Author's Note: This story really has become my baby. I very much enjoyed writing it, and I'm glad some of you in turn enjoyed the reading! No threesome in this one ;-), but I hope you like it anyway. Thanks again for reading and reviewing, especially - since I can't PM you - to Claire and deceptichick.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Transformers, and I do not make any money with this.

Tangled

Part 4: Farewell

xxx

The rocket soared up into the evening sky, trailing an elegant line of white smoke. Next to it hovered a quickly shrinking, dark dot, Cosmos, who had agreed to accompany the Morphobots on their journey to the new home planet the Autobots had chosen for them.

Within a klik, the spacecraft vanished behind a bank of clouds, and the roar of its engines began to die away. Prowl cycled his vents in a long, slow intake of air.

Good riddance.

This last half lunar cycle had been irritatingly non-routine, what with them accommodating, negotiating with, and providing for an alien herbal life form that might at any moment just lash out and crush the nearest mech between its jaws. Not to mention the unplanned consumption of materials for the construction of a spacecraft, which had left their inventory lists shorter than he liked them.

It had been tolerable, of course. A major nuisance, but nothing an experienced officer couldn't handle. The worries Prowl struggled with had a different reason, and that reason was currently standing just a few paces away, waving his goodbyes together with the rest of the crew.

During their sojourn on Earth, Jazz had taken upon himself the role of a spokesmech for the Morphobots. He not only explained to them the Autobots' plan of finding them a suitable home; he also enforced proper refugee status for them and kept a watchful optic on the crew to act accordingly. And all the while the alien plants spared no effort to have Jazz close to them in some way, communicating in their strange, chirping sounds and, whenever possible, using their flexible tendrils to establish - and maintain - physical contact.

Now watching a fellow officer getting groped by a bunch of sentient plants was disturbing enough in and of itself. But what really put Prowl off was that Jazz not only allowed, but more often than not actively encouraged that behavior.

A message alert appeared on his HUD as Cosmos reported in on a general frequency, announcing that the ship had successfully left Earth's atmosphere. The assembled crew cheered and clapped, Wheeljack and Skyfire even giving each other a high five. Prowl's gaze, though, remained focused on their Third-in-Command. Jazz had edged closer to Bumblebee, listening to something the spy was saying. He laughed and nodded, looking perfectly happy and at ease, but Prowl's infra-red vision effortlessly picked up the slightly dulled color of his visor. It was barely there, but clearly noticeable if one knew what to look for.

He frowned deeply. Jazz had granted the alien plants access to his circuitry - a course of action Prowl was sure the saboteur had chosen solely to prevent the situation from getting out of hand. Tactical interfacing wasn't that unusual in espionage and sabotage divisions. In fact, most Spec Ops agents received specific training to handle such occurrences, both mentally and physically.

But that did not explain Jazz' obvious attachment to the creatures. Something had to have happened in that valley that the saboteur was keeping secret from them, and after two Earth weeks of running every scrap of information through his battle computer in a loop, Prowl was 96.88 percent sure that he knew what that something was. He was no specialist, but if one factored in the intimate knowledge of his friend's character that Prowl possessed, the available facts allowed for only one conclusion.

"And exactly what conclusion would that be?" Ratchet had asked, voice somewhat muffled by his position and the noise of various small objects tumbling over one another. Prowl hiked his door wings a little higher on his back in an instinctive display of authority.

"Traumatic bonding," he said.

The noise stopped. Ratchet emerged from the storage cabinet and looked him straight in the optic for a long moment, a deep frown marring his faceplates. "Highly unlikely. Such a disorder takes cycles to develop, if at all. Plus we're talking about a Spec Ops mech here. Those guys don't have their processors triple-secured for nothing."

"Yet all the signs are there," Prowl said.

"So you're a psychologist now?" The medic huffed, but when Prowl didn't budge, he closed the cabinet and sat down at his desk, impatiently gesturing to the SIC to do likewise. "Alright, what brought this on?"

Prowl obediently took a seat in the visitor's chair across the medic. "I am aware that you conducted all the mandatory tests, and that the results were all negative. I wish to know what the error ratio is. How great is the chance that an affliction like traumatic bonding is not identified during those examinations?"

