Never Give Up - Part 8 of 12
Title: Never Give Up
'verse: G1
Rating: T/PG-13
Length: 50k, 12 chapters
Characters: Jazz, Prowl, ensemble
Warnings: angst, cybertronian profanity, mild Prowl/Jazz, violence
Chapter 8
Prowl cycled his optics, his processor booting from recharge far too slowly to keep up with the tumultuous emotions spilling from his spark. There was a sense of wrongness and unfamiliarity, fear, lingering pain and confusion. There were also emotions Prowl was less familiar with: comfort, companionship and an unconditional trust that was almost frightening.
His servo came up, to rest against his chest-plates. The inch-wide gap there was all too obvious under his servo-tips but neither that unsettling sensation nor the error messages on his rebooting HUD could dampen the sense of wonder filling him.
He'd never felt anything like this. Had never really wanted to. And now he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to live without it.
"Prowl? Prowl, can you hear me?"
Prowl raised an optic ridge, and not just at Ratchet's cautious tone.
"Indeed I can," he noted, as surprised by his calm response as Ratchet seemed to be. Yesterday he'd struggled to retain awareness of speech let alone employ it. Today was far, far easier. Since he seemed to have the use of his vocaliser, he would ask the only question that mattered. "How is Jazz?"
The medic crossed his arms across his bumper. Ratchet stood not far from the berth, close to Prowl's helm but able to look down on the box his patient still held to his chest-plate. The medic's own electromagnetic field was drawn in tight to his frame, his movements almost painfully careful. "Taking his cue from you, I think. His spark output has been close to what I'd expect for a mech in recharge."
"He's waking up now." Prowl couldn't have said how he knew that. With Jazz's spark radiation mingling with his, spilling into his frame, he felt his friend's fragmentary awareness as an echo of his own.
"He seems calmer today."
Ratchet was still using that too-level tone. Prowl glanced at him, pressing his fingertips a little harder against his own chest-plate.
"He's in less pain." Not pain-free. Not that at all, but the constant, stabbing pressure trying to manipulate Jazz's memory resonance was gone. "He's still scared. But I think he feels safer now."
"Will he object if you sit up?"
It was a question worthy of consideration. Prowl hadn't tried to move his frame, all too aware of the warnings populating his internal displays. His frame was stiff from a night curled in an unfamiliar pose. More, and despite the energon feed he was registering, he felt weak. Too much of his spark energy had spilled out into the room before his frame could absorb and redistribute it. Most importantly, he still remembered the terror and violent reactions from Jazz's fragile spark whenever another mech had tried to approach them the night before. Now though the saboteur did seem calmer and altogether less fragile. How would Jazz react to Prowl himself moving?
"I believe it might be a good time to find out."
One of Prowl's hands still rested on Jazz's box, his finger servos brushing Jazz's spark-chamber in a far-too-intimate gesture. He had no intention of moving it. He extended the other to Ratchet, letting the medic ease him up to sit on the berth. He felt stiff and weary. A deep ache spread through the hinge-joints as his door-wings protested. Theirs wasn't the only protest.
He felt Jazz's surge of fear and confusion a moment before the monitors started chiming a steady complaint. Air hissed through Ratchet's vents, and the hands steadying Prowl stilled. The tactician stilled too, his attention turning inwards with comfort and reassurance. There was still no reason to his friend's reactions. Without access to his memories, or the intricacy of an advanced processor, Jazz was nothing more but a ball of instincts, coloured by the haze of spark-deep memories and impressions.
The saboteur might not remember who he was, or who Prowl was, or much of what had happened, but he knew that a familiar spark was protecting and nurturing him. And, after a week of pain burned into his lonely spark, he knew to worry when that gentle warmth retreated.
Prowl focussed on the unfamiliar sensations, not even noticing he was murmuring aloud. A constant litany of "you're safe", "I'm here" and "I won't leave" spilled from his vocaliser, even as he straightened fully. The yard or so between his chestplates and the box, still lying on the berth, felt far too great a distance. It was several klicks before Jazz settled, relieved that he could still feel Prowl's spark energy washing over him. Prowl was surprised to realise that his own frame was relaxing as he confirmed the reverse was true. It was a little unnerving just how accustomed he'd become to the near-overwhelming energy field that resonated in his spark as pure Jazz.
He took a moment to calm his vents. His optics flared a little brighter and then dimmed as he forced his battle computer online, despite his low energy levels. He needed control now. He needed to think clearly, in a way he hadn't since his decision on the battlefield the day before.
His energy levels dropped, but his processor cleared.
"Here!" A cube was thrust into his servos and he grasped it instinctively, cycling his optics at the irate medic. "Drink! If you're going to be a Primus-forsaken idiot, at least refuel while you're doing it."
The waver of uncertain concern from Jazz decided the matter. Prowl topped off his fuel reserves and tried to ignore how much weight that whisper of emotion had carried in his decision to do so.
His battle computer had launched into an automatic review of his recent activities, summarising his mistakes since it was last active, and the tactical and strategic implications he hadn't had time to consider the day before. He shook his helm, unable to hide the wince on his faceplates.
"I fear Optimus Prime must share your low opinion of me."
Ratchet snorted, still softly, still speaking in a low voice, but amused. "I think he's still more worried than annoyed." The medic's optics cycled and he ex-vented. "Give it time. He'll get around to thinking straight eventually."
The amusement faded. Ratchet's optics scanned across the medical readouts above the berth, and dropped to the additional sensor device he held in one hand. When he looked up, there was a grim set to his lip-plates.
"Prowl. Listen carefully. Jazz is as stable as he's been since you got here. If these readings are anything to go by, he's probably aware enough to deal with subtle changes as long as he doesn't panic." The medic vented again, the expelled air a whisper across Prowl's door-wings. "I want you to do what you can to reassure him. And then I want you to ease your chest armour closed."
He didn't even have to think about it. "No."
