stool, comfortable with his doorwings extended for balance. He's less comfortable with the narrowed glare Ratchet is showing him, the medic's blue optics focused as lasers.

"You said it was private, but it wasn't urgent. You didn't say what it was about. This isn't your usual complaint?"

"No. My tactical computer is in optimal condition." He hesitates. "It's actually a matter of education. I probably could have gotten the information another way, but I thought you'd be the best source." He drops his gaze, unable to meet Ratchet's optics any longer, and finds his fingers knotted together, a mass of white steel and strained joints that he has to take a moment to pry apart. He stares at his palms in blank amazement. He's dented them.

"This is about interfacing," says Ratchet.

Bitter, bitter. Does everyone know Prowl's incompatibility? His incompetence? He never thought about it before now, not really caring, but what if Signal's old analysis has somehow spread? What if it's reached Jazz? He's never questioned how Jazz knew until now, and uncertainty and despair rocks him. He can feel his mouth trying to twist into something like a frown and throttles the impulse, forcing his face back into controlled blankness, forcing the crackle of emotional pain back inside. "I suppose it's obvious I'd be ignorant about it."

Then he jerks and rubs his chevron where Ratchet flicked it with stinging force.

"It's in your medical file, idiot."

Oh. Oh! "Of course it is," he murmurs. His cables relax, doorwings easing out of their high, defencive spread. He'd forgotten, too caught up in the worse case scenario to consider any other alternative. ". . . Is that how Jazz knows?"

That startles Ratchet into barks of harsh laughter. "Frag no. Jazz knows because he's head of Spec ops and can read body language like a datapad."

"Of course he can." This time it's a smile tugging at Prowl's lips, and he's relaxed enough to allow it to spread across his face.

"What do you need to know? Your file mentions you have some experience, so I'm assuming it's not basic instructions. Boosters?"

"No." Prowl shudders delicately. The last thing he wants is some programing patch meddling in his base nature, forcing him to feel the sexual urges he so dislikes. "I need to know how to overload someone into a blackout."

This time he's startled Ratchet into silence. Not for long, though. ". . . No wonder you asked- This is about Jazz, isn't it? No, wait-!" He holds up a hand, stalling anything Prowl might say. "Mute it. Let me pretend, just for a breem, that you're about to say 'of course not' because you're much too smart to get involved with Jazz in your first sexual relationship in I don't know how long."

Prowl ducks his head.

"Oh for the love of Primus!" Ratchet slaps his desk hard enough to make the console screen tremble, send datapads clattering to the floor. He squats and picks them up, swearing and snarling, and then cusses some more when he discovers one of the screens broken. He stands and tosses the whole lot carelessly onto the desktop with a sigh. "The worst of it is, I can't even tell you off for wanting to try. He really is just that good."

"You've-?"

Ratchet's voice is dry as Cybertron's moon. "Prowl, this is Jazz we're talking about. When it comes to interfacing with him, you are in the decided minority. It's something he likes a lot, does a lot, and his partners number 'a lot'."

The image of a faceless throng of lovers draws itself in Prowl's mind. Is there truly the gap in those ranks he had thought he'd seen, or is he just deluding himself? Countless partners and he is hoping to stand out from them by offering what, exactly?

'You don't like me touching you, you don't like the mess, you don't even like the overload. . .'

"The advantage of your situation is that since it's Jazz, there's very little I need to keep back in the name of patient confidentiality," Ratchet continues, oblivious to Prowl's flagging mood. "It's just common knowledge you'd pick up if you were in the loop. The interfacing is a physical thing as much as a socialization one. He runs hot, the way some of the frontliners do, because he was built to go to physical extremes - drive too fast, play obscenely loud music, twist himself into impossible positions, and according to First Aid, interface with entire gestalts at once. And since you're SIC, you're entitled to know that while that kind of long lasting charge is an asset for missions, it's a decided issue for Jazz when it comes time to try and get some rest. He can't defrag unless he bleeds off enough extra energy to be able to start up a recharge cycle."

Prowl's interest perks. "Is a regular overload enough for that?"

Ratchet's answering shrug is halfhearted. "They help. Half a cycle of defrag is better then no defrag, after all. Long-term missions help, too, and those crazy parties he indulges in. But sometimes he can't manage and I have to step in." Ratchet smiles grimly. "I don't like it, so he doesn't ask as much as he probably should."

"You don't like it. I thought you said he was . . . Very good."

"And this is why I was hoping it wasn't about Jazz." Ratchet leans against his desk. He crosses his arms and tilts his head back, and Prowl's doorwings pick up the energy surge in Ratchet's system as the medic sorts through his CPU, trying to find a way to explain. "Everyone likes something different," he finally says. "And everyone needs something different. Those two don't always overlap."

"You're saying that being overloaded into blackout is unpleasant?"

Here Ratchet's words slow to a crawl. "No. . . Not for most bots. But there's a lot of . . . loss of control. And Jazz is . . . himself."

Yes. Jazz is himself: slippery and underhanded and all too willing to duck out of anything he views as unnecessary unpleasantness. Long vorns of wrestling Jazz into submission over filing reports, attending meetings, and making at least a token nod to regulations has left Prowl with a deep respect for Jazz's avoidance skills.

If it was simple defiance it might be one thing. But Jazz is charming. And generous. And deeply interested in the problems of other bots. And an inveterate manipulator.

The first time Prowl had tried to get Jazz to file the necessary forms to finalize his promotion to head of Spec Ops had been proof enough of Jazz's skill in such things. Forewarned about Jazz's tendency to ignore email requests, Prowl had gone in person. He'd politely introduced himself, handed over the datapad, and Jazz had smiled and said, "What a coincidence, I was just reviewing your file. How come you're still usin' the standard Enforcer acid riffle?"

"I haven't had the combat upgrades for other armaments," he'd answered automatically.

"Standard laser riffle is much the same, though, and we've got more of those to go around. Wouldn't it be more efficient to switch over?"

He'd never even considered the question before, and Jazz must have seen his surprise, smelt the energon of weakened prey. He'd first suckered Prowl into a discussion of the pros and cons of keeping a nonstandard weapon, then into the application of the acid rifle in Enforcer tactics, then managed to pry out the fact that Prowl simply considered the weapon so much a part of him identity he felt uneasy making a changeover.

