Author's Note: Written for "white_aster" on Dreamwidth as part of TF Gift Exchange 2013. Prompts: Odd pairing, ace/asexual, tactile, after-war future-fic, happy ending (also "a long-term relationship romance fic (sexy or ace) where one partner does something nice for the other" although this doesn't 100% fit that as it's only potentially "long-term" and not romantic). Mild warning - mentions of past abuse.

As always, THANKS SO MUCH to my good friend MyAibou for her beta work! Her insights and suggestions always make my stuff SO much better than I could pull them off alone.

Disclaimer – "Transformers" and all related characters, events, and concepts belong to Hasbro, Takara, and any other related owners/distributors/producers. I get no monetary benefit from this. My benefit is the enjoyment of dealing with beloved characters.

"Touch"
by DragonDancer5150

"Can you believe this scrap?"

Jazz looked up from the report he'd been writing. Bumblebee sat at a desk across from his in the police station bullpen, waving a datapad. "Mornin' news? Can't say I've had time ta read it, honestly."

Bumblebee huffed and read it for him. "'Rehabilitation Program: Expensive Hype or Just Plain Harm? Up for renewal vote next orn in front of the new senate is whether to continue the much-debated Decepticon Rehabilitation Program. Most decent citizens feel the program is unwarranted at best and dangerous at worst, though a few strong proponents – including the Prime himself – continue to argue for – ' Of course Optimus argues for the program! Working toward real peace and living with the former Decepticons, all of us one single race again? It's what he's always taught us! For as long as I've been around, anyway."

"Which ain't really all that long, Bee," Jazz couldn't help teasing.

Bumblebee rolled his optics. "Haha, funny, Jazz. Long enough."

Jazz sighed. "Sometimes I think those of us who were on Earth with Megatron actually had it the easiest. We were in stasis through most of the time. Yeah, we came back around ta find ourselves on some alien planet far from home, an' we couldn't go home until Megatron was dealt with once an' for all, or at the very least got him ta take his sights off the planet an' leave it an' its inhabitants alone for good. But if ya think about it, we always at least had enough energon ta go around, an' we could get enough supplies one way or another. Maybe we weren't exactly 'lap of luxury' livin' – "

"Much to Mirage's disappointment," Bumblebee interjected with a snicker.

Jazz nodded. "But we always had enough. We had each other, an' we had the support of the humans. The mechs we had ta leave behind, both Autobots an' Neutrals, they were conscious all those hundreds of vorns we were in stasis. An' Shockwave was brutal with the rationin' an' what mechs had ta do, what they had ta compromise or give up altogether, ta be allowed access ta his supplies. Our fellow Autobots especially waited so long for their leader's return, they gave up hope. You know how hard life here was for them."

"That's true, Jazz, but I think Bumblebee has a point too." Both mechs looked up as Prowl – formerly the second-in-command of the whole Autobot forces, now police captain of the Iacon Primary Precinct – stepped into the room. "I'll grant that many who took the Autobrand, instead of staying Neutral or even going to the Decepticons, did so for less than altruistic reasons, but the majority did so because they believed – at least at one time – the same way we did. And if they didn't like tyranny and unfair treatment then, they have no place in demanding they be allowed to do the same to others now. It's been well-documented in the past two vorns that a high number of Decepticons joined the ranks either by force or because they saw no other alternative, not necessarily that they believed in the cause or wanted to follow Megatron. Most have renounced that allegiance and have been doing quite well in proving that they can and will be functioning members of society."

"So long as we don't make the same mistakes this time around that led ta some of the issues that started this whole mess," Jazz added. He saw Prowl nod at that.

"Pit, even Starscream's being doing really well for himself," Bumblebee put in. "At least, Skyfire, Perceptor, and Wheeljack think so."

Prowl nodded. "That makes sense. He's no longer under Megatron's fist, the Decepticons no longer exist as a faction for him to want to try to take over, his trinemates are both safe, and he has other venues now, more healthy ones, for him to prove himself in. He can still be a pain in the aft, but at least he can finally focus on his first passion again."

His trinemates are both safe. Jazz thought for a moment about that.