"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. I need readings of his spark-state, Prowl. Uncontaminated readings."
It made sense, far too much sense. Prowl's frame tensed with his deep reluctance, and he felt Jazz's awareness shifting, reaching out to him in reaction. He sent back a pulse of comfort without even thinking about it, his processor distracted. Prowl's battle computer insisted Ratchet was right. His spark insisted otherwise.
The tactician's optics rested on the metal box that contained all Jazz was. He could feel the warmth of his friend's chamber under his servo-tips, and the vibration of the mechanisms keeping Jazz alive. Prowl would not let that go. His battle-computer flinched at the renewed decision, pointing out his value to the Autobots and the dangers of what he was doing. Prowl himself had no such doubts. He cycled down his optics and focussed on that certainty, letting it spill through his spark and out into the mingling spark energies. He would not fail Jazz. He would not leave him and he would not let anything harm him, no matter the cost to himself.
It was almost two breems before he let his optics cycle up. Not going anywhere, he reminded the spark that throbbed uncertainly so close to his. Not leaving you.
The promise rang through his processor as he nodded to Ratchet. He could only pray that Jazz understood it. At least Ratchet seemed to understand his nod. The medic leaned around him, gentle servos working the wedge from between Prowl's chest-plates.
Neither of them expected Prowl's deep-coded survival instincts to slam the heavy, armoured plates closed without intervention from his processor.
Jazz wasn't expecting it either.
The spark chamber heated under Prowl's servos. The monitors screamed. He felt the unframed spark's desperate fear as a jagged pain deep in his own chest. He didn't need to hear Ratchet's low stream of profanity to know that something was wrong. The medic worked fast, servos skimming across several different tools and monitors in an attempt to gauge the situation. The box itself went untouched, but Prowl was eased back down, medical interventions registering on his logs, not realising until that point that at least some of the alarms were a response to his own blind panic.
His chest-plates split, his processor and spark in total agreement and to the Pit with survival coding. Prowl clutched Jazz's box to him, his vents irregular and harsh as he bathed Jazz's chamber in his spark radiation, trying to pour comfort and apology into his energy field.
"Prowl! No!" Ratchet's sharp order made it through the haze of terror and loneliness and relief at the renewed contact.
Prowl could count the number of times he'd heard that tone in Ratchet's voice on his servos. His battle-computer sent out an override, stilling every one of Prowl's voluntary systems, and it was only then that the tactician realised the locks on his spark chamber themselves had disengaged. He resealed them with a mental command and then returned his concentration to where it belonged, the urgent need to reassure Jazz overriding even his shock at his own actions.
A pensive Ratchet was watching him when Prowl emerged from his haze, klicks or breems later. Jazz had calmed, and Prowl alongside him. Both were tired, emotions ragged and far closer to the surface than either would usually permit. Prowl's processor was ringing. His battle computer was still active and it drained energy faster than he seemed able to absorb it from energon infusions. He was reluctant to shut it down nonetheless.
Even after half a lifetime as Jazz's friend, the emotional maelstrom now centred on Prowl was unfamiliar and rather frightening. The tactician had made more irrational, unplanned decisions in the last half-orn than he had in vorns. He didn't doubt for a moment that they'd been overwhelmingly correct, but the memory of Ratchet's command was slow to fade. The idea that he'd fully expose his spark for anyone, even Jazz, was a shock. That he could do it unconsciously, and without hesitation, left him numb.
No, Prowl needed a voice of rationality in his helm, if only to keep him aware of what he was deciding against.
"Is he settled?"
Prowl glanced down at the box he held, torn between a fond smile and an exasperated frown. Both were familiar when dealing with Jazz, and it felt better to think that way: as if this was Jazz badgering him not to overwork, or whining at him to stay for just one more human movie, rather than clinging to him for life and sanity. Easier to think of those happier times than confront the miasma of desperation and anxiety battering at his spark. The sentience confined to the box was not the confident Jazz that Prowl knew so well.
He nodded, not releasing his grip, and this time Ratchet didn't even try to tell him to.
Ratchet vented a sigh, seating himself. "First off, I'm sorry."
That earned a sharp look from his patient. Ratchet met his optics. "For making you try that, and for what I have to tell you now it's failed. The two of you have been friends for a long time, Prowl. Close friends. You're used to one another. As you told Sunstreaker, you know the touch of Jazz's field and he knows yours. At some level, your sparks know one another." Ratchet waved one hand in the air, a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass the Ark around them. "That's unusual but not so much so as people think, especially this late in the fragging war. Half this crew has some level of resonance with one or more of their friends. It's the kind of connection that lets one mech seek another out, just when the second is most in need of a companion, or lets someone fire into a melee and not hit the comrade they're trying to save."
Prowl nodded, not surprised by the description but uneasy that Ratchet chose to discuss it.
"Prowl… you're going a long way past that now. I was afraid of it even before…" He paused, his eyes on the monitors. No doubt he could see the shock that Prowl worked hard to keep from his faceplates and door-wings.
"Our spark chambers are closed! Bonding…"
"A full bond would require spark-to-spark contact. You don't have that, and until I can be sure you both know exactly what you're doing, you'll have it over my cold, grey frame. But that doesn't make this any less real." Ratchet leaned forward, making sure of optic-contact before going on. "Brief exposure to spark energy happens, Prowl. Half this crew has been close enough to get a dose of energy when someone takes chest-plate damage on the field. Medics get it all the time, and have extra spark-shielding to prevent mingling."
Prowl felt his tanks churn. "But this isn't brief exposure."
Ratchet nodded grimly. "If I'd seen any way to stabilise Jazz without you, you'd have been out of here in nano-klicks. As it is, I'm working on unfamiliar ground. I was thinking it might be like a Guardian/New-spark situation - forming a lasting link due to that early and frequent exposure. But you and Jazz are both adults, and I've been thinking about the guests you oh-so-kindly landed in Prime's servos. Probably the closest analogy is actually a Seeker trine-bond. They don't always share sparks, but they do mingle energies pretty often."