Ratchet snorted. "Nothing's a hundred percent sure in psychology, Prowl. But I agree that this Morphobots thing is one of our stranger adventures, which is why I've done all my tests twice. And I assure you that Jazz' processor is in perfect working condition."

Prowl took a moment to factor that information into his equations while the medic watched him impatiently. "You know, this little chat might go smoother if you tell me what the frag's wrong in the first place," he groused.

The columns of figures on Prowl's HUD relegated themselves to a secondary data stream as he turned his attention back to the conversation. "I am concerned about Jazz'... affection for the creatures," he began carefully. "They abducted him, invaded his systems, plundered his resources. And yet he seeks physical contact with them, and their well-being seems to be his utmost priority. I want to be sure that we do not withhold medical care from one of our top officers just because we did not ask the right questions."

That frown reappeared on Ratchet's faceplates, but his field held more pensiveness than anger when he leaned forward in his chair, resting his folded hands on the desk. "We've both seen Jazz handle far worse predicaments, Prowl, and still come out of them unharmed. And you gotta admit, those critters are quite sociable when they're not trying to gnaw through someone's chassis. I mean, have you seen Hound and Beachcomber swoon over them? And I swear on my skid plate I saw Optimus stop by yesterday just to wish them a good morning, for Primus' sake!" He threw his hands up, exasperated.

There was no denying that he was right, in all respects. "This is different, Ratchet. I trust your medical judgment, and Jazz is a very open-sparked person, but he has never been so..." He desperately scrambled for an accurate definition, but all he got from his language files were question marks. "So intense about it," he finished lamely. "He hardly even spends time away from the creatures, except when duty requires it. That is not the Jazz I know."

Ratchet sighed. "I get your point, Prowl, I do, but medically speaking, Jazz is a hundred percent healthy and functional. Mech's got one of the brightest sparks I've ever known, though, and sometimes two people just... click, species be damned. Such things happen, y'know."

Prowl remained silent, just looked at him, and Ratchet sighed again. "Look, if you really want to know what he sees in the creepers, here's my professional advice: Don't talk to me. Talk to him."

A painful twinge grabbed at Prowl's spark. How am I supposed to talk to him when he keeps avoiding me? He doesn't even look at me, except for what is necessary between us. I feel his aversion every time I come near him, when ten solar cycles ago, he was my closest friend. Tell me, medic, how is that 'functional'? And what do I do to fix this? How do I help him?

He stood up abruptly. "Thank you for your time, Ratchet," he said into the startled medic's faceplates. "I appreciate your counsel."

He left the office as promptly and at a loss as he had entered.

xxx

Optimus Prime's sonorous command to transform interrupted Prowl's memory feed. The small group of mechs around him obediently shifted into alt mode, and he followed suit on learned instinct, taking his customary position on their commander's left. As was his duty, he did his best to keep a watchful optic on their surroundings as the small line of cars moved into gear, but his sensors kept straying of their own accord, again and again returning to Jazz who had settled into his designated place on Optimus' right.

It was true: Apart from pretty much everything else he could think of, confronting the saboteur directly was the only thing Prowl hadn't attempted yet. He felt strangely cornered by that fact - and ready to growl at his own logic circuits, which saw fit to remind him that ignoring the most direct approach due to personal sensitivities was, at best, irrational.

Some distant part of him marveled at the uncharacteristic degree of spontaneity he was suddenly displaying as he opened a comm. channel on his commander's standard frequency.

'Permission to speak, sir.'

'Permission granted,' came the immediate reply.

'Sir, I am aware that my shift is far from over, but would it be possible for me to have a private conversation with Commander Jazz, sir?'

Surprised silence filled the line. Prowl felt his leader's scanners brush over him as he counted the astroseconds.

'Do as you think best, my friend,' Optimus sent, sounding almost a bit too gentle for Prowl's audios.

Truth be told, he had no idea as to what 'best' might be. Luckily, his battle computer was already compensating for its owner's atypical impulsiveness, and pinged him with the draft of an action plan. It was barely more than a sketch, full of unknown variables, but it was better than nothing, Prowl guessed.

Quickly, before he lost his nerve again, he floored his gas pedal and wheeled right to position himself squarely right in front of Jazz' hood. The saboteur had to slow down rather abruptly, and Prowl sensed the brief flare of surprise and confusion that went through Jazz' field. He gave his friend a moment to adjust, then activated the small electric sign in his rear window. 'Please follow' it read in bright-red, blinking Earth letters.

