Disclaimer: Transformers is the property of Hasbro et al.

Title: Unawares

Rating: K

Word Count: ~2,000

Warnings: None

Timeframe/Setting: G1, Earth

Summary: Jazz is a pretty open-minded mech but Prowl's most closely-guarded secret may be too much for him to handle.

A/N: Here's a warm and fuzzy ficlit for Christmastime. The story came out of nowhere and wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it.

"I am sorry. You were not meant to see that."

Jazz groaned as his systems slowly came online one by one. He was surrounded by the familiar scents and sounds of the Ark. The berth padding beneath him was softer than those in the medbay, and he couldn't hear the usual beeping and humming of Ratchet's monitors. As his sensors came back up, he flicked a brief scan around him. A thousand ideas flitted through his processor when he read the results. Under normal circumstances, he would have been relieved to find himself in Prowl's quarters. But after sorting through his most recent memory files and finding nothing but fear and pain, he couldn't help but tense. He didn't online his visor, though. He wasn't sure if he dared.

All of his senses were raw; every circuit and node was hypersensitive. The normally peaceful room felt dense and charged, like the air before a thunderstorm. Jazz couldn't say exactly how he was sensing it – all of his data inputs were normal for the time and place – but Prowl's quarters gave the impression of being full, like a wild animal had been wedged into a box that was almost too small for it. It made Jazz twitchy, but he'd be slagged if he let it show, even to Prowl. Perhaps, especially to Prowl.

"Yeah," he said weakly. "I kin'a figured tha'."

"It's not something I would normally be concerned about," Prowl said. "But I should have been more careful."

No, it wasn't everyday that the Decepticons almost managed to offline Prime's top two officers in one blow. Their lookout point above the worst of the battle had been well sheltered, with an embankment in front and a ledge above. They would have been perfectly safe had not one of the seekers fired upon just the right spot to bring half the mountain down on top of them. The ledge had saved their lives, but it had also left them entombed in rubble and badly wounded. And then . . .

"Wha'appened?" Jazz muttered.

Prowl hesitated. "We were injured. I believe you attempted to help me and I . . . reacted badly."

Jazz stretched and flexed his servos carefully. He ached from helm to heels, but his internal scanners didn't report any critical damage. He reached up to skim his fingers over his faceplates, half surprised to find them smooth and intact. There had been a point when he had been sure that his very protoform was melting.

"Ratchet allowed me to tend to your injuries as they were mostly my fault. You are healed but will likely require quite a bit of rest."

"Even my –" Jazz felt of his face again. He expected cracked or missing glass, but found a smooth, whole visor as good as new.

"Your visor and your optics are fine," said Prowl.

Jazz stalled his vents as he onlined his optic system. Everything booted up without incident. He stared at the shadowed ceiling. It was a long while before he dared to glance over at the tactician.

Prowl looked cool and unassuming . . . almost. There was only a small lamp lit in the far corner of the room, but Prowl's form seemed to catch all available light. His whites were pearly, his blacks glossy, his optics glowing a bright, pale blue. He was sitting in his desk chair with his chin tucked down and his doorwings flared high above his shoulders. Jazz knew him well enough to know that he was not as calm as he might appear.

"Wha' was it?" he said softly.

"What do you remember?"

Jazz shook his head ruefully and looked back at the ceiling. "Jus' . . . light. Everything was light. I could feel it, taste it."

They had both been jarred offline when they were trapped. Jazz had come to first. He was damaged and leaking energon in a dozen places, but he had managed to drag himself to Prowl's side. His friend was crumpled in an awkward heap. The tactician's chestplates were mangled and a pale glow was seeping through the seams in his armor. Jazz had felt panic churning in his tanks as he reached for Prowl. As soon as he touched that familiar plating, he thought a bomb had gone off. The air around him had exploded. A harsh whiteness overrode his optical inputs and after a few seconds of agony they mercifully shut themselves off. But every other sense was assaulted as well. He had felt the light burning into his circuits. It was a tuneless roar in his audios. He couldn't even hear the sound of his own voice screaming before he fell into emergency stasis.

Prowl was nodding absently when Jazz glanced over at him. "That would be the typical perception, I think," he said.

Jazz gave him a bleary-eyed glare. "Perception of what?"

"Spark energy," said Prowl, "just like yours. Only . . . older, purer."

"My spark isn't weapons-grade."

Prowl grimaced. "It was an instinctive response. I would never willingly harm you." There was a desperate, pleading note in his voice that Jazz had never heard before.

"Who are you?" said Jazz finally.

"My name is Prowl."

"Don't be a smartaft."

A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Prowl's mouth. "I have been told that it is my natural state of existence."

"But that isn't, is it?" Jazz said, waving a hand vaguely in his direction.

Prowl sobered. "No, it isn't."

Jazz found no lie on his face or in his voice. "What are you?"

Prowl's doorwings flicked sharply and he answered in a clipped tone. "I am a servant."

Jazz had interviewed prisoners of war who were more willing to answer questions. "A servant of whom?" he growled.

"You call him Primus."

