Wounds, Part 3

[wyntir_knight]

Title: Wounds, part 3
Rating: R
Series: G1: Pre-Earth
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Jazz, Ratchet. Eventual Jazz/Ratchet
Summary: Ratchet loses a patient while Jazz loses a friend and colleague. They'll need to work together to get through the pain they're both feeling, otherwise it will consume them both.
Warnings: Angst and slash

Disclaimer: Transformers belong to Hasbro and Takara, and are licensed to IDW and Dreamworks. My original characters are my own and any similarity between them and any existing characters from canon or fandom is purely coincidental. I claim no ownership by writing this work.

Author's Notes: This is set in papyrus_quill’s "Trust Issues" Special Ops Trine universe. Special thanks go out to her for not only letting me play in her sandbox, but also for helping me out with the bunny that spawned the idea!


“If, there is a load, you have to bear, that you can't carry,
I'm right up the road, I'll share your load, if you just call me.”
- Bill Withers



Ratchet strode into the brig, his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth compressed into a thin line. He turned and glared at Prowl, radiating a barely contained fury – his body was practically vibrating with it. Jazz was far more relaxed about the whole thing. He sauntered into his cell like he was walking into his quarters and lay back on the berth, completely relaxed and totally unconcerned about the situation.

Prowl locked the cells and levelled a steely gaze at the mechs inside, remaining silent for a long time. Any other mechs would have withered under that stare but Ratchet just glared back and Jazz ignored him completely.

“I do not know what has gotten into the two of you, but it ends right now,” Prowl said.

His tone was still calm and cold, but both Ratchet and Jazz recognized the signs that he was furious. The slight twitch of his hand against his thigh, the steely blue of his optics, the sharp angle of his wings. They all spoke of a deep and controlled anger.

“Do either of you have anything to say for yourselves?” he asked.

When neither prisoner responded Prowl’s lips thinned almost imperceptibly.

“Fine,” he said. “You can stay here until such time as Prime has had the opportunity to review this case. It should be no more than twenty-eight joors.”

He turned and began to walk from the room at a measured pace. As he reached the door he paused and turned back slightly.

“Just so you know, I had expected better from the two of you,” he said and walked out the door, closing it behind him firmly.

Ratchet stared at the door for a bit longer before revving his engine loudly enough to make the berth on which Jazz lay shake slightly.

“Will you shut up?” Jazz protested.

“No! We are in here because of your attitude problem. I think I am fully within my rights to make a little noise!” Ratchet spat out as he began to pace the small cell. “Two blasted orns! I need to be in my med bay and instead I’m stuck here for two orns because you can’t control yourself!”

Ratchet made a few more rounds of the cell before turning to face Jazz again.

“If you didn’t have this slagging chip on your shoulder we wouldn’t be here!” he growled as he continued to pace.

He reached the door and looked out glaring at the controls as if he could deactivate the energy bars with his rage alone. When that didn’t work he turned back to pacing. The more he moved, the angrier he became, and the louder his engine growled.

“You are just so completely determined to make everyone just as miserable as you are! I was just talking to Widget and you had to go and ruin my evening just because you can’t keep out of anyone’s business!”

He reached the far wall again and hit it angrily with an open hand, wincing slightly as a sharp pain shot up his arm. Balling his hand into a fist he turned on Jazz again. He was completely oblivious to the fact that the captain hadn’t said anything.

“You think you’re so high and mighty because you’re head of Special Ops! Well I hate to break it to you, but you’re just another mech and you have no right to interfere with my life or look down on me! How I choose to deal with things is my own concern. Not yours!

He turned away and began to pace again, far too strung out on anger to sit still.

“And considering that you can’t even deal with your our problems you have no right to tell me how to deal with mine! … I offered to help you and you threw it back in my face! If you had just talked to someone – anyone – we wouldn’t be in the brig right now! But you are just too fragging proud to –”

He broke off as his gaze swept over the saboteur’s cell. Jazz hadn’t moved a piston since he’d entered the cell. He had covered his face with his hands and his engine was running several revolutions too slow for his model-type. It wasn’t recharge, Ratchet would have recognized that instantly. This was something else, something wrong. It wasn’t until he peered into the slightly darkened cell that Ratchet realized Jazz had pushed his visor onto his helm and was kneading his optics rhythmically.