"Not a bad thing, keeping part of who you were before the war started," said Jazz. "Oh, hey. Don't you got a meetin' to get to?"

Prowl checked his chronometer and bit off a curse. He did have a meeting to go to. Over teen breems ago. Late! Him! His systems seized and whirred unhappily, his doorwings drooped with shame. "Excuse me. I have to go."

"No problem. Take the southern loop - they're doing maintenance on the western side, and the south halls are empty enough that you can probably drive and cut down some time. Here, don't forget this." Jazz had pressed Prowl's datapad into his hands.

Mortified that he should have so forgotten himself in front of a new commander, seething at the smug messages from Ironhide and Ratchet chiding him, horrified that Optimus Prime had to lower himself to send a reminding ping, Prowl had been two thirds of the way to the meeting before he realized Jazz had given him back the datapad with all the forms.

Things had only gone downhill from there.

From hacking Prowl's subspace to put the datapad in it and then claiming Prowl had never given him the thing in the first place, to using a random number generator to fill all the forms with 'coded data,' Jazz had proven himself extremely creative and utterly unscrupulous. Prowl alternated between hysterical loathing and dazed admiration as his formerly ordered chain of command was devastated by his own subordinate, and it was only the tingly wave of glee he felt when pointing Jazz at the enemy that kept him going in those first few cycles.

So yes, Prowl understands exactly what Ratchet means by Jazz being 'himself.' From what he understands of interfacing, it's ideally a mutual endeavour, but selfish partners are all too common, grasping at self-gratification and leaving the other hanging. It would be easy for Jazz to play on that, to keep his lover blinded by a haze of pleasure and avoid any uncomfortable ceding of control.

Because everyone knows Prowl is controlling, but the truth is that Jazz is just as compulsive about it. That chaotic personality camouflages the fact that Jazz is always in control - always has a plan, always has a solution, lands on his feet no matter how you throw him. Charm and wit let him draw bots into his spell, directing social situations as deftly as a maestro would an orchestra. Nothing rattles Jazz. Nothing makes him fumble.

But I can, thinks Prowl, and the smile that spreads over his face at the thought is positively hungry.

"Prowl. . ?" Ratchet begins edging away from him toward the door.

Prowl sends his override code without hesitation, locking them both in the office. "Tell me everything about overloading to blackout," he orders.

~

Prowl already knows his enemy, and from Ratchet he has learnt everything possible about the desired goal. Now he throws himself into learning the terrain.

There's a surprising amount of literature about interfacing, and not the trashy, sordid stuff Prowl had dreaded wading through for his intel. Medics, psychologists, scientists, philosophers - all seem taken with the subject. There are even writings from bots who, like Prowl, dislike the act, and search for understanding of the alien carnal.

As his reading guide he uses the three facts Jazz has given him : 'I'm not always easy to be around,' 'I'm not always safe,' and 'the stasis cuffs help'.

There's a lot of information in there for someone as familiar with Jazz as Prowl is. Things like how Jazz's Spec Ops training isn't as under control as Jazz might prefer, his cheerful front cracking to show the vicious predator beneath. Yes, Prowl can well imagine the cuffs might help, can easily see Jazz submitting to them for the sake of his lover.

The fourth fact that guides Prowl is that no one has of yet managed to satisfy Jazz on a regular basis. Less then twenty times in over four hundred vorns of war is a ludicrous ratio, especially when Ratchet is apparently responsible for at least some of them in a strictly medical capacity.

Trust and compatibility are definitely issues. But Prowl knows Jazz for the practical creature he is. If there was someone who he felt could help him blackout on a regular basis, that bot would have found their way into Jazz's crew. Just as Red Alert has his Inferno, Jazz would be indulged with his . . . someone else. The TIC of the army and head of Spec Ops is simply too important to allow this patchwork coping if there's another solution to his getting regular rest and defrag.

So all of Jazz's partners had been unsatisfactory somehow, and Prowl believes those first three facts are the key to why.

He wonders if Jazz has ever given those truths to anyone else. He can't help but hope not. Hope that he's the only one Jazz has offered them to, that despite Jazz believing there could never be anything more he is still giving Prowl a chance. Is, perhaps, even throwing the odds in Prowl's favour.

Whatever the case, Prowl is going to exploit his advantages to the fullest. It's easy to put cuffs on Jazz and believe him bound, but the that scene in the meeting room shows them for the lie they are. Jazz is true to form even in this, dodging what he needs because of his dislike. Prowl won't be stupid enough to let himself be manipulated that way. Nor will he be foolish enough to forget that Jazz's hands are the least of his weapons.

His next appointment is with Wheeljack. If Prowl is going to give Jazz exactly what he needs whether he wants it or not, he's going to have to have the right tools.

~

"Have you ever interfaced with Jazz?" Prowl keeps his voice flat and level as a mathematical plane. This isn't the time for jealousy or bashfulness.

Wheeljack's optics flicker with a trio of rapid resets, his headfins flashing bright, painful white as he lays the rocket launcher he's been tampering with down on his workbench. "I- uh. Don't you think that's kinda personal?"

"Considering how many bots seem to have interfaced with him, I didn't think having done so was sensitive information."

"Well, it's more my own rep I'm thinking of. I don't like to kiss and tell, you know?" The lights dim to a soft blue as Wheeljack tips his helm to the side and squints at Prowl. "And anyway, no offence, but I don't see how it's your business, Prowl."

"I need to know your exact qualifications for a commission I want done."

"A commission," says Wheeljack. "A commission," he repeats, all sorts of incredulity crammed into his tone this time. "What kinda commission needs me to have fragged Jazz?"

Prowl hands over his datapad.

Then he ducks.

The datapad goes sailing with pinpoint precision into the heavy duty crucible Wheeljack uses for acids, live explosives, and experiments gone rogue, and lands with a ridiculous little 'thunk'. The energy shielding comes up, the lab alarms go off. Fire-retardant foam begins the snow from the overhead nozzles. Wheeljack stays frozen in position, arm extended, apparently still trying to process what had triggered his safety subroutines.

Prowl can feel his composure begin to crumble. It was a bit exotic, perhaps, but surely it wasn't that bad?