It took all Prowl's self-control to keep his voice level. "Either way, you're talking about a permanent, spark-level link."
"I am."
"Then you have to find a way to break it!"
Ratchet raised a brow ridge. "Optimus has already said he'd rather take the risk on having two officers bonded than lose either of you."
"Slag the risks! That's not why…" The level tones were gone. Prowl's optics flared bright, his agitation making his door-wings jerk against his back. He saw Ratchet startle at the curse, but he had to make the medic understand. "Jazz can't go through life chained to me! He needs his freedom. He deserves it! Ratchet, you know his reputation! He's a social mech…"
"His reputation is vorns out of date." Ratchet cut across Prowl's rambling protest with a sharp edge to his tone. "You should know as well as I do that Jazz isn't nearly as 'social' a mech as he was when he was younger. Maybe he found something else fulfilled him more."
Prowl's door-wings twitched. The thought of burdening his best friend with his constant presence appalled him. He knew that he was considered a rather dull and unpersonable mech, worlds apart from his vivacious and outgoing friend. Prowl wouldn't dream of 'cramping Jazz's style' and had, in fact, gone to some length to avoid doing so over the vorns. The mere fact that they were discussing Jazz's personal life bothered him in a way he couldn't explain. The idea that in future he might actually have to experience it, carried along for the ride, was frankly horrifying. He scowled at Ratchet, aware that the mech was still expecting a reply.
"I wouldn't know. Jazz and I have more interesting things to do and discuss than such matters."
"Which is kind of my point," Ratchet murmured.
Prowl gave him a look of angry incomprehension. He mastered the emotion with an effort. He could feel Jazz stirring, the much abused spark still uneasy and feeling the echoes of his anger. Instead he kicked his battle computer into a higher gear, letting a cool mask fall across his countenance and frag the consequences for his systems.
"I assume this so-called 'bond' will only get stronger in line with the duration of exposure?" he demanded.
Ratchet gave him an unimpressed look for his tone. The medic reached out to adjust the flow on Prowl's energon feed before nodding sombrely.
"Then reframing Jazz must be considered a highly urgent priority."
"It already was." Sitting back in his chair, the medic scowled. "And we're working on options. But Shockwave might be the only mech in the galaxy with a clue how to do it, and Sky-Spy caught Megatron banishing him back to Cybertron earlier today."
The new information sent shivers of despair and fear for Jazz down Prowl's back-struts. The anger that followed hard on their wake brightened his optics and diverted power to his weapon's systems. He'd expected Shockwave to survive his assault. He hadn't expected him to escape the scope of Prowl's justice entirely. He shook the dark emotions off, his finger-servos caressing Jazz's spark chamber in a comforting gesture that would shock him were he aware of it. His tactical processor assured him that there would be other opportunities, other encounters with the Decepticon scientist, and Prowl would be ready for them. For now, nothing was more important than the half-naked spark under his servo-tips.
The tactician tilted his helm and focussed back on the medic beside him. His battle-computer needed more data before it could come up with anything even vaguely useful.
"Can I assume Starscream has returned?"
This time Ratchet's reply was a snort of genuine amusement. "Even Megatron knows better than to leave those two together unsupervised, especially as far away as Cybertron. He'd either be short a lieutenant or nursing the knife in his back within klicks." The medic leaned back in his chair. "Yes, Screamer's back on Earth. Prime's expecting a call from him anytime now. Megatron might not be interested in our Seeker guests, but Starscream is their trine-leader after all."
Prowl's helm jerked in a small nod. He let it fall back, considering. A Decepticon scientist, and a sneaky one at that. His information might be incomplete, but the chances that Starscream knew nothing at all of Shockwave's techniques were vanishingly small. And the Autobots already had quite the lever to use against the Decepticon Air Commander. Now Prowl needed a fulcrum. He hesitated, running a few dozen variations on the same basic scenario through his battle computer before speaking.
"Get Optimus down here." Prowl was too tired to care that it came out as an order. He was weary, hurting in a way he couldn't articulate and more than ready for this ordeal to be over. Those same emotions echoed back to him from the box he held, with almost overwhelming force. "He and I need to talk."
The thick, turgid atmosphere of Earth shouldn't feel this good under his wings. He was a Seeker, sparked to soar through the dark skies of Cybertron. He should be cutting through his homeworld's thin air, turning on a whim and with a skill and beauty that left grounders deep in awe.
He turned, subconscious routines altering the pitch of his ailerons and adjusting his tailplane to keep him steady. His jet engines - Cybertronian technology mimicking and improving upon primitive human tech - roared and sent a pleasant throb through his frame. Tattered clouds whipped across his cockpit and played across the sensors that lined his wings, teasing and caressing them. After an orn trapped in Darkmount, nursing his pride and surveying Cybertron from the viewports of his gilded prison, even Earth felt good.
It would feel better with Thundercracker on his right wingtip and Skywarp on his left.
Starscream screamed to the sky, the furious sound whipped away to dissipate amidst the vortices and ice-crystals of his con trail. Megatron's pretext for banishing him in favour of Shockwave had been weaker even than usual - an insult to the Seeker's honour. He'd expected to return to Earth irate, had in fact nursed his anger through his admittedly-brief exile. He hadn't expected to return to find a Decepticon force reeling from an insanely-fierce, Autobot-initiated skirmish. He certainly hadn't expected to find his trine-mates captive.
Neither his warlord nor Megatron's telepathic third-in-command had been willing to expand on why, and the idiot coneheads would only babble about the Autobot Prowl in a manner that made no sense whatsoever. There was only one explanation: his trine had got caught up in whatever fool scheme had sent Shockwave crashing out of favour this time. Starscream hadn't needed Soundwave's heavy hints or the way Megatron's optics slid away from his to realise that. Leaving them languishing in Autobot custody was probably Megatron's way of washing his servos of the whole business. If he thought that would be the end of the affair, then he still had a lot to learn about his Seeker second. For the moment, though, Starscream had business to take care of.
