#februwhump

It was common that Jazz couldn’t sleep after a mission. Tension still ran high in his frame and obstructed the recharge protocols, his processor still convinced he needed to keep one optic open to watch for threats. Having someone else there with him helped a little. Having Prowl with him helped tremendously, so it was quite the pattern they had naturally fallen into. Jazz would come back, debrief, have a full body check-up and system sweep-

And then go straight to Prowl’s office. The mech didn’t seem to exist anywhere else - Jazz had joked that his office was his spawn point and Prowl had never bothered to defend himself. Why bother? He was right.

Jazz watched him from where his head was tucked into his shoulder, Prowls optics clear and sharp with focus. His details would be precise and flawless as always. It was almost as if he wasn’t even there - Prowl made a point to check on him every so often to make sure he was okay, carefully pushing the blanket from his intakes to ensure they weren’t blocked. It was unlike Jazz to accept and allow it, to take the careful and delicate treatment without protest and insistence that he could do it himself. Prowl never told him how much it unnerved him.

Jazz had come back completely intact this time, which was a relief Prowl felt each and every time that he did. All grins and smiles, only Prowl could see the tautness behind it, the way he carefully held his frame and stayed just out of reach. Jazz had appeared in his office not long after, his frame sagging down and visor dimming the moment the door closed behind him. Prowl had adjusted his chair and patted the arm rest - never his lap, never ever his lap - and Jazz had melted into him. As was their ritual. As was their tradition.

“You’re taking a while to go into recharge today.” Prowl quietly murmured. Quiet enough that Jazz could pretend to ignore it if he wanted to - other mechs wouldn’t have been able to hear it.

“Leg hurts.” Jazz murmured back.

“From before?”

“Mmhm.”

Jazz usually came back with minor injuries, easily treated. If he wasn’t banged up he was completely unscathed. Jazz was very, very good at what he did and he only improved with time.

That time had been different. They didn’t talk about it often, the experience traumatic for them both. Jazz had completely bypassed protocol and had gone straight to Prowl, falling dramatically out of the ceiling into a crumpled heap of feverish infection in the middle of his office. Prowl had been on his pedes faster than his optics could cycle and was at his side pulling him from the rubble, spark leaping into his throat at the heat rolling from his frame. Jazz had blearily looked up at him and sagged in relief.

“Thank Primus you’re here.”

His frame was covered in poorly-welded injuries, dents and scratches and metal that was dull and lifeless, but the worst was his leg. Prowl had gasped and chewed his bottom lip when he saw it, running through the calculations and the causes and what first aid he knew. It looked about the right size to have been caused by a light dagger – the very same one that Jazz used – and it was very, very obviously infected. The paint around it blistered and flaked, the metal underneath carrying a sickly blue hue as congealed green-hued energon oozed out. Jazz shuddered and trembled and held onto Prowl so tightly it was as if he was trying to climb under his armour.

“I can’t let them see me. They’ll be so disappointed. I’m meant to be better than this.”

It was only reluctantly that Prowl had agreed. Their agreement was one based on trust and mutual understanding – he couldn’t go rewriting the rules and going against Jazz’s wishes.

He’d had to stick his fingers into it and sweep out the rot, every movement agony, every dip and groove in his digits pressing against raw metal. Jazz had to bite down on a strip of mesh to keep himself from crying out and drawing unwanted attention to them as his frame seized and jerked.

“I can’t look after you.” He had told him.

“I don’t need you to.” Jazz had replied. He leaned heavily against him with an exhausted sigh, helm pressed into his shoulder and visor dim.

The next part had almost been worse – the sweeping with a disinfectant-soaked rag and the packing of gauze. Jazz had cried out that time, and it took everything in Prowl to not immediately call for medical to come and help him because Jazz was not okay and he wasn’t going to be okay and he was going to die and that was simply unacceptable-

A clammy hand reached up and cupped his cheek, each digit trembling across his face. Prowl paused in where he was firmly securing a bandage to hold the gauze in place to look at him.

“It’s okay. I love you. I love you. It’s okay.”

They were feelings he wasn’t allowed to reciprocate, and his spark tore in two when he realised that they were, they were so so reciprocated and they burned in his chest and fuelled him and kept him going as the endless machine of war churned him further and further into its gears- Prowl was nothing but a weak mech and he’d kissed him. Coolant ran down both their cheeks at the joint grief of something dead before it could even begin.

“Survive the war and wait with me.”

It had been a selfish request on his part, but it was one that had Jazz nodding and kissing him harder in a silent promise.

- there are three constants for every time line:

1) their day starts during their commute to work

2) only emmet remembers what happens

3) ingo dies by the time their shift ends

- emmet will never give up

Jamie is known for working hard on cases. Her boss, Jack Crawford, co-worker, friend Will Graham, and friend Hannibal Lecter worry about her. Jamie has been forcing herself to stay awake for three days straight. The current serial killer has her on edge. This time, the killer is leaving messages around the bodies. This is your fault. More will die, and you'll be the one to blame. Jamie sits at her desk and reads the notes over and over. Although all that's known about these notes is that the killer is leaving them on the bodies, Jamie feels like she knows who the killer is just by the notes. Jamie knows it's not enough to convince Will or Jack. Jamie has been reviewing the case reports and evidence, hoping to find something else to argue that she knows the killer. Will watches from the doorway. He can tell he won't be able to convince Jamie to go home and take care of herself.

By five, Jamie puts everything back in the folder and puts the folder in her bag to go over again. When she gets home, she puts on her black trench coat and carries the bag over her shoulders.

"I don't know what we're going to do with her," Will tells Hannibal as they stand in the lobby. "I swear we're friends with the most stubborn human ever." "That's certainly exaggerating, but she is stubborn." The two watch their smaller friend walk down the hall towards them. They can tell she's exhausted and suspect she hasn't been eating. Their worry turns into horror as she collapses on the floor. "Jamie!" Will yells as the two run towards her.