Wheeljack's head turns slowly. It's the only part of him to move, rotating a neat twenty-five degree angle to the right so he can stare with wide, white optics at Prowl's face. "Prowl. That was- that's not- you know. My thing. Things. It ain't what I do. I mean, sometimes I do stuff with that but- no, wait, that's not your business either. Why-"

"WHAT HAVE YOU BLOWN UP NOW?" howls Ratchet over their internal comm.

"Is it flammable? Corrosive? Do I need to evacuate the base?" Red Alert adds.

Wheeljack and Prowl stare at each other helplessly.

"Jack?!" If there is the slightest hint of concern in Ratchet's voice then it's only for how much work he'll have to put into piecing Wheeljack back together. Red Alert on the other hand-

"He's dead! Primus, he's finally snuffed himself. Or wiped his CPU with an EMP. Or melted himself down into slag and is slowly dying, suffering as he oozes into his own floor. Or he's been assassinated and his killer accidentally set off the alarms and is now lose in the base and is redying his suicide strike and I have to alert Prowl. Prowl! PROWL! Please answer, Prowl, we have a situation!"

"I'm here, Red Alert," Prowl finally manages, resolutely looking away from Wheeljack and overriding any kind of emotional feedback to his speech centres. "I'm in the lab with Wheeljack, as a matter of fact. I'm afraid I startled him rather badly and he accidentally set off the alarm."

"How do I know you're not being held hostage by Wheeljack's killer?" demands Red Alert.

"Confirmation code 006CFF: to all things come a reckoning."

"We are but shadows," Red Alert intones solemnly in reply.

What follows is a ridiculous exchange of quotes and random code strings, interspersed with the personal codes confirming Prowl is safe. Prowl is the first to admit he isn't particularly original in his choices. All of his are the hex codes for Jazz's paint colours, the shade of his visor, the dark triangle of his face.

It takes longer then Prowl would have wished before Red Alert signs off, perhaps, but at last he's satisfied. That's the wonderful thing about protocol: It's specifically designed to smooth over difficult situations without anyone needing actual interpersonal skills. Things like suspect interrogation, troop command, reassuring the security director one isn't being held at gunpoint.

And protocol can be applied to nonstandard situations, too. All is made easy by simply fixing one's gaze into a middle distance (as Prowl does now) using a clear, calm voice (his default vocal setting) and speak the words of a predetermined script (which, in this case, Prowl spent five orn agonizing over.)

"I realize it isn't in your usual field," he begins into the silence of the lab, "but you are the best engineer I have access to. More importantly, you are-" Cool foam drifts down about him and clings to his face. He takes a moment to wipe it off and hopes Wheeljack doesn't notice the slight tremble in his hand. "You are discreet. Naturally, since this isn't a request in my official capacity, I'd be asking you to complete it in your downtime and I'd be paying for it with my personal funds."

"Right. Glad ta hear you aren't gonna use Autobot creds irresponsibly, you're just gonna inflict your interfacing habits on me."

Prowl frowns. "This request isn't an overture for intimacy. As much as I respect you, Wheeljack-"

"That really, really isn't what I meant." Wheeljack braces his arms on his workbench and lets his body sag, his head hanging low and his headfins flickering with sad sapphire light. "Is this some kinda cosmic payback from Primus? Like for that time I gave Warpath the napalm, maybe?" He straightens suddenly. "I know! I'll just delete my memory files for this whole talk and we can pretend it never happened."

"Ratchet will pour acid down your intakes if he finds you tampering with your memory banks."

Wheeljack wilts a second time. "You got that right. Ugh."

The retardant foam has finally stopped falling, and lays knee-deep about the lab, covering it in a layer of fluffy white and hiding the dozens of projects Wheeljack has scattered about. It will take orn to get this place clean and functional again. Worse, it'll take the better part of a joor getting the stuff off Prowl's finish, and he has a briefing to get to shortly.

"I don't have any more time for your dramatics," he says quietly. "Will you do it or not?"

"Oh, I'll do it, if only to stop you from asking Perceptor or some other poor schlub to build the stuff. But there's one condition: You never, ever tell me about how you use it. Just let me think you're secretly torturing Decepticons in an underground lair someplace, okay?"

"Agreed." It's close enough to what he has planned, after all.

~

For Prowl, all aspects of a problem must be weighed, measured, and fitted into the greater whole before judgement is passed. Details are to be afforded the care they deserve instead of rushed through thoughtlessly. And endless amounts of time must be poured into the project - joors, orns, entire quartex go by as he works on this plan. It goes slower then he would have wished, but the war is a hungry beast, devouring his attentions and leaving only scraps behind for anything personal.

Still, he makes steady headway. He has his tools from Wheeljack, an impressive pile of burnished metal and humming circuitry. Has had a quiet word with Red Alert about the anticipated noise. Done all the supplementary reading Ratchet has recommended. He has even begun the slow process of re-arranging his quarters: moving the couch, putting anything breakable into storage. Almost a vorn, and he's in the final stages.

He just has no idea how to broach the subject with Jazz.

He's never had to do this before, after all. It's always been a proposition from someone else, and those he generally turned down.

It is very, very tempting to linger over details until Jazz pulls one of his miracles of social interpretation and divines by some obscure tilt of Prowl's head or the flick of his doorwings what Prowl wishes to talk about, and makes the proposition himself.

But that would make all of this useless. How am I to get him to believe I'm to be trusted if he can't even depend on me to make an offer, he asks himself.

His quarters are dark around him, the couch he sits on barely illuminated by a pool of dark blue light from a single overhead. He likes the dark in his rooms. Likes the quiet and the unrelenting emptiness. Long joor spent overworking his neural net tends to tamper with his sensory settings, leaving him so oversensitive that sometimes the most soothing thing to be around is a blank grey wall.

He'd thought about changing it for his anticipated time with Jazz. Mostly he'd thought about music, about Jazz's craving for bright lights and conversation, for art and puzzles and dance.

He'd tossed it all away. Everyone else offers that to Jazz and everyone else has failed to satisfy. Prowl will be himself instead, and follow the code that has helped him guide the Autobots to victory after victory:

Play to your strength.

Prowl's strength is uncompromising utilitarianism, a dedication to the idea of using nothing more then the necessary and the sufficient. He is terse and reserved, quiet and even frugal.

And so he sends Jazz an email only five words long:

-Private meeting requested. My quarters.

Because really, what more does he need to say?

