![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sakon76Warning level... mm, some cursing, implications of m/m pairings. So don't read if that offends you. Elsewise, enjoy!
Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger
part 4: Learning to Fly
by K. Stonham
prereleased 19th August 2007
The blond teenager who barreled into police headquarters and beelined for Michael, weaving between people and dodging several attempts to grab him without even seeming to notice them, was no one he'd ever seen before. But as the kid started trying to talk to him in rapid-flutter sign language, Michael took in the curly blond hair beneath a black cap, the bright blue eyes, the black gloves, and, most tellingly, the loose fit of his baseball jacket and pants, and came to an educated guess. A guess that was confirmed as another teenager, one he did recognize, caught up with the first, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
"'Bee, slow down!" In contrast to his companion Sam Witwicky was brown-haired and brown-eyed and wore a plain white t-shirt and close-fitting blue jeans. Though the metallic stud earrings were new since the last time Michael had seen him.
"Sam?" Michael asked. "And... Bumblebee?"
Brian, the blond's fingers spelled out, easier to follow since he'd slowed down.
"Brian," Michael repeated, nodding. "What are the two of you doing--" The world suddenly grew a little colder. "Jazz?" he asked.
"Yeah," Sam replied. "We ran into a little trouble the other night."
Ratchet doesn't know why he hasn't woken up yet, Brian signed. Prime told us to get you.
Michael quietly grabbed the jacket that was draped on the back of his chair, snagged three sheets of paper off his desk, and headed for the front door. The two teenagers followed him as he efficiently handed each sheet to the person it needed to get to on his way out. Outside their roles reversed and he followed the two Project members halfway down the block to a bright yellow Camaro that sat parked by the curb. Brian automatically got in the back while Michael looked at the expired meter, sighed, and put a quarter in out of a sense of karmic responsibility.
"So... 'Prowl'?" Sam asked, starting the car as Michael got in and fastened his seat belt.
"He told you about that." It was an observation, not a question, but Sam took it as one.
"Not as much as he told you, but yeah. We all got a briefing when Prime said he could keep you." Sam's grin was saucy. Michael sighed silently. Well, at least that explained the background check a week ago that had raised some flags on his information networks. Brian tapped Michael on the shoulder and handed him an ID card as he turned. The picture on it, Michael noted, was lifted from his driver's license. "Did he tell you you have a security clearance level?"
"It hadn't come up." After studying the card for a moment Michael pulled out his wallet and stowed it away. He was silent for a minute before he asked quietly, "So are you taking me to say goodbye to him?"
Brian clicked his tongue against his teeth, then gave a frustrated huff of breath. Glaring annoyed at his left sleeve, he pushed it up, revealing light golden metal. It probably dominated his body the way a similar silver metal covered Jazz's... but given that Brian's ran to his wrist at least, Michael would place odds that even more of the teenager was cybernetically "enhanced" than Jazz. A shimmering screen appeared in the air above the back of Brian's arm, presumably projected from a glowing red dot just above the wrist joint. Ratchet says he's fine, white words appeared on a shimmering blue background, and there's no reason for him not to be waking up.
If there was no physical cause, then it had to be psychological. "What happened?"
"He was covering me and 'Bee getting out of... where we were," Sam said. "Him versus a dozen guys with Uzis."
And armor-piercing rounds, Brian added.
"Ironhide took out what was left of them from behind once we were clear, but by then they'd gotten their licks in," Sam said. Michael frowned slightly as they hit yet another green light, but held his peace. If Sam or Brian was influencing the traffic patterns, he didn't want to know about it.
Jazz's armor is so much slag, Brian scribbled. Mikaela was horrified. She has to rebuild it before he can go out in action again.
Armor. Not body armor, just armor. Michael wasn't sure he wanted to know the distinction. "As long as it was the armor, not him."
"Yeah. So." Sam looked over at him briefly. "You know sign language?" he asked curiously.
It seemed like something that might be useful, Michael gestured in reply.
"Cool." Sam grinned. He tapped the side of his head with one finger. "None of us needs it to talk with 'Bee, but I downloaded it anyway."
Did you learn it before or after Jazz told you about me? Brian asked, head cocked inquisitively to one side.
"He only informed me about any of you a few months ago," Michael replied, noticing they were slowing as they approached the base, far sooner than they logically should have been able to. The long string of green lights flashed through his mind even as Sam flashed his own ID card at the guard and was waved through. "I learned sign language when I was in the Academy."