The red and white Seeker streaked die-straight into Autobot airspace. His navigational array beeped a warning, and he dismissed it with a snarl. He didn't need a chart to find his way along the thread of uncertainty and worry in his spark that he recognised as Skywarp. The hails that lit his com system went unanswered too. He had nothing to say to the Autobots, save for a single, pulsed code he transmitted, declaring a short-term ceasefire. If he was going to talk, it would be to Prime, in person.
Starscream transformed in mid-air and landed thrusters-first on the plain outside the Ark. The thump of his impact echoed off the hillside above the Autobot ship, rattling the landscape and sending gravel spilling across the half-buried engines.
He sent a pulse of shaped irritation in Skywarp's direction, an order for quiet that his most trying trine-mate knew well. Skywarp stilled, burst excitement and relief in his direction, and then stilled again as Starscream had directed. Emotion still trickled through, but with less stinging power. Starscream's wings flexed and then settled into their root mode. That was better. Without Skywarp providing a constant contrast, the silence - not absence, but silence - of Thundercracker in the trine-bond was less of a distraction.
With armed Autobots streaming from the entrance to the Ark, and Prime at their forefront, Starscream didn't need distractions.
He stood tall, arms folded across his cockpit, foot tapping against the ground.
"Prime, I demand the return of my Seekers immediately!"
The fact that he stood alone, without a task-force ready to raid the Ark… The fact that Megatron refused to commit forces, or even infiltrators to assess Thundercracker's condition… The fact that the crossed arms were a deliberately non-hostile gesture, taking his null-rays out of the equation… His arrogance acknowledged none of those inconvenient facts. In the face of his confident demand, even the Autobots might be made to overlook them.
The neutral, unimpressed expression behind Prime's battle-mask banished any hope of that. Starscream's optics scanned the assembled mechs, his battle-trained subroutines searching out the biggest threats in an automatic survey. Ironhide stood at his Prime's shoulder, his crossed arms mirroring Starscream's own. The Autobots' ops mechs - the vanishing blue one and the irritating yellow pest - were side by side off to the right, wary but watchful. Their commander, the Autobots' TIC, was conspicuous by his absence, as was the SIC Prowl, and Starscream's optics automatically kept up their roving search. Even without Dirge's wild stories, both mechs were too dangerous and tricky to leave unaccounted for. The medic was missing too. And while the dark red front-liner was scowling from his place beside the Ops mechs, his accursed yellow twin was nowhere to be seen.
Starscream's wings twitched, his backplates crawling as if the missing mechs were circling behind him in preparation for an attack. He didn't need his outstretched sensors to tell him he was imagining it. He flicked his wings, more deliberately this time, trying to shake out the tension that was the unholy child of his own paranoia and the angst still reaching him from Skywarp.
Prime studied him, silent and stern as he watched the Seeker squirm. Starscream scowled in return, impatient to hear the Autobots terms and get to work persuading either Megatron or Optimus, or even the pair of them, to yield as necessary.
"Well?"
"No."
Starscream stared. "Excuse me?"
"No. I have no intention of releasing either Skywarp or Thundercracker. They will face the consequences of their actions." Prime paused a beat, his optics thoughtful above the battlemask. "Assuming Thundercracker recovers."
Starscream flinched. The throwaway comment was more ominous than any threat he'd heard from the Prime. The satisfied rumble and angry mutterings from the Autobots arrayed in front of him almost forced the Seeker to take a step back in sheer astonishment. He held his ground, but his arms dropped away from his cockpit, moving to hang ready at his sides. His own temper flared, if only to drown out the fear crying out for his attention.
"How dare you? How dare you think you can hold Seekers captive in this… this…" he waved a blue hand towards the crashed Ark, searching for words, "this hole in the ground?"
Ironhide had moved to once again mirror Starscream's posture, standing ready. The Autobot laughed and there was no humour in the harsh sound.
"Who said anything about captivity?"
Prime's rumble might have been rebuke or agreement. The tall mech took a step forward, encroaching into the undeclared strip of neutral ground between the Autobots and their visitor. His blue optics burned cold and, for the first time in vorns, Starscream could see anger behind the fire.
"Mechs on Cybertron have been extinguished, or even sent to the smelting pits, for crimes less severe."
The flier's energon ran cold.
"You wouldn't do that!"
Optimus Prime took another step forward, and Starscream had never been quite so aware of the Autobot leader's height and bulk. His pedes didn't move, but even he wasn't sure if it was courage or fear that held him frozen in place. He cowered, his shoulder's dropping as his processor cast grey shadows and glowing red optics over the looming Prime. He cycled his optics, dismissing the spectre of Megatron. Prime's icy glare was more than enough to freeze him in place.
"Starscream." The Prime's voice wasn't loud, but it rolled across the barren landscape and off the hillsides behind the Ark. Even the other Autobots seemed startled into silence, unaccustomed to seeing such menace in their leader. "In the last half-orn, mechs under my command have seriously damaged numerous Decepticons. They have come close to destroying one of Soundwave's cassettes, and caused Shockwave an injury that threatened his spark. They have infiltrated your base at will, and forced a rapid and pained Decepticon retreat, not once but twice. More than that, my mechs have forced Thundercracker out of the sky, inflicting critical damage, and fired at him while grounded, compromising his spark support systems. They have seriously damaged your second trine-mate and coerced him not just into betraying Megatron, but into risking his own spark and processor."
Prime leaned forward, brushing hard against the shocked Seeker's energy field. Now Starscream didn't have to infer Optimus Prime's anger from what he could see, or listen to the growl in Prime's voice. He felt it.
