[Commission] G1 - Blank Pages

[dracoqueen22]

Title: Blank Pages
Universe: Dear Lies Prequel, G1
Characters: JazzxRatchet, ProwlxWheeljack, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker
Rating: M
Warning: tactile interfacing
Description: Jazz looks at Ratchet like he's never seen him before and lo and behold, Jazz likes what he sees.

This was commissioned by Jenn who wanted to see more in the Dear Lies universe, particularly the beginning of Jazz and Ratchet's relationship. Thank you for being my first commission!


It started, Jazz thinks, with Ratchet's windshield. Not that there is anything special about it, except for the fact Jazz started to notice it. Maybe because the 'Cons have been so quiet lately and given the chance to sit back and throw up his pedes, Jazz is seeing things he hasn't seen before.

Ratchet's windshield is not as prominent as say, Prowl's bumper, but not so flat as to be nonexistent either. It's a consequence of the awkward boxed shape alt-mode Sky Spy had chosen for him, and Ratchet being Ratchet, doesn't care enough to go find something better.

Besides, the red and white? Are hot as frag. Most Autobots agree. Ratchet still looks utterly fraggable.

But is anyone actually fragging him?

Sources say no.

And that... well, that just won't do. Docbot works hard to take care of all of them. And he puts up with a lot of scrap. Including those two Pitspawn twins. But who takes care of the medic?

No one, that's who.

Jazz gets to thinking. He gets to pondering. He looks at that white frame and those red hands and that not too big but not too small windshield and it's like he's never seen Ratchet before. Which he has and they're friendly but now, he's thinking about more. He's wondering what's beneath the surface of the medic with a wry sense of humor, a biting wit, and a crooked grin that hints of well-buried mischief.

And he knows just where to go to start laying some groundwork.

Most Autobots think that the best way to approach Wheeljack is slowly and carefully, peering around every corner to make sure nothing's going to go kaboom. But most Autobots would be wrong. The sneakiness is what startles Wheeljack. He has and always will prefer the direct approach.

Like Jazz's, right through the front door with as much flair as he can put into it.

“Wheeljack, my mech!” Jazz exclaims as he somersaults into the main laboratory and performs a jig to avoid the chair in the center of the floor. When did that get there? “Busy?”

He waits for applause and is more than a little disappointed when silence greets him. Jazz rises on the tip of his pedes and scans the laboratory. No Wheeljack. In fact, there's not a single scientist present. Wheeljack should be on duty if Prowl's schedule is correct, which Jazz knows it is.

“Jack?”

“Behind you.”

Jazz whirls to find Wheeljack standing in the doorway of the lab, one orbital ridge arched. The energon cube in his hand explains his absence.

“Are you taking lessons from Prowl now?” Jazz demands, planting his hands on his hips. He hadn't heard so much as a whisper from Wheeljack's arrival. Granted, he'd left the door wide open but he hadn't heard the mech's pedesteps either.

Wheeljack chuckles. “You know what they say about mates.” He comes further into the lab, triggering the door to shut behind him. “Didja want something?”

“Do I have to want something to come see my favorite scientist?”

Wheeljack snorts a ventilation and heads to his workstation, snagging the rolling chair that had been Jazz's obstacle not but minutes before. “I can count on one hand the number of times you've popped in just to chat. You're up to something, Jazz. You're always up to something.”

“Learned that from Prowl, too, I take it?” Jazz follows Wheeljack, weaving through the various piles of assorted junk that Wheeljack somehow makes use of. No wonder Perceptor prefers his own lab. This mess must drive him crazy.

“Figured that one out on my own.” Wheeljack swings the chair behind his workstation and plops down into it, leaning back to prop his feet onto the desk. “How can I be of service, Commander?”

Jazz waves a hand of dismissal. “This is personal.”

“Personal,” Wheeljack repeats and he tilts his helm to the side, indicators glowing a contemplative blue. “Personal to where I'd rather not know the details or actually personal?”

Jazz chuckles and casts around for his own chair, finding and snagging a stool that looks like it might hold his weight. “It's about Ratchet.”

“What about him?”

“He single by choice or lack of opportunity?”

Wheeljack's pedes hit the ground with a surprised slap. He tilts his helm to the other side as he considers Jazz. “Bit of both, I think. Why? Who's asking?”

Jazz grins. “Who else?”

Wheeljack shakes his helm. “I know Ratchet's got a rep, Jazz, but he's not really the one night stand kind of mech. Not anymore.”

“Not talking about that.”

Wheeljack drums his fingers on the workstation. His other hand fiddles with his untouched cube. If Jazz doesn't know better, he'd say Wheeljack is nervous. Though for what reason, he doesn't know.

“He's not an easy code to crack,” Wheeljack finally says.

Jazz chuckles. “I figured that much. Can't be any worse than Prowl. Besides, I don't know what'll happen. I just thought I'd see if visitors were welcome before I came knocking.”

The engineer finally opens his blast marks and pays attention to his energon, though there is still something reserved in his field. Protective much?

“He's single,” Wheeljack allows, “but that's all I can tell ya. Ratchet won't be happy if I spill all his secrets. Guess you'll have to get your Intel from the source.”

Jazz hops down from the stool and engages in a full frame stretch. “I have no problem with that. Thanks, Jack.”

“I'm almost afraid to say you're welcome, knowing what fresh Pit I've unleashed on my best friend,” Wheeljack says, but the twinkle in his optics proves that he's teasing.

Jazz executes a showy bow. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” He flashes half his visor in a parody of a wink. “And by that I mean, all I'm gonna do is test the waters.”

“Good luck.”

Luck? Pah. Jazz has never needed such a thing.

He bids Wheeljack a fond farewell and reports to the command deck for his shift, the back of his processor churning on the new revelation. Ratchet is single and looking to commit.

Now all Jazz needs is a plan. And some reconnaissance.

0o0o0

Paperwork.

Most of the command staff hates it. Optimus performs his duty with a dignity befitting any Prime, but Ratchet knows that if Optimus had the choice, he'd incinerate every stack of datapads as it promptly arrived on his desk every morning thanks to Prowl.

Prowl, by the way, loves paperwork. He invents new ways to do paperwork. He does it in triplicate. He gets a certain, almost frightening, glee out of filling out requisitions and schedules and if Ratchet has ever seen someone fully suited to the spark and function Vector Sigma gave them, it's Prowl.

Wheeljack never does his paperwork. It sits on his desk and gathers dust or gets buried under the unorganized piles of stuff. The only reason Prowl doesn't complain about the lack of paperwork getting completed is because Perceptor, who hates disorder, braves the maelstrom that is Wheeljack's office and retrieves the stack of ignored paperwork. Perceptor fills it out himself.

Perceptor is Prowl's favorite scientist. It doesn't matter that he's bonded to Wheeljack. Percpetor is still his favorite.

It's a point of amusement for Ratchet, who teases his best friend about this endlessly. Wheeljack waves it off.

“Prowl didn't bond me because I can fill out some spreadsheets,” he says.