The "program" involved volunteers taking in former Decepticons – talking with them, working with them, helping them find some kind of employment or vocational training or something to transition back into society. Not all former Decepticons were deemed fit for the program. There were many, the more violent and unrelenting ones, who were rusting in jail still awaiting their trials to figure out exactly what to do with them. Those who had proven themselves at least enough to be given a chance had been put under "supervision" until it was deemed that they had sufficiently paid and that they could be trusted with full citizenship again.

Supervision. Jazz held back a snort at the thought. It was a clever moniker for "slavery". "Indentured servitude" at the very least. The mechs under "supervision" had a number of restrictions they had to abide by, but Optimus and others had made sure that they were also granted basic protections and rights, at least – the right to a safe home and enough fuel, adequate medical care, things like that – and that any supervisor who violated those would face consequences himself. As was only right, as far as Jazz was concerned.

He'd not intended to be a supervisor himself, but when one of the "supervised" had needed to be relocated, Optimus had approached Jazz personally, and he'd not had the spark to turn him down. The mech in question was something of a special case, after all. There were no Autobots and few Neutrals who didn't know – and potentially hate – the mech. Not as much as Starscream, of course, but still...

He'd been one of Megatron's top elite, after all.

Jazz flinched a little when he realized that Prowl and Bumblebee were both watching him.

"Speaking of Starscream's trinemates," Prowl stated quietly, "how is Thundercracker doing?"

Jazz shrugged. "I can't find him work anywhere. No one seems willin' ta give 'im a chance."

Bumblebee frowned at that. "But you think they should . . . right?"

Jazz pulled a deep cycle of air, venting it slowly. "He's not the same mech we faced on the battlefield. He's . . . " His voice trailed off, not quite sure of the word he wanted.

"Broken?" Prowl suggested, though by his tone, he didn't necessarily believe it.

"No." Jazz shook his head, emphatic on that point. "He's still got spark. He's still a powerful an' capable mech when he wants ta be, but . . . I get the sense he's feelin' a little lost right now. An' he's been hurt. Pretty bad, actually. Pit, I think that's true of a lot of the 'Cons, if you're willin' ta look at 'em close enough."

Prowl nodded, gaze shifting to Bumblebee. "You've said much the same about Reflector."

Bumblebee had taken in the Reflector triplets Viewfinder, Spyglass, and Spectro fairly early on. Viewfinder was easy to distinguish from his brothers – he had the aperture of their combined camera alt-mode in his chest – but Bumblebee had actually gotten to know the trio well enough to tell even Spectro and Spyglass apart. "They've been coming along really well, but yeah, they've been hurt. Megatron was pretty much as hard on his own mechs as he was us."

Jazz nodded. "An' unlike us, they couldn't escape. They just had ta take it. They've all got a long way ta go, but the ones who really want the chance should be given it. It's up ta them if they blow it or not, but they should at least have the opportunity." He looked down at his report . . . and saved and closed it. "I should get goin'. Told him I'd be home at a decent time tonight. If he's done the stuff around the house that I asked him to, I said I'd take him out ta his choice of fuel bar."

Jazz had barely reached the door of his home when it opened before he could key in his access. He found himself facing a tall frame, taller and broader than his own by a notable amount, breadth made even more so by the wide, upswept wings behind the proud mech's shoulders. The Seeker stepped back with a small bow, allowing Jazz to enter. Jazz did so, shutting the door behind him. He turned back to find his charge already knelt, head bowed. Even on his knees, the Seeker's head came to Jazz's chest.

"Welcome home, sir."

Jazz paused an instant to regard the mech before him. Thundercracker, one of the most powerful Seekers still surviving, the "second" of the former Command Trine of the Decepticons.

The Seeker still bore the evidence of abuse from his last supervisor, the other mech having taken the opportunity to exact some really brutal vengeance. Thundercracker had initially refused repairs when offered, after an anonymous mech had reported the abuse (Jazz guessed it had been Skywarp, or possibly Starscream, either of whom would have known through the trinebond). To Jazz's knowledge, Thundercracker hadn't even taken any signal suppressant to dull the pain.

Jazz figured it was a personal penance of some kind.