“Hey! Don’t do that!” Ratchet protested. “You’re going to damage your lenses if you keep that up. And I have no desire to grind new ones. Do you have any idea how specialized those are?”

Jazz didn’t respond. Ratchet felt his anger begin to drain, replaced with concern over the well-being of a fellow mech.

“Jazz?” he asked softly as he moved in as close as the bars separating their cells would allow. “Jazz are you okay? Talk to me.”

“Nothing to talk about,” Jazz replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t give me that,” Ratchet said sternly. “You’d never risk your optics, you never take off your visor, and you’re engine is running way too slow.”

He touched his temple lightly and activated his medical visor.

“Now get over here and let me look at you,” he ordered. “I can’t see what’s wrong with you all the way over there.”

“There’s nothing to see,” Jazz said. “And there’s nothing you can do to help.”

“Try me,” Ratchet said. He retracted his medical visor and sat at the edge of his cell’s berth, still facing Jazz.

“What the frell do you think you can do to help?” Jazz asked angrily. “You can’t bring Radial back. You can’t make up for the fact that I screwed up. And you can’t make this better!”

Ratchet looked down at his hands as he felt his own grief rise up in him again. Then, clearing his vents, he brought his emotions back under control and focused on his patient.

“No, I can’t bring Radial back. But I seriously doubt that you screwed up,” he said.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jazz growled.

“Then tell me!” Ratchet replied as firmly as he could while still keeping his tone gentle. “I’m bound by my oath. I will not tell anyone what you say and there’s no one who can make me, either. I keep the memories of my patients behind some heavy duty fire walls and encryptions. I take my professional ethics very seriously.”

“Right,” Jazz snorted. “And that’s why you were trying to stroke your student back in the commissary.”

“Oh not this again,” Ratchet sighed, rolling his optics in aggravation. “I told you there was nothing going on beyond a professional discussion. Why is that so hard to understand?”

Jazz put his visor back in place and sat up.

“I’m Special Ops, remember? You can’t keep secrets from me,” he said pointedly. “Your field was spinning, your body language was screaming with barely suppressed desire, and –”

“Fine! I get it! I can’t keep secrets from you,” Ratchet interrupted with a sharp wave of his hand. “But you’re misinterpreting what you saw.”

“Oh really? Then enlighten me.”

Ratchet stared up at the ceiling as he gathered his thoughts and emotions. He couldn’t respond harshly, no matter how much he wanted to.

“Yes, I was contemplating taking advantage of my position and Widget’s obvious crush on me. It would have been a pit of an easier way to deal with what I’m feeling right now,” he said grimly. “I blame it on a momentary lapse in my processing speed brought on by having to deal with far too much over the last few days. And I’ll admit I blame it a little on you.”

“Why me?” Jazz asked, irritation coming though clearly in his voice.

“Because you were right,” Ratchet grumbled. “I do use high grade as an escape. It doesn’t help in the long run. But it does help me to forget when I need to. I don’t have whole a lot of releases open to me. After all, a sketchy medic is probably about as useful as a sketchy Ops agent.”

Jazz just looked at Ratchet, his face completely impassive, his optic band revealing nothing. He could have been Prowl for all the emotion he showed.

“Anyway,” Ratchet continued, shaking off the uncomfortable feeling that Jazz was causing, “I was contemplating taking Widget up on her offer, but I had come to my senses by the time we reached the commissary. What you saw was me letting her down gently and trying to convince her to take a transfer to central Iacon.”

Jazz looked away, clearly unimpressed.

“Look. I’m not going to start this argument again. I told you want happened. Widget is a brilliant diagnostician but only passable as a field medic. She gets too emotionally invested to be wearing these targets,” Ratchet said motioning to the crosses on his shoulders. “She’s going to get herself killed. At least in central Iacon she stands a chance at surviving all this.”

“Sounds to me like you’re trying to convince yourself,” Jazz replied. “Guilty conscience, doc?”

Ratchet narrowed his optics but bit back his sharp retort.

“And it seems to me,” he said tightly, “that you’re trying to push me away. I’m offering you a release. One that’s probably far safer than berthing those toughline twins.”