"She's ok," Hannibal assures his worried friend. "The lack of sleep caught up to her." The two watch Jamie wake up and help her sit up. "What do we do?" Will asks. "I'll take her to my house," Hannibal says. He goes into Jamie's bag and pulls out the folder. "Here, put this back in her desk." Will nods as he takes the folder. "Come on, Jamie, you're coming home with me." "I'm fine." "Of course, you'll say you're fine," Hannibal sighs. He picks the smaller woman up and carries her to the parking lot. He knows how tired Jamie is due to the lack of protest from her.

Hannibal puts Jamie in the passenger seat and buckles her in before getting in the driver's seat. He then pulls out of the parking lot and drives to his house, wondering if Jamie will fall asleep. At red lights, Hannibal looks over at Jamie and sees she's fighting sleep. He sighs, frustrated. He continues to drive home. The drive is quiet.

Once Hannibal pulls into the driveway, he exits the car and carries Jamie into the house.

Hannibal lays Jamie on the couch, seeing how exhausted she is. He sighs and goes into the kitchen. Jamie doesn't move from the couch, but she's unhappy about what her friends did. Laying on the couch is making it difficult for her to stay awake.

While Hannibal is a gregarious man, this is not what he has in mind to get Jamie to his house. He'd rather have told her he had a nice dinner planned. Hannibal leans on the counter, thinking about what to make for dinner. He decides to make soup. While he's preparing the ingredients, Hannibal hopes Jamie fell asleep and will have a little nap before dinner.

An hour later, the chicken noodle soup. Hannibal knows it's one of Jamie's favorites. He gets a bowl for her and brings it to the living room.

Hannibal frowns, seeing Jamie still fighting sleep. He puts the bowl on the coffee table and sits her up. Hannibal is concerned with Jamie's exhaustion, but he wants her to eat before she falls asleep. "I made soup," Hannibal says. Jamie doesn't respond. "You're going to make me feed you, aren't you?" Hannibal was hoping for some reaction. Even if Jamie is trying to trick him into feeding her, she doesn't react. He sits on the couch and spoon-feeds her to her soup. After Jamie finishes the soup, Hannibal carries her to the guest bedroom across from his room and lays her in bed.

"You need to stop staying awake for days," Hannibal scolds. "I don't want that to be why I have to take care of you." Jamie doesn't react. "Now get some sleep." Hannibal leaves the room and calls Will.

He can feel time flying past as they trudge through the woods. He’s fairly certain they’re heading in the right direction, and therefore back toward help, but Caleb’s not entirely sure they’ll get there fast enough. He hasn’t told Molly, but his wounds have started to bleed again from the movement of walking, wet warmth making what’s left of his shirt cling unpleasantly to his skin. More worrisome, as far as Caleb’s concerned, is that he knows nightfall isn’t far off. Another hour at most, though full dark will hit them under the tree canopy much faster. Caleb’s already having difficulty seeing where he’s going; he tells himself that’s due to the low light, and not the dizziness of blood loss.

He considers his options. He knows they have no potions left- if they had any, he’s certain he’d have been forced to drink them by now. Neither he nor Molly are gifted with healing magic, and Molly has already done his best to bandage Caleb’s wounds with his and Caleb’s shirts before they’d gotten moving. If there were anything else to be done, Molly would have done it.

That doesn’t mean that Caleb has done everything he can, yet.

He knows Molly is going to argue with him. It’s the best possible solution, but that doesn’t mean it’s a good solution, and he’s only considering it because he’s relatively certain getting back to town before dark is incredibly unlikely, and he in no way wants to be caught in the dark woods while leaving a trail of fresh blood behind. It’s asking for trouble, and neither of them can handle any more of that right now.

“Molly- Mollymauk, wait please.”

Molly comes to a stop, looking over at him. “Do you need a minute? We shouldn’t stop long, but we can rest a moment if you need-”

“Molly.” Caleb gathers some of his dwindling strength and projects more confidence than he’s feeling. “The bleeding has started again, and if I do not stop it we will attract predators and it won’t matter how close to town we get. Something else will find us first.”

“Wait, you’ve started- why didn’t you say something, Caleb?” Molly breaks off into muttered curses, lowering Caleb down to sit so he’s propped against a tree before reaching for the strips of shirt he’d used to bandage Caleb’s wounds. Caleb catches Molly’s wrist before he can make contact.

“This is me saying something. Molly, the bandages are not enough. Neither of us can heal, and there are no potions left.”

Molly frowns at him, barely visible to Caleb in the growing dimness. “Then what would you suggest we do? You said we had to stop the bleeding-”

Caleb shakes his head, lifting a trembling hand to let a small curl of flame lick over his fingertips. “No, not ‘we’, Molly.”

Molly’s expression goes from confused to understanding to horrified in quick succession. “No. Absolutely not. We can’t be that far out from town now; we’ll get there and get you help. No need to do anything foolish.”

Caleb snorts a laugh, then winces at the resultant spikes of pain. “I think we are well beyond pretty lies at this point, Mr. Mollymauk. Even if we move at full speed, it would be a close thing to get there before dark, and we both know we’re not going that fast. I am leaving a trail even the stupidest of predators could follow easily. That is all of course beside the point that I am slowly bleeding out. If we are to make it safely out of the woods, something must be done to stop it. We have tried dealing with it in more traditional ways, and they have failed.” Caleb looks from the flame flickering on his fingertips down to the blood-stained bandages. “Trust me when I say this is not a choice I am pleased to be making, nor one that I make on a whim. If I thought there was another way, I would happily consider it.” Caleb glances back up at Molly in the failing light and gives him a pained smile. “Mr. Mollymauk, if you have another suggestion, now is the time.”