He stepped up, brushing a hand over the Seeker's helm. Thundercracker didn't completely manage to hide a flinch. Jazz had learned that the Seeker was touch-shy – if someone was close enough to touch him . . . they could – would? – hurt him. Jazz knew that life among the Decepticons had been a "dog eat dog" existence, as the humans would say. He had heard of the abuses Megatron had heaped upon his own mechs, but he'd not paid the reports much attention until he'd taken Thundercracker in the other day. Now, he'd made it a secret mission to help the wounded Seeker learn that touch could be a good thing.

His hand trailed down the side of Thundercracker's audio vent to his cheekguard, other hand doing the same to the other side. The Seeker's optics offlined. He was stiff, guarded, even trembling faintly, but he made no move to pull away or resist at all. Jazz kept his touches light – down the throat, across the shoulders, over the cracked canopy, around the vents on his chest, back up his arms to rest on his shoulders. His voice was quiet when he spoke. "I found a medic today who specializes in Seeker frames. He knows who y'are, an' he's willin' ta repair ya. I think it's about time." With a knuckle under the Seeker's chin, he gently brought Thundercracker's head up to look at him. "Don't you?"

Thundercracker's optics were unreadable as they onlined and met his. "As you wish, sir."

"Oh, stop it with that. I'm your supervisor, not your slave master."

The Seeker gave him a small, wry grin. "Is there really any difference?"

Jazz hesitated, then vented a huff of air. "Not really, no, I guess not." He studied the Seeker a moment longer, then asked, "What is it ya think you're payin' for, exactly?"

Thundercracker looked away, reticent.

"A'right, a'right, mech, ya don't hafta tell me. But y'are gettin' repaired tomorrow." The Seeker nodded, and Jazz brushed his hands over the mech's head and shoulders again. This time, he couldn't swear to it, but he thought the Seeker actually leaned in to the touches a little. You're gonna be okay, mech. Promise.

"Sir . . . Sunstreaker and Sideswipe will be in town tomorrow too, for business. They've given Skywarp permission to come visit, if it's all right with you."

"I got no problem with that." Jazz grinned. "Ya realize that means ya got ta see the medic now. Can't fly with that wing the way it is." He ran a hand softly over Thundercracker's left wing where it'd been bent a little and something had punctured the panel where his brand had once been. Thundercracker flinched again, hissing faintly, then looked up at Jazz, his expression incredulous. Jazz grinned and pitched his voice a little in mock surprise, guessing the question that Thundercracker didn't dare speak. "I'm actually gonna letcha go flyin'?" His grin widened. "You're a Seeker, mech. Ya belong in the air. I get that." He waggled a finger under the other's nasal ridge. "But ya gotta make me two promises, okay?" Thundercracker nodded, wary again. "One . . . ya come back when I tell ya. Don't you break my trust in ya. I'll talk ta Sunny an' Sides. I'm sure I can get 'em ta give you an' Skywarp at least a joor, maybe two."

Thundercracker was visibly surprised. It was a generous amount of time and he knew it. He nodded. "You have my word, sir. And . . . the second?"

"Take me flyin' sometime. I'm not about ta go so far as ta get a reformat – an' Primus forbid I ask Wheeljack ta build me a mod – " He was joking, of course. His old friend was certainly more than capable enough, but that didn't keep him or others from teasing the old engineer. " – but I have always wondered what it's like."

"You'd trust me to carry you?"

"Shouldn't I?"

The two regarded each other for a moment. The history between their factions – and between them – was a long one. But was it as insurmountable as so many tried to argue it to be? Jazz felt that it was a choice – he could choose to continue to be hurt and angry by all that had happened, or he could choose to be the one to begin the process of real peace, by truly forgiving and moving on as much as possible. His side wasn't wholly innocent of committing wrongs either, after all – whether he wanted to acknowledge as much or not – and he knew that Prowl and those studies were right, that not every Decepticon had committed every act that he had because he'd wanted to, because he'd thought he had a choice. Jazz had come to believe that Thundercracker might very well be one of those who'd not felt he had a choice for whatever reason.