Jazz looked at Ratchet in surprise before schooling his features to a more neutral expression. Ratchet caught the look though and allowed a smug little smile to creep onto his lips.

“Oh, you thought you were the only one who’s observant?” he asked. “Like I haven’t noticed the way you look at those two.”

Jazz snorted indelicately and looked away. “Everyone looks at them like that. Picking up that little fact is hardly something to brag about.”

“I didn’t mean how everyone looks at them. I specifically mean how you look at them. And more specifically how you looked at them in the commissary. You look positively predatory when you get the idea to berth someone. Or in this case someones.”

Jazz made a rude noise and lay back on the berth.

“Look, we’ve gotten off track,” Ratchet said. He lay back on his own berth, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I was trying to help you and here you’ve had me talking about myself.”

“I haven’t had you do anything. I’d be just as happy if you just shut the slag up,” Jazz muttered.

“Yeah, well that’s not going to happen,” Ratchet replied. “You’re just as bad as I am when it comes to not dealing. That much is fragging obvious.”

Jazz remained silent, staring up at the ceiling. Ratchet could hear the cables in Jazz’s hands tense up, a sure sign that he was clenching them tightly.

“Fine,” Ratchet said finally. “Be sullen. I’m just going to keep on prodding at you until you tell me what’s wrong. Like it or not, I will get into your head eventually.”

Ratchet could never have anticipated the violence of the reaction he got to that simple comment.

Jazz threw himself at the bars with a roar of anger, looking as if he was planning on breaking through them to throttle the medic. Ratchet jumped off his berth with a yelp and quickly moved to the far side of his cell.

When it became obvious that the bars weren’t going anywhere Jazz took a step back and glowered at Ratchet, revving his engine to a high pitched growl of fury.

“Others have tried to get in my head!” he spat out angrily. “And trust me; you couldn’t handle what’s in there!”

He spun away and sat at the edge of his berth, pointedly ignoring Ratchet.

Ratchet stared at Jazz’s back and realization finally hit. The psych unit wouldn’t have left well enough alone. They would have pried and prodded until they got into Jazz’s head by any means necessary. For a mech like Jazz - for someone in Special Ops whose very survival depended on secrecy - this would have been the ultimate violation. Ratchet felt as if he had been dipped in a nitrogen bath and his anger cooled completely leaving only a deep guilt and a cold fury aimed at whoever had done this to Jazz.

“I … Jazz, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking when I spoke,” Ratchet said, his tone contrite.

“Leave me alone. I’m not interested,” Jazz growled.

Ratchet sat back on his own berth and watched the captain with concern. He was quickly heading toward a breakdown and it seemed that every time Ratchet tried to help, he just made matters worse. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, not saying anything, but keeping his sensors trained on Jazz. It was just so easy to forget how young he really was. And the fact that he had been captain for such a short time. He was taking Radial’s death so personally. Not that Ratchet could really blame him. He hadn’t been in any better a state when he’d lost his first patient.

“Jazz?” he asked quietly.

“Not interested, mech.”

Ratchet paused for a moment before continuing.

“Jazz, I know it doesn’t help any, but … I’m sorry for hitting you before. It was uncalled for.”

Jazz merely grunted in reply.

Ratchet leaned back against the wall and waited. He’d offered the hand of friendship. All he could do now was wait.



Jazz lay back on the berth and shuttered his optics. He was exhausted, his fuel was running low, and everything Ratchet did and said just irritated him to no end. He allowed his internal music distract him from his anger. It became an easier thing to do once Ratchet stopped talking. It was just too bad that the last thing he said was an apology.

They stayed silent for a long time. Jazz wanted to stay mad at the medic. It was easier to blame him than lay the blame where it belonged, which was squarely on his own shoulders. He held onto his anger at Ratchet for his attempt to get into his head, for his presumption that he had any idea what Jazz was going through. What could a medic possibly know about what was really going on in the war? How could he even begin to grasp what was really happening in that shady area between the enemy lines?

Still, he was trying to help. He couldn’t possibly have known about his history with well-meaning psychiatrists and not-so-well-meaning Decepticons. He shouldn’t have taken his anger out on the medic. Still, it wasn’t as if Jazz had any reason to trust Ratchet, and it wasn’t as if he’d had the best of experiences with the Autobots’ medical staff.

