/1837, Earth PST. The Ark Recreation Room./

Normally Jazz wasn't privy to medical talk. Oh, he was grateful to Ratchet and the rest of the medical team for fixing him up when the 'Cons landed a lucky shot or two, and he had a field med kit in his subspace the same as most anyone else, always ready to do a quick patch job if needed, but generally he figured the workings of the Cybertronian body were a mystery best left to the experts. Of which he was decidedly not one. Nonetheless he tried his best to keep up as Skyfire talked about coding strings and algorithms and entropic distortions of signal decay.

"So what you're saying," he finally concluded, "is that there's a chance that time has weakened 'Imprint' in Starscream's systems, and that it might be possible to either break it entirely, or reinfect him to be imprinted on someone else?"

"Yes." Skyfire nodded.

"Awfully thin chance, man," Jazz opined, leaning back.

"Even a thin chance might still be enough," the gentle giant scientist argued. "If we could pry Starscream away from the Decepticons..."

"Got to admit I can't picture that happening," Jazz said, then held up a hand to forestall Skyfire's protest. "Just 'cause I can't see it doesn't mean it can't happen. So, what do you need me for?"

Skyfire drummed the fingers of his right hand once on the table. "Ratchet has given me a copy of Imprint to study, but it's one taken from a recently-infected subject seven million years ago. I need a comparative sample of the program from the same infected individual now, to trace any degeneration of the code."

"And you can't just ask Ratchet for this why...?"

"I did." Skyfire sounded chagrined. "He said the individual in question remains anonymous, and as such he can't simply call him in to take a new sample."

Which implied that the virus' victim was stationed aboard the Ark. "The Hatchet does value his patient confidentiality," Jazz mused. "And you're asking me to break this for you, man? Must be really important."

Skyfire looked down at the table and was silent for a minute. "Starscream..." he said eventually, slowly, "...he's important to me. I want him back."

Jazz could respect that, and said so. "All right, you got a deal. I get the info on the carrier for you, a current copy of the virus if possible, and you cover my back if we get caught. Deal?"

Skyfire nodded firmly. "Deal."

Arguments and Apologies
by K. Stonham
first released 9th December 2007

/1945 Earth PST. The Ark Medical Bay./

Timing was everything, Jazz thought, sneaking into the medbay. Ratchet was currently in the rec room with Wheeljack, both having their evening energon, and the cameras had neatly been looped thanks to a little device Jazz had cobbled together long ago in the early days of being a saboteur. And Ratchet's password changed between three different ones on a weekly cycle. Right now it should be...

"'Fraggit, why can't Wheeljack keep himself in one piece?'" Jazz murmured the password to himself as he typed it in. He smirked as the screen flickered to life, and slipped a blank disc into the feed slot, directing the computer to download a copy of everything it had on Imprint onto the storage medium. That took less than a minute, and he slipped the disc into his subspace, adeptly clearing all traces of his presence and activities from the computer logs, then left the room, discreetly collecting his toy from where he'd left it.

Once back in his own quarters, he sat on his recharge bed, leaned comfortably back against the wall, and remotely started some Vivaldi playing. Great background music, excellent for thinking and concentrating. Jazz retrieved the disc from his subspace, slotted it into an anonymous-looking but secure datapad, and started skimming through Ratchet's files and schematics, looking for the identity of an Autobot.

He was not expecting the name he eventually found.

Optics wide, Jazz reread Ratchet's terse, clinical entry on the carrier of Imprint, parsing through the medical jargon to piece together what had happened. The image of a Decepticon lab, lights dimmed to half, with a captured civilian laying on the table, flashed through his processor and he slowly lowered the datapad as he connected things.

"Starscream infected me with something. It's probably best if we don't touch until one of your medics can examine me and determine how virulent it is."

Wide blue optics, an expression shaded with just a touch of horror as they looked at Jazz... He felt his primary energon pump constrict as he realized for the first time just what that look had meant.

Prowl... on me? Jazz wondered distantly. Primus...

And no one had told him. For seven million years. He'd assumed that whatever Starscream had infected Prowl with hadn't been that serious, and that Ratchet had managed to fix it. Neither of them had ever said anything, or acted strangely toward Jazz. He'd assumed it had been some other captured Autobot-and Primus knew there'd been plenty over the vorns-who had brought back news of the virus. Ratchet wouldn't have told Jazz anything as a matter of patient confidentiality, which the doc held sacred. Which meant that it had been Prowl's decision not to tell Jazz. He decided he couldn't blame Prowl for that initial decision; they'd just barely met and for all that he'd liked the tactician's style and particular vindictiveness from day one, they hadn't really known each another at that point.

But not telling him for seven million years... okay, Jazz could grant that for four million of them they'd both been in stasis, but they'd gotten overenergized together enough during the other three million. He thought he'd made it clear any number of times that he liked the second in command and would be willing to cross a number of relationship lines with him in any way Prowl liked... or not, if Prowl chose. The confessions or offers had been ignored every single time, which had amused Jazz as he'd always put it down to Prowl's infamous disconnect from life.