Ratchet never asks for the real reason. Because after the first time of far too much detail, he doesn't want to know. Wheeljack doesn't know the meaning of the phrase “too much information.” Wheeljack thrives on detail and Ratchet? Has never wanted to know that much about Prowl's interfacing inclinations. Ever.

Red Alert loves paperwork, too. Not so much filling it out because that wastes time that could be better spent keeping an optic on their security. But he does love receiving neat stacks of datapads that tell him all is well and good in their home and safety makes Red Alert smile.

If Jazz does his paperwork, Ratchet doesn't know. His reports are turned in, but in a suspiciously neat and tidy script that wastes no time or words. He suspects Jazz scribbles some half-afted attempt at filling out a report, and Mirage comes in behind him to make it look pretty.

They are all grateful for this.

Ironhide's reports are succinct, to the point, and blunt. They are a joy to behold. He does the bare minimum.

Ratchet, by contrast, has a love/hate relationship with his paperwork. In the midst of a crisis, those stacks of reports waiting to be read, initialed, filled out, and filed, are a cause of anger and distaste. He hates them.

But in the calm and quiet, they are a great way to pass the time. A great way to be “busy” so that he can assign more hated tasks – like inventory – to his subordinates. Part of being a great medic, he tells First Aid, is knowing what parts and supplies you have on hand at any given moment.

A great medic is always prepared. And not, for example, doodling in the margins of his latest supply requisition form. An utterly useless document as far as Ratchet's concerned. They can't acquire half of the items on the old form, another fourth are ordered through a separate requisition, and the last fourth never changes from one week to the next. It's a grand time-waster though, one Ratchet indulges in when the chance arises.

No Decepticon attacks recently. No injuries caused by stupidity. The next round of maintenance won't begin for another week. First Aid is reading up on protoform wasting, just in case, and Hoist is cleaning. Again.

Ratchet has the time to spare. It's kind of nice. Thus the doodling.

And then someone raps their knuckles on the door frame of his office and Ratchet pretends he's been working hard all along, shuffling his datapads as he addresses his visitor.

“Busy,” he says.

“Doesn't look like it ta me.”

Ratchet looks up and reflexively scans the mech standing in his doorway. Jazz doesn't normally swing by for a visit unless he's injured and can't fix it on his own. Even then, he'll hunt down First Aid first because Aid won't lecture him.

“You're not leaking,” Ratchet comments and narrows his optics. “Your paint's not scratched. All systems read nominal. Point of fact, you're in perfect health.”

Jazz laughs and leans against the frame. “That I am. I'm not in need of your expertise today, Ratchet. I brought ya somethin' instead.” He lifts a hand, showing off a small box with a white ribbon wrapped around it.

Ratchet sits back in his chair, gesturing for Jazz to come on in. “What is it?”

“You'll have to open it ta find out.” Jazz pushes himself off the frame and sets the box on the desk, nudging it toward Ratchet. “It's a gift.”

Ratchet eyes the box, then Jazz, then the box again. “Is it a prank?” He wouldn't be surprised if those Pitspawn and Jazz decided to team up for nefarious purposes. Things have been pretty quiet around here.

“Nope.” Jazz drops down into the only other chair with a squeak and whoosh of the cushion. It rocks back and forth.

“Hm.” Ratchet plucks at the ribbon and lifts the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of what looks like shredded plastic strips, are half a dozen energon goodies dusted with tungsten shavings. “These are my favorite,” he says, confused. He hasn't seen these since before the Ark crash landed here. And definitely long before that. The war hasn't left much room for anything that could be considered an indulgence.

Jazz smiles at him. “I know.”

Ratchet picks one up, the goodie squishy between his fingertips. He pops it into his mouth and the sour-sweet energon bursts over his glossa, the tungsten shavings making his glossa tingle. Oh, Primus. That's so good.

He swallows, but the taste lingers on his glossa. And he has five more? Part of him wants to save them and the other part wants to just gobble them down.

“Thank you.” Ratchet tilts his helm, looking at Jazz who's watching him with an odd intensity. “Not that I'm ungrateful, but is there a reason for the gift? And how did you get them?”

Jazz rolls his shoulders. “I have my sources.” His visor dims to a soft blue. “And as for why, well, I was hopin' it might encourage ya to say yes when I ask ya out on a date.”

Ratchet, second treat halfway to his mouth, pauses. He stares at Jazz and replays what he thought he'd heard.

“A date?”

“I know you've heard of 'em.”

“Yes, but I never thought you'd want to ask me on one.”

“What can I say?” Jazz's smile brightens as he straightens in his chair. “I like your windshield.”

Ratchet's mouth moves but his vocalizer doesn't engage. His windshield? What? Why can't Jazz ever make sense? He looks at Jazz again and then rubs his chevron with his fingertips.

“Jazz,” he starts, and then he sighs. He honestly considers the proposition, wondering if Jazz is being sincere. He can't imagine that the third in command would make a joke out of this, but it does seem to have come from left field.

“What did you have in mind?” Ratchet finally asks. It's neither agreement nor refusal, but it gives Jazz room to make his case.

And for Ratchet to wipe the stickiness he just slathered all over his chevron. Frag it. He probably should have recharged instead of doodling on his paperwork.

“Dinner and a movie.”

Ratchet lowers his hand and hunts around his mess of a desk for something to take away the stickiness from his fingers. “A movie.”

“I happen to know that the drive-in is showing Willow this Friday and I've reserved us a spot on the grass.”

The local drive-in has grown accustomed to an Autobot presence, and has learned the value of discretion.

Ratchet discovers a disposable solvent cloth and gets to work on his fingers. How Jazz had learned his weakness for fantasy films shouldn't be so much a mystery. Jazz often knows things no one else does. But still... a date? Ratchet's too old for that kind of slag.

Then again...

Ratchet eyes Jazz, who beams at him, and he supposes one date couldn't hurt. It doesn't have to go anywhere or mean anything more than he wants it to.

“All right,” Ratchet says, at length. “I'll go.”

What could it hurt?

0o0o0

He pings the door to Ratchet's quarters at precisely six in the evening, which gives them plenty of time to catch a cube before dusk. While he waits, Jazz gives himself the once-over one more time. He'd washed and scrubbed and waxed and then had Mirage give him the noble seal of approval. His second pronounced him fit for public consumption.

The door opens and Ratchet stands in the frame, not quite as shiny as Jazz himself, but that might be due to the sheen of tiredness in his optics. The quiet from the Decepticons had only lasted as long as it took for Megatron to realize he hadn't caused trouble lately.

Yesterday's attack had been swift, messy, but largely without casualties, though Powerglide had been touch and go there for a minute. He'd caught a stray blast from Destructor and crash-landed.

Jazz remains convinced that they need to be more proactive and less reactive. But it's hard to convince the Boss. He doesn't want to put any humans at risk. Or unnecessarily risk the Autobots either.

But war is about risk. And eventually, Jazz hopes he can sway Prime to his way of thinking. He's tired of fighting. He knows everyone else is, too.