"Tell me, Starscream, what makes you think I'm not completely serious?"
'verse: G1
Rating: T/PG-13
Length: 50k, 12 chapters
Characters: Jazz, Prowl, ensemble
Warnings: angst, cybertronian profanity, mild Prowl/Jazz, violence
Chapter 8
Prowl cycled his optics, his processor booting from recharge far too slowly to keep up with the tumultuous emotions spilling from his spark. There was a sense of wrongness and unfamiliarity, fear, lingering pain and confusion. There were also emotions Prowl was less familiar with: comfort, companionship and an unconditional trust that was almost frightening.
His servo came up, to rest against his chest-plates. The inch-wide gap there was all too obvious under his servo-tips but neither that unsettling sensation nor the error messages on his rebooting HUD could dampen the sense of wonder filling him.
He'd never felt anything like this. Had never really wanted to. And now he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to live without it.
"Prowl? Prowl, can you hear me?"
Prowl raised an optic ridge, and not just at Ratchet's cautious tone.
"Indeed I can," he noted, as surprised by his calm response as Ratchet seemed to be. Yesterday he'd struggled to retain awareness of speech let alone employ it. Today was far, far easier. Since he seemed to have the use of his vocaliser, he would ask the only question that mattered. "How is Jazz?"
The medic crossed his arms across his bumper. Ratchet stood not far from the berth, close to Prowl's helm but able to look down on the box his patient still held to his chest-plate. The medic's own electromagnetic field was drawn in tight to his frame, his movements almost painfully careful. "Taking his cue from you, I think. His spark output has been close to what I'd expect for a mech in recharge."
"He's waking up now." Prowl couldn't have said how he knew that. With Jazz's spark radiation mingling with his, spilling into his frame, he felt his friend's fragmentary awareness as an echo of his own.
"He seems calmer today."
Ratchet was still using that too-level tone. Prowl glanced at him, pressing his fingertips a little harder against his own chest-plate.
"He's in less pain." Not pain-free. Not that at all, but the constant, stabbing pressure trying to manipulate Jazz's memory resonance was gone. "He's still scared. But I think he feels safer now."
"Will he object if you sit up?"
It was a question worthy of consideration. Prowl hadn't tried to move his frame, all too aware of the warnings populating his internal displays. His frame was stiff from a night curled in an unfamiliar pose. More, and despite the energon feed he was registering, he felt weak. Too much of his spark energy had spilled out into the room before his frame could absorb and redistribute it. Most importantly, he still remembered the terror and violent reactions from Jazz's fragile spark whenever another mech had tried to approach them the night before. Now though the saboteur did seem calmer and altogether less fragile. How would Jazz react to Prowl himself moving?
"I believe it might be a good time to find out."
One of Prowl's hands still rested on Jazz's box, his finger servos brushing Jazz's spark-chamber in a far-too-intimate gesture. He had no intention of moving it. He extended the other to Ratchet, letting the medic ease him up to sit on the berth. He felt stiff and weary. A deep ache spread through the hinge-joints as his door-wings protested. Theirs wasn't the only protest.
He felt Jazz's surge of fear and confusion a moment before the monitors started chiming a steady complaint. Air hissed through Ratchet's vents, and the hands steadying Prowl stilled. The tactician stilled too, his attention turning inwards with comfort and reassurance. There was still no reason to his friend's reactions. Without access to his memories, or the intricacy of an advanced processor, Jazz was nothing more but a ball of instincts, coloured by the haze of spark-deep memories and impressions.
The saboteur might not remember who he was, or who Prowl was, or much of what had happened, but he knew that a familiar spark was protecting and nurturing him. And, after a week of pain burned into his lonely spark, he knew to worry when that gentle warmth retreated.
Prowl focussed on the unfamiliar sensations, not even noticing he was murmuring aloud. A constant litany of "you're safe", "I'm here" and "I won't leave" spilled from his vocaliser, even as he straightened fully. The yard or so between his chestplates and the box, still lying on the berth, felt far too great a distance. It was several klicks before Jazz settled, relieved that he could still feel Prowl's spark energy washing over him. Prowl was surprised to realise that his own frame was relaxing as he confirmed the reverse was true. It was a little unnerving just how accustomed he'd become to the near-overwhelming energy field that resonated in his spark as pure Jazz.
He took a moment to calm his vents. His optics flared a little brighter and then dimmed as he forced his battle computer online, despite his low energy levels. He needed control now. He needed to think clearly, in a way he hadn't since his decision on the battlefield the day before.
His energy levels dropped, but his processor cleared.
"Here!" A cube was thrust into his servos and he grasped it instinctively, cycling his optics at the irate medic. "Drink! If you're going to be a Primus-forsaken idiot, at least refuel while you're doing it."
The waver of uncertain concern from Jazz decided the matter. Prowl topped off his fuel reserves and tried to ignore how much weight that whisper of emotion had carried in his decision to do so.
His battle computer had launched into an automatic review of his recent activities, summarising his mistakes since it was last active, and the tactical and strategic implications he hadn't had time to consider the day before. He shook his helm, unable to hide the wince on his faceplates.
"I fear Optimus Prime must share your low opinion of me."
Ratchet snorted, still softly, still speaking in a low voice, but amused. "I think he's still more worried than annoyed." The medic's optics cycled and he ex-vented. "Give it time. He'll get around to thinking straight eventually."
The amusement faded. Ratchet's optics scanned across the medical readouts above the berth, and dropped to the additional sensor device he held in one hand. When he looked up, there was a grim set to his lip-plates.
"Prowl. Listen carefully. Jazz is as stable as he's been since you got here. If these readings are anything to go by, he's probably aware enough to deal with subtle changes as long as he doesn't panic." The medic vented again, the expelled air a whisper across Prowl's door-wings. "I want you to do what you can to reassure him. And then I want you to ease your chest armour closed."
He didn't even have to think about it. "No."