~

Frontline units always insist plans don't last past the first engagement with the enemy. Prowl has never really understood why. Accepts it and compensates for it, yes, but even as an Enforcer Prowl was a tactical unit, and so was kept relatively sheltered from the harsh reality of the battle field. That sudden clash, that shock of facing an enemy that had been nothing but an abstract concept until then - it wasn't part of his world.

But now Jazz stands just inside the doorway of Prowl's quarters. The stark black and white of his paint job is tamed to rich sapphire and pale cerulean by the blue overheads, the glowing sliver of his visor is as fathomless as an energon well. He takes stock of the blank expanse of Prowl's room, assessing, casting judgment, and Prowl feels it for the first time: all his plans falling away in the face of reality. His CPU scrambles to reassess. His emergency subroutines engage, forcing his doorwings wide to catch incoming data, his sensor net into overdrive. The world around him becomes sharp, unreal, and as the silence lengthens he can feel himself starting to overclock.

"Those backlash migraines must be worse then I thought," says Jazz.

And the world snaps back into focus. Because Jazz understands this room, Prowl realizes. He doesn't see the sterile prison everyone else does. He sees the shelter Prowl needs so badly, the blank shell that Prowl has painstakingly created to defend an all too vulnerable cortex.

He sees everything that is important.

Prowl loves him for it.

It's strange. He'd thought Jazz would seem out of place in this part of Prowl's life, but even here he fits. That simple colouring suits the spare lines of the rooms. The shadows flatter Jazz's delicate face. And the peaceful quiet that hangs around them is undisturbed as Jazz moves to stand by Prowl, silent as only a stealth operative can be.

Jazz tips his head to the side. "You want something from me."

"Yes." He chooses his words with all the care his primitive socialization programming allows. "I want to make you an offer. I want you to . . . allow me to try something."

"Hmmm. I've been hearin' rumours for almost a vorn now. First Aid's been worked up, and Wheeljack keeps lookin' at me funny. Red Alert said a few things, too. This about all that?"

Prowl's systems ping a minor alert - his hands have clenched too tight again, hard fists at his side that will damage his joints if he doesn't relax. He has to fight with himself, overrides warring against the fight/flight programming before he can finally flex his fingers and try and ease the ache of stressed cables.

Jazz smiles and nudges him, a gentle shoulder check. "Now c'mon, you know better than to think you can hide stuff from me. What kind of Spec Ops commander would I be if you could? But you should know- I didn't go digging after I got the basic details. I figured you'd tell me the rest in your own time."

"Hearing you say that makes it easier," Prowl admits. "But I'd hoped to- to prove myself capable of at least arranging this. Despite my shortcomings."

The grip of Jazz's hand is sudden and hard on Prowl's chin, forcing him to turn his head and look Jazz straight in the face. "I am not gonna do this - whatever it is - with you bein' ashamed of yourself. Other bots I'll coddle, but that ain't how it works between you an' me."

"You won't have to," Prowl finds himself saying. And when the memories of Signal's assessment threaten to rise up again, he tags them as non-essential and shunts them into his compressed archives without hesitation. Now is not the time. Jazz wants him levelheaded and calm. Jazz . . . Jazz wants to be able to depend on him.

This trust between them goes both ways. As blindly as Prowl must trust Jazz for intel, Jazz must trust Prowl to steer them down the road to victory. There is no room between them for self-doubt. The stakes of this game of war are too high to let themselves be sabotaged by their own insecurities. The must go forward, side by side, in step and without fear.

No fear, Prowl thinks. I feel no fear because you won't let me.

He accesses his subspace and removes the cuffs he had Wheeljack make. They are matte black, circles of shadow in his palms, and heavier then the broken ones from that long ago meeting. "I want to try to give you what you need."

"And what do you get outta this?"

"What I want."

Jazz's answering smile is all too knowing. "I see. Well, considering that it's you we're talkin' about, I know you've thought it through forward and back. Put a lot of effort into it, too. I ain't about to let that go to waste. And, who knows? Maybe it'll even work out." Softly, almost shyly, "I think I'd like that." He comes in close and lays his hands over the cuffs. "Whatever you wanna do to me, you can. I'm willing."

Prowl says, "Thank you."

Then he moves behind Jazz. There's no hesitation as Jazz offers his hands a second time, and Prowl closes the shackles about those wrists with a stir of excitement. "I will leave you your comm. If at any time you wish to stop, ping me."

Jazz twists to look over his shoulder at him. "Sure."

It's an answer given easily, and Prowl suspects that's because Jazz hasn't realized the true nature of the cuffs he's wearing now. Not the simple alloy they seem to be, but modified ultra-dense insulated polymer bindings of the sort usually used on host models such as Blaster and Soundwave to help contain their broadcasting abilities. Jazz might be able to pick the lock given enough time, but he won't be able to electronically hack them to short circuit.

"On the couch, please," says Prowl. He wants the bindings in place as soon as possible so Jazz has no chance to try manoeuvring his way out of them. Once they're on he can protest all he likes, and if he asks to be let out again Prowl will oblige, but they must go on first. It's the best way to deal with Jazz's avoidance techniques: don't give him a chance to use them.

Being made to lie back on the couch clearly wasn't what Jazz was expecting, and he watches Prowl with bright curiosity, shifting a little on the deep silicone cushioning to try and get comfortable. Prowl would wager his doorwings Jazz is also fingering the cuffs to get a better assessment of them, and he's all too conscious of how little time he has as he bends Jazz's right leg. He's gotten heavy Kevlar straps out of his subspace and is binding Jazz's ankle to his thigh when the question finally comes.

"So you got these cuffs made special for me by Wheeljack, huh?"

"Yes." Second leg now, and thank Primus that Jazz is still willing to go along with this.

"I'm a little embarrassed. I didn't get you anything. How'd you list it on your budget file?"

"I didn't. I paid for them with my own credits." Both legs done, and Prowl can relax a little now. Jazz is trussed up and not going anywhere anytime soon.

Just in time, too, because the next thing Jazz says is, ". . . Prowl. Are these modified cuffs for host models?!"

"You can still reach my frequency. Wheeljack made sure of it." Next step now. He comes around to stand beside Jazz's head.

"Yeah, but I can't reach no-one else! What if my bots need- what are you- hey!"

"Taking off your visor," Prowls says with a calm he doesn't feel.