“Ready to go?” Jazz asks, but then his scans ping back Ratchet's state and he frowns. His sensors are not as refined as a medic's, but he can read Ratchet's fatigue well enough. “Or maybe you could use some recharge instead?”

“No, no. I don't want to sit in my quarters and brood.” Ratchet steps out, letting his door slide shut behind him. “Besides, if I did that, I think Wheeljack would have my fan belts for garters.”

Jazz squints up at the medic. “Now there's an image.”

Ratchet rubs his chevron. “He has a way with words. I'm still interested in going if you are.”

Jazz crooks out an elbow, offering it to Ratchet. The medic's a good deal taller than him so this might venture into the realm of ridiculous, but he's got the feeling Ratchet could use a laugh or two.

And indeed, Ratchet chuckles. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I don't think it'll work quite the way you have in mind.”

“I like big mechs and I cannot lie,” Jazz says with a wink and he tilts his helm toward the hall. “Come on, let's grab a cube and then hit the road.”

Ratchet falls into step beside him and Jazz has to admit, he kind of likes it. The medic's field, while giving testament to his stress and overall fatigue, is a welcome press against his own.

“So why haven't we done this before?” Jazz asks, not just to fill the silence but because he's curious. He's known Ratchet for a long time, being Prime's CMO and all, and they are friendly, but they aren't friends.

“Which part?” Ratchet asks.

Jazz gestures between them. “This. Us. You and Me.”

“Because you don't do commitment and I don't play games,” Ratchet says, blunt as always which is refreshing since Jazz is used to subterfuge. Even Prime sometimes says one thing and means another.

He's Prime, not one of the human's saints.

“And we're at war. I'm too busy to think about... romantic entanglements,” Ratchet adds, with the sort of careful consideration of words that indicates he's attempting not to anger. His bluntness, Jazz knows, has often come across as offensive to some.

“Mmm. Can't fight a war if you don't got somethin' to fight for,” Jazz points out.

Ratchet lifts his shoulders. “There aren't a lot of us left.” He gives Jazz a pointed look. “And depending on how this goes, we'll have to talk about transferring your care.”

Ratchet's thinking about the future? Jazz can't quite contain his grin.

“Sure. But right now, we're just two mechs sitting down for dinner and a movie.”

Speaking of which, Jazz steers Ratchet away from the main refectory and toward the observation deck. Also known as the main engines. Since the Ark is unrepairable, they've been modifying it and one of the younger mechs got it in his helm to turn the protruding engines into a deck.

Everyone loves it.

“We're going the wrong way for dinner,” Ratchet points out.

“Nope. I'm not taking you on a date where everyone can stick their noses in our business,” Jazz says and he pats his hip. “I got all we need right here.”

Ratchet lifts an orbital ridge at him. “You have a plan for everything?”

“That would be Prowl. But I learned a little something from him, yeah.” Jazz chuckles and pats Ratchet on the shoulder. “Plus I wanted ya to know I was serious.”

Warmth filters into Ratchet's field and Jazz shivers internally. It's a pleasant sensation and he's glad to have been the one to cause it. Especially when Ratchet's smile is a lovely mix of surprise and appreciation and an almost shyness. Though it's weird to think of Ratchet as being timid.

Then again, this is new territory for the both of them.

“I believe you,” Ratchet says quietly. “But thanks. They can be a bunch of nosy slaggers. Especially Wheeljack.”

Jazz's lip curls with amusement. “Exactly. And I wanted you all to myself. At least this time around.”

Ratchet gives him another one of those startled looks, but it too, melts away in the face of relief. “Well, here I am.” Ratchet spreads his hands.

“Yep.” Jazz grabs Ratchet's hand and laces their fingers together, which is only slightly less awkward than the elbow link would have been. “Here you are.”

He grins.

Ratchet smiles.

Surely it can't get any better than this.

0o0o0

Concentration is not Ratchet's to be had today. He's spending far too much thinking about Jazz and their date than he is the task at hand. The scanner recalibrations need to be done, and Powerglide's armor plating needs to be reattached, and he could stand to sterilize and he's got a task list a mile long that's never-ending.

And he keeps staring into space. He keeps fighting off a shiver. He keeps remembering Jazz walking him back to his quarters, and expecting a request to join Ratchet inside. He remembers that instead, Jazz had pressed a kiss to Ratchet's hand, a lingering kiss, a brush of lips, a heated ex-vent. He'd looked up at Ratchet with that unreadable visor of his, brushed his thumb over Ratchet's palm, and whispered good night.

He'd gone on his way, leaving Ratchet standing in the doorway, staring after him with a tingling hand and an interface system all hot and bothered with no one to give it due attention.

And, and... and Ratchet is too old for this flustered nonsense. By all that his unholy, if he drops another tool to the floor, there will be the Pit to pay.

This is all Jazz's fault.

“Someone call for me?”

Ratchet absolutely does not holler like a sparkling and whirl around with defensive protocols itching to engage. Except for where he does, and only to pin Jazz with a glare.

“Must you creep around so?”

Jazz's visor brightens. “Sorry, mech. Habit.” He grins and holds out a cube of energon toward Ratchet. “Peace offering?”

Ratchet accepts the cube. It is about time he take his mid-shift break. Jazz had timed that rather well.

“Thank you,” he says and sips at the cube, though it tastes nothing like what Jazz had brought him last night, light and sweet with a hint of aluminum.

“My pleasure.” Jazz hops up onto an empty berth, legs swinging. He cocks his helm. “Recharge well?”

Ratchet narrows his optics. “Fine,” he grunts, and tips up the last of his energon before setting the cube aside to be recycled. “Don't you have work to do?”

“Doing it,” Jazz replies. “I'm on my rounds. Hit the labs already. Now I'm here. And then I get to corner Prime here in about twenty minutes.” His frame hums with amusement. “Which leaves me time to watch my favorite medic go about his day.”

He isn't sure whether to be flattered or embarrassed. Ratchet settles for neither and completely ignores the statement.

“Ah. Well, Powerglide can go on light duties as soon as I reattach his armor. But there's nothing else to report.”

Jazz curls his legs beneath him, making himself comfortable on the medberth as though there's nowhere else he's supposed to be. “Good, good. And what about you?”

“I'm fine.”

Jazz props his helm in one hand, bracing his elbow on a knee. “Just fine? Not, perhaps, thinking about our date?”

Ratchet absolutely does not fumble a wrench. Or grumble under his breath when he has to bend over to pick it from the floor. Nor does he snap back upright when Jazz performs a fair approximation of a whistle. His faceplate heats.

“No,” Ratchet replies curtly. “I'm working.”

Jazz's smile is absolutely wicked. “I noticed. If it makes you feel better, you've been on my mind all morning. I had fun last night.”

Ratchet whirls around, gathering up the supplies he'll need for Powerglide. Wheeljack should be here shortly to assist.

“I did, too,” he admits, much easier now that he's not looking at Jazz. He resists the urge to look at his hand, though his core brings up memories of the brush of Jazz's lips.

“Enough to repeat the experience?”