He rested a hand on the Seeker's shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze. "If threatened or attacked, I'll defend myself . . . not that I'm thinkin' ya would. Beyond that, you have my word that I'll never intentionally harm ya, Thundercracker."

Thundercracker met his gaze, visibly studying him and weighing his words in his mind. Finally, his shoulders relaxed. "I won't intentionally wrong you either, Jazz."

"Good ta hear. Now, c'mon." Wrapping his hands around one arm, Jazz helped Thundercracker back to his feet. "It's fuel time!"

The Twins had taken a bit of convincing, but in the end, they allowed their "supervised" and fellow prankster – really, it was a wonder all three hadn't gotten themselves arrested with some of the stuff they pulled together – to go flying with Thundercracker for a joor-and-a-half before they'd had to head home again. Jazz had been happy to see Thundercracker completely repaired and healthy, and the grin on his face, suppressed as it may have been, at the sight of his wingmate after everything that had happened since the last they'd seen of each other was more than worth it.

Jazz was in his study when he heard the door open. Putting down the datapad he'd been reading, he stepped out into the living room even as he heard Thundercracker's voice. "Jazz, I'm back."

"Good ta see ya, mech! Ya enjoy yourself?"

The relaxed ease that had settled around the Seeker was answer enough. Thundercracker nodded, unable to completely hide his lingering joy. "I did, yes. Thank you, sir."

"Good. C'mere. Got somethin' I wanna talk ta ya about." Jazz motioned for him to settle on the couch, while he took a chair on the side so they could face one another. He'd been doing a little research on abuse victims and got some advice from a psychiatrist he contacted that morning.

Thundercracker looked a little wary as he obeyed.

Jazz gave him a grin. "S'nothin' bad, promise. You're not in trouble or anythin', mech." He watched the Seeker relax marginally. "I wanted ta talk a bit about boundaries. Your boundaries," he added quickly, raising a hand to stay any protest. "Not anythin' on ya, but what you set for yourself an' others."

Thundercracker frowned. "I don't think I follow."

Jazz stood, stepping towards Thundercracker. He didn't move fast at all – or anyway, he didn't think he did – but he saw the Seeker tense all the same. He paused. "That's what I'm talkin' about, Thundercracker." Moving slowly, he closed the rest of the distance between them. Thundercracker was rigid, braced as if for anything. As if he expected to be struck, chin lifting with a glimmer of resistance coming into his optics. Jazz lifted his hand to place on the Seeker's shoulder, stopping just shy. Even still, Thundercracker was watching him abnormally closely. Jazz met those crimson optics that bordered on defiant. "You don't want me touchin' ya." There was no question in his tone, though it did leave room for discussion. Instead, Thundercracker's expression changed to one who'd just been caught out, and he looked away. "TC." He'd heard Skywarp call him that earlier and hoped the informal tone would help set the Seeker more at ease. Thundercracker looked back up at him, uncertainty creeping into the wariness. "Ya don't hafta let me. You know that, right?" The look the Seeker gave him told Jazz that he didn't. "Boundaries, mech. I'm gonna guess you were never allowed ta have 'em before, but ya are now. I'm not gonna hit ya for any reason. Just because I'm this close doesn't mean I'm gonna hurtcha. Touch doesn't hafta hurt or threaten ta hurt . . . but if ya don't wanna be touched, or ya don't want me this close, all ya hafta do is say. I won't get upset or punish ya for it."

Thundercracker studied him for a long moment, finally looking away again. "It's fine." The tone was do whatever you will. Jazz frowned a little at that, but he knew that this would be a process. Thundercracker had thousands of vorns of "learning" to overcome.

Stepping back, Jazz offered his hand to the Seeker. "C'mon. Got somethin' for ya." Thundercracker allowed himself to be helped to his feet.

They headed for the guest room, which had become Thundercracker's. Jazz watched Thundercracker take in the sight before him. The berth had been covered with a sheet of protective film, the same kind that medics used over repair berths to protect the padding from mech fluids, solvents, and the like. There were also extra cushions added, under the sheet. On the other side, a little warming unit had been set on a small table, the scent of the contents in the pot on top filling the room.

Thundercracker looked at him. "What's all this?"