Jazz laughs, voice a little breathless as he jerks his face away from Prowl's fingers. "Like fun you will. Prowl, c'mon! You know I gotta be reachable if there's an emergency."

"You are reachable. Through me." He grips Jazz's face with one hand and forces it back around so he can snag the edge of the visor. "Unhook this or I'll break it off."

Jazz stares up at him. "You really mean that."

Prowl doesn't bother answering. Verbal fencing with Jazz is a fatal mistake, a fight he won't win. Instead he pulls resolutely at the visor until he feels it warp and bend.

"Ow! OW! Okay, fine, take it." There's a sharp click of the visor's locks coming undone and it pulls away cleanly. Prowl tucks it into his subspace.

Not many have seen Jazz's face without the visor. It's a pretty face, even if right now its wide blue optics have narrowed to angry slits glowing with the beginnings of anger. "Fraggit, Prowl, what is your problem here? You cut me off from my bots and you take my visor and you got me trussed up on your couch, which, okay, very original for a first time but not a lot of room here for the both of us."

"I don't want you to have your visor for this."

"What, afraid I'll get bored and watch some vids?" Jazz sneers.

"Close enough." Visors are usually just an expanded HUD, but Jazz's lets him cycle through text files and images and yes, watch vids in the middle of boring meetings. In other words, it's a distraction. And Prowl will not permit distractions.

"You aft," grumbles Jazz. "What kind of rude fragger d'you take me for huh? Unless you really are just that bad. Is that why you got me all tied up, Prowl? Gotta make sure I won't run away? I always figured you lost your lovers 'cuz things just didn't jive between you, but maybe they bolted 'cuz they were so fed up with your nasty, fumblin' incompetence!"

Prowl says nothing. Does nothing. He can feel his doorwings drooping, his fans labouring as his systems heat up with unavoidable shame.

Jazz turns his face away again, hiding in the cushioned back of the couch. " . . . Frag. Oh frag, I shoulda known better then to say yes. Prowl, c'mon. Untie me, 'k? This is just gonna wind up an ugly mess."

Prowl kneels down beside the couch. He touches Jazz's cheek, and this time he's gentle as he coaxes Jazz to turn his face back toward him.

"Prowl . . . "

He smiles at Jazz. "It's alright," he says, and pulls the last of the bindings from his subspace. Holds Jazz's head still again, and presses the metal bar of a bit gag into Jazz's mouth. "'I'm not always easy to be around.' I remembered."

Jazz's optics go wide and bright and blank. He doesn't even twitch as the straps are fastened behind his helm, pulling the bar deep into his mouth to rest at the hinge of his jaws.

Prowl stays kneeling, pressed against the couch and Jazz's side until he sees sense return to those optics. When he's certain Jazz is past the shock he says, "It just stops you from talking. It won't keep you from making noise." He can't hold back the twitch of a smile. "I briefed Red Alert. He knows not to worry if you start screaming."

The first sound Jazz makes is not a scream. It's a laughter. Soft, strangled laughter.

And then he twists, whipping and squirming, thrashing against his bindings, and this why they are on the couch instead of the berth. There's no space for Jazz to use, and Prowl can take full advantage of his greater weight to shove him bodily into the corner between the seat and the back, forcing him into the soft give of the silicone, forcing him to stillness just long enough for Prowl to fish the stun gun out from his subspace.

It takes two jolts to put Jazz down. He lies on the couch, sparking and limp in his bindings, the vibration of his whirring fans making his frame tremble.

Prowl puts the gun away. He sits on the edge of the couch, hand on Jazz's shoulder, watchful. When the sparks die away and Jazz lifts his head to look at him, Prowl sends a ping. Just a reminder of the way out.

Jazz locks gazes with Prowl and keens.

Primus-! The sound is a low wail that goes on and on, the helpless cry of the wounded, the lost.

Prowl understands now why Ratchet so dislikes this.

But seeing Jazz this way only makes Prowl want to go through with it more. No one else should ever see Jazz like this. No one else should do these things to him. This is something Prowl can only trust to himself. The thought of anyone else coming close to this and being clumsy with it- losing the passkey-!

"You are never going back to Sideswipe," Prowl says, his voice clipped and vicious, his fingers digging possessively into Jazz's plating. "Not Sideswipe, not Ratchet, no one. I'll give you exactly what you need, and you won't have show this side to anyone else!"

Jazz shivers under Prowl's hands.

'Who knows? Maybe it'll even work out,' Jazz had said. And, 'I think I'd like that.'

"You will like this," Prowl promises.

He stands and pulls out his final tool. It's a small, rectangular box, only a little bigger then his hand, with half a dozen hookup wires dangling from it, and a single, long cord attached to a remote. It's a strictly analogue piece of equipment, the design chosen so Jazz couldn't remotely hack it. Not a very likely proposition with the cuffs, perhaps, but paranoia is never wrong when dealing with Jazz.

He sets it on Jazz's belly, and then leans in close to inspect Jazz's pelvic joints. He could have done the hookup to Jazz's throat, but he suspects that would cause real panic, and fear is not his intention.

All of Jazz's wiring is in a nonstandard configuration and done in black, to confuse anyone looking for a vital hookup and a quick disable, and it's only Ratchet's explicit instructions that allow Prowl any sort of idea at what he's looking for. He takes his time, fingers probing, tugging, and Jazz thighs tremble, his hips shift.

"Don't. This is difficult enough for me without you making it harder."

Jazz goes obligingly still.

"Cut your stealth mods, please. I'll need to be able to monitor you status for this."

Again Jazz obeys. His form slowly comes into focus in Prowl's sensors, a tangle of tightened wires and protectively sealed plating. No matter how obedient he may be, he's far from relaxed, his frame ready to try for escape at any moment. Primus only knows what would have happened if Prowl tried this without the leg bindings. Cuffs certainly wouldn't have been enough to keep Jazz docile.

The first of the spring clips goes onto a connector, and from there it's short work using the first sensor wire as reference for the others. The second side is even easier. Prowl double checks his work, making sure everything is secure and in the proper place. It wouldn't do for something to come undone in the middle of things, or even worse, for Jazz to be hurt. There can be no mistakes in something this delicate. Not the hookups, mind - it's Jazz's trust Prowl is fervent about protecting.