Ratchet sets the supplies on a tray table and checks the readouts for Powerglide's systems. He could probably do the work with Powerglide online, but the minibot gabs so much, it's easier just to keep him in a recuperative stasis.

A second date. A chance to take things further. He doesn't see any reason to decline. But is he truly interested in accepting?

Ratchet pauses and turns back to face Jazz. The mech is not unattractive and he hadn't lied. He did enjoy their date. Jazz is intelligent, funny, and quick of wit. He'd even made it through the whole movie without falling into recharge.

The door to the medbay slides open before Ratchet can give an answer, and he startles as though he's been caught red-handed. Wheeljack comes strolling inside, only to freeze when he sees the two of them. His indicators pulse a soft rose.

“Um. I can come back later?” he says, holding up his hands.

Ratchet shakes his helm. “You don't need to do that. I want Powerglide out of my medbay sometime today.”

“And I've got to get to work,” Jazz adds, hopping down from the medberth and dusting off his hands. He steps closer to Ratchet and lowers his voice. “Ya can answer me later. No rush.”

Ratchet watches him go out the door and doesn't say a word, even though he's pretty sure he already has his answer.

“I feel like I interrupted something,” Wheeljack says as he heads to the sink to give his hands and lower arms a scrub down. He's the only one Ratchet really makes scrub. Who knows what chemicals he's been touching lately?

“You didn't,” Ratchet says, and then sighs, turning back toward Powerglide. “And why would you think that anyway?”

“Because Jazz asked me if you were single and why about a week ago,” Wheeljack says with a shrug. He steps up on the other side of Powerglide, checking the minibot's readings. “Figured he was making his move.”

Ratchet stares at his best friend. “And you didn't tell me?”

Wheeljack's indicators light up with an amused orange. “Didn't want to spoil the surprise. Was I wrong?”

“No. But that's not the point,” Ratchet grumbles and hooks the instrument cart, dragging it closer. Powerglide's still out for the count. “And for your information, he was asking me for a second date.”

“And?”

Ratchet doesn't answer, focusing instead on poor Powerglide. He's going to need a repaint, too. Perhaps Ratchet can convince Sunstreaker to pick up the brush as a favor. If not, Powerglide will have to wait for First Aid to come on shift. Newbies always get the tedious work.

Hah.

“Ratch?”

“I wouldn't mind a second date,” Ratchet admits and then scowls, fixing his best friend with a glare whilst knowing Wheeljack is grinning at him behind that mask. “Now shut up and assist me. We've got work to do.”

The inventor chuckles. “Whatever you say.”

0o0o0

Ratchet doesn't get the chance to speak to Jazz. The Special Ops commander is sent away on a mission, deep in Decepticon territory, and there's no telling when he'll actually return. Oh, there's the mission parameters but everyone knows Spec Ops considers those guidelines rather than rules to follow.

Jazz will return when he's good and ready and when he's accomplished every one of his goals, including the ones not listed in the mission itinerary. And Ratchet's absolutely not going to spend that time worrying about him.

He is, as a matter of fact, going to let Wheeljack drag him to a party. Though he intended to go anyway, he likes to let Wheeljack think he can bully Ratchet into having a good time. Besides, Ratchet wouldn't miss Sparkplug's birthday party. He's grown fond of the older human.

By the time they arrive, the party is in full swing. It's loud and boisterous, music pumping through the speakers and stacks of high grade gleaming on a nearby table. Sparkplug is front and center, surrounded by three of his closest human friends, the shellshocked humans staring without shame at the Autobots loitering in the rec hall.

It's a relatively small gathering, all things considered. With a third of their forces on shift and another third opting for recharge, the rec room isn't so crowded as to be impassable. And Ratchet doesn't miss that there isn't enough high grade to get everyone overcharged. The threat of the Decepticons attacking remains a sobering possibility.

Eventually, they'll remember what it means to live without the war hanging over their helms.

Ratchet grabs a cube for each hand, just enough to give him a light buzz, and swings by to wish Sparkplug a happy birthday. He finishes off one cube for that nice rush of charge, and plunges deeper into the crowd.

Sideswipe's looking his way with mischief dancing in his optics so Ratchet veers away and makes a beeline for Ironhide. A voice of reason in the midst of madness. Sort of. Ironhide can always be counted on to say it like it is.

“Some party, eh?” Ratchet says, waggling his orbital ridges.

The other old mech slings an arm over Ratchet's shoulders, leaning heavily. “Tame in comparison, I'd say.” He tips his cube up to Ratchet with his other hand. “Nice to see you outta that medbay, though.”

“I had help.” Ratchet stares pointedly in Wheeljack's direction, his best friend all too quick to abandon him for Prowl who, against all odds, had opted to attend this soiree.

Ironhide laughs and leans harder on Ratchet's side, nearly putting both of them off-balance. “Wheeljack can be convincin' when he wants ta be.”

“I would call it irritating but to each his own.” Ratchet downs half his second cube, feeling the pleasant burn settle in his tanks. He might not be aiming for an overcharge, but barring Decepticon interference, he's off shift tomorrow. He can recharge as late as he likes.

“Prowl finds him enticin' enough.”

Ratchet points a grin at the Prime's bodyguard. “Like I said, to each his own.”

Ironhide snorts a laugh, loud enough that his whole frame vibrates and his engine rumbles, the vibrations rattling against Ratchet's frame. “I'm more partial to medics myself.”

Been there, done that. Not to say it isn't an experience worth repeating, but Ratchet's beyond casual now.

Ratchet tosses Ironhide a dry look. “I remember. You're also blind if you haven't noticed my apprentice staring longingly in your direction.”

Ironhide blinks at him. “What?”

He pats Ironhide on the chestplate, the low echo of metal on metal barely audible over the music. “I'll let you figure that out for yourself.” He finishes off the last of his high grade, his tanks warm with the potent brew. Far more potent than he had anticipated.

What on Earth is Sideswipe putting in this?

“Evenin', my mechs. Any way I can cut in?”

Ratchet turns at the unexpected but welcome voice, a smile taking his lips before he can stop himself. “Jazz,” he greets, warmth blooming through his internals. “You're back.”

Jazz grins and sidles closer, his field nudging Ratchet's with a friendly greeting. “I take it ya missed me?”

Ironhide snorts. “Like I'd miss a case of cosmic rust. Ya bring back good Intel?”

Jazz folds a hand over his spark. “Ask me no questions and I'll tell ya no lies,” he says and winks his visor. “But you'll find out later. Once I dump it off on Prowl and let him run the analysis.” He shifts his attention to Ratchet, performing an elaborate half-bow as he offers out a hand. “Might I have this dance?”

Ratchet slides out from under Ironhide's arm. “I'm not much of a dancer.”

Ironhide barks a laugh and slaps Ratchet on the back. “Don't let 'im lie to ya, Jazz. Ratchet here used to be the life of a party.”

“Formerly,” Ratchet corrects but Jazz grabs his attention by taking his hand, rubbing a thumb over his palm and bringing up memories of their first date.

Ratchet's engine gives a telling thrum of approval.