"Excellent. You'll fit in perfect with all the military nuts around here," Sam said, heading for a large building on the outskirts of the base.
Ignore him, Brian wrote. He's a military brat. It's the equivalent of being dropped on his head as a child. But his eyes remained on Sam.
Michael allowed himself a faint smile.
*
Richard looked up from the screen as the door to the post-op room hushed open. He was not surprised to see Optimus enter, followed by a person whose name and face Richard knew even if they'd never met before. He also wasn't surprised by the two teenagers who gamely followed. Nor was he surprised to see the stranger walk straight to the only occupied bed in the small medical ward.
"'Ratchet,' correct?" Michael Powell's voice was quiet and mild.
Richard nodded. "Yes. 'Prowl,' right?"
The man nodded. "He's still not waking up?"
"Nope. And I can't figure out why."
Jazz's friend reached out and brushed fingers in a ghost-like touch across the back of Jazz's hand. "How long has he been out?"
"Eighteen hours post-op. His systems should have reset and he should have woken up after six. This is not normal."
Fingers drifted upward, brushed lightly across a shoulder, paused. "And the last thing that happened before he was knocked out was a firefight?"
"Yeah." A bulky presence blocked out the light from the door. Ironhide. "Why?" the weapons expert asked belligerently.
"His visor continuously transmits its data to his brain, right, even while he's sleeping?"
"Yes," Richard replied, not seeing the point.
Michael turned to look at all of them. "Has the concept of sensory overload not crossed anyone's mind?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to the unconscious patient and reached for his visor.
"What are you doing?!" Richard demanded, starting forward to stop the detective.
"Jazz never removes his visor," Prime agreed.
Michael paused, looked at Optimus. At Richard. At all of them. "He does with me," he said quietly, firmly, and unhooked Jazz's visor from its connectors, setting it on the bed by his side.
Jazz's face somehow looked wrong to Richard's eyes without the visor shielding half of it. Glancing at the other Project members, Richard found them looking just as shocked by Jazz's open countenance as he himself felt. Not so Michael, though, who just nodded, a smile more in his body language than in his face, and brushed a stray strand of hair out of Jazz's face. "Do you want me to stay with him until he wakes?" he asked, looking at Richard.
Numbly, Richard nodded. "Yes, if you wouldn't mind. He'd be... more comfortable with someone else here," he said. "Especially blind..." he trailed off
"He manages quite well for a blind man," Michael replied dryly, and turned to reach behind himself, pulling the orange utility chair closer to the bed before sitting down in it.
*
Sound returned first. A faint humming that had to be lighting. Someone breathing nearby. The rustle of paper. The quiet plastic/metal creak of a chair as someone shifted position. Jaysen woke slowly, wondering where he was.
Scent came next. A vague medical miasma that seemed familiar, tinged faintly with oil and warm metal. The dusty dry scent of paper, with a trace of printer ink to it. A comfortingly spicy aftershave, and the hint of a utilitarian shampoo that he'd borrowed once in a while.
Then touch. Ambient temperature, low humidity. A mildly uncomfortable mattress beneath him and the scratchy dryness of military-laundered sheets and blanket. A pillow that was far too thin. The way his body ached all over, with the new parts itchiness to some parts of it that he'd come to identify with Ratchet's finest tender loving care.
Taste. He wanted a drink of water to wash out the taste in his mouth.
Sight....
"Prowl, where's m' visor?" he asked, voice rough from an unwilling throat.
"By your right hand," his friend replied calmly.
"An' what're ya doin' in Ratchet's recovery ward?"
"Waiting for you to wake up."
Jaysen tried to make that make sense. "Am I dreamin'?"
"If you were, I'd imagine you'd be able to see. As it happens, Sam and Brian came down to police headquarters and dragged me out here to figure out why you were taking an extended course in the art of unconsciousness."
And people thought Prowl had no sense of humor.
"What... happened?"
Another creak of the chair, as if Prowl was leaning forward, and a rustle of paper again, though this time it sounded like he was setting something down. "From what I've been told, several men with guns and more bullets than you had armor. Ironhide took the last few out after you fell and dragged you back here."
"An' ya cowed Ratchet outta his own recovery bay? 'M impressed, man."
"From what you've told me, no one could 'cow' him out of anywhere. He probably just got tired of watching your unconscious face and needed a break."
"Ya've got no idea how scary ya get when ya go all cold an' logical on people, do ya?" Jaysen said, chuckling as he struggled to sit up a little.