Caleb can still see just enough of Molly’s face in the flickering firelight to see the anguish and indecision written across it. “Caleb, there has to be a better way than-” Molly gestures down at Caleb’s hand. “-what you’re proposing.”

“If there is, I cannot think of it. And unless you’ve been holding back an idea, I think I would like to get this over with quickly, please.”

Molly’s face twists, and he spits a curse in Infernal that has Caleb flinching back. Molly holds his hands up in apology and composes himself before running a hand over his face with a frustrated huff. “No, no I don’t have any other ideas.”

Caleb nods, stifling a groan as he settles himself more firmly against the tree. “Alright.”

Caleb’s been hurt a lot in his life, in many different and horrible ways, but there’s something uniquely awful about the way burns feel. They throb, the pain penetrating and inescapable, and by the time he’s on the last wound, he hesitates, his fingers hovering over the injury. The three he’s cauterized already are screaming flares of agony, and realistically he knows adding one more won’t make much of a difference. If anyone deserves this kind of torment it’s him, but part of him still rebels at the thought of willingly putting his fingers into the last wound and searing it closed. He needs to focus, to do this and get it done so they can get moving, get somewhere safe, but there’s a part of him, a treacherous whisper of thought that wonders if his parents had felt this, or if the smoke had taken them first-

“ Caleb .” There’s a burst of pain against Caleb’s cheek, snapping his head sideways; he blinks, Molly coming into focus in front of him, his arm lowering. “Are you with me?”

He isn’t, not entirely, but he’s present enough. “Ja. Ja, just-” He jams his fingers into the last bolt hole with a choked-off noise and lets his fingers ignite before he can think about it. The pain is immediate and nauseating, and he viciously bites down on the scream that wants to rip its way out of him. When he’s sure it’s done he lets his hand drop to his side, his head thumping back against the tree, and he takes a moment. It’s not until Molly’s hands settle over his and squeeze that he realizes how badly he’s shaking.

“Caleb, mo chuisle, are you alright?” Molly’s voice is laced with concern, and Caleb is sure his face must match, but the light’s dim enough now he can’t see more than the basic shape of Molly in front of him. He responds with a gently unhinged laugh and a shake of his head.

“No, probably not. But time for that later, ja?”

“Caleb-” He can easily hear the frown in Molly’s voice, but chooses, as he does with many things, to ignore it. He pulls his hands away from Molly’s and gets one on the tree behind him, the other on the ground, and pushes himself up with a groan.

“Gods above, Caleb, you stubborn arsehole.” Molly’s hands are on him in an instant, helping steady him once he’s upright. “You could have taken another minute. A minute won’t matter.”

“We can’t know that, Mollymauk.” Caleb gives him a tremulous smile.  “Let’s get going.”

There’s a brief pause in which Caleb can feel the weight of disapproval from Molly’s stare, but Molly doesn’t say anything, just takes one of Caleb’s arms and flings it over his shoulder, wrapping his arm around Caleb’s waist to steady him before they start walking again.

“One of these days,” Molly huffs as they walk. “We’re going to have a long and probably unpleasant conversation about that deflection thing you do.”

“What do you mean?”

“You-” Molly pauses then says, “When you’re hurt you brush it off, like it doesn’t matter, or- or like you’re trying to get us to ignore it. You did it a little when we first met, but you do it more now.”

Caleb’s momentarily stunned. He thinks back on his interactions with the Nein, with Molly, and he can see what Molly’s talking about, the trend; it causes a painful curl in his gut, and gods, he doesn’t have the energy for this now.

“I’m not one to pry.” They go around a small boulder, Molly leading him deftly to the side and forward again. “You’ve never really dug into my past beyond that first time with everyone else, and I appreciate and respect that. A person should get to keep their own secrets, and only share what they like.”

He thinks Molly’s going to drop it, and is just starting to relax when Molly says, “If it weren’t for you almost getting killed so frequently, I’d leave it alone. But I’m scared one day we’re going to ignore something we shouldn’t, and you’re one who’ll suffer for it.”

Caleb has a number of responses he could make to that, but none of those will appease Molly, and would in fact probably just make him more worried than he already is. Caleb’s grateful for the low light; Molly can probably see him, but it’s easier to pretend he can’t when Caleb’s mostly blind. It soothes the crawling under his skin he gets when people look too closely, when they see him, not as he pretends to be, but as he truly is.

Caleb considers his words carefully, and Molly- wonderful, ever-patient Molly- gives him the time to get his words in order. “It’s complicated.”

Molly’s arm tightens ever-so-briefly around Caleb’s waist. “Then explain it to me.” His voice is gentle, and Caleb’s heart squeezes, wondering how he deserves someone so kind.

“When we first met, the group of us, I was not in a good place. Nott helped, she always helps, but even she, as much as she tries, can only do so much.” Caleb huffs a laugh, and brings his free arm around his middle when the laugh jostles his injuries. “That’s not to say I am perfect now, mind you, but I was much worse back then.”

Molly is quiet, but Caleb thinks he sees him nod.

“I- I care now, in a way I did not before. Back then I didn’t know you all the way I do now. We were all just a group of asshole strangers thrown together and-” It’s getting harder to think clearly, to articulate the muddy swirl of his thoughts. He sighs, leaning more heavily against Molly. “Now that I know you all better, I have a clearer idea of our strengths, our weaknesses. My priorities have shifted.”

“What changed? You know we all care about you, right?”

Caleb drops his hand from his stomach to find and pat the arm Molly has around his waist. “Ja, I know you do, schatz.”

“Then why? Why don’t you want us to help you?”