It was kind of a running gag between them, one Jazz had always been fond of. Prowl took a deep intake of air. Then he flashed his right indicator and turned off the road.

And Jazz followed.

xxx

The small plateau, hidden halfway up the foothills of a mountain chain, was one of Prowl's favorite places, a secluded refuge where he liked to enjoy the occasional quiet afternoon on his rare days off. Once or twice, Jazz had accompanied him, commenting positively on the setting. With any luck, this would work in Prowl's favor now.

He killed his engine and changed back to root mode, slowly, to give the saboteur time to catch up. Jazz was right behind him, rising to his feet as gracefully as ever. "What's wrong, officer?" he quipped. "Was I being too fast?"

His casual tone did nothing to hide the tightness of his field or the strained quality of his smile, but Prowl supposed it bode well that he at least tried to take up the joke. He ventured a tiny grin of his own. "I apologize," he said. "I didn't plan to whisk you off like this. But it is important that we talk."

Jazz' smile faltered. "Yeah," he murmured. "I figured."

Prowl couldn't recall the last time he had been so genuinely at a loss for what to do. A Jazz who so decidedly kept his distance just added another unknown variable to the already byzantine equation. Primus help him, why wasn't there an SOP for such cases?

"I couldn't help but notice," he began carefully, "that you have formed a close bond with our visitors."

"Uh huh," Jazz said noncommittally.

"Don't get me wrong," Prowl hastened to add. "I do not reproach you for it. You have always found it easy to establish close ties with others, I know that. It's just that - this seemed different to me."

If possible, Jazz' already closely retracted field coiled even tighter as he crossed his arms under his bumper. "It's none of your business, Prowl. I can handle myself fine; just leave me be, okay?"

Prowl shook his head. "I know you are trained to solve problems on your own, and I respect your wish to do so. But if my calculations concerning your condition are correct, then you should not be left alo-"

"What the frag are you talking about?"

Being interrupted did generally not sit very well with Prowl. He frowned. "Well, it is not uncommon for victims of a violent crime to develop unhealthy affections for their assaulters. If this is the case, I want to make certain that you receive all the care you require."

Jazz' energy field suddenly smoothed out, becoming light and deceptively friendly. An easy, noncommittal smile curled his lips as he dropped into a more relaxed pose, and Prowl had to consciously restrain himself from taking a step back. He had seen this attitude on the saboteur during more combat missions than he cared to count, and every subroutine of his tactical processor screamed red-flagged warnings at him. This Jazz was dangerous.

"Unhealthy affections," the saboteur repeated conversationally. "Catch me up here, Prowler, will ya? Exactly what kinda trauma are we talking?"

This was so severely deviating from the original plan, but Prowl wasn't about to admit defeat so quickly. He pushed his tac net up another notch and went with the first option it threw his way: plain honesty.

"You have dealt with hostage situations. Surely you are familiar with the term 'traumatic bonding'."

"Yeah, sure." He shrugged. "Seen some o' those poor glitches in my time. You think that's what's wrong with me? Aw, don't look at me like that, I don't blame ya. You're right; a mech with a living, beating spark in his chest plates just has to be a raving lunatic."

Prowl felt his door wings give an involuntary twitch. "I did not mean to imply -"

"Shut up!" Jazz' field lashed out with a suddenness that hit Prowl like a point-blank laser shot; hot and merciless and crackling with unbridled anger. "You got some guts, calling me a psycho 'cause I actually have some social subroutines! Your idea of an emotional bond is to swap battle stats with a tac drone! You wouldn't know a true emotion if it kicked your skid plate, you sparkless machine!"

It was a stale accusation, one Prowl barely registered anymore when mechs murmured it under their breath or sneered behind his back. Still, his analytical data threads took fascinated notice of how different the reaction was when the words came from someone he considered a close confidant. The spark he had just been denied clenched in shock before it gave a sharp, painful twinge the likes of which he hadn't felt in a long time.

His logic center reacted immediately, pinging him with a default query Prowl himself had programmed into his subroutines. Within astroseconds, his emotional processing algorithms were relegated to tertiary data threads while his tac net neatly slotted into their place, ordering his battle computer to take charge of his thoughts and actions until instructed otherwise.