"Bed controls to your left," Prowl directed him. Questing, Jaysen found them on the railing and figured out how to manipulate the shape of the bed to what he wanted. Prowl was quiet.
"What's up?"
"When Sam and Brian came for me... I thought it was to tell me you'd been killed."
"'M not allowed t' die," Jaysen said with a faint chuckle, but meaning it. "Still owe ya a play, 'member?"
"Heh." Prowl allowed himself a soft laugh, though it didn't hide the shadow of distress Jaysen had heard. "The junior college is putting on 'An Enemy of the People' next week if you want me to hold you to that."
"I'll never understand what ya see in Ibsen," Jaysen groaned. "Gimme Shakespeare any day, man."
"You're a heathen who is unable to appreciate the elegant simplicity of Ibsen," Prowl informed him.
"An' ya've got all th' emotional range of an ice cube, Prowl," Jaysen shot back. "Shakespeare's all about passion, th' drama an' excitement...."
"I have quite enough drama and excitement with you in my life," replied Prowl.
"Hah. Knew ya loved me," Jaysen crowed with a smirk.
"Yes, well." Prowl was silent for a moment. "I must keep you around for something."
Jaysen froze. "Prowl...?" he asked cautiously.
"Next time duck," Prowl told him flatly, just barely sounding uncomfortable. "I don't want to be hauled back out here just to say goodbye to your corpse."
Jaysen was silent. Then, "Just so ya know... they're always listenin', here."
"Yes." Prowl's voice was dry. "I'd rather figured that."
The private comm channels in his head were all mercifully silent, but Jaysen didn't dare to reply even so much as Prowl's subtle, ambiguous confession. Not here. Not now. As long as there was plausible deniability, the obfuscation of ambiguous words... no one could know, not for sure. Even if they all did.
He closed his eyes, wretched, and reached for his visor, cradling it in his hands. Light plastic, hi-tech. Most of the time he forgot he was wearing it. He never took it off, not even when he was sleeping or showering. A few seconds to swipe the connections on its ends and his temples with rubbing alcohol, that was all. Never blind. Except with Prowl. As much as the scent of his Old Spice aftershave, that was how he'd known it was Prowl sitting with him. No one else would have even considered taking his vision from him.
Mouth in a line, he lifted the visor to put it back on.
Prowl caught his hand.
Pulling it gently away, Prowl opened his grasp, unfurled his fingers, touched his palm. And wrote carefully I care.
The words made their silent way inside of Jaysen. There, they dissolved the painful helplessness that was tying him up in knots. The words, unseen, unspoken, let him breathe again. And he did, taking a shaking, cleansing breath and letting it go before capturing Prowl's hand in return. So do I, Jaysen wrote. He hesitated, then gathered his courage and quickly drew a heart on Prowl's palm before closing his fingers around it. A message just for the two of them. Something no one could take away.
He was almost glad that he didn't have his visor on, though, so he didn't have to know what expression was on Prowl's face.
Prowl was quiet for a moment, then said, "So, would you like to tell me what went wrong on your mission?"
They were good. Breathing a soft sigh of relief, Jaysen picked his visor back up again and slipped it on, the world coming back in vibrant better-than-Technicolor.
*
"Let me see if I understand this correctly," Michael said. "Bumblebee was covering Spike as they retreated. And you were covering both of them. In the middle of the hall."
"How else was I s'posed t' make sure they didn't get hurt?" Jazz replied, sounding indignant.
"Bumblebee's armor is as good as yours... was, correct?" Michael asked.
"Yeah."
"And in the meantime, Ironhide was sneaking up behind the men with the guns, but couldn't fire at them because you were also in the line of fire, being, as you put it, 'between the bullets and the brats'."
"Yeah."
Michael closed his eyes and counted to ten. Then he opened his eyes and reached out, very deliberately, and flicked a finger hard against the center of Jazz's forehead, right above the visor.
"What's that for?" Jazz asked, sounding wounded.
"You're a military officer. Surely somewhere in your training they included a class in strategy and cross-lines of fire?" Michael demanded, irritated.
"Um...."
"And surely somewhere in that computer in your head is a set of basic tactics?"
"Um... not so much?"
"Obviously," Michael caustically returned.
"So what would have the correct procedure been, then?" a soft, deep voice inquired. Michael turned his head to see Optimus enter the room.