Caleb aches from the subtle hurt in Molly’s voice. How does he begin to explain? How does he tell Mollymauk that he doesn’t want them wasting resources on him, doesn’t want them using a potion on him that might keep one of them alive? He’s come a long way in terms of how he views things, how he views himself.

But.

If it comes to a decision of whether it should be him or someone else who lives, he just doesn’t see it as a very complex choice. He doesn’t want to die, but he will so someone else can live.

“It isn’t that I don’t want you to help me. I appreciate the care you show me. I just have a better idea of how to deploy our often limited resources.”

“You know you’re not any less important than anyone else, right?”

“Molly-”

“No, you listen to me.” Molly’s voice goes hard, and he comes to a stop, forcing Caleb to stop as well. Molly angles to face him, even though Caleb can’t properly see him at this point. “You’re just as important as anyone else. Your safety is important, your well-being is important, your health is important- physical, mental, or otherwise. You can say your priorities have changed, and I can’t tell you what to do or how to feel, but that doesn’t mean my priorities have changed.” Molly sighs, shifts a little more, and Caleb startles at the touch of a hand to his face. “I can’t believe we’ve gone through so much, experienced and survived all that, just for you to decide that we shouldn’t care for you for whatever reason you’ve got built up in your head.” The hand on Caleb’s face flexes, and he leans into it as Molly’s thumb runs up over his cheekbone. Molly’s voice sounds closer and softer when he continues. “I know to you it makes sense, but believe me when I tell you I want to know if you’re hurting. I want to know if you’re unwell or in pain or just having a bad day. You’re part of my family. I love you and care about you. Please don’t shut me out.”

Caleb swallows past the lump that’s taken up residence in his throat and nods. He doesn’t trust his voice, but does trust that Molly can see his response. The cauterized wounds are pulsing, hot and insistent like small fires in his belly, his whole body aching with the edge of fever, but none of it hurts the way Molly’s quiet plea does. He wants to give in, desperately wants to give Molly everything and anything he wants. He can readily admit his life has improved greatly since Molly came into it, since the whole of the Mighty Nein came into it, but there are still things he has to do, things he must accomplish before he can even begin to deserve the kind love and affection Molly shows him. Molly is still waiting, expectant, and Caleb sighs wearily.

“I- I will try, schatz.”

“That’s all I ask, love.” Molly leans in and kisses Caleb, a quick press of lips to his forehead, and Molly hisses as he pulls back. “Fuck, you’re burning up. It’s time we get going. Sooner we get back, sooner Jester can have a look at you.”

Caleb steadies himself as best he can, takes a shuddering breath, and braces himself to move again. “Ja. That- that is a good idea.”

The man dressed in red barely makes it home. Each step is a stumble. At times, He forgets how exactly to return home in the first place. He can't call anyone. That would likely result in Him being exposed.

The increasing desire to take a break also makes the journey back a struggle. Despite knowing full well succumbing to the fatigue would be the worst thing to do, He stopped caring fairly quickly. On top of everything, He can't even think straight either. There are probably medical procedures that should be performed on Him. If there are, He can't remember what they should be. The one thing He does recall is to keep as much blood inside Him as He can. The rest will have to be the others' responsibility.

Why did He have to get stabbed in the first place? Under the impression some mugger wouldn't be too much of a challenge, especially compared to other types of wrongdoer, He'd foolishly engaged with the criminal. He had miscalculated. Not noticing the guy was armed, the 'hero' had gotten too close. And now? Now He was pounding with a bloodied fist on His front door.

Jameson is the one to greet Him. It only takes a moment for his warm smile to vanish at the sight of his friend's condition. A palm bangs against the wall in an attempt to alert the vlogger and magician. Jameson takes His left arm over his shoulder while Chase does the same for His right. Marvin sprints ahead towards the medical bay in preparation for whatever they frantically decide to do to Him.

"Put him on the table." Marvin commands. Out of the corner of His eye, He catches glimpses of Marvin grabbing his phone and forcing numbers in. Now lying on a flat surface, He allows His eyes droop. If He could rest for a few minutes... "No! No, don't do that. Oh God, Marv. Jackie, you have to stay awake, okay buddy? Can you do that? It's what Schneep would be telling you to do. And he's going to be here as soon as we can get ahold of him." "Henrik, I will kill you!" A ghost of a smile appears on His face as Marvin screams at his phone. Something tells Him the magician would have to wait in line. "And Jameson, will you stop just standing there?! Help Chase put pressure on the wound and keep Jackie conscious."

Chattering surrounds him. Good strategy. If Chase can keep Him responsive, maybe He would be able to learn from His mistakes. In that situation, He would happily get shouted at.

It doesn't take long for Him to choose to stop faking his accent. He's so tired. There isn't even a point to pretending anymore. Why did He decide to take his place? Probably to protect him. He would do something like that. Would He? Yes, it was His job to save people, wasn't it? This was the first time His life had been at stake though. Usually, it was other way around. How did His friend do it, constantly putting himself in danger with frequently negative repercussions, only to do it all over again as soon as he was healed enough to be functional?

Beside Him, Jameson is tearfully grasping His hand. There's pressure on His stomach. Chase appears panicked, head turning towards Him every few moments in a frantic fashion. Almost as if in the distance, Marvin vents at his phone. The doctor wasn't going to pick up, He could guarantee that. They should start stitching instead of panicking.

What would be helpful was a nap. He knows for a fact that rest was imperative for recovery. Allowing Himself to shut his eyes, He remembers they need to know.

"He is downstairs." --- He finds Jackie watching some show in the living room. He doesn't know what it is and He doesn't particularly care right at this moment. As inconvenient as the timing is, the window of opportunity to pull this off is brief. He cannot allow it to slip away. Chase and Jameson are busy hanging out in town and Marvin was stuck in his room, as usual. If he's going to do this at all, it has to be now. He can switch the television off when he's done.