"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. I need readings of his spark-state, Prowl. Uncontaminated readings."
It made sense, far too much sense. Prowl's frame tensed with his deep reluctance, and he felt Jazz's awareness shifting, reaching out to him in reaction. He sent back a pulse of comfort without even thinking about it, his processor distracted. Prowl's battle computer insisted Ratchet was right. His spark insisted otherwise.
The tactician's optics rested on the metal box that contained all Jazz was. He could feel the warmth of his friend's chamber under his servo-tips, and the vibration of the mechanisms keeping Jazz alive. Prowl would not let that go. His battle-computer flinched at the renewed decision, pointing out his value to the Autobots and the dangers of what he was doing. Prowl himself had no such doubts. He cycled down his optics and focussed on that certainty, letting it spill through his spark and out into the mingling spark energies. He would not fail Jazz. He would not leave him and he would not let anything harm him, no matter the cost to himself.
It was almost two breems before he let his optics cycle up. Not going anywhere, he reminded the spark that throbbed uncertainly so close to his. Not leaving you.
The promise rang through his processor as he nodded to Ratchet. He could only pray that Jazz understood it. At least Ratchet seemed to understand his nod. The medic leaned around him, gentle servos working the wedge from between Prowl's chest-plates.
Neither of them expected Prowl's deep-coded survival instincts to slam the heavy, armoured plates closed without intervention from his processor.
Jazz wasn't expecting it either.
The spark chamber heated under Prowl's servos. The monitors screamed. He felt the unframed spark's desperate fear as a jagged pain deep in his own chest. He didn't need to hear Ratchet's low stream of profanity to know that something was wrong. The medic worked fast, servos skimming across several different tools and monitors in an attempt to gauge the situation. The box itself went untouched, but Prowl was eased back down, medical interventions registering on his logs, not realising until that point that at least some of the alarms were a response to his own blind panic.
His chest-plates split, his processor and spark in total agreement and to the Pit with survival coding. Prowl clutched Jazz's box to him, his vents irregular and harsh as he bathed Jazz's chamber in his spark radiation, trying to pour comfort and apology into his energy field.
"Prowl! No!" Ratchet's sharp order made it through the haze of terror and loneliness and relief at the renewed contact.
Prowl could count the number of times he'd heard that tone in Ratchet's voice on his servos. His battle-computer sent out an override, stilling every one of Prowl's voluntary systems, and it was only then that the tactician realised the locks on his spark chamber themselves had disengaged. He resealed them with a mental command and then returned his concentration to where it belonged, the urgent need to reassure Jazz overriding even his shock at his own actions.
A pensive Ratchet was watching him when Prowl emerged from his haze, klicks or breems later. Jazz had calmed, and Prowl alongside him. Both were tired, emotions ragged and far closer to the surface than either would usually permit. Prowl's processor was ringing. His battle computer was still active and it drained energy faster than he seemed able to absorb it from energon infusions. He was reluctant to shut it down nonetheless.
Even after half a lifetime as Jazz's friend, the emotional maelstrom now centred on Prowl was unfamiliar and rather frightening. The tactician had made more irrational, unplanned decisions in the last half-orn than he had in vorns. He didn't doubt for a moment that they'd been overwhelmingly correct, but the memory of Ratchet's command was slow to fade. The idea that he'd fully expose his spark for anyone, even Jazz, was a shock. That he could do it unconsciously, and without hesitation, left him numb.
No, Prowl needed a voice of rationality in his helm, if only to keep him aware of what he was deciding against.
"Is he settled?"
Prowl glanced down at the box he held, torn between a fond smile and an exasperated frown. Both were familiar when dealing with Jazz, and it felt better to think that way: as if this was Jazz badgering him not to overwork, or whining at him to stay for just one more human movie, rather than clinging to him for life and sanity. Easier to think of those happier times than confront the miasma of desperation and anxiety battering at his spark. The sentience confined to the box was not the confident Jazz that Prowl knew so well.
He nodded, not releasing his grip, and this time Ratchet didn't even try to tell him to.
Ratchet vented a sigh, seating himself. "First off, I'm sorry."
That earned a sharp look from his patient. Ratchet met his optics. "For making you try that, and for what I have to tell you now it's failed. The two of you have been friends for a long time, Prowl. Close friends. You're used to one another. As you told Sunstreaker, you know the touch of Jazz's field and he knows yours. At some level, your sparks know one another." Ratchet waved one hand in the air, a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass the Ark around them. "That's unusual but not so much so as people think, especially this late in the fragging war. Half this crew has some level of resonance with one or more of their friends. It's the kind of connection that lets one mech seek another out, just when the second is most in need of a companion, or lets someone fire into a melee and not hit the comrade they're trying to save."
Prowl nodded, not surprised by the description but uneasy that Ratchet chose to discuss it.
"Prowl… you're going a long way past that now. I was afraid of it even before…" He paused, his eyes on the monitors. No doubt he could see the shock that Prowl worked hard to keep from his faceplates and door-wings.
"Our spark chambers are closed! Bonding…"
"A full bond would require spark-to-spark contact. You don't have that, and until I can be sure you both know exactly what you're doing, you'll have it over my cold, grey frame. But that doesn't make this any less real." Ratchet leaned forward, making sure of optic-contact before going on. "Brief exposure to spark energy happens, Prowl. Half this crew has been close enough to get a dose of energy when someone takes chest-plate damage on the field. Medics get it all the time, and have extra spark-shielding to prevent mingling."
Prowl felt his tanks churn. "But this isn't brief exposure."
Ratchet nodded grimly. "If I'd seen any way to stabilise Jazz without you, you'd have been out of here in nano-klicks. As it is, I'm working on unfamiliar ground. I was thinking it might be like a Guardian/New-spark situation - forming a lasting link due to that early and frequent exposure. But you and Jazz are both adults, and I've been thinking about the guests you oh-so-kindly landed in Prime's servos. Probably the closest analogy is actually a Seeker trine-bond. They don't always share sparks, but they do mingle energies pretty often."