“Well,” Jazz says with a little tug that invites Ratchet to follow him into the cluster of mechs grooving to the beat. “It's never too late to relive the past.”

And Ratchet lets himself be led, lets Jazz pull himself close as the song's upbeat tempo vibrates through the floors, his pedes, and up into his frame. He looks down at Jazz's face, bright with joy and mischief, his hands fleeting touches that most would mistake for innocent but Ratchet knows far better.

He's just buzzed enough to not care, to dance with Jazz, using moves better suited to a mech a third his age or even younger. He only vaguely notices that a few Autobots are watching. Wheeljack pings him with uninvited commentary and dancing tips and Ratchet retorts with sarcastic banter that only makes Wheeljack laugh.

His attention, however, is stolen and held by Jazz, who's blocky frame hides how flexible he is. And Jazz is usually the center of attention but he's not noticing anyone else. He's only got a visor for Ratchet and it's heady, to be the center of all that focus. Or maybe that's the highgrade, warmer and warmer in his tanks as though some kind of delayed release element has been involved.

Ratchet wouldn't put it past Sideswipe. More bang for the buck, so to speak.

A third cube is pressed into his hands and with Jazz's reassurance that whatever the Cons have planned, it's days away, Ratchet drinks it. Relaxation floods his frames and on the tail end of it comes an unfamiliar sensation – fun. He can't remember the last time he indulged like this, but it's not unwelcome.

So it comes as no surprise when he's stumbling over his own pedes and laughing and leaning heavily on Jazz even though Jazz is two-thirds his size. It's not even a stretch that he needs help getting back to his quarters despite knowing where they are. And he's grateful for Jazz escorting him back with only a grope or two because, hey, Jazz is only a mech and Ratchet's got a great aft. He knows he does.

There's a lot of things Ratchet expects, but for Jazz to simply tuck him into the berth and then crawl in beside him is not one of them. Ratchet's too tired and overcharged to question it though and he slips into recharge listening to the steady hum of Jazz's ventilations and soaking in the comfortable warmth of another frame.

He onlines the next morning with a soft ache that should be gone by noon and a realization that he's still not alone and it's kind of... nice.

Jazz is snoozing away next to him, vents snuffling in indication that his filters are in need of flushing and no doubt he's been putting it off. Ratchet chuckles to himself because he could probably count on one hand the number of mechs who've seen Jazz like this. That is, of course, when Jazz onlines, visor lighting up with a soft glow that brightens once he recognizes where he is.

“Mornin',” he drawls with a long stretch of his arms over helm.

“Welcome back,” Ratchet replies. This ought to be awkward, he thinks, because they've only been on one date. But somehow it isn't. After all, he's known Jazz a long time.

He just hasn't known him this whole time.

Jazz grins at him and scoots closer and Ratchet doesn't mind one bit. “You said that last night. I guess ya meant it.”

“Course I meant it.” Ratchet rolls his optics. “It wasn't my fault you skipped out on a mission before I could actually give you an answer.”

“Am I gonna like this answer?” Jazz asks with a waggle of his visor that would have looked ridiculous in any other circumstance.

Ratchet gives him a pointed look. “I haven't kicked you out of my berth yet, have I?”

“Mebbe you're just bein' polite,” Jazz counters and he scoots even closer, until his bumper nudges Ratchet's windshield and his knee brushes over Ratchet's thigh. Their fields bump together, sizzling at the edges.

“Have I ever been known to hold back when it comes to anything?”

Jazz looses a light laugh. “Good point. That means ya aren't gonna mind when I do this?”

He throws his leg over Ratchet's hip, sliding their frames together in a low burr of metal on metal that sends a susurrus of sensation through Ratchet's frame. He shivers, doubly so when Jazz leans forward and traces his glossa over the Autobot symbol on his windshield.

Again with the windshield. Ratchet has no idea what his fascination is with it.

Ratchet's engine rumbles. “Mind is not the word I'd use,” he says, and he risks a touch to Jazz's helm, fingers curving over the crown before he strokes the length of a sensory horn.

Jazz shivers, his field buzzing against Ratchet's, warm with arousal. His helm pushes into Ratchet's hand, his visor blazing almost white.

“So I'm thinkin' if ya don't want me to push you down on this berth and make ya scream, ya better shove me off the bed now,” Jazz murmurs, his ex-vents fogging the glass of Ratchet's windshield. His hand bridges the distance, resting on Ratchet's hip where clever fingers stroke the swivel joint beneath.

A flush of heat suffuses Ratchet. His ventilations stutter. The vague discomfort of overcharge is a distant sensation to the pleasure rippling through him.

“I'm takin' yer lack of protest as encouragement to continue,” Jazz purrs and with a deft flick of his frame that Ratchet could never hope to duplicate, Jazz tilts Ratchet onto his back and climbs atop his pelvic array.

He perches there as though he's won some great prize, grinning as his hands flatten on Ratchet's ventrum and then slide upward. The slow scrape of dermal plating plucks charge from beneath Ratchet's armor and he shivers, his hands resting on Jazz's thighs before curling around Jazz's knees. He's repaired Jazz enough to know that if he curls his fingers just so--

“Ah, Primus, mech!” Jazz's backstrut arches, his fingers briefly scraping against Ratchet's windshield.

--he'll strike a sensor nexus. Ratchet almost grins himself, his fingers slipping between armor plates to stroke that sensor again.

Jazz shudders full-frame, his visor brightening. His glossa flicks across his lips. “Medics and their hands,” he moans and tips forward, laving attention around transformation seams as his hands plunge up under Ratchet's bumper.

Ratchet's engine revs, vibrating the berth. There are a lot of sensitive components tucked up behind the thick armor, and Jazz is not only stroking them, but sending light bursts of charge directly across his sensor net. Jazz's field, too, is plunging into his, heavy and hot with arousal.

“We all have our talents,” Ratchet manages, though his words are edged with static. It's harder to focus when Jazz is proving that there is some truth to his reputation.

Ratchet strokes Jazz's knee again and sends a wave of desire through his field, letting it flood Jazz's in counterpoint to the heated waves Jazz sends.

Jazz rocks against him, charge spilling from beneath his plating and lighting up the room. It snaps against Ratchet's armor, delighting the sensors beneath.

“I wanna see 'em all,” Jazz purrs, fingers walking around the curve of Rachet's chassis to toy with one of his tires, poking and teasing the soft rubber.

Ratchet's engine revs. “That could take some time.”

“Ya say that like it's a bad thing.”

Ratchet gathers up a burst of charge and funnels it straight into Jazz's substructure, grinning when the mech throws his helm back and writhes atop him. Pleasure spikes in his field and against Ratchet's, pulling him closer to his peak.

“Not a bad thing,” Ratchet murmurs with a wicked grin. “But something to save for another time perhaps.”

“I'll hold ya to it then,” Jazz says, and his fingers scrape against something within Ratchet's substructure that makes him see stars.

Overload strikes and Ratchet tosses his helm back, surrendering to it. Pleasure bursts in the back of his processor, his frame crackling with energy. Distant is the sound of Jazz's release, the writhe of the saboteur atop him. Ratchet's hands tingle as the snap-snap of discharge pricks at his fingers, but it's a small price to pay for the sight of Jazz alight with pleasure.