"I need to ask you something." "Sure." The hero doesn't glance away from the screen. "By showing you." "Oh, okay. Give me a sec." The programme is paused.

He leads the hero to His lab in the basement. Down here was where He performed experiments and learned how He could improve the care He gave the others. Some of Marvin's potions were stored here too. He makes sure Jackie is the first to enter the room. All the better to execute his plan.

"Okay, we're in your lab. Now what?" "I'm sorry I have to do this." "That doesn't make you sound like some cliché villain at all." The superhero rolls his eyes. "I'm forcing you to take a break." "Okay... then what? I kinda have a job to do, you know. If I put my feet up for a few days, the bad guys are going to notice and take advantage of it." "I already thought of that. I will take your place." "No way." Jackie chuckles in disbelief. "There's not a chance in hell I'm going to allow that. Trust me, I'm fine." "What about your wrist? You can't fight with a bad hand." "It was just a sprain, dude. And it wasn't even on my dominant hand." "You still hurt yourself. You need to stop and look after your body for once. You sacrify your safety too much." "At least I have powers. You would have nothing to defend yourself with, not even heightened senses. They'll get the jump on you. And how are you going to fool the others into thinking you're me? You're the least able to imitate any one of us. Your accent is a dead give-away. Think this through." Putting on his best impression of Jackie, he steps back. "I am going to be fine. I will be back soon. Then you'll see how okay I am."

Instead of continuing the disagreement, the doctor swiftly turns around and slams the door shut. As it is locked with the key, the door is assaulted by a superhero with unnatural strength in protest.

As soon as he begins walking away, Jackie increases the volume of his arguing. "Henrik, listen to me. Come on, stop being so stupid. Henrik. Hen-"

"-rik! Henrik, wake up, damn it."

“And these too.”

“In what time!?” Jazz demanded, jumping to his feet. “I’m totally swamped as it is!”

“You’ll have to make the time.”

“You-!” Jazz threw his hands up in frustration. Prowl silently turned and left, the sounds of his cursing and frustration following him out into the hallway.

If Jazz was too busy, he wouldn’t get involved with The Judge, and he would truly despise him. If he despised him, he would celebrate his loss rather than mourn it.

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh to him?” Wheeljack asked one evening. They’d gone out to a restaurant together to talk shop - it had been Wheeljacks suggestion. Prowl remembered them going out to eat together before, but he didn’t remember this topic coming up.

Different events already. Good. It was working.

“I need to be. He needs to stay away from me.” Prowl slurped his noodles. “I’ve been given a second opportunity here.”

The moment he’d been sent back was horrid and disorientating. The next was much easier, and he had used it to run straight to Wheeljack and explain the situation.

Wheeljack, credit to him, had immediately rolled with it.

“So let me get this straight.” Wheeljack rubbed his helm and set down his spoon. “You two, in the other timeline, were inseparable and in love with each other. You got hit with some timey-wimey stuff and got sent back to the past, when Jazz still wasn’t sure about you, and you decided instead of winning his affections early on and spending more time with him, that you’d make him… hate your guts?”

“Precisely.”

“Why.”

“He got hurt a lot because of me. He doesn’t understand the word no. If he has no inclination, or time, to follow me, he will stay safe.”

“But he hates you.”

“He hates me, but he is safe.”

“I’m sorry, Prowl.” Wheeljack frowned at him. “I think you’re wasting an opportunity, but I don’t know what happened.”

“I think him being used as blackmail material against me was the worst part of it. I won’t be giving them another opportunity.”

That fateful cycle arrived, and Prowl woke up with a tight knot in his tank. It only got heavier as he prepared for the day, and as the hour approached he only felt worse and worse.

The moment of change was here and now. The catalyst was about to happen. It was just a small change – just the slightest one – but it was agonising all the same.

It was if them bumping into each other was predestined. It was like he’d been taken over as their datapads scattered across the hallway again, Jazz looking just as shocked as he remembered.

Prowl quickly onlined the datapad on top of the stack he held, breath held in anticipation. Primus, please let this be right, please let it happen again.

Jazz’s.

Offlining it again, he gently cleared his throat.

“Apologies - I think you’re holding one of mine. Could you check?”

Jazz onlined the one in his hands. “Oh! So it is - that could have been embarrassing.”

What an understatement.

Jazz took the one on top of Prowls stack and checked it. “This is mine. Thanks, Prowl.”

Prowl found himself expecting the signature cheesy grin. Jazz didn’t offer it to him.

“Perhaps you should avoid reading in the halls in future.”

“What, like you do?” Jazz tucked his datapad close and began to walk away. “Thanks for the help.” He called over his shoulder.

It felt bitter and heavy. Prowl knew what his lips tasted like against his own and he yearned for it. He wanted to reach out to him, feel the warmth of his metal beneath his hands, but it wasn’t something he was owed or had any right to. Jazz would send him through the wall, and Prowl would deserve it.

He had come back to this moment for a reason. It was a pivotal one - Jazz only began to see him differently because he had manipulated him in an attempt to steer him in the direction he had wanted him to go in (and what a failure that had been?) Now the list of things he had to do grew. He needed to keep Jazz away, but he wouldn’t take an active part in his life - he’d simply continue to be the hated droid of a mech, cold and cruel, the total antithesis of The Judge. He wouldn’t be involved with Jazz. He wouldn’t entertain his attention.

Jazz could handle himself out there. He would also need to find a reason to get Jazz out of Altihex, or Hound and Trailcutter in so he’d never end up in Tarantulas base.

He’d find his excuse in Soundwave. He wanted autographs, he’d request a favour in return. Prowl didn’t care if Soundwave thought him a pathetic lovestuck mech, as that is what he was - he wanted Jazz to be safe more than his pride to remain intact.

