TRANSFORMERS: "CAN'T SAY NO"
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Of all the things Jazz desperately wanted to hear, the most desired had to be Ratchet▓s grumpy, ⌠Prowl▓s online.■
The medic had offered no explanations as to how this could be possible; and, honestly, Jazz couldn▓t care less. The saboteur was rushing along the corridors of the Ark, feeling his spark jerking in his chest like from violent electroshocks.
Prowl▓s online.
Hearing it made him light on his feet and highly uncomfortable at the same time. It meant a lot of things, good things √ but also complicated ones.
Jazz realized suddenly that however this had ended √ with Prowl▓s death or his full recovery √ it would leave him guilty as hell anyways. The question was just what exactly he would be feeling.
Right now, he felt like a mech who had touched something pure and destroyed it. And this something was Prowl▓s trust and friendship. Nothing Prowl said now could possibly break this wall of hurt between them, because none of the tactician▓s words would be his free will. This fragged glitch meant no solution, no understanding. No future.
Standing on the threshold of Prowl▓s ward, watching the mech on the berth recharging peacefully, repaired from the awful damage he▓d taken, Jazz felt unworthy to step inside. He felt dangerous to the lonely occupant of this room, because even though he▓d never hurt Prowl intentionally, it would now only take him a glance to pose a threat to the stoic second-in-command. He didn▓t want that.
For the thousandth time he cursed himself, for having taken what didn▓t belong to him, for getting a taste of what could never be his. He was as much a slave as Prowl was, because his spark just wouldn▓t settle down and slagging get used to not having the mech it craved┘
After a moment of torturous hesitation, his digits let go of the doorpost, and his legs made a slow step forward.
The entire Universe be damned, he needed to see Prowl, needed to make sure he was fine and alright, before retreating to the shadows again to burn in his bitterness, this time for good.
Of all the things Prowl wasn▓t used to, the strangest one had to be waking up to the feeling of someone▓s touch┘
One might think, for a sentient being who is considered a part of a developed society, it▓s a natural experience √ to be touched. Not for him. For Prowl, any physical contact had always boiled down to necessity, such as engaging in hand-to-hand combat, or undergoing medical procedures┘ Intimacy as well, but the rarity of such occasions couldn▓t influence the overall statistics for him much; besides, he▓d never had a mate to share a berth with longer than for several cycles, and as long as he could remember, he▓d always recharged alone.
As his systems slowly rearranged themselves and entered active state, he allowed himself to simply listen to the sensation without indicating his being awake.
Those were the lightest of touches of someone▓s fingers to his right hand, one slow stroke after another.
There was warmth, and carefulness, and if he were asked, those touches seemed pensive, and a little bit absent.
He powered his optics silently to see who, and some part of him already knew the answer┘
Yes, Prowl▓s gaze settled on the chiseled profile of the third-in-command sitting in a chair near his berth. Jazz▓s azure visor was dimmed as if he was in deep thought, and he seemed to be focused on some faraway spot no one but himself would have been able to see. The tactician▓s gaze slid lower, to Jazz▓s chestplates, to find the new armor there, polished and shining, clean of the enemy▓s bullets.
It had been such a desperate action on his, Prowl▓s, part √ to try and cover Jazz from the explosion, and it had miraculously worked and saved the saboteur▓s life. It was also a miracle his own spark had survived, allowing him to actually see that black-and-white armor replaced.
▒In the moment of the blast it had been emanating far more heat than would be normal under any kind of circumstances,▓ he remembered Ratchet▓s voice.
The kiss.
So simple┘
Primus, the two of them got so unbelievably lucky there on that battlefield┘ Among all the decisions Prowl could have made then, he▓d instinctively made the only one that could give them both the chance of getting out of it alive. He couldn▓t fathom the powers that caused him to do it, because at that time his actions seemed to have no reasoning behind them. A leap into nothingness, a farewell burst of insanity √ and here he was, looking at Jazz, who was alive and well. And, for the first time ever, Prowl felt at ease.
Clean. He was finally clean. No need to be careful, to isolate himself. No need to be afraid┘
His spark was well-functioning.
After vorns of battling with himself and hiding from others, it was such an odd and foreign feeling of freedom, overwhelming like euphoria.
He off lined his optics again, savoring the feel of Jazz▓s thumb that was caressing the outer side of his hand┘ He decided he could really get used to waking up like that.
Before he could analyze what he was doing, his hand flexed slightly, and his own thumb gave an answering stroke to the black fingers resting in his palm.
What he didn▓t expect was Jazz flinching visibly and breaking the tender contact with a startled expression on his visored face.
Their gazes met, and there was a click of uncomfortable silence before Jazz finally spoke.
⌠I- uh┘ Sorry, I▓m just- glad ta see ya back┘■ The saboteur murmured softly. He attempted to show a smile, but failed, standing up from his chair awkwardly and putting a distance between them. ⌠I- gotta go.■
Try as he might, Prowl couldn▓t make his vocal processor work.
As he watched Jazz▓s quickly retreating back, he realized with astonishment that even though there were a lot of things in his life beyond his control and mental grasp that had always scared him, there was one among them that felt right.
He was clean.
And his spark was still-
┘fluttering.