But Prowl hadn't trusted him with this. It wasn't even the fact that Prowl hadn't wanted to interface with Jazz, just the simple fact that he hadn't even told him about Imprint. It hurt that Prowl had kept keeping this from him, not trusted him with it.

I thought we were friends, Jazz thought snippily, feeling the momentary deep hurt already transforming into anger. And friends tell each other things.

Especially best friends.

/Some days later, 0423, Earth PST. The Ark Command Center./

"You're going to have to talk to me eventually."

Prowl's words rose and fell briefly, breaking the quiet of the ventilation units and Teletraan-One's quiet humming. The absolute silence he earned in reply from his shift partner showed him what Jazz thought of his words. Prowl frowned in regret, doorwings drooping just a little. Things had been like this for days, an unexpected coldness from the normally jovial third in command. All because Jazz had found out something that Prowl had felt was private, and did not need to be shared. Why the saboteur had felt that Prowl's preferences and medical history were any of his concern, Prowl couldn't fathom. Though the initial tightly worded request for a current sample of the Imprint code gave him a clue. Prowl was very consciously not looking too closely at Skyfire's current area of research.

Still, in cases involving Jazz, logic was not always the best guide.

"Would it help if I said I was sorry?" he asked quietly.

"Not unless you mean it," Jazz replied, proving he was actually listening to Prowl. But he still didn't look away from the terminal he was using.

"I don't understand why it makes a difference," Prowl protested.

At that, Jazz did look up. "You don't understand why it makes a difference," he repeated incredulously, and Prowl was sure that were it not for the visor, Jazz's optics would be boring through him like tritanium drill bits, "that I'm the only one who can rock your socks? Or that, in the seven million years we've known one another, you haven't seen fit to mention this to me?"

"No," Prowl confessed honestly. "We had-have," he corrected himself, "a fine working relationship. There was no sense in complicating it."

Jazz was still staring at him. "You are a piece of work, you know that, Prowl?" he said rhetorically and derisively. "You never even thought that I might have the right to know something that involves me so intimately?" His voice accented the last word, making sudden images of the two of them in compromising stances flood Prowl's CPU.

Prowl paused momentarily, then willed the images away out of old force of habit. "I chose," he replied evenly, "to keep my personal preferences personal, and not subject others to them. Unlike some members of this crew, I don't find interfacing to be that high on my to-do list."

Jazz bristled, as Prowl had half-expected. "Just when was the last time you think I-" he started.

"I was referring to the twins and certain others," Prowl cut him off. He met Jazz's gaze evenly. "Don't think that I'm not intimately aware of your liaisons, or their lack, Jazz. The virus makes sure of that."

"The virus, huh?" Jazz asked.

Prowl nodded calmly. "I've kept my inadequacies to myself because they originate from the virus. I do not appreciate you breaking both my and Ratchet's confidence by reading that file, and I would take it as a measure of friendship if you would simply delete the thing from your memory banks."

Jazz was staring at him. "You're telling me that you think everything you feel regarding me-up to and including our friendship-stems from Imprint?"

"Everything I feel concerning you is suspect because I'm imprinted on you," Prowl confirmed with a nod.

Jazz's right hand was balled in a fist. "If I wasn't your friend," he told Prowl tightly, "I'd knock you flat for that. Seven million years of friendship and you think it's all just because of a slagging virus?" He shook his head. "I'm not talking to you because I've never seen a greater act of stupidity from you as long as I've known you, and I've seen plenty of 'em." He turned away from Prowl, and, true to his word, spoke not another syllable until Hound came in to relieve him. On the way out, though, he paused behind Prowl and murmured just into his audio receptors, "Tell me this, genius: if everything you feel about me comes from Imprint, then explain Screamer and Meg's relationship."

/0805, Earth PST. The Ark, Officers' Quarters Hallway./

Jazz... had a certain point, Prowl had to admit to himself by the time he got off shift three hours later. They'd all long been working on the theory that Starscream was imprinted on Megatron, and every single thing they observed about the Decepticon leader and his air commander fit that theory.

And Starscream despised Megatron.

Cold ran through his circuits as Prowl considered for the first time that whatever he felt for Jazz... might be real. Might not be due to the imprinting. That he might actually like Jazz because Jazz was likable. That he might actually-

Prowl stopped in the hallway, frowning in thought.

That, completely aside from only being able to obtain physical release with Jazz, he might feel a good deal more toward the saboteur than was warranted by only friendship.

Prowl looked down the hallway to his left, where Jazz's quarters were. He hesitated, then turned to the right, and went to his own.

Primus, he was tired all of a sudden...

He keyed his door lock open and stepped into his room, not even bothering to turn the light on as the door cycled shut, just making his way over to his berth in the darkness, sitting down on its edge.

A warm arm snaked around his midriff from behind. Prowl stiffened, whipping around, only to relax at a familiar voice slurring "Just lie down and recharge already, Prowl."

"How," Prowl asked resignedly, "did you get past the lock?"