Getting Jazz to hate him was simple enough, if mentally destroying. Playing back the sound of his laughter was enough to keep it from overwhelming him at the beginning, but with every sour look and curt exchange it chipped and chipped away at him.

Just as he was in the past, he was dispatched to the distant outpost to train the new recruits. And, just as happened in the past, the outpost was attacked. Prowl immediately ran down to where he remembered Soundwave being, throwing open the door and hanging on the frame as he looked in.

“Soundwave?” He called.

The mech stepped out from the shadows and tilted his helm at him, frown evident even with his visor and faceplate obscuring his face.

“Query.” He began. “Time travel?”

“I need a favour.” Prowl said. He took a pen from his subspace. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him safe.”

Prowls helm tingled as Soundwave viewed his memories - memories of a time that hadn’t happened yet, but wouldn’t happen ever again - Jazz laughing at something Prowl had said, how warm his hands were in his own, sharing a brightly coloured fruity drink together with comically large curly straws. The sound of his engine, the songs he sung when he was happy, how sweet his cold lips were after an ice treat.

Prowl schooled his expression, but he couldn’t reign in his field fast enough.

Soundwave held out his hand.

“Deal.”

His visor glinted.

[This section ends here – I didn’t have any notes on what would be coming next unfortunately so I don’t know what I had planned to happen after that. The section below starts off straight like this, also with no notes on how they got there, so hopefully the context is easily picked up]

“Why?” Jazz asked. His voice trembled. “Why did you do that?”

“You needed saving.” Silver dripped from his mouth, splashing down onto Jazz’s cheek.

“At your expense?” He began removing his field kit from his subspace, awkwardly manoeuvring around Prowl to not disturb him.

“I didn’t expect it to pierce me as it has.” Prowl admitted. He coughed, more energon spattering down. “Sorry, I’m covering you in my energon but I don’t have the strength to move.”

“You’re totally bleeding out right now.” A length of thick gauze was removed and pressed against the steadily streaming gaping wound in his side, the pole still firmly impaled through him. “How can you be so calm right now?”

“I do not see the benefit in panicking.” Prowls optics flickered down to where Jazz was applying pressure. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m only following my training.”

Prowl rested his forehelm on his closed fist beside Jazz’s helm and sighed. “If I’d known I’d have been stuck here I wouldn’t have done this.”

“I wish you hadn’t either.”

“You’re free to leave.” Prowl pointed out. “You can simply slide free and go.”

“I can’t just leave you here.” Jazz mumbled. Prowl felt the corners of his lips tug upwards slightly. “Woah, wait, did you just smile?”

“I suppose I did.”

“That medic had better hurry up, you’re going delirious.”

If anything, it made Prowls smile grow.

“Can I tell you something?” Prowl asked.

“What?”

“I think we knew each other as younglings. I believe we were at that park - I was hiding from the louder children, and you had a sketch pad.” He coughed, the sound thick and wet. “I couldn’t remember what it said for the longest time, but you had looked so familiar, and more familiar still during that bridge collapse a few years later.”

Jazz’s visor brightened. “That was you?” He quietly asked. “You’re the Sigma who saved me?”

“I was worried you’d recognise me at orientation. I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Mech,” Jazz nervously laughed, “you can’t be telling me this now. Focus on staying conscious until the medic gets here?”

“They’re two kilks away.” Prowl quietly replied. “I’m not sure that’s possible at the speed they’re moving.”

“They comm’ed you?”

“No. I can hear them.”

“The fuck, mech?” Jazz laughed. “Why is this all coming out now? Anything else you’re hiding?”

Prowl was dead silent. Jazz found himself having to check to make sure he was still with him.

“Prowl?”

“Sorry. I. Concentrating is hard.” His optics looked… wet? Jazz frowned. “I have other abilities than the ones listed on my profile, however the combination and frequency is so outrageous nobody believes it and they lean to it just being my family trait of enhanced mental prowess. Whatever that means.”

“I have to ask this.” Jazz sighed. “Are you the one who left the datachip?”

“Yes.”

Jazz sighed again. “Groons I’d agonised over that, and every prediction was right. How’d you do it?”

“I’m on deaths door, so I do not care for the embarrassment this makes me feel to admit. I know that I sound insane. I am at peace with it.” He swallowed hard. “There was a Sigma with the ability to rearrange time. They put me back to a pivotal moment - the moment we bumped and swapped datapads. In the original timeline, it lead to a much different series of events.”

“You changed what happened?” Jazz’s hands at his side faltered. He quickly reapplied pressure.

“I did.” Prowl admitted. “Horrible things happened to you because of our involvement. I couldn’t forgive myself if it happened again.”

“Like what? Why?”

“I’d rather let it stay in my memory. I do not wish to experience it again.”

“Were we friends?”

“I suppose you could say that. More than friends maybe - although I was too much of a coward to make the leap.”

“I’m struggling to believe that. Sorry, no offence, but…”

“Don’t feel like you have to believe me. I know it is outlandish. I am a prick, yes?”

“The biggest I know.”

“Outpacing Ultra Magnus?”

“Oh, yeah. By miles.”

“Excellent.” Prowl smiled again. “That’s exactly as I wanted.”

“You’re weird, mech.” Jazz laughed. Prowl wanted to commit the sound to memory, how he had missed it. “Come on. Don’t leave me hanging - what else have you got? Super processor, super speed, super hearing?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Curious.” Jazz attempted a shrug.

“I’m in pain. I don’t want to talk anymore.”

“Unfortunately you have to if you want to avoid me annoying you into submission. You’re staying conscious until the medics arrive, got it?”

“You haven’t changed a bit.”

“From childhood or the other timeline?”