"Makeshift massage parlor." Jazz nearly laughed aloud at the confounded look Thundercracker gave him. He shrugged. "I wanted ta do somethin' nice. If you'll let me." He met the Seeker's optics, his own suddenly more serious. "Ya don't hafta, remember."

Thundercracker hesitated a moment, studying him, then stepped forward, lowering his large frame onto the berth facedown, arms folded under his head. His wings twitched and flicked – this was a vulnerable position and the Seeker obviously didn't like it.

"You're sure, mech?" Jazz had to double-check.

"I'm fine."

The reply came almost too quickly. Jazz had already learned it was his default reply, or one of them. Likely one of his stock "right" answers to any given question or situation, the one he knew someone wanted to hear or that would cause the least conflict (and, likely, pain). "Just remember, you can tell me ta stop at any time. Worst that'll happen is that I do." Thundercracker seemed to consider that a moment, as if assessing the truth of it, then nodded.

Moving slowly so as not to startle or threaten the abused mech, Jazz climbed up onto the berth, straddling and carefully settling himself on the back of the Seeker's pelvic unit, knees tucked under his wings. Thundercracker muttered and shifted but made no other protest. Jazz knew – and no doubt so did Thundercracker – that if he wanted to, Thundercracker could easily shift and throw him off. He wasn't pinned any more than he allowed himself to be. Jazz pulled on buffing gloves, then picked up the pot from the burner. He held it over Thundercracker's back and let warm wax dribble over the plating.

Thundercracker bucked as the first drops hit, the reaction exaggerated – clearly, he'd been expecting to hurt despite Jazz's assurances. He twisted, growling as he tried to get a look at what Jazz was doing. "W-wha- . . . what are you-?"

"Shhhhh. Easy, mech." Jazz pressed his other hand to the back of one broad wing, gently trying to convince the Seeker to hold still. "Relax. It's just wax. It's not too hot, is it?"

Thundercracker hesitated an instant, as if trying to decide, then settled a little. "No."

"Good. Just relax, then, okay? This is just supposed ta feel good." Jazz finished dripping wax all over the Seeker's back, put the pot back on the burner, then set to massaging the wax into the plating, working in steady, methodic circles. Slowly, almost painfully slow, he could tell as servos began to loosen and tension cables eased in the Seeker's substructure, the wax returning a luster to his finish that it'd not had in probably far too long. Adding more wax as needed, he worked Thundercracker's back, up over both shoulder vents, then out across each wing, massaging them one at a time, his touch gentle and soothing.

Thundercracker's optics had dimmed, his engine droning in a soft, contented purr. Jazz guessed he wasn't aware he was doing that, else he'd likely try to repress it like he did everything else. If he showed nothing, revealed nothing, then nothing could be used against him.

Jazz thought that was a terrible way to live, and it grieved him that a person could come to feel that he had to just to survive.

"Jazz?"

Jazz nearly missed the murmur of his name, the Seeker had spoken it so quietly. "Yeah, mech?"

Thundercracker shifted a little, hesitating, but finally asked. "Why are you doing this?"

Jazz allowed an amused grin. "What, bein' nice to ya?"

Another brief hesitation, then, "Yes . . . I suppose."

"Ya ain't never had someone pay attention to ya that wasn't angry, wasn't demandin', wasn't usin' ya or tryin' ta make ya do somethin' ya didn't want to? Not commandin' or punishin' or challengin' ya, arguin' or beratin' or insultin' or . . . anythin' like that?"

Thundercracker thought about that for a long moment, too long in Jazz's opinion – no one should have to try that hard to remember something positive – and finally shook his head. "Not often, I guess."

"Then I'd say it's well past time, wouldn't you?"

"You don't have to do this."

"I know I don't." He leaned over where he could see Thundercracker's optic a bit better, peering down between the Seeker's audio vent and shoulder vent. Thundercracker shifted his head to peek up in return. "But I want to. If you'll let me."

Thundercracker regarded him – again, longer than anyone should feel the need to – and finally nodded. "Thank you, Jazz."

"You're welcome, Thundercracker." Jazz softly rubbed his hands over the backs of both wings again, at this point just for sensation. "You're very welcome."