He could practically see Jazz's sleepy grin even in the dark. "That'd be my secret," the saboteur murmured, and tugged Prowl down onto the recharge bed. Prowl sighed, following the physical direction, and lay on his side in front of Jazz. It wasn't comfortable, and he squirmed after just a few seconds. "What's wrong, Prowl?"

"I can't recharge on my side," Prowl explained. "My wings-"

"Ah." Jazz shifted, and suddenly there was more room. Grateful, Prowl rolled onto his back. "Always wondered how you lot with wings handled that," Jazz's voice confessed above him. He must be sitting up. "Makes me glad I don't have 'em." His hand rested on Prowl's wrist, and Prowl was suddenly aware of that touch, of the length of Jazz's leg against his.

"What are you doing in here, Jazz?" Prowl asked quietly.

"Wanted to see if you were still being an ass, or if you'd thought about it."

Prowl sighed, offlining his optics. "I did, and you're probably right."

"Good. You have no idea how insulting that was."

Prowl sighed. "I'm sorry," he apologized again.

A moment's silence, then Jazz asked quietly, "So, ever since we met you've had optics only for me?"

Prowl snorted. "Don't flatter yourself, Jazz."

"Ain't my style, man." The hand on Prowl's wrist drifted lightly upward, over his bumper and onto his hood. "You've seriously gone seven million years without overloading once?"

"Jazz-" Prowl warned, optics still offline.

"Just curious."

"My aft."

"Can't blame a mech for trying." A moment's pause, then a mouth touched against Prowl's. Prowl's optics flew online again and he started. It was such a human thing to do, but then of all the Autobots Jazz was the biggest fan of human culture. "Just so you know," Jazz murmured against Prowl's mouth, "there are lots of things I don't object to being. 'Yours' would be one of them." He hopped over Prowl and off the berth before Prowl could say anything, then paused in the door frame as the door cycled open. He grinned cheekily over his shoulder at Prowl. "Think about it," he advised. He stepped out into the hallway and the door cycled shut behind him.

Slowly, Prowl sat up in the darkness, staring toward the door.

Jazz hummed to himself, counting the seconds. He'd just gotten to sixty and started over again when Prowl's door cycled open and the second in command stood there, looking like a thunderstorm had gathered over his head. Jazz counted this as a good sign; anything that was able to get under the mild tactician's plating and upset Prowl's legendary calm was bound to be something interesting. And it was his turn to be upset, after all. When Prowl's hand shot forward and hooked underneath Jazz's grill, drawing him near, it was all the saboteur could do not to grin.

"You," Prowl said lowly, "are impossible."

"Finally figured that out?" Jazz quipped.

"What do you want from me, Jazz?" Prowl asked, and there was a note of genuine hurt and confusion in his soft voice. "I have the virus, yes. I'm dealing with it. I don't need you playing games with me."

"No games," Jazz said quietly, honestly. A promise. Prowl's fingers slowly let go. "Tell me, Prowl-you asked me once-what do you think I did before the war?" Prowl looked blank at the change of subject. "Smokie says the running bets are on me being a smuggler or a thief. You want to know the truth?" Jazz leaned in close. "I was a teacher. That's all. Philosophy. My school got bombed out with me in it. I was damn near the only survivor-Bluestreak was one of my students, though he doesn't remember it, poor kid." Jazz tapped his visor. "That's the day I started wearing this. The day Primus shielded his gaze from the war, I shielded mine. This ain't anything for spywork or because I'm impaired or even just because it's stylish. Something happened, and it changed everything, and this is so I never forget."

"Why are you telling me this?" Confusion was scrawled large across Prowl's face.

"Because I want to know everything about you," Jazz answered, "and I want you to know everything about me."

"Jazz..."

Jazz quirked a half-smile. "And I want to have you arching beneath me, screaming my name," he said. "If I can have it."

Prowl's mouth was slightly open in astonishment. "You..."

"There's a difference between someone you can interface with, and someone you can trust. I want someone I can trust to watch my back. Someone I can share my life with. You up to it?" Jazz asked seriously. "Or do you want to go back to pretending it's all because of Imprint?"

Slowly, Prowl formed his own smile, calm and dangerous enough that it sent Jazz's primary fuel pump to skipping a beat. Prowl's fingers curled underneath Jazz's bumper again. "Tell me," he invited coolly, "why exactly you're assuming that I will be the one screaming out your designation."

It was with a grin and a soft laugh that Jazz let himself be drawn back into Prowl's room, toward the waiting berth within.

Author's Note: Okay, no pr0n, but a resolution of sorts. The whole thing toward the end about who Jazz used to be stemmed initially from a search for possible other meanings behind the visors versus optics thing in G1. I wondered if perhaps there might not be a religious significance to them, and somehow that turned into a fairly domestic origin for Jazz, which seemed interesting, and put him as a better match to the "police academy lecturer" background that came up as Prowl's background in "Imprint." Also, as a note, I am so with Jazz that Prowl's saying "all my feelings regarding you are due solely to Imprint" is extremely insulting, no matter how logical Prowl thinks that train of thought may be. Because, well, it is!