Finally satisfied, he comes up beside Jazz and slowly lifts him by the shoulders. Jazz helps, sitting up a little, and it's just enough so Prowl can settle onto the couch, pulling Jazz to lie back down with his head in Prowl's lap. The deep silicone padding is comfortable support against his doorwings. The arm of the couch is perfect to brace himself on. And now he can sit and look down into Jazz's face.

The remote has slipped down between Jazz and the couch, and Prowl has to grope for it a bit. Jazz's frame is cool to the touch, not hot and lustful as it should be when interfacing, but Prowl refuses to feel doubt. He has already accomplished a great deal by cutting through Jazz's defences. Has gained a great deal, too - Jazz let himself be trapped, let his stealth mods drop, even let Prowl do as he willed with the connectors. An incredible offering.

Now, Prowl wants to give back. He clicks the power button. The box hums to life. Very slowly, he turns the dial on the remote.

Prowl has been off planet a handful of times. Mostly to one of Cybertron's moons to inspect the various Autobot bases, but once, and only once, he had occasion to go out of the system entirely, to a distant world of rock and mountains and swirling vapour clouds, all spinning in orbit around a living star. It was there that he saw his first sunrise. A miracle of light that poured over the horizon, set the sky on fire, painted the world around him with sudden, vibrant colour and sent a rush of alien warmth across Prowl's plating, his face, his very spark.

Watching Jazz's face change is like that. The cold, lost look easing away, first to surprise, then growing pleasure as the gentle charge from the box stimulates his sensors. The blue of his optics goes from bright azure to rich cerulean. He hums approval and shifts, twitches, legs widening as much as they can in their bindings. His jaw relaxes around the gag.

Encouraged, Prowl nudges the dial upward some more, and watches in fascination as Jazz's frame seems to ripple, a fluid motion of curving back and lifting hips only barely kept in check by having his legs folded and bound, his arms behind his back. He's thrusting, trying for more sensation, and Prowl obliges. Dials it higher and higher just to watch Jazz's optics widen and darken then narrow again, and now there's the faint, low growl of Jazz's engine, and sunrise heat is starting to warm Jazz's frame.

It's difficult to say who leads from there. Jazz arching, trembling in mute appeal, his engine's purr growing steadily louder. Prowl dialling up the machine just to watch him strain and hear him groan, to feel that warmth. The first sparks begin to flicker along Jazz's frame, white and gold startlingly bright in the dim room, and Prowl dials it up higher and higher. Jazz's engine revs, thunder in this quiet place. Licks of white energy arc between his legs, along his thighs, crawl up his dark belly like lightening along storm clouds. His fans are whirring, and hot, hot air rises up around them.

Prowl leans in and watches Jazz's face. Watches how he sinks his denta into the bit. Watches his optics flicker and go dark. And when the overload hits and sparks flash and shower, electricity crawling in sheets over the curve of Jazz's bumper, sees the vulnerable softness in Jazz's expression as he looses himself to bliss.

Prowl dials the machine back down again. Low, but not off. Oh, no.

Jazz's optics flicker back to life. He squirms. Groans softly, hips twitching, and reflexively tries to close his legs. Prowl dials up the machine again, though only just a tick. It's still enough to make a single bright spark live and die between Jazz's thighs, the wiring sensitive from the overload.

Jazz groans again, low in the back of his throat. He looks up at Prowl with confusion layered over the fuzzy relaxation from overload.

Prowl is more then pleased to explain. "Ratchet informed me that pushing you straight into a blackout can damage internal circuitry. It's much safer to warm up your systems first and gradually build to it. In consideration of this, I cleared our schedules. Barring any emergencies, we have as long as it takes to get you over that hill."

Jazz's optics go very wide at that. He shakes his head, no, no, no.

"Yes," says Prowl, and turns the dial up with a sharp twist of his fingers, right back to the level it had been when Jazz overloaded, sending a sudden rush through Jazz's systems that makes him cry out, bucking savagely, the bindings around his thighs straining as he tries desperately to get some kind of leverage against the feelings washing over him. The box bounces and clatters on Jazz's belly, but Prowl was careful with those hookups and they stay sunk into Jazz's wires, forcing the electricity into them, forcing the pleasure into Jazz, forcing him into that crest of sensation.

The second overload is sudden, almost brutal seeming as it rips through Jazz's frame with a dazzling flash and the scent of ozone. It singes Prowl's thigh where Jazz's head rests, and the heat of it softens the silicon cushioning beneath them, sinking them deeper into the couch's embrace. Jazz lies, optics dark, frame limp except for the helpless, reflexive working of his hips.

More, they beg with every roll. More, more.

Prowl lets the machine's setting go back down again and watches carefully. Adjusts his doorwings, trying to get a read on Jazz's status. Ratchet had recommended this be done in roughly three to five sessions. 'The more the better. It helps bleed off all that extra energy, and the peak needed to get him to conk out won't have to be as intense, either. Try to knock him out on the first go and you'll fry something important.'

More it is.

A good thing, to Prowl's point of view. He'd been gentle the first time, and harsh with the second, both times intent on pushing past Jazz's resistances. Now Prowl decides it's time to truly dig in.

With Jazz still sparking and warm Prowl takes him all the way back down to the lowest setting, the gentlest of hums through Jazz's system. He watches the drowsy peace on Jazz face ebb and flow as the unrelenting pleasure tingles in his hips, his thighs and belly. The heat of his frame banks down to something soft and pleasant, he shifts and tries for something almost relaxed.

He can't do it. The restless stir of bound legs are clue enough, but Prowl's doorwings also pickup the tension in that frame - the tightened cables, the heightened energy field of Jazz's sensory net, the hiccough in his fans' rhythm. Prowl looks down at him and meets that gaze, and it's focused and locked onto the sight of Prowl's face as if there is nothing else in the world because there isn't. This room is dark and empty, and Jazz is cut off from anything, everything else.

This bare room, which has been Prowl's shield, now becomes his weapon. There is nothing to distract Jazz. No place for him to retreat to. Nothing for him to hide behind.

Prowl licks his lips.

Electricity fairly crackles along Jazz's thighs as he moans in wrenching, spark-felt sound.

The climb back up in intensity is fascinating. Prowl turns the dial painstaking slowness and feels Jazz's frame respond, the heat welling like lava, the delicate panels of Jazz's sensor horns turning hot, hot to Prowl's curious touch, Jazz's frame registering as a thing of smoldering coals on Prowl's sensors. Those bound thighs fall open as wide as they can on the couch, a pleasing 140 degree angle that lets Prowl see the silver clips buried deep in Jazz's pelvic wires, the flash and shimmer of electricity as they feed him sweet sensation.