His rapidly darkening mood was interrupted as the brig’s main door opened to admit Prowl. The 2IC came in at a slow, measured pace, stopping in front of the cells.

“I trust there have been no more altercations?” he asked pointedly.

Jazz could feel Prowl glaring at him. He knew full well that the hidden cameras had picked up everything that had occurred, including his near attack on Ratchet. Still, he played it cool and sat up slowly, stretching luxuriously.

“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “Not a single problem.”

“Ratchet?” Prowl asked, turning to the medic.

“Yeah,” Ratchet replied. “Everything’s been fine here.”

Prowl looked at him with veiled disbelief. “Is that a fact?”

“It is,” Ratchet nodded. “Though there is something I need to talk with you about.”

Jazz narrowed his optics and looked over at the medic. He wasn’t sure where Ratchet was going with his but he was positive he wasn’t going to like it.

“Go on,” Prowl prompted.

“I have a confession to make, and I should have told you in the commissary,” Ratchet began slowly. “Everything that happened was my fault. I attacked him and it was completely unprovoked.”

It took all of Jazz’s self control to not lose his composure. What Ratchet was doing made no sense at all.

“According to all the witnesses Jazz provoked the attack verbally and tried to strike you,” Prowl replied, obviously not taken in by this ploy any more than Ratchet was.

Ratchet walked up the bars and crossed his arms over his chest defiantly. “Yes, but I outrank all of those witnesses and it’s my word against theirs.”

“You do not outrank me,” Prowl replied, a faint edge to his tone.

“But you didn’t witness any of it. You got to the commissary after the fact,” Ratchet said.

Prowl was obviously not buying it.

“Look,” Ratchet said. “I’m just going to tell Prime the same story. I realize what I did was wrong and I take full responsibility. It will not happen again. And to prove it, I’ll submit to whatever punishment you deem appropriate. Just leave Jazz out of it.”

Prowl pursed his lips and looked at Ratchet appraisingly. “I will have to think on this matter. I will return shortly with my decision.”

He turned on his heel and left the brig, closing the door behind him.

As soon as he was out of hearing range, Jazz spun on Ratchet.

“What the frag was that?” he demanded.

“I was taking responsibility for my actions,” Ratchet shrugged as he sat on his berth.

“What?!”

“Look,” Ratchet said calmly. “You brought a concern to my attention and I reacted … poorly.”

“What are you playing at?” Jazz asked, looking carefully at the CMO.

“I’m not playing at anything,” Ratchet replied. “Look, Jazz, it takes two mechs to fight. I’ve been in the same – no a similar position to you and I should have known better than to provoke you. I don’t imagine that losing your first agent was any easier for you than it was for me when I lost my first patient. … and I took that a lot worse than you’re taking this.”

Jazz didn’t reply. There was something very wrong with this scenario. Ratchet seemed sincere, but that really didn’t mean anything. There was an angle here, but he was too exhausted to see it. He began to pace the cell, glaring at Ratchet the whole time.

“You’re pulling something,” he growled. “I don’t know what, but you are playing at something.”

“Jazz you’re exhausted. Why don’t you lie down and rest until Prowl comes back with his decision,” Ratchet said soothingly. “And then when he lets you out you have to promise me that you’ll fuel up slowly. At the levels you’re probably at you’ll get sick if you take anything too quickly.”

“No,” Jazz said slowly.

“No?” Ratchet repeated. “What do you mean no? You need to-”

“I don’t need to do anything!” Jazz shot back. “You’re trying to make me let my guard down! I don’t know if you’re trying to make me lose my promotion or if you’re up to something else, but whatever it is it won’t work!”

Jazz felt a fog invade his processor and there was an annoying buzzing noise in his audios. His equilibrium began to protest as the room started to spin lazily. He didn’t know what was going on, but he was pretty sure Ratchet had something to do with it.

As he fought the effects of what was happening to him he saw Ratchet run up to the bars, doing a good job of feigning concern.

“Prowl! Get in here!” Ratchet yelled. “Let me out! There’s a medical emergency! Prowl! Get your aft in here NOW!”

The world suddenly tilted violently and Jazz fell offline.