“Same difference. The timeline branched when I gave you back your datapad.”

“You read it?!” Jazz squeaked. He pressed the gauze harder in embarrassment, Prowl gasping in pain.

“Ow!”

“Oh, that’s what you react to?!”

“Yes!” Prowl winced and gritted his teeth. “I could prepare to be impaled!”

“How could anyone prepare to be impaled-“

“Not the first time it’s happened.”

“When on Cybertron would you have had the opportunity to be skewered?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, I’m worried.”

“Are you two seriously bickering again?” The medic asked, trotting over the rubble. “I’d heard the rumours but I didn’t think they were that serious - we heard you a block away. Did you do this to each other on purpose?”

“Never.” The two replied in unison.

“I had hoped it would have hit him.” Prowl dryly replied, coughing wetly.

“And be stuck to you? No thank you.”

“Now now boys.” The medic admonished. “Jazz, give me a hand with him?”

“May as well finish what I started.” Jazz agreed.

Much to his annoyance and despair, Prowl had survived.

The medics all marvelled at how quickly he had healed - two cycles later he was walking himself out of the medical bay cleared for active duty with no evidence whatsoever that he had literally been a foot into his grave.

Jazz was waiting for him outside.

Prowl made to go back into the medbay when his hand came down on his shoulder like the hammer of a judge.

“We need to talk.” Jazz sternly said. His tone left no room for argument.

“I believe we spoke enough on the field.” Prowl brushed his hand off and began to walk away. Jazz scoffed and matched his pace.

“As if. You owe me an explanation.”

“I told you all there was to know.”

“Don’t play me for a fool, Prowl.” Jazz grabbed his wrist and tugged him into the closest lockable room, quickly closing the door and remotely locking it. “Time travel?”

“You believe the ramblings of a dead mech?”

“You look alive to me.” Jazz argued. “It all adds up. You’ll have to come up with a pretty damn good story to convince me otherwise.” He folded his arms across his chest. “So. Explain.”

“I don’t believe I have anything else to tell you.”

“I’m struggling to believe you’ve changed the timeline to my benefit.” Jazz frowned. “I cannot wrap my helm around the possibility of us liking each other.”

Prowl pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed a deep chest rattling sigh that starkly reminded him of his Sire’s. “If you had the opportunity to stop horrible things happening to those you love, would you take it?”

“Of course.”

“So it is not a stretch to imagine others would do the same?”

“I suppose not.”

“Well then - glad we have gotten that sorted.”

“But we don’t get on-“ Jazz began to protest. Prowl felt something inside of him snap, marching forwards and grasping his wrist to pin above his helm on the wall behind him, Jazz gasping in shock and his free hand flying to where his gun was usually holstered when on the field. Prowl leaned in closely, lips right beside his audial.

“Do not presume to tell me the nature of our relationship. If I didn’t like you, then why do I know that you like to sing when you watch the stars set, that you like it when your audials are touched just so, that you take your energon with sodium chloride when you’re feeling homesick and with potassium when you’re feeling unwell? How do I know that here,” Prowl gently placed a digit against his side, “is where you keep rust sticks for any younglings you encounter on your missions and that in here,” he tapped his spark case briefly before moving his hand to brace against the wall, “is a golden spark so at odds with my silver blood? You love soft things and fruity drinks, and you’re obsessed, Primus,” Prowl couldn’t stop the pained laugh that left him, “obsessed with Sigmas. I listen to you on that podcast every decacycle, I’ve seen your childhood bedroom. I know you have two older siblings - a brother and a sister - and that you grew up in Polyhex. I know that you didn’t speak a single whisper for most of your life. So I ask you this. How could I possibly know my enemy so intimately?”

“You’re serious?” Jazz was shaking.

“Despite myself, I am still in love with you.”

“Don’t say that, mech.”

Prowl released him and took three steps backwards, putting a healthy distance between them. He sensed he’d pushed his luck enough. “Any more questions?”

Jazz mutely shook his head. “I don’t feel well.”

“The medical bay is close by.”

“You’ll take me?”

“No. You have legs.”

“I thought you loved me?” Jazz teased. Prowl glared at him.

”You’re not my Jazz.”

“Spoilsport.”

“I’d like to leave, if there’s nothing else to discuss.”

Disappointment flickered across his face. “… Were we really friends?”

“I’d show you if it weren’t guaranteed to almost kill you.” Prowl gestured between them both. “Incompatible jacking partners. Funny, isn’t it?”

“How is it funny?”

Prowl shrugged. “Irony, I suppose. May I?” He gestured to the door again.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry, mech.”

Jazz watched him go, leaning from the doorway to watch him walk down the hallway despite himself. His visor brightened when he noticed that his doorwings were trembling.

Trying to find Prowl after that was like trying to find a needle in a haystack whilst blindfolded with thick gloves on. That is to say, impossible.

Mandatory training? Tacticians were in a separate group.

Mess hall? Never showed.

Rec room? He never went in there in the first place.

In the office? Jazz couldn’t access it - he would be challenged on his purpose there, his quarrel with Prowl well known. Nobody wanted the fight, and nobody would buy he just wanted to talk. He didn’t blame them - he wouldn’t believe it either.

Nobody else seemed to know where he spent his free time either - Jazz had sleuthed out his brothers and even sunk down to ask them about it.

Smokescreen shrugged his shoulders, tearing his optics away from the datapad he used to track his betting pools. “No idea.” He said apologetically. “He’s been a bit weird lately, he’s probably sulking in the dark somewhere.”

Bluestreak shook his head. “Sorry, Jazz.”

“Don’t sweat it.” Jazz grinned at them, but internally he was dying. That’s it, he’d had enough of looking like a lost unwanted puppy. Prowl won this time - he’d stop pursuing him. “I’ve been hunting all over but I think I’m shit out of luck this time. Can you pass on something for me?”