"To trust Bumblebee to do his job protecting Spike, take a sheltered position off to one side, and coordinate with Ironhide over communication lines to take down the gunners," Michael replied. It was a simple, clean strategy that he would have thought would be obvious.
Optimus smiled. "Effective. Unfortunately, we're lacking a tactician and the upper brass aren't likely to let us go recruiting around for one." He paused, then raised an eyebrow. "Would you be interested in a position to validate your clearance level?" he asked.
Michael blinked. "That's... unexpected," he managed.
"Don't break him, Prime," Jazz advised hurridly. "He doesn't handle curve balls well... 'less he's th' one throwin' 'em," he amended.
"We do need a tactician," Optimus said calmly. "Someone who could be back at base working from simulcast video and audio feeds to keep us all safe and our missions efficient. I need a way to justify your security clearance. And Jazz, obviously, needs someone to watch his back."
"Hey!" Jazz protested.
"And my current job?" Michael rebutted calmly.
"We're not on missions all the time," Optimus replied, bright blue eyes studying Michael. Swoops of gray threaded through Optimus' dark hair at the temples, lending him dignity. His was an imposing presence that made him seem somehow larger than he actually physically was. At the same time he seemed gentle... calming until provoked. Then, Michael had no doubt, he would be very dangerous to his enemies. "Consider it... a consulting position, if you'd like."
He would have to juggle things at the PD to rearrange his schedule around missions. He might have to take a rank demotion. At the same time.... "I don't even know what you do," he said.
Optimus' eyes drifted to Jazz, expectant. Michael looked at Jazz too.
"We're not an international unit at th' moment," Jazz said. "Jus' inside the country. We... take on th' guys th' FBI can't get the goods on. Mostly information retrieval, especially now that we've got Spike. Some sabotage. A few assassinations, when they're rightly deserved," he admitted. Given the lowness of his tone and the way Jazz had been when they'd met again, Michael didn't need it spelled out who performed most of the assassinations.
Could he be party to that? More importantly, even beyond the laws that he was sworn to uphold and protect, could he stomach making it possible for Jazz to kill? Could he live with that stain of further murder on his soul? He'd had to kill before, in the line of his job, but that had been self-defense. He'd had no choice.
But could he really say no?
"You swear, before God, that you're on the right side?" he asked quietly. And he couldn't see Jazz's sightless eyes through the visor, but he'd learned long ago that truth wasn't to be found in the human gaze anyway. Jazz nodded. Optimus did too.
"Th' data's always mounted too high for it t' be any other way," Jazz said lowly. "'Tain't politics or anythin' like that, Prowl. Maybe it ain't on th' side a' th' angels, t' be doin' this kinda work, but... no one gets hurt who oughtn't. I swear it."
*
The door hushed shut behind Prime and Prowl as they went off to do some official-type paperwork, and Jaysen was finally alone for the first time since he'd woken back up on the base. Alone in body if not mind... a hundred channels or more hummed through him as he was wide awake like he was on communications duty. Damned if he didn't want to just say screw it all and go back to Prowl's apartment with him, though. But even if he could've, he wouldn't've. For one thing, he had his duty. For another, Prowl had his. And for a third, if he shirked Prowl would give him that look, the one Jaysen had memorized early on and subsequently used himself on misbehaving subordinates more than once.
There were the moments of peace and quiet, sightless touch and being touched in return, trust and safety. Those were the moments that mattered, that enabled him to carry through with who he'd been made to be. And, really, Jaysen thought, watching the shifting numbers of the stock market flow past him, an intricate dance of patterns that moved to their own unknown music, that was enough for him. Let whatever anyone else thought be damned. He had his sanity and a measure of what he might call contentment or happiness; that was a shield. Everything outside of that space was... play.
Grinning, Jaysen found music to set the back of his mind humming and tapped into the wireless links that led back to the communications center on the other side of the building. He dove into the numbers and the communications, catching up from while he'd been out, looking for patterns, for puzzle pieces to be fit together, a whisper here, a rumor there, anything he could download, store, and use.
*
Well, Richard thought to himself, watching Jazz resume remote communications duty, at least that had all turned out well. His patient was nicely recovered mostly under his own volition; Jazz was awake and as dubiously sane as ever. His "friend" (and Richard paused to snort at the term, being far too familiar with it being applied to various relationships around the base, some of which held only marginal connection to the word's actual meaning) was now nominally part of the Project and thus no longer an exposure danger. And... he checked the monitors in the pool room... yes, Spike and Bumblebee were getting into another water fight, this time armed with contraband bright plastic water guns. Richard wondered if the two teenagers even knew what they were doing, but doubted it.