He shifts his doorwings to get a better sensory read and is rewarded with the bright eruption of a glitter of sparks all out of proportion. Curious, he cocks his head and lowers the intensity, but it doesn't matter - Jazz body arches, chest thrusting up toward Prowl and begging for touch that just won't come, knee joints and leg cables straining against their bindings, pedes curling inward, the only motion allowed with Jazz folded up like this.

Prowl works the dial, up and down, up and up and down, frowning as he tries to understand why Jazz just goes hotter and hotter with the irregular drops, why it takes so long for him to cool when Prowl takes it back down again, and why, of all things, the shift of Prowl's doorwings make Jazz spark and squirm. Jazz's cheerfully indiscriminate proclivities make a doorwing fetish unlikely, but it has to be something about Prowl's behaviour because there's literally nothing else. Nothing else but Prowl.

Prowl.

His battle computer starts to work, shifting through data, searching for the pattern.

'You've been running yourself too hard these past few cycles. Yeah, I've noticed.'

'I appreciate what we already got.'

'Maybe it'll even work out. I'd like that.'

And thousands of lovers who don't satisfy.

So easy to miss with all the attention Jazz lavishes on his friends, like stones hidden amid rocks. And maybe Prowl would have missed it even now if he hadn't done all that supplementary reading about emotional impact on interfacing. But when he tentatively smiles down at Jazz he gets all the answer he needs in the sharp, needy whine that spirals out of Jazz, in the little wiggle of Jazz's frame as it tries to shove closer to him. Optics going bright past the point of incandescence, white of a star, white of a nova, white of the heart of a spark and it's too bright for any frame to take - they flicker, dim and surge, and suddenly go dark. Protective shutdown.

Jazz shrieks. He thrashes on the couch, nearly rolls off the edge until Prowl pins him by the shoulders, and there's a tense moment when Prowl wonders if he should get the stun gun again, but no, no- instead Prowl lets go, and cups his hand around Jazz's face.

"I'm here," he tells Jazz. He gropes for the remote with the other hand and reinforces the words with gentle pleasure.

Jazz nuzzles into his palm, frantic for reassurance which Prowl gladly gives. Soft words, meaningless praise and gentle touches, and it's no wonder Jazz avoids this, needs cuffs to stay tame and draws the blade of his tongue in defence against even a friend.

Overloading to blackout is forcing one's frame to shut down completely. It overclocks sensors, resulting in the off-lining of first visual, then audio, taste, smell, and finally touch as the processor works to protect itself, leaving a bot with nothing but the primitive sensation of electricity crackling directly into their spark chamber. It rides the excruciating line between torture and rhapsody. It is brutal, dangerous, and terrifying even for bots who relish the process.

For a spec ops agent, steeped in paranoia and so reliant on his senses for survival, it must be an unimaginable horror.

And yet even now Jazz's frame is helplessly aroused. His legs press into the silicon couch padding to force themselves into an even wider spread. His hips shift and work, trying for better leverage, trying for more sensation. His chest is arched, hidden spark chamber offered to Prowl. More then the cuffs, it is his own frame which has him prisoner now.

Prowl works the dial higher, taking Jazz back up the inevitable climb. He watches the play of miniature lightening grow, curling, snarling, snapping arcs of white and palest blue, going from threads to ropes to chains that coil mercilessly about Jazz's body. They pull at Jazz, force him to buck and twist and make him cry out. Bright, short, bell-like tones. Beautiful.

And the scent of ozone and heated metals lies so heavy in the air Prowl can taste it. It wafts from Jazz's frame on the rolling wave of heat like the incense of Primus' temples. It clings to Prowl's glossa, makes his doorwings tingle. The entire room seems filled with it, the evidence of Jazz's enduring passion, the tell of his third rising overload.

That third overload wells up and devours Jazz. He howls. On and on, louder and louder, and lightning spits from his denta and curls around his gag and up his audio horns and he bucks and bucks and finally gasps, fireworks of sparks erupting from his joints to float about the couch before dying.

The rooms seems so dark once they've faded away. Jazz is whimpering. Frame too hot, much too hot. His engine growling. His denta gnashing on the bit gag. His head twitching from side to side.

"Jazz? Jazz, can you hear me? Nod if you can."

Nothing. His audios have gone, and from the way he bites at the gag, Prowl suspects taste as well, and probably scent. He's very, very close to total blackout.

In a strange way, this last time is just for Prowl. Jazz is lost, drowned in sensation, frame shutting down around him, dying in every way but truth. Only Prowl can appreciate the aching plateau Jazz is forced to endure to let his systems cope before the final climb.

Jazz's lovely face is twisted, darkened optics pits of shadow in Prowl's dim rooms. His denta glint on the bit with every toss of his head, savage. Feral.

'You just lie there with this blank expression on your face,'

Prowl strokes the back of his hand down Jazz's cheek. Was this what Signal had wanted to see? This raw expression, full of something so close to anguish?

'- I swear you're running economic simulations in your CPU you look that bored.'

Or had he wanted the dark current flowing through Prowl's system, the sense of power? It is Prowl who has cut through the protective shell that has seen Jazz through war and black ops, betrayal and torture and despair. It is Prowl, quiet Prowl, boring Prowl. Thousands of lovers with what's likely eons of collective experience, and it is incompatible Prowl who has undone Jazz and forced him to feel this consuming passion.

'I don't want you miserable'

Or had it simply been his wish to do for Prowl what Prowl now does for Jazz? To set him free.

Prowl brings Jazz up over that final hill and into the peak of final overload, an electric storm thrashing on the couch that goes suddenly frozen as even motor skills are cut off. A flashing play of lightning that dazzles his optics, but he refuses to look away, watches his friend whom he loves crackles with a firework of sparks and then . . . go dark. Frame and CPU in protective shut down. Total blackout.

Jazz's face, so twisted only moments before, has gone smooth and blank. His frame slumps on the couch, relaxed. A deep, untroubled recharge.

Peaceful.

And Prowl feels . . .

He touches Jazz's face again. Traces the line of the gag's strap. A good idea. A well executed plan. A job well done.