Funny how that one little answer could generate a hundred thousand more questions. Jazz took a moment to rein them in. "And he . . ." Jazz paused, swallowed nervously, and continued. "He sent you here?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"To maintain the balance," Prowl said quickly.

"Bull."

Prowl blinked at him. "Beg pardon?"

"Bullshit, as the humans say," said Jazz, clenching his fists. "You may be a – whatever you are, but you're still a sorry liar."

The sense of otherness seemed to swell in the room as Prowl folded his arms. "My task remains what it has always been – to guard and protect Primus's children; now I must also reduce the cost of this foolish war."

"But that's not why you're here, is it?" Jazz wasn't sure why he kept pushing, except that he believed his friend when he said he wouldn't hurt him, despite the sensor ghosts dancing up and down his frame. That, and simple curiosity. Prowl had answered every previous question truthfully. He had admitted that he wasn't even a normal, mortal Cybertronian. Why did he balk over a simpler question?

"Not that it is any of your concern," Prowl snapped, sounding more annoyed than truly wrathful, "I was assigned to this field that I might learn empathy."

It was Jazz's turn to blink in confusion, then he choked on a somewhat hysterical giggle and the words slipped out – "So you're sayin' that your daddy sent you here 'cause you didn't know how to play nice with the other kids?"

Prowl's doorwings flared a little higher. "The issue was significantly more complicated than that . . ."

But Jazz just kept laughing and Prowl threw his hands in the air before sighing and slumping in his chair. "I helped bring order to the chaos of Creation, and yet I am reduced to the derision of mortal sparklings," he muttered.

Jazz quieted and propped himself up on one elbow. "I'm not deriding you; I'm gently teasing you. It's what friends do. And watch who you're callin' sparklings."

"I was fully formed long before Cybertron bore its first lifeforms," Prowl said coldly, eyeing Jazz with sharp, pale optics. "There are very few beings in this universe that do not seem . . . transient to me."

"That empathy thing still not workin' out for ya, huh?"

For a moment, he thought that he had managed to make Prowl truly angry. The tactician stiffened and the air around him fairly crackled with an energy that Jazz couldn't name. Jazz's weapons systems automatically booted up, though he was beginning to doubt that he had anything that would even come close to harming the being before him; not that he even wanted to. With an effort, he overrode his systems and turned them off once more. Prowl watched him curiously.

"I have never met a being quite so intriguing or infuriating as you, Jazz," said Prowl, settling back in his chair. "No one else has discovered me before, and I will admit that your reaction is . . . not what I would have expected."

Jazz rolled his shoulders. "You're an open book, mech. If ya wanted to hurt me, I'd know it. You always were a little odd, but ya never really struck me as the uncaring sort."

"I care," Prowl said slowly, as if, after all that, he were unsure of himself. "I care for you, and Optimus, and the twins, and all the other Autobots. I care for the humans and the other creatures of Earth. I care for the Decepticons, though less so, I think. I have come to care for everything more after being around them for this time . . . but I still cannot truly fathom why that matters to you, or why you are not terrified or angry or disbelieving."

The saboteur offered him a crooked grin. "Maybe 'cause I care for you, too?"

Prowl regarded this simple truth as a truly novel concept. Jazz amused himself by watching the emotions flickering over his face and wings as he processed it. "But . . .why?"

Jazz chuckled. "It's what friends do – now, don't give me that look. Some things ya can't say. Ya just gotta feel."

"It is very difficult to learn something if there is no reasonable explanation for it," Prowl said petulantly.

"Have you ever asked anybody?"

Prowl opened and shut his mouth a few times. "I would like to ask you," he finally said.

"No problem, mah mech, I'll help ya," Jazz drawled.

"Really?" Prowl answered in kind. "Just like that?" He seemed disbelieving and torn between amusement and annoyance.

"Like I said, it's what friends do."

Prowl had to think about that some more, earning himself an indulgent smile that Jazz tried to hide. Prowl was an interesting contradiction – a creature so ancient and powerful that Jazz could barely comprehend, and yet . . . a mech so earnest and naive that he put the youngest sparkling to shame.

"Thank you, Jazz," he said, almost too softly to hear.

"Well, I think you've made some excellent progress, but let's put the lesson on hold for a while, yeah?" said Jazz. He settled on his back, feeling oddly exhausted by their conversation.

"Of course," Prowl murmured. "You should rest."

"I stole yer berth," Jazz mumbled as Prowl stood up to turn off the lamp.

He chuckled. "You may keep it a while longer. I do no truly need it."

Jazz offlined his optics when Prowl clicked off the light. Even as his secondary systems powered down, he could feel the sense of otherness swelling again. This time it wasn't harsh and prickly but soothing, protective. It wrapped around his frame like a sleeping lion as Prowl brushed gentle fingers over his forehead.

"Rest. All is well," he whispered. "Here is safety and peace."

It sounded like a blessing or a prayer, or both. Jazz trusted its strength, trusted his friend, and let himself fall asleep.

Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

Hebrews 13:2 (AKJV)