"Has anyone ever accused you of being a voyeur?" a mildly amused voice asked. Richard turned his chair to look at the Army Captain leaning on one arm against the doorway of the central communications room.
"Frequently," he replied dryly. "Usually you or Ironhide, if I recall correctly."
"You sound like we're incorrect in those accusations," Will Lennox replied, walking forward.
"I'd use the term 'hypocritical,' actually," Richard replied. "Back from your assignment, I see."
"Six months of sand, sand, and more sand," Lennox quipped. "And you say that like it's a bad thing."
The medic raised an eyebrow. "As the one who has to put up with you two getting into one a.m. arguments about marksmanship, breaking into the closed firing range, and then putting you both back together after you've completed your male bonding rituals by beating each other up, I feel I have the right to make judgement. I'd get a better night's sleep in my medbay."
"Yeah," Lennox said with a grin, "but the medbay lacks certain benefits to be found in our sterling company."
"Such as?"
"The only two people stubborn enough to work you out of one of your frustrated doctor snits and ensure you actually get a good night's sleep," Lennox replied. "So, miss me?"
"I'll doubtless feel otherwise in two weeks," Richard said, "but for now... yes. Welcome home, Captain."
Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger
part 4: Learning to Fly
by K. Stonham
prereleased 19th August 2007
The blond teenager who barreled into police headquarters and beelined for Michael, weaving between people and dodging several attempts to grab him without even seeming to notice them, was no one he'd ever seen before. But as the kid started trying to talk to him in rapid-flutter sign language, Michael took in the curly blond hair beneath a black cap, the bright blue eyes, the black gloves, and, most tellingly, the loose fit of his baseball jacket and pants, and came to an educated guess. A guess that was confirmed as another teenager, one he did recognize, caught up with the first, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
"'Bee, slow down!" In contrast to his companion Sam Witwicky was brown-haired and brown-eyed and wore a plain white t-shirt and close-fitting blue jeans. Though the metallic stud earrings were new since the last time Michael had seen him.
"Sam?" Michael asked. "And... Bumblebee?"
Brian, the blond's fingers spelled out, easier to follow since he'd slowed down.
"Brian," Michael repeated, nodding. "What are the two of you doing--" The world suddenly grew a little colder. "Jazz?" he asked.
"Yeah," Sam replied. "We ran into a little trouble the other night."
Ratchet doesn't know why he hasn't woken up yet, Brian signed. Prime told us to get you.
Michael quietly grabbed the jacket that was draped on the back of his chair, snagged three sheets of paper off his desk, and headed for the front door. The two teenagers followed him as he efficiently handed each sheet to the person it needed to get to on his way out. Outside their roles reversed and he followed the two Project members halfway down the block to a bright yellow Camaro that sat parked by the curb. Brian automatically got in the back while Michael looked at the expired meter, sighed, and put a quarter in out of a sense of karmic responsibility.
"So... 'Prowl'?" Sam asked, starting the car as Michael got in and fastened his seat belt.
"He told you about that." It was an observation, not a question, but Sam took it as one.
"Not as much as he told you, but yeah. We all got a briefing when Prime said he could keep you." Sam's grin was saucy. Michael sighed silently. Well, at least that explained the background check a week ago that had raised some flags on his information networks. Brian tapped Michael on the shoulder and handed him an ID card as he turned. The picture on it, Michael noted, was lifted from his driver's license. "Did he tell you you have a security clearance level?"
"It hadn't come up." After studying the card for a moment Michael pulled out his wallet and stowed it away. He was silent for a minute before he asked quietly, "So are you taking me to say goodbye to him?"
Brian clicked his tongue against his teeth, then gave a frustrated huff of breath. Glaring annoyed at his left sleeve, he pushed it up, revealing light golden metal. It probably dominated his body the way a similar silver metal covered Jazz's... but given that Brian's ran to his wrist at least, Michael would place odds that even more of the teenager was cybernetically "enhanced" than Jazz. A shimmering screen appeared in the air above the back of Brian's arm, presumably projected from a glowing red dot just above the wrist joint. Ratchet says he's fine, white words appeared on a shimmering blue background, and there's no reason for him not to be waking up.
If there was no physical cause, then it had to be psychological. "What happened?"
"He was covering me and 'Bee getting out of... where we were," Sam said. "Him versus a dozen guys with Uzis."