Engine revving hard, Jazz slumps atop him, his helm resting on Ratchet's windshield. Ratchet rests a hand on his helm, thumb stroking the curve of Jazz's jaw. His frame is positively humming and he's feeling a sense of calm he hasn't enjoyed for quite some time. Primus, but he's missed this.

“Well, that was nice,” Jazz purrs, his hands resting on Ratchet's sides. His frame ticks as it cools, his fans a softer whirr compared to the rattling roar of Ratchet's.

Hmm. Perhaps he should be seeing to his own maintenance.

“Very,” Ratchet agrees. And he tilts his helm. There it is again. That snuffling of Jazz's vents. “Your filters need to be flushed.”

Jazz laughs and rearranges himself, folding his arms beneath his helm so that he can look into Ratchet's optics. “You're off-duty, ya know.”

“I'm a medic. There's no such thing.”

“There should be.”

“There used to be,” Ratchet admits, and he lets the rest of the tension ease out of his frame. He rather likes the warm weight of Jazz atop him. “Before the war.”

Jazz makes a noncommittal noise and his right pede starts to rub gently against Ratchet's leg. “Still, ya should take some time for yourself. Ya harp on Prime and Prowl 'bout it. Should take your own advice.”

Ratchet snorts. “Tell that to the hellions who persist in getting themselves damaged between battles. Say nothing of the damage they incur thanks to the Decepticons.” Some of his humor fades.

They hadn't lost anyone lately. Ratchet intends to keep it that way. Whatever madness infected Megatron makes him less predictable, but it also makes him easier to combat. His irrational tactics leave plenty of room for Prowl to plot around him.

Jazz tilts his helm to the side. “I'll make somethin' happen,” he says, and there's promise in his tone. “So did my performance earn me a second date?” His grin is nothing short of mischievous.

“I thought that was obvious,” Ratchet says, but he rests a hand on Jazz's back, teasing the base of Jazz's backstrut. “But yeah. I'm still interested in pursuing this.”

Jazz's grin could have powered the Ark for a week. “Now that's music to mah audials. And if I didn't have to be on-shift in ten minutes, I'd stay here and show you just how sweet the sound is.”

Ratchet laughs. “You can save it for next time.”

Jazz playfully raps his fingers on Ratchet's windshield. “I like the sound of that, too.”

0o0o0

If ever there is a reason to somersault into the command center with a whistle on his lips, today is that day, Jazz thinks. As it is, he can barely keep from strutting, despite the fact all he wants to do is spin on a heelstrut and return to Ratchet's berth and make the medic moan for him again.

But Prowl is waiting to both receive his Intel and be relieved and as much as Jazz likes to occasionally buck authority, he doesn't want to get on his best friend's bad side. Prowl can be quite vindictive when he wants to be.

Prowl half-turns as Jazz strolls into the command center, both of his orbital ridges rising.

“What has you in such a fine mood?”

Jazz pulls the datapad out of his subspace and presents it to Prowl with a flourish. “What are ya talkin' about, mech? I'm always the life of the party.”

Prowl's optics narrow and he doesn't look away, not even as he takes the datapad and plugs into it. “You are almost excessively cheerful today.” He pauses and tilts his helm fractionally. “One might almost say giddy. And smug.”

“I am not smug!” Jazz fake-gasps and presses a hand to his chestplate. “Can't a mech just be happy these days?”

He can tell by the look on Prowl's face that explanation is not going to fly. Jazz sighs and plants his hands on his hips. “And here I thought Wheeljack told you everything.”

One door panel flutters, the mere mention of his mate causing a flush of adoration to soften Prowl's field. It's almost sickening how adorable those two are.

“We have our secrets,” Prowl admits and then pauses, optics darkening as he focuses on the new Intel Jazz brought him. “Jazz, is this another one of your pranks?”

“I solemnly swear that everything I have on that datapad is legitimate,” Jazz says, though it's hard to keep the laughter out of his voice.

Prowl's orbital ridge twitches. “But this...”

“We can always count on Megatron to be as ridiculous as he is unpredictable,” Jazz says with a wink of his visor. The four million year stasis had not been kind on the Decepticon warlord. If only he weren't so slagging indestructible.

Or if Prime was willing to do what's necessary. But Jazz isn't about to keep cranking off that dead battery.

Prowl sighs and rubs at his chevron with his free hand. “I'll inform Prime to be prepared for an attack.” He frowns at the datapad again before magnetizing it to his thigh. “Now why don't you tell me what has you so excited? Or does it have something to do with the rumors our Chief Medical Officer did not leave the party alone?”

“Huh. Gossip getting around already? That was fast.” Jazz thumbs his chin, but it's impossible to hide his excitement. Rumors are his best friend. It means that the sooner it gets around, the sooner he doesn't have to compete for Ratchet's attention.

Not that there's anyone else trying to court him, but Jazz still isn't convinced about Sideswipe and Sunstreaker's intentions, no matter what Wheeljack says. They spend far too much time riling Ratchet up for it to be completely innocent. And their reputation is no cleaner than Jazz's own.

Prowl's optics narrow and he looks briefly around the command center, but no one is paying them the least bit attention. Or if they are, they are being subtle about it. Especially Smokescreen. Mech has to have his finger on the spark pulse of every tasty bit of gossip in the Ark.

“You are serious, I hope?” Prowl asks.

Jazz's smile slips, not because he's angry, but because he wants to prove a point. “Very,” he says, and lets Prowl get a taste of his field. “Ratchet's great. And he needs someone to take care of him. I don't think any of us really paid attention to how overworked he is.”

“Hoist and First Aid are also capable medics.”

“Yeah, but Aid's often gone with Defensor and then you're dividing all the duties between two mechs. Don't leave much room for rest, even with Wheeljack picking up the slack.” Jazz rolls his shoulders, thinking back to his week's worth of observations. “And he takes our state of repair personally.”

Ratchet is often exhausted, Jazz had noticed. He tends to be underfueled because he doesn't think to grab his own energon. And worse, he works even harder because Wheeljack doesn't drag him out as much now that he's got Prowl. He doesn't get near enough the amount of recommended recharge because he rises too early and lays down too late and just when he has a moment of peace, some fool in the Ark goes and does something stupid and he's back to work again.

Ratchet needs a caretaker. And not those unholy, Pit-spawned Twins either.

Prowl makes a contemplative hum. “You have a point.”

“I know I do.” Jazz's grin returns. “Plus he's hot as frag, intelligent, and fun to be around. I think this is something that might actually work out.”

Prowl pats him on the shoulder. “Then I wish you luck,” he says.

“Since when do I need luck?”

0o0o0

He should have known.

At least they had the decency to wait until second shift so Ratchet had something approximating a day off, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. Trust Defensor to be called to South America for a natural disaster when First Aid is supposed to be on shift. Trust Wheeljack to be “unavailable” to cover.

Ratchet blames Prowl for that one.