A victory he'd thought impossible, won.

He smiles.

~

A few joor later, Prowl has un-subspaced his datapad and is reviewing some troop deployment plans for the eastern sector when Jazz stirs. It makes Prowl twitch - Jazz's stealth modifications have long since kicked back in, rendering him invisible to Prowl's sensors, and so it's a surprise to suddenly feel movement against his thigh as Jazz tips his head back to look into Prowl's face.

The gag is gone now, as is the stimulator box. Prowl pulled them away and stowed them back in subspace while Jazz was in recharge. The bindings he left on, though. Just in case.

"Guess I don't need to ask if it was good for you, too," says Jazz. His voice is deep and slow. Rich in a way Prowl hasn't heard before. "Afterglow's a nice look for you. Here, these are yours." He frame shifts, and he pulls his arms out from behind his back to hand over the stasis cuffs.

Prowl sets aside his datapad and takes them with a bemused smile. They're pristine - not a mark to show how Jazz managed to get free. "Should I have Wheeljack change the locks?"

"Naw. I was good, see? You can re-use 'em. Had to. It woulda been a crime to deny you the chance to follow what's obviously your true calling."

Prowl ducks his head, trying to hide his smug little smirk, but Jazz reaches up and catches his chin, turning his face back. Laughs softly.

"That's a nice look, too. Cute." Jazz taps his fingers against Prowl's cheek. Traces Prowl's smile. "You said some things. You mean 'em?"

The possessive curl of Prowl fingers on the cuffs is as obvious as his smirk was.

"Hmmmm." Jazz sits up and stretches, back curving, fingers flexing. Then he leans forward and starts working at the ties around his legs.

Prowl sits in silence, the cuffs heavy in his hands. Part of him wants to second-guess his earlier conclusions. Go over every word and gesture, calculate the implications of Jazz's escape from the cuffs. 'You can re-use 'em.' You, not we.

That part of him is afraid.

But this is Jazz.

That fact resonates through Prowl's CPU, inserting itself into every calculation and adding its simple truth: with Jazz, Prowl feels no fear.

So Prowl can accept the coiled kevlar straps from Jazz calmly. No demands of clarification, no flutter of uncertainty when Jazz rises from the couch to stretch a second time, and when he give Jazz back his visor it's with steady hands.

The blue crystal snaps back in place, Jazz's optics hidden once more. He leans down and presses a kiss to the centre of Prowl's chevron. "I'll need a few orn to work out a schedule. I ain't used to deep recharge like that, so I don't know how often I'll need it. And war missions always foul up a bot's love life."

Deep contentment radiates from Prowl's spark. It warms his frame and his voice as he answers, "Not always."

More laughter from Jazz as he glides over to the door. Is it Prowl's imagination or is there a little more swing to those hips? A bit more bounce to that stride?

"I got a debriefing to go do, and a full plate of missions proposals to shift through. Ping me if anything comes up. Oh, and, lemme know when you're ready to negotiate for that 'more' you so obviously want. Because I found your arguments against seein' Sideswipe et al ever again real convincing."

~

It takes a while for Prowl to register the change in his fellow Autobots, and when he does he's not quite certain what to make of it. The speculative glances. The curious whispers. The almost comical respect he's suddenly granted by the Protectobots.

It's when he's back in the mess hall that he's finally confronted.

Jazz is sitting with a knot of the science personnel, making them laugh, asking about their current pet projects and who said what and when, passing drinks, trying to talk them into building bad ideas. He glitters, a lithe creature of black and white among the blocky rainbow of their science builds, and they lean in toward him like solar captors toward a star.

"How the slag do you keep up with him?" asks Sideswipe as he settled next to Prowl on the bench. He's got his ration cube cradled in both hands, and his gaze is locked onto Jazz the way so many others in the mess hall are. "I mean, don't get me wrong. Jazz is one of the best frags on base, but I can't imagine tapping that regularly the way you do. Even me and Sunny found him a handful. Primus, even the Protectobots had a hard time keeping up!"

Ah. That explains why First Aid has been checking Prowl's systems for overheating so compulsively lately.

Wait.

"Sunstreaker was there with you and Jazz?!"

Sideswipe shrugs casually. "Well, yeah. Someone had to hold Jazz down when he started kicking. Why? How'd you do it?"

". . . I made a very convincing argument against it."

Sideswipe narrows his optics suspiciously, but one doesn't become a ranking military officer without the ability to spout absolute nonsense with a straight face, and Prowl is second in command to the entire Autobot army. Though he hasn't got Jazz's gift for making people believe him, Prowl is adept enough at stonewalling that his doorwings don't even twitch when he feeds Sideswipe that line.

"Is that why Jazz is all exclusive with you? Because you're so convincing?"

"I'd hardly call us exclusive," Prowl says dryly with a nod of his head at Jazz. He's leaning in close to Perceptor to thumb energon from the scientist's lips, licking it off his own finger with an inviting smile.

Sideswipe leers appreciatively at the pretty sight as he takes a drink of his own energon. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Says, "Shyeah, right. C'mon, we both know that doesn't mean anything. Not with how he's going to you every deca or so. No one else is regular with him like that."

But it does mean something, and this time it's disdain instead of embarrassment that Prowl is keeping off his face because Sideswipe might be an excellent infantryman, but it's painfully obvious why Jazz was never satisfied with him.

Talking, touching. Prowl can see it in the way Jazz smiles, can pick it up in the purr of his words, has read it in his psych profile: these casual flirtations mean something important, something vital. And anyone who dismisses this so easily understands nothing, nothing at all, about Jazz.

"Hmmm," is all Prowl says. An acceptable placeholder, much preferable to what he would like to say to the bot who was so careless with the nasty, desperate, frightened creature that surfaces in Jazz during blackout overloading-

Lost the passkey. Had Sunstreaker hold him down-!

-and even now dismisses Jazz's needs so casually.

When nothing more comes, Sideswipe stands and goes off to find better company. Prowl, though, stays put watching Jazz, as captivated as the science crew, CPU logging details and working, working, on the puzzle before him. Until Prowl is confident about being able to offer that whatever it is, he refuses to ask Jazz to forgo it with others.

'When you're ready to negotiate for that 'more' you so obviously want. . . '

Prowl doesn't know when that will be. But he knows that it will be.

Because he and Jazz are compatible.

-end