And armor-piercing rounds, Brian added.
"Ironhide took out what was left of them from behind once we were clear, but by then they'd gotten their licks in," Sam said. Michael frowned slightly as they hit yet another green light, but held his peace. If Sam or Brian was influencing the traffic patterns, he didn't want to know about it.
Jazz's armor is so much slag, Brian scribbled. Mikaela was horrified. She has to rebuild it before he can go out in action again.
Armor. Not body armor, just armor. Michael wasn't sure he wanted to know the distinction. "As long as it was the armor, not him."
"Yeah. So." Sam looked over at him briefly. "You know sign language?" he asked curiously.
It seemed like something that might be useful, Michael gestured in reply.
"Cool." Sam grinned. He tapped the side of his head with one finger. "None of us needs it to talk with 'Bee, but I downloaded it anyway."
Did you learn it before or after Jazz told you about me? Brian asked, head cocked inquisitively to one side.
"He only informed me about any of you a few months ago," Michael replied, noticing they were slowing as they approached the base, far sooner than they logically should have been able to. The long string of green lights flashed through his mind even as Sam flashed his own ID card at the guard and was waved through. "I learned sign language when I was in the Academy."
"Excellent. You'll fit in perfect with all the military nuts around here," Sam said, heading for a large building on the outskirts of the base.
Ignore him, Brian wrote. He's a military brat. It's the equivalent of being dropped on his head as a child. But his eyes remained on Sam.
Michael allowed himself a faint smile.
Richard looked up from the screen as the door to the post-op room hushed open. He was not surprised to see Optimus enter, followed by a person whose name and face Richard knew even if they'd never met before. He also wasn't surprised by the two teenagers who gamely followed. Nor was he surprised to see the stranger walk straight to the only occupied bed in the small medical ward.
"'Ratchet,' correct?" Michael Powell's voice was quiet and mild.
Richard nodded. "Yes. 'Prowl,' right?"
The man nodded. "He's still not waking up?"
"Nope. And I can't figure out why."
Jazz's friend reached out and brushed fingers in a ghost-like touch across the back of Jazz's hand. "How long has he been out?"
"Eighteen hours post-op. His systems should have reset and he should have woken up after six. This is not normal."
Fingers drifted upward, brushed lightly across a shoulder, paused. "And the last thing that happened before he was knocked out was a firefight?"
"Yeah." A bulky presence blocked out the light from the door. Ironhide. "Why?" the weapons expert asked belligerently.
"His visor continuously transmits its data to his brain, right, even while he's sleeping?"
"Yes," Richard replied, not seeing the point.
Michael turned to look at all of them. "Has the concept of sensory overload not crossed anyone's mind?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to the unconscious patient and reached for his visor.
"What are you doing?!" Richard demanded, starting forward to stop the detective.
"Jazz never removes his visor," Prime agreed.
Michael paused, looked at Optimus. At Richard. At all of them. "He does with me," he said quietly, firmly, and unhooked Jazz's visor from its connectors, setting it on the bed by his side.
Jazz's face somehow looked wrong to Richard's eyes without the visor shielding half of it. Glancing at the other Project members, Richard found them looking just as shocked by Jazz's open countenance as he himself felt. Not so Michael, though, who just nodded, a smile more in his body language than in his face, and brushed a stray strand of hair out of Jazz's face. "Do you want me to stay with him until he wakes?" he asked, looking at Richard.
Numbly, Richard nodded. "Yes, if you wouldn't mind. He'd be... more comfortable with someone else here," he said. "Especially blind..." he trailed off
"He manages quite well for a blind man," Michael replied dryly, and turned to reach behind himself, pulling the orange utility chair closer to the bed before sitting down in it.
Sound returned first. A faint humming that had to be lighting. Someone breathing nearby. The rustle of paper. The quiet plastic/metal creak of a chair as someone shifted position. Jaysen woke slowly, wondering where he was.
Scent came next. A vague medical miasma that seemed familiar, tinged faintly with oil and warm metal. The dusty dry scent of paper, with a trace of printer ink to it. A comfortingly spicy aftershave, and the hint of a utilitarian shampoo that he'd borrowed once in a while.
Then touch. Ambient temperature, low humidity. A mildly uncomfortable mattress beneath him and the scratchy dryness of military-laundered sheets and blanket. A pillow that was far too thin. The way his body ached all over, with the new parts itchiness to some parts of it that he'd come to identify with Ratchet's finest