"My apologies," he said calmly. "It was not my intention to insult you. As your friend, your safety and wellbeing are of importance to me, but I cannot assure those if I do not have all the facts. It was my hope that you trusted me enough to confide those facts to me. I will do everything I can to provide you with the support you need." And even as he spoke, some distant part of him realized that he did sound like a sparkless machine.

The next thing Prowl knew, Jazz lunged at him.

Eons-old battle protocols engaged like clockwork, pushing him smoothly into evasive action. A quick dive, rolling off his shoulder to reduce the impact, and the next moment he was kneeling upright on the ground, pulling his acid pellet gun from his subspace. The weapon hummed to life in his hand as he found and unlocked the trigger, bracing himself, taking aim -

Only that Jazz wasn't trying to attack him.

The sound of a transformation sequence reached his audios as the saboteur shifted into alt mode in mid‑air and landed hard, wheels spinning and engine revving aggressively. "Race me," he snapped.

"Pardon me?" He couldn't have heard that right. Jazz shot backwards and did a sharp turn so he was now facing the plateau's exit.

"You wanna talk? Fine. Catch me. If you can." And with that he took off into the evening desert, screeching tires spitting dirt and pebbles into Prowl's faceplates.

Prowl remained motionless while the sound of the saboteur's engines died down in the increasing distance and his straining logic circuits did their best to deduce some sense from this latest development. When that failed, he slowly rose to his feet, subspaced his weapon, and very deliberately assumed vehicle mode as well. If defeating Jazz in a racing competition got the stubborn slagger to talk to him, then this was what Prowl would to do.

For this was Jazz. And failure was not an option.

xxx

Had his target not been the Autobots' top Spec Ops agent, Prowl's Enforcer experience in car chasing might have given him a real edge in this game. Regrettably, Jazz was not some over-confident little street racer.

The saboteur hit his breaks hard and did a sharp U-turn, veering away from the edge of the canyon Prowl had patiently tried to herd him towards for what felt like the last hundred vorns. For a split astrosecond, the maneuver brought him dead horizontal to his pursuer, and frag all fair play, but Prowl was ready to seize his chance. He transformed in mid-motion, laser pistol out the moment Jazz floored his gas pedal again.

A deafening crack shook the air. Jazz fishtailed violently, desperately trying to countersteer as his busted front tire threw him off balance, but to no avail. He avoided landing on his roof only by hurriedly changing back to root mode. Metal screeched as he skidded several feet across the gravelly ground before he came to a halt, groaning.

Prowl released a lomg ex-vent and lowered his weapon. "Alright. I think this has gone far en-"

A wall of light and sound hit him like a giant metal hammer. He staggered, sensors ringing with overstimulation, and lost his footing, blinded to everything except nauseating disorientation. There was the growling sound of a high-performance engine, and when his vision cleared, he saw Jazz on his four wheels again, heading straight for the edge of the canyon.

"Jazz!" he shouted, vocalizer spitting static. "No!" But the saboteur didn't even slow down.

Transformation was a painfully sluggish process, but as soon as he managed, Prowl forced his struggling engine from naught to sixty. It didn't take more than one scan to see that the run-up was too short, Jazz' speed too hampered by his injury.

'Jazz!' he hollered into an open comm. line. 'Stop at once! That's an order!'

No reaction. And less than half a mile to the edge.

Prowl gunned his engine mercilessly, but his systems still responded with all the speed of a human dial-up internet connection. Five hundred feet to the edge.

'Jazz!'

Jazz' tires left the ground.

xxx

Prowl slammed down on his brakes, coming to a screeching hold as the events before him seemed to play out in slow motion. Jazz soared through the air, but it was painfully obvious that he lacked the momentum to carry him all the way to the other side. He transformed while still airborne, but it was too late. Prowl virtually felt the impact as he had to watch his friend crash into the opposite canyon wall.

For one long, agonizing moment, Jazz' hands and feet desperately scrabbled for purchase. Then he fell, in a strangely graceful arc, disappearing from Prowl's line of sight, and exactly 4.47 astroseconds later, the crash of his impact reverberated through the canyon.

Prowl moved on autopilot: Change back to root mode, take three steps, and leap.