“Depends what it is.” Smokescreen raised an eyebrow at him.

“Nothing bad. I just want to say thank you.”

“What for?” Bluestreak curiously asked.

“He saved my life. I wouldn’t have walked away from what he just did.” Jazz replied. “Let him know, yeah?”

“I will pass it on.” Smokescreen turned back to his datapad.

“He saved you?”

“Yeah.” Jazz awkwardly looked off to the side. “You’ll let him know?”

“Of course!”

“Thanks, mech. Appreciate it. See you both later!” Jazz grinned and waved at them both, turning to leave.

Smokescreen grinned at his datapad. “Oh, this has been excellent for the betting pool.”

Prowl flickered into view beside him, taking his cube from his lap and placing it onto the table in front of him. “Your what?” He hissed.

“Bets on how long until the following happens;” he cleared his throat. “First, you kill each other. Second, transferred onto separate bases for the good of the Autobot army. Third, and one I hate to admit to you, how long until you get together.”

“Oh, Primus.” Prowl rubbed his optics. “Grow up.”

“Says the fully grown mech with a schoolboy rivalry.”

“Guys!” Bluestreak whined. “Come on! This is the only time we get to spend together, don’t bicker!”

“I wouldn’t call it a rivalry.” Prowl replied. “I’m equally hated by all.”

“You are harder on Jazz.” Smokescreen pointed out. “Everyone notices.”

“You know why.” Prowl mumbled into his energon.

From the start, Prowl had been open and honest with his siblings and Wheeljack about what had happened. He had half expected them to not believe a word of it, but they all knew him well enough to know he wasn’t good at making jokes and didn’t get the point of pranks, so he was being stone cold serious. He had time travelled. Par of course in being embroiled in the vigilante justice world.

“Nobody else does though. To them you’re just being a hardass.”

“Means they leave me alone.”

“Do you want to be alone?”

“I am ambivalent to the thought.”

“I don’t want you to be alone.” Bluestreak muttered, index finger tracing the edge of his cube. “I’d hate that.”

“Perhaps Smokescreens betting pool will work in my favour, then.” Prowl bitterly replied.

“It’s not a long term commitment.” His older brother replied. Prowl groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

[Notes above this part had a rough plan that The Judge & Jazz were out together, Jazz still doesn’t know that it’s Prowl, and the shift in the timeline means that things are starting to unfold differently this time, so new events that Prowl doesn’t know about are happening]

Pure fear like nothing he had ever known went through him. “No!”

Judge roughly shoved Jazz out of the way, shouting out in pain as the bullet went straight through him. Another grazed his helm, shattering his visor.

Of course. He wasn’t bulletproof anymore. That fall with Jazz had never happened - he had never figured out the adaptation.

It was too late now. Silver thickly spilled from the hole in his abdomen. There wasn’t much use in trying to plug the hole, but he tried anyway, pressing his hand firmly to it.

His healing was still there. It’d seal itself eventually.

“Judge!”

He heard more than saw Jazz scrambling to him. There were other distant shouts - enforcers and another sigma, maybe - but all he could focus on was the mech in front of him. They had suddenly frozen, frame rigid.

Judge slowly sunk down to his knees, pain sending random signals that threatened to take his legs, and tried to smile at him.

“I’m sorry.” He said. Silver dripped from his lip, trickling down from his brow and blinding his left optic. “This isn’t the best way to find out.”

“Is it seriously you?” Jazz asked. There was hurt intertwined with every word. “Seriously? This whole time?”

“You’re the brightest spark I will ever have the joy of knowing. I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you, I needed to keep you from finding me out. It was only a matter of time. I always knew that I could have been nicer about it, but I couldn’t risk anything.”

“Yes. You could have.” Jazz icily replied. He took something out of his subspace. “Here.” It was a visor. “My spare. Take it.”

Prowl knew it wouldn’t fit him. The thought hurt. That Jazz wouldn’t be coming back.

He took it anyway. It felt awkward on his face, but it provided a certain comfort that soothed his spark.

“Thank you, Jazz.”

He pushed himself up, grimacing at the ache that shot up his side and down his legs. Walking was going to suck.

“Why did you protect me?” Jazz asked.

“What else was I meant to do?” Judge responded. “I couldn’t let you get hurt.”

“Why?”

All kinds of answers passed through his mind. Because I love you. Because I’d rather walk on broken glass for a thousand miles than see you get hurt.

“I suppose the enforcers coding runs deeper than I thought.”

“I want that visor back, by the way.” Jazz demanded. “It’s my only spare.”

Jazz was due to receive the new visor at some point - he’d seen Wheeljack working on the initial blueprints. He missed the orange. It suited him well.

“Of course.” His voice sounded choked. Keen to avoid further discussion, Judge abruptly turned and began following the sounds of the gunshots, ignoring the crowd that had formed and cleaving his way through it.

“What happened?”

“He got shot protecting that mech.”

“Is he okay?!”

“Well, he’s walking…”

Jazz turned in the opposite direction and abruptly disappeared into the shadows.

A microphone was thrust into The Judge’s face.

“Do you know what mech you rescued?”

“No.”

“Who were you fighting?” Another microphone shoved into his face.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? And yet you see fit to destroy the city and disturb the peace?”

“I’m not engaging in your bad faith.”

“Why did you save that mech?”

“Because I wanted to.”

The pain was slowly subsiding. Judge looked down to inspect it.

Eh. Healed enough.

“If you’ll excuse me.” He said.

He used everything he had to jump as hard as he could, landing onto the roof of a nearby building. He took a moment to catch his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

::Judge? When you’re ready?::

Blueshift. His spark dropped. Maybe this time he could change things.

::Apologies. I needed a moment::