And Ratchet can't blame Hoist for not wanting to cover a third shift in a row.

So here he is. In the medbay on his day off. Staring at a long line of maintenance appointments and trying to ignore the lingering twinge of overcharge. A night of recharge and an overload had done much to clear away the discomfort. But he really is getting too old for this.

Ratchet sighs and checks the list. Then he growls. Of course. Ratchet is convinced that the Twins are Primus' punishment for him because he keeps pulling sparks back from the Well.

“Well, slap my aft and call me Susan!” Sideswipe says as he strolls into the medbay and overplays his surprise. “You're not First Aid.”

Ratchet pinches his chevron. “However did you guess,” he drawls, and gestures to the berth. “Where's your other half?” Because one could never be found without the other, not even for something as simple as maintenance checks. Though that is partially because their systems are required to have a certain degree of sync.

“He'll be along.” Sideswipe hops onto the berth and leans back, bracing himself on his hands. “So. Rumor has it--”

“You're not here to gossip,” Ratchet interrupts and hooks his cart, dragging his scanner closer. “And stop wriggling or I'll have to start all over again.” Or plug in, something that both of them loathe. Though Ratchet hates doing it simply for the reaction it causes in Sideswipe. For some reason, the red twin does not like medical scans.

Sideswipe chuckles. “What a tragedy it would be to have to spend more time with my favorite medic.” He winks. “Especially since he's off the market now.”

Ratchet, having had many months of practice, ignores Sideswipe and powers on the scanner. Luckily, Sunstreaker arrives in that moment to serve as something of a distraction, though his stormy expression gives hint that someone has made him testy.

“About time you got here,” Sideswipe says with a smirk.

Sunstreaker ignores him and plants himself at the side of Sideswipe's berth, though he focuses those laser-blue optics at Ratchet. “So,” he says. “Jazz?”

“My private business is none of yours,” Ratchet declares and attempts to focus on his scanner, though he already knows what he'll find.

Both twins are in excellent condition because Sunstreaker won't settle for anything less. He may need to do some minor repairs, top off some fluids, perhaps flush out their vents, but nothing strenuous. Though he does want to take another look at that hip joint of Sideswipe's. He's sure of the weld's integrity, but in a perfect world, Ratchet would have replaced it and put Sideswipe on berth rest for a decaorn.

“Not really private when everyone sees him escort you out of the party,” Sunstreaker points out.

“Or when Smokescreen spots him leaving your quarters first thing in the morning,” Sideswipe adds with much glee. He leans forward on the berth, disrupting Ratchet's scan. “I'm disappointed, Ratch. If you were back on the market, you should have told us.”

Ratchet tosses him a look. “There was never a point when that would have made a difference,” he retorts. They are not entirely the bane of his existence, but the two Pitspawn are like the little brothers he never wanted to have.

Sideswipe pouts but Ratchet has seen it before and knows it to be fake. “You wound me,” he says. “Right in my spark.”

“As long as he's good to you,” Sunstreaker says, the strange gravity to his tone jarring compared to Sideswipe's playfulness.

“Yeah. What he said.” Sideswipe jerks a thumb toward his brother. “We can't have our favorite medic get his spark broken. Then where would we be?”

“In pieces if you don't keep still!” Ratchet huffs at him. “And for the record, it was one date, not a life bond.”

Sunstreaker shrugs. “Close enough. You're seeing him again, aren't you?”

Ratchet arches an orbital ridge. “I must have missed the point where this became your business.”

“Can't we be concerned?”

“No. You can be still,” Ratchet insists. “Or so help me Primus, I will let Prowl know just who filled the washracks with purple-tinted bubble bath.”

Sideswipe mock-gasps. “You wouldn't.”

“Try me.” Ratchet lowers his helm and narrows his optics. The prank had been harmless, and the clean-up afterward a pain in the aft, but Ratchet's not above holding it over Sideswipe's helm.

Sideswipe slumps with exaggerated motions back to the berth. “Fine,” he drawls. “Scan me as you will.”

Sunstreaker snorts and folds his arms. “We'll get answers sooner or later,” he mutters.

Hah. Not likely.

Ratchet picks up his scanner and gets back to work, thankfully without any further squirming on Sideswipe's part.

0o0o0

The attack comes sooner than expected but Jazz is still not surprised. Megatron is not known for his patience.

Or his sanity.

If it weren't for the seriousness of the situation and the humans in danger, Jazz doesn't know how many Autobots would have collapsed into laughter at the sight of Megatron's massive weapon of mass destruction. Jazz can't tell if it's worse or better than the giant purple griffin.

Then again, most Autobots can't think of anything that tops the purple griffin. It was the single instance when they all, as a faction, fully believed that Megatron had lost his processor.

Even so, he is still dangerous, and his Decepticons desperate. Crazy does not for a plan make and desperation does not make for sanity. They are big and hungry and with Starscream squawking above them and the Aerialbots gone to Cybertron, it's a mess.

It's all hands on deck. Never has Jazz been more aware of that fact.

He doesn't have to worry about Prowl. He tends to stay toward the back, where he can see the entire battlefield and issue orders. Mirage can turn invisible and aside that, Hound keeps an olfactory sensor on the former noble at all times. And Bumblebee, as the friendly face of the Autobots, is usually on human wrangling duty. He keeps the organics out of harms way which has the added bonus of keeping him out of direct harm. Did Jazz have a hand in that?

Mayyyybe?

But he takes care of his own. Oh, Jazz takes care of all the Autobots, but he's just one mech. And he has his favorites, his brother and his team. He watches out for them just a little bit more than the others. He'd dive into the fire to pull out any Autobot, but he'd wade through the Pit for Prowl or his team.

And now, apparently, Ratchet, who doesn't know the meaning of the term “safe distance.” What part of “noncombatant” does he not understand either?

When it comes to his patients, Ratchet throws himself onto the frontline, heedless to any danger, even if that danger is Megatron himself. Jazz knows. He's seen Ratchet throw himself down over an Autobot – it might have been Tracks – while Megatron bore down on them. Optimus had intercepted, thank Vector Sigma, but it had only proven that Ratchet protected his patients at all cost. Mech doesn't seem to understand his own worth.

It doesn't matter that Megatron has a “capture, don't kill” bounty on his helm. Or that the robosmasher has been destroyed.

Jazz doesn't want Ratchet to spend even a single second in Decepticon custody. And the thought of seeing the medic offline sends all sorts of uncomfortable terrors through his internals. Part of him has the urge to track Ratchet's position, while another part of him recognizes that he can't watch Ratchet and watch the battle.

The distraction almost gets him killed. How he could miss Thundercracker lining up for a strafing run followed by the application of his special talent, Jazz will never know. He blames the disarray in his priority trees. Somehow, he's moved Ratchet to the top of the queue and they've only been on one date! Two if he counts the night of dancing and recharging together.

Fortunately, he does manage to get out of the blast radius and cheers when a well-aimed shot from Bluestreak sends Thundercracker careening out of the battle, spewing smoke from a thruster. When Skywarp swoops in to warp out of danger with his trinemate, all the better.