His equilibrium sensors jumped into high gear as he slipped and stumbled his way down the steep slope. Gravel and dirt bit into his armor, scratched his paint and dented his plates while the rising dust obscured his vision. He landed on his knees with a harsh thump, vents stuttering in an attempt to get rid of the dirt they'd accumulated.

"Jazz?"

The saboteur was lying only a couple steps away, and to Prowl's immense relief, he was online, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows. Prowl was performing a deep-level scan even before he had crossed the small distance to sink down beside his friend.

For the most part, the injuries turned out to be superficial; nothing Jazz' self-repair couldn't handle. His engine had been rattled pretty badly, as was to be expected, but fortunately, Prowl detected no tears or leakages.

"The extent of your recklessness has just reached an unprecedented peak." Even as the words left his vocalizer, he felt his emotional programs begin to reroute themselves, feelings becoming too intense for the simple shunt he'd used. He let it happen, allowing his worry and rage to spill over into his field. He wanted to be angry, and he wanted Jazz to know that he was angry.

"Enough of your shenanigans. I'm taking you back to headquarters this instant."

"No," Jazz rasped.

"That was not a suggestion!"

"No!" With more force than Prowl had thought possible, the saboteur wrenched himself away from his grasp, raising his arm. He was back on his feet in an instant, ready to fend off whatever attack Jazz had in mind.

The saboteur's outstretched hand hovered in the air between them. A small cover in his wrist plating had retracted, exposing the access port that lay beneath. "Please," he whispered.

Prowl stared at him, shocked to an extent that literally rooted him to the spot. This was about interfacing? "I beg your pardon?"

Jazz' hand began to tremble. "Please," he ground out. "Quick."

That unfamiliar strain in his vocalizer, the distinct lack of arousal in his field... Prowl's logic center struggled to consolidate the conflicting data, its valiant yet fruitless efforts leaving him dizzy. Lines of glyphs and numbers littered his HUD as automatic subroutines evaluated parameters they would normally apply to combat situations. And Jazz kept staring up at him with that blue visor of his, and an edge of desperation was beginning to creep into his field.

Very gently, Prowl extended his own hand and let his fingers brush against the saboteur's. When the universe didn't come tumbling down on them, he brought his other hand up as well and clasped Jazz' dark palm firmly between his own. Locking gazes with his friend, Prowl sank to his knees again and unfurled a thin connection cable from his forearm compartment.

Jazz' field simmered with an eerie combination of apprehension and relief. Prowl kept his own carefully neutral, hiding the fact that everything in him rebelled against what he was about to do. But his friend made no move to stop him, and so he gently guided the plug into the proffered port. The two components connected with a muted click.

From this astrosecond forward, things were taken out of his hands.

Jazz didn't bother with any preliminaries. He hacked through his own firewalls ruthlessly, pulling a startled Prowl along with him right into his inner memory core. A densely compiled data package was pushed forward, tagged with a complicated access code, and both were thrust at Prowl almost violently. 'Do it,' Jazz growled over comm.

This was not the way an uplink should be done. Projecting a calmness he didn't feel, Prowl accepted the transmission and entered the code.

He expected the file to unfold before him, layer by layer as memory files were meant to do. Instead, it felt like he was being sucked into it, captured by an irresistible pull like the gravitation of a black hole that forced him ever deeper until he wasn't sure anymore who he was. Was he Prowl, kneeling on a dirty desert floor in the last rays of Earth's sinking sun, or had he somehow become Jazz, who was reclining on a warm, somewhat knobbly surface that undulated gently beneath him like it possessed a life of its own?

His panicking processor was soothed to a degree by the fact that he at least recognized their surroundings: They were in one of the Ark's spare storage rooms. But his vision was hindered by a strange, wriggling, and shifting mass of silver, and the next moment, Prowl recognized the reason: That squirming surface Jazz was resting on was composed of the countless, five-legged bodies of the Morphobots. Dozens of their tentacles were wrapped around his limbs, his chest and back, even his sensor horns, and he clearly wasn't the least bit worried about it.

In fact, more than anything else, Prowl could sense that Jazz was happy with the situation. He enjoyed the gentle squeeze and hold on his chassis, the affectionate touches ghosting over his plating, and he relished in the sensation of the tiny vines that had slipped under his armor to tap into his electrical system, sucking small amounts of energy right out of his lines.