It took all Prowl's self-control to keep his voice level. "Either way, you're talking about a permanent, spark-level link."
"I am."
"Then you have to find a way to break it!"
Ratchet raised a brow ridge. "Optimus has already said he'd rather take the risk on having two officers bonded than lose either of you."
"Slag the risks! That's not why…" The level tones were gone. Prowl's optics flared bright, his agitation making his door-wings jerk against his back. He saw Ratchet startle at the curse, but he had to make the medic understand. "Jazz can't go through life chained to me! He needs his freedom. He deserves it! Ratchet, you know his reputation! He's a social mech…"
"His reputation is vorns out of date." Ratchet cut across Prowl's rambling protest with a sharp edge to his tone. "You should know as well as I do that Jazz isn't nearly as 'social' a mech as he was when he was younger. Maybe he found something else fulfilled him more."
Prowl's door-wings twitched. The thought of burdening his best friend with his constant presence appalled him. He knew that he was considered a rather dull and unpersonable mech, worlds apart from his vivacious and outgoing friend. Prowl wouldn't dream of 'cramping Jazz's style' and had, in fact, gone to some length to avoid doing so over the vorns. The mere fact that they were discussing Jazz's personal life bothered him in a way he couldn't explain. The idea that in future he might actually have to experience it, carried along for the ride, was frankly horrifying. He scowled at Ratchet, aware that the mech was still expecting a reply.
"I wouldn't know. Jazz and I have more interesting things to do and discuss than such matters."
"Which is kind of my point," Ratchet murmured.
Prowl gave him a look of angry incomprehension. He mastered the emotion with an effort. He could feel Jazz stirring, the much abused spark still uneasy and feeling the echoes of his anger. Instead he kicked his battle computer into a higher gear, letting a cool mask fall across his countenance and frag the consequences for his systems.
"I assume this so-called 'bond' will only get stronger in line with the duration of exposure?" he demanded.
Ratchet gave him an unimpressed look for his tone. The medic reached out to adjust the flow on Prowl's energon feed before nodding sombrely.
"Then reframing Jazz must be considered a highly urgent priority."
"It already was." Sitting back in his chair, the medic scowled. "And we're working on options. But Shockwave might be the only mech in the galaxy with a clue how to do it, and Sky-Spy caught Megatron banishing him back to Cybertron earlier today."
The new information sent shivers of despair and fear for Jazz down Prowl's back-struts. The anger that followed hard on their wake brightened his optics and diverted power to his weapon's systems. He'd expected Shockwave to survive his assault. He hadn't expected him to escape the scope of Prowl's justice entirely. He shook the dark emotions off, his finger-servos caressing Jazz's spark chamber in a comforting gesture that would shock him were he aware of it. His tactical processor assured him that there would be other opportunities, other encounters with the Decepticon scientist, and Prowl would be ready for them. For now, nothing was more important than the half-naked spark under his servo-tips.
The tactician tilted his helm and focussed back on the medic beside him. His battle-computer needed more data before it could come up with anything even vaguely useful.
"Can I assume Starscream has returned?"
This time Ratchet's reply was a snort of genuine amusement. "Even Megatron knows better than to leave those two together unsupervised, especially as far away as Cybertron. He'd either be short a lieutenant or nursing the knife in his back within klicks." The medic leaned back in his chair. "Yes, Screamer's back on Earth. Prime's expecting a call from him anytime now. Megatron might not be interested in our Seeker guests, but Starscream is their trine-leader after all."
Prowl's helm jerked in a small nod. He let it fall back, considering. A Decepticon scientist, and a sneaky one at that. His information might be incomplete, but the chances that Starscream knew nothing at all of Shockwave's techniques were vanishingly small. And the Autobots already had quite the lever to use against the Decepticon Air Commander. Now Prowl needed a fulcrum. He hesitated, running a few dozen variations on the same basic scenario through his battle computer before speaking.
"Get Optimus down here." Prowl was too tired to care that it came out as an order. He was weary, hurting in a way he couldn't articulate and more than ready for this ordeal to be over. Those same emotions echoed back to him from the box he held, with almost overwhelming force. "He and I need to talk."
The thick, turgid atmosphere of Earth shouldn't feel this good under his wings. He was a Seeker, sparked to soar through the dark skies of Cybertron. He should be cutting through his homeworld's thin air, turning on a whim and with a skill and beauty that left grounders deep in awe.
He turned, subconscious routines altering the pitch of his ailerons and adjusting his tailplane to keep him steady. His jet engines - Cybertronian technology mimicking and improving upon primitive human tech - roared and sent a pleasant throb through his frame. Tattered clouds whipped across his cockpit and played across the sensors that lined his wings, teasing and caressing them. After an orn trapped in Darkmount, nursing his pride and surveying Cybertron from the viewports of his gilded prison, even Earth felt good.
It would feel better with Thundercracker on his right wingtip and Skywarp on his left.
Starscream screamed to the sky, the furious sound whipped away to dissipate amidst the vortices and ice-crystals of his con trail. Megatron's pretext for banishing him in favour of Shockwave had been weaker even than usual - an insult to the Seeker's honour. He'd expected to return to Earth irate, had in fact nursed his anger through his admittedly-brief exile. He hadn't expected to return to find a Decepticon force reeling from an insanely-fierce, Autobot-initiated skirmish. He certainly hadn't expected to find his trine-mates captive.
Neither his warlord nor Megatron's telepathic third-in-command had been willing to expand on why, and the idiot coneheads would only babble about the Autobot Prowl in a manner that made no sense whatsoever. There was only one explanation: his trine had got caught up in whatever fool scheme had sent Shockwave crashing out of favour this time. Starscream hadn't needed Soundwave's heavy hints or the way Megatron's optics slid away from his to realise that. Leaving them languishing in Autobot custody was probably Megatron's way of washing his servos of the whole business. If he thought that would be the end of the affair, then he still had a lot to learn about his Seeker second. For the moment, though, Starscream had business to take care of.