And Ratchet is... with Prime. Good. Ironhide's standing over both of them, Prime's arm is hanging by a cable, but it's repairable. Megatron must have gotten lucky or no, there he is, grappling with a bevy of minibots who took their Prime's missing arm personally. Jazz wants to laugh at their gumption and the look of utter frustration on Megatron's face but Bruticus is bearing down on him and Jazz can't stop to take in the sights anymore.

He's too busy trying not to get stomped into the mud.

He can't spare another glance for Ratchet, as much as he wants to. It takes scrambling in the mud and the deft application of grenades before he can get Bruticus off his aft, and then he hears Megatron bellow retreat somewhere over the din and clatter. Blasterfire chases the Decepticons as they flee, though not without a few cubes for their trouble. Jazz can see the cassettes clutching them as they fly next to Soundwave.

Pity. The war would be over a lot easier if the Decepticons could just starve themselves into stasis. Then Optimus wouldn't have to be guilty over their deaths and maybe, just maybe, some kind of treaty could be born.

Happier thoughts for another time.

Fortunately, there are no serious injuries, not that it makes the medics' workload any easier. There is no single Autobot who walked away from this battle without some damage though Ratchet shoos a few of the more cosmetic blemishes out of the medbay and back to their rooms.

Tracks and Sunstreaker, to name a couple. Self-repair will fix those dents and gashes in time or if not, they can take care of it themselves.

Of all mechs, Beachcomber is the worst of it. He hadn't moved fast enough when Thundercracker made his first strafing run. But Ratchet assures them all that he'll live.

Jazz gets caught up in the post-battle review with Prowl and Red Alert and a one-armed Prime who reassures them that he doesn't need both arms to sit down and talk, no matter what Ratchet grumbles over the comm line. Jazz relays what he knows and makes a bid for escape, but Prowl hauls him back before he gets very far.

It's late by the time he's set free. So late the Ark is soft and quiet with the bare minimum of staff on third shift. It's so late it might as well be morning and all Jazz wants to do is trudge to his berth and recharge.

He swings by the medbay though he's quite certain Ratchet is not there. Ratchet should have long gone to his quarters for some rest. Especially since most of the injuries are minor and could stand to wait. Something tells him to check anyway.

The schedule says Hoist should be on shift. Instead Jazz walks into a medbay running under halflight, Beachcomber in stasis on a nearby berth, but otherwise no patients present. Hoist is nowhere in sight but the CMO's office is brightly lit and occupied. There's an array of datapads spread across the desk in front of Ratchet and his helm is propped up on one hand, but his optics are online. He's not in recharge but it's clear that he needs to be.

Thank Primus he'd had enough sense to swing by the dispensary for an extra cube or two because Ratchet is surely in need of one. And a berth, no doubt, but at this point, Jazz will settle for getting his potential lover refueled.

He raps his knuckles on the door frame to announce himself and his worry intensifies when Ratchet's dim optics shift toward him.

“You're not injured,” he says, and there's no gruffness in his tone. Just resignation.

“Nope.” Jazz strides inside, setting both cubes on the desk within easy reach of Ratchet. One he nudges even closer. “Why aren't you in your quarters?”

Ratchet straightens and waves a hand toward the datapads. “Work. We might not have had serious injuries, but there was enough minor damage that it put a serious dent in our supplies. I'm going to have to amend the requisitions and we all know how cranky that makes Prowl.”

“That's cuz it messes up his timetable.” Jazz circles around the desk, close enough that he can pick up on the strut-deep fatigue in Ratchet's field. The medic is so tense he's half-surprised that his suspension hasn't snapped. “Mech, you need recharge like something fierce. Can't these reports wait?”

“Of course they can.” Ratchet ex-vents noisily. “But I'm on shift and before you ask, no. There's no one else to take my place. But it's only for another few hours. Wheeljack will be here at sunrise.”

Jazz rests his arms on Ratchet's shoulders and when the medic doesn't protest, works his fingers into the seams, pressing on the taut cables beneath. “When was the last time ya recharged?”

“How is that relevant?”

Ooo. That sounds indignant. Jazz knows what that means. It's been longer than Ratchet cares to admit and he knows isn't healthy.

Jazz activates his magnetics, instigates a low pulse, and is rewarded when Ratchet all but melts beneath him, plating twitching and opening as though giving him better access. Jazz grins, glad that Ratchet can't see his expression. Magnetics, baby. Works every time.

“Ya need ta take better care of yourself,” Jazz murmurs, seeking every tense cable with determination he usually reserves for mission planning. Ratchet is going to be a strutless pile of medic by the time he's done.

Ratchet sinks a little lower in his chair. One hand has curled around the energon Jazz brought but he hasn't taken a sip. His field is fizzling out from the tightly woven tension, however, and Jazz considers that a win.

“It's not as though I take triple shifts often,” Ratchet retorts, but his tone is far from scathing. He toys with the cube. “These things happen. The Decepticons happen.”

“True enough,” Jazz concedes. “But you still need a caretaker. Ya spend all yer time worryin' about us and don't pay even a third the same attention to yourself.”

And lo and behold, there he goes, finally lifting the cube to his lips. Ratchet drains half of it at once, proving he's more underenergized than he lets on.

“You volunteering?” he asks, lips hovering at the edge of the cube.

Jazz drags his hands across the top of Ratchet's shoulders, pleased when the medic shivers beneath his touch. “Since day one, Ratch. I wanna be whatever you'll let me be.” He leans closer, tipping his helm against Ratchet's.

“We've really only been on one date, you know,” Ratchet says, but his helm nudges against Jazz's in mutual affection.

Jazz's spark all but sings within him.

“Seems like more ta me,” Jazz says.

Ratchet makes a noncommittal noise that resonates throughout his chassis but his left hand rises and reaches over his shoulder to rest on Jazz's right hand. “I'm not entirely opposed to it,” he says.

Jazz grins, his frame humming with excitement.

“But I still want to take things slow,” Ratchet amends, and he squeezes Jazz's hand. “I'm not Wheeljack. I don't leap first and look later.”

“I get that. Whatever you want, Ratch.”

The medic's field pulses stronger against his, matching the purr of affection with a murmur of his own. He's far calmer now, content even, and Jazz considers that a win. If he can convince Ratchet to indulge in some recharge even better, but for now, small steps.

“So let me get back to this massage, you drink your energon, and we can call this another date. Sound good?”

“Yes.” Ratchet's soft chuckle echoes in his office. He does as requested, taking a long sip of his energon as the rest of the tension drains from his frame and field. “Thank you, Jazz.”

Jazz smiles though Ratchet can't see it. “My pleasure.”

He can't wait to see what the future holds.

***
a/n: There's something about the Dear Lies universe that I just can't walk away from. I'm very happy for the opportunity to explore it further. And eventually, I will get that post-Half Truths fic from Jazz's POV complete so that we can see what was going on in his helm during the events of Dear Lies.

Feedback, as always, is very welcome and appreciated. And thanks again to Jenn for commissioning me. Readers rock!