Prowl shuddered faintly at the realization that yes, the constant, gentle manipulation, coupled with the simple frequencies the creatures transmitted, was indeed quite pleasurable, and might very well bring a mech to a satisfying overload. And yet, sharing himself with the creatures like this seemed to bring Jazz a pleasure that went far beyond mere physical arousal.

Old Enforcer instincts came to life as he picked up the trail that quickly lead him away from the surface and down into the saboteur's core coding. Gently, gently Prowl felt his way forward, stroking aside files and strings of data that became more basic the further he went. He was nearing spark coding level already, and began to fear that he might have miscalculated at some point, that he was snooping around in Jazz' innermost core for nothing... and then he found it.

A single glyph, so simple and archaic not even the most adept coding specialist could have said when exactly it had become part of the Cybertronian genome. Love/raise/nourish/protect. The order was absolute; its activation led to a major priority shift in both the CPU and meta-processor. With this program running, caring for the individual it had imprinted on would take unmitigated precedence over whichever other function the mechanism in question was coded to perform.

The Morphobots crooned in delight when their closest tentacles were pulled down and hugged tightly to Jazz' chest plates, and the saboteur's spark and processor practically glowed with the joy and satisfaction that little sound brought on. It felt so perfect, so fundamentally right to let the program guide him, to simply lie here and feel and make his little sweetsparks happy...

Recognition thrummed through Prowl's spark like soundless thunder as long-buried sensations and images descended upon him full-force; gentle and sharp and sweet and bitter, ecstatic and painful and far too little even in their abundance, and a familiar darkness was beginning to close in on him...

"Prowl!"

The connection snapped so suddenly it hurt. He reeled, systems redlining, his HUD a cascade of error messages, and for a fleeting moment, he was genuinely afraid that he'd crash right then and there, in the middle of the Primus-forsaken desert.

But somehow, by some small miracle, he managed to cling to consciousness, dialing down his screaming systems one by one until finally his vents slowed and his optics stopped fritzing.

"You with me, Prowler?"

Jazz, he realized, was holding him by the shoulders, obviously trying to steady him even in his own battered state. "Yes," he answered, and wasn't surprised to hear static in his voice. He felt shaky, though not on a physical basis, and the feeling only intensified when all the implications of his discovery fully sank in. He looked up into his friend's blue visor, and his sparkpulse was a dull, heavy throbbing in his chest. "Primus, Jazz," he breathed. "How?"

Jazz didn't answer right away. He took a moment to close his wrist port cover, then looked at his friend ponderously. "They were desperate, Prowl," he said at last. "They were starving. The only reason they attacked us was because they needed help so badly. And I wanted to help them. I mean, think about it: A species on the brink of extinction, stranded on an alien planet light years away from home..." His smile took on a hint of sadness. "Sound familiar?"

"You... sensed a connection of the mind," Prowl concluded. Jazz shrugged, turning away to gaze into the distance.

"Guess so. And then... when I made the hardline connection, I got a glimpse at some of the little guys' memories. Remember what Cosmos said about them being the youngest of their kind? He was right, Prowler. They missed their home and their family so much. In a way, it really was like dealing with a newspark."

"I understand that this would rouse your protective instincts," Prowl conceded. "But it needs more specific triggers than empathy and protectiveness to activate a mech's parental programming."

"I know that, smartaft," Jazz snapped. "You got any better ideas, I'm all audios."

There were theories to be developed about this; maybe those frequencies the creatures had used were the key. He would need to consult with Perceptor, maybe Ratchet, too - but science could wait.

"Why did you not tell anyone? Optimus, or Ratchet... or even Hoist?"

Jazz's mouth turned into a very thin, very strict line. "None o' their business," he said tersely.

"Why didn't you tell me, then?" He locked the joints of his door wings firmly in place, clamping down on the hydraulics mercilessly, but the damn things simply wouldn't stop trembling. "I see why you considered the matter private, and I'm not even talking about security here. But would I not have been the... logical contact person?" Primus, why couldn't his voice sound a bit steadier?

He couldn't make sense of the sudden flash of self-loathing that ripped through his friend's field. Jazz' gaze refocused on him, and again there was that bitter smile tugging at his mouth. "You know how that program works, Prowl. Remember what it's like when someone tries to hurt your little ones? How you just wanna jump that idiot and rip their optics right out of their sockets?"