The red and white Seeker streaked die-straight into Autobot airspace. His navigational array beeped a warning, and he dismissed it with a snarl. He didn't need a chart to find his way along the thread of uncertainty and worry in his spark that he recognised as Skywarp. The hails that lit his com system went unanswered too. He had nothing to say to the Autobots, save for a single, pulsed code he transmitted, declaring a short-term ceasefire. If he was going to talk, it would be to Prime, in person.
Starscream transformed in mid-air and landed thrusters-first on the plain outside the Ark. The thump of his impact echoed off the hillside above the Autobot ship, rattling the landscape and sending gravel spilling across the half-buried engines.
He sent a pulse of shaped irritation in Skywarp's direction, an order for quiet that his most trying trine-mate knew well. Skywarp stilled, burst excitement and relief in his direction, and then stilled again as Starscream had directed. Emotion still trickled through, but with less stinging power. Starscream's wings flexed and then settled into their root mode. That was better. Without Skywarp providing a constant contrast, the silence - not absence, but silence - of Thundercracker in the trine-bond was less of a distraction.
With armed Autobots streaming from the entrance to the Ark, and Prime at their forefront, Starscream didn't need distractions.
He stood tall, arms folded across his cockpit, foot tapping against the ground.
"Prime, I demand the return of my Seekers immediately!"
The fact that he stood alone, without a task-force ready to raid the Ark… The fact that Megatron refused to commit forces, or even infiltrators to assess Thundercracker's condition… The fact that the crossed arms were a deliberately non-hostile gesture, taking his null-rays out of the equation… His arrogance acknowledged none of those inconvenient facts. In the face of his confident demand, even the Autobots might be made to overlook them.
The neutral, unimpressed expression behind Prime's battle-mask banished any hope of that. Starscream's optics scanned the assembled mechs, his battle-trained subroutines searching out the biggest threats in an automatic survey. Ironhide stood at his Prime's shoulder, his crossed arms mirroring Starscream's own. The Autobots' ops mechs - the vanishing blue one and the irritating yellow pest - were side by side off to the right, wary but watchful. Their commander, the Autobots' TIC, was conspicuous by his absence, as was the SIC Prowl, and Starscream's optics automatically kept up their roving search. Even without Dirge's wild stories, both mechs were too dangerous and tricky to leave unaccounted for. The medic was missing too. And while the dark red front-liner was scowling from his place beside the Ops mechs, his accursed yellow twin was nowhere to be seen.
Starscream's wings twitched, his backplates crawling as if the missing mechs were circling behind him in preparation for an attack. He didn't need his outstretched sensors to tell him he was imagining it. He flicked his wings, more deliberately this time, trying to shake out the tension that was the unholy child of his own paranoia and the angst still reaching him from Skywarp.
Prime studied him, silent and stern as he watched the Seeker squirm. Starscream scowled in return, impatient to hear the Autobots terms and get to work persuading either Megatron or Optimus, or even the pair of them, to yield as necessary.
"Well?"
"No."
Starscream stared. "Excuse me?"
"No. I have no intention of releasing either Skywarp or Thundercracker. They will face the consequences of their actions." Prime paused a beat, his optics thoughtful above the battlemask. "Assuming Thundercracker recovers."
Starscream flinched. The throwaway comment was more ominous than any threat he'd heard from the Prime. The satisfied rumble and angry mutterings from the Autobots arrayed in front of him almost forced the Seeker to take a step back in sheer astonishment. He held his ground, but his arms dropped away from his cockpit, moving to hang ready at his sides. His own temper flared, if only to drown out the fear crying out for his attention.
"How dare you? How dare you think you can hold Seekers captive in this… this…" he waved a blue hand towards the crashed Ark, searching for words, "this hole in the ground?"
Ironhide had moved to once again mirror Starscream's posture, standing ready. The Autobot laughed and there was no humour in the harsh sound.
"Who said anything about captivity?"
Prime's rumble might have been rebuke or agreement. The tall mech took a step forward, encroaching into the undeclared strip of neutral ground between the Autobots and their visitor. His blue optics burned cold and, for the first time in vorns, Starscream could see anger behind the fire.
"Mechs on Cybertron have been extinguished, or even sent to the smelting pits, for crimes less severe."
The flier's energon ran cold.
"You wouldn't do that!"
Optimus Prime took another step forward, and Starscream had never been quite so aware of the Autobot leader's height and bulk. His pedes didn't move, but even he wasn't sure if it was courage or fear that held him frozen in place. He cowered, his shoulder's dropping as his processor cast grey shadows and glowing red optics over the looming Prime. He cycled his optics, dismissing the spectre of Megatron. Prime's icy glare was more than enough to freeze him in place.
"Starscream." The Prime's voice wasn't loud, but it rolled across the barren landscape and off the hillsides behind the Ark. Even the other Autobots seemed startled into silence, unaccustomed to seeing such menace in their leader. "In the last half-orn, mechs under my command have seriously damaged numerous Decepticons. They have come close to destroying one of Soundwave's cassettes, and caused Shockwave an injury that threatened his spark. They have infiltrated your base at will, and forced a rapid and pained Decepticon retreat, not once but twice. More than that, my mechs have forced Thundercracker out of the sky, inflicting critical damage, and fired at him while grounded, compromising his spark support systems. They have seriously damaged your second trine-mate and coerced him not just into betraying Megatron, but into risking his own spark and processor."
Prime leaned forward, brushing hard against the shocked Seeker's energy field. Now Starscream didn't have to infer Optimus Prime's anger from what he could see, or listen to the growl in Prime's voice. He felt it.
"Tell me, Starscream, what makes you think I'm not completely serious?"