Prowl stared at him, mouth agape in genuine consternation. "I never even came close to the creatures!"

"You led the attack in the valley," Jazz said simply. "And you didn't want them on the ship. Seemed to be enough." He shrugged. "So I... figured I'd just steer clear 'till things... y' know... settled or... whatever these things do."

And finally, the complete picture took shape in Prowl's processor. It was true; he hadn't bothered to keep his disapproval of the situation a secret. If Jazz had come to view the Morphobots as a kind of adopted creations, regarding a displeased, higher-ranking officer as a potential threat would be the logical consequence.

"Guess I fragged that one up pretty good, huh?" Jazz said, contrition swirling in his field.

"On the contrary," Prowl replied. "All things considered, I'd say you handled the situation quite... reasonably."

Jazz cycled his visor once, then again as if to make sure it was really Prowl he was looking at. "Wow," he said slowly. "That was a compliment, right?"

Prowl felt his lips twitch. "I still wish you'd talked to me, though. Had I known, I could have devised a much more effective strategy to support you."

For some mysterious reason, this made the saboteur smile. "Oh, here we go again," he said with a teasing lilt in his voice. "All you ever want from me is intel."

Prowl had the vague suspicion that he should feel insulted, but the deep sense of relief that washed over him effectively neutralized all other emotions. Despite everything, his friend would still grin and tease him like this, and it felt like his spark had been submerged in a warm oil bath.

"Your intelligence is usually not completely without value," he deadpanned, and Jazz laughed. It sounded rough and shaky, but it was a laugh, and the warm-oil-feeling instantly upgraded itself to 'titanium-spiced energon'.

Jazz shifted on his knees, probably to find a more comfortable position, but immediately hissed in pain when his engine components gave a protesting screech. The sound was enough to jolt Prowl's CPU right back into officer mode. "Come on," he said, offering his friend a hand to help him up. "Those injuries need treatment. I will get you back to base." But the saboteur shook his head.

"No," he said. "Thanks, but... I'd rather stay put for a couple kliks. And I don't really feel like facing the Hatchet right now."

It didn't exactly help matters that Prowl found this attitude fully reasonable. "Let me at least patch up that tire of yours, then," he pressed gently, pointing at his friend's arm where his gunshot had gone straight through the rubber. Jazz followed the gesture with his gaze, the look on his faceplates almost one of surprise like he was only just registering the wound. "Oh," he said. "Uh... yeah. Sure."

He held his arm out, and Prowl shifted closer while he took his first-aid kit out of his subspace. It had become fairly dark by now, the sun's last rays having disappeared behind the horizon, so he switched on his low beams and set to work. The scent of burned rubber on his olfactory sensors wasn't exactly pleasant, but the wound itself was easily dealt with. Some cleaning and a proper patch, and self-repair would take care of the rest.

"There," he said, smoothing the patch with his thumb. "As good as new."

He climbed to his feet and took a more comfortable seat on a nearby boulder. In the light of his headlights, he watched his friend flexing and rolling his arm a few times as if to test Prowl's handiwork. He didn't speak, though, and as the silence stretched, Prowl began to wonder if Jazz expected him to grant him some privacy now...

"I said some things to you," Jazz said abruptly. "Earlier."

Prowl cycled his optics as he parsed the unexpected statement. Jazz caught his gaze, and a strange, dark light glowed in his visor.

"You know I didn't mean'em, right?"

Prowl cocked his head, studying him. He was rather sure that Jazz had meant it. In that moment, at least.

"I am sufficiently familiar with your rambunctious disposition. I am not going to hold it against you."

Jazz recoiled visibly as if he'd been struck in the faceplates. "Ouch," he said roughly. "Alright. Guess I deserved that."

Prowl bit back the yes that threatened to slip from his vocalizer. He allowed himself a moment to acknowledge the feeling, but then he brushed it aside and instead extended his field to meet his friend's, transmitting two simple glyphs: sympathy and support.

He met resistance; Jazz' field jittered uncertainly between relief, acceptance, and aversion. Prowl stood his ground, not pressing, just offering.

Finally, with a soft cycling of vents, Jazz sank back to stretch out on the still-warm earth, visor flickering gently as it readjusted to the starlit sky. "Whaddja think," he said softly. "Where are they now?"

The question took Prowl a bit off-guard. "Well... given that they did not stray from the course I calculated, they should be crossing the Beleria system now. You can find it in your star maps." He sent a quick data burst with map IDs and detailed coordinates.

"Beleria," Jazz repeated. "That the one with the pretty nebulae?"

"Yes. The map should contain all inform-"

"I don't wanna look at some stupid map," Jazz snapped. "You tell me."

Prowl considered him as he lay there, hands balled into fists, staring up at the stars defiantly. He found himself thinking of pain long ago, and of an ancient sadness which would never truly leave.

"I remember those cloud formations," he answered gently. "They are among the most beautiful in this quadrant. I'm sure your little friends will love them."

He kept talking, describing the Morphobots' travel route in as much detail as he was able to. And the longer he spoke, the more at ease he began to feel, a gentle warmth settling in his spark and spilling over into his voice and field. It felt right to sit here under the night sky with his friend and embark on this imaginary journey together. Jazz' gaze remained fixed on the stars above them, but his field hummed against Prowl's; not exactly calm but as contend as he probably found himself able to be right now. And as far as Prowl was concerned, that was perfectly good.

He paused only once to send a short message to Optimus Prime and Red Alert, letting them know that the Second- and Third-in-Command were unharmed, but would not return to base before sunrise.

Barring an emergency, they had time. And Jazz was going to need that.

xxx

A small part of their shared mind was awake and alert, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings.

It was just an old habit, really, for since their journey had begun, nothing had happened that deserved much attention. The green and yellow mech accompanying them would frequently inquire about their status, or give some information on their journey's progress, but that was pretty much all the distraction they got. The better part of their conscience had therefore slipped off into a light doze, lulled by the constant, gentle rumbling of the engines and the never-changing sight of the stars flying by the tiny porthole. It was an effective way, they'd found, to keep their anxiety at bay.

They had wanted to leave Earth. It did in many respects not meet their requirements for a permanent home, especially since it was already too densely populated for their liking. They needed a place of their own, like their old home had been, where they could live and bring forth the next generation of their kind in peace. When the Autobots, as they'd called themselves, offered to help them find such a place, they had not hesitated to agree, and they did not regret that decision. Still, the prospect of venturing out into space again, alone and facing an unknown future, frightened them more than they cared to admit.

They curled in on themselves a little tighter and willed their drifting thoughts away from what lay ahead. There was time yet to afford such luxury, and they'd rather spend it reminiscing about more enjoyable things... black and white things, to be exact.

His designation was Jazz. He had told them so during one of their bondings, and they had also heard the other robots address him like that. They themselves had no such appellation to share, but Jazz didn't seem to mind. He called them 'sweetsparks'.

And what a wonderful companion he'd been. True to his word, he not only convinced his fellow robots to offer them shelter and find them a place to live. All during their stay on Earth, he also saw to it that they were provided with whatever they needed, and assisted them in communicating with his comrades as well.

But the most precious memories were those of their bondings. Jazz hadn't simply allowed, but welcomed the connections, offered his own energy reserves for them to feed from if they wished, and even returned their cuddles and tentative caresses with unreserved tenderness. And never had they felt anything but deep, loving care and affection from him.

The night before their departure, he had come to say goodbye, and they could tell that the thought of their separation was weighing heavily on him. They wrapped him in a tight embrace, and he opened his ports for them, and their bonding was sweet and gentle and a little bit sad. They didn't let go of him for a long while, and he clearly wasn't eager to change that. "You'll be alright, you know," he murmured. "You're some tough little guys, you're gonna make it."

They'd wanted to take him with them so much. Wanted to have him by their side, to just be with them and take care of them - and, when the time came, of their offspring, too.

But it could not be, and they knew it. Jazz belonged to Earth, with his friends. It wouldn't be right to deprive him of the home and family he so obviously cherished.

The memories of their time together were now deeply engrained into their shared minds, though, to be called upon whenever they felt the need to remember. And one day, they would pass those memories on to their progeny, and those would in turn pass them on to theirs. Over time, they would be overlapped by others, as each generation added its own share to the mental heritage. But as long as their species existed, Jazz and his friends and what they had done for them would not be forgotten.

This, they figured, was the least you could do for someone who had just ensured the survival of an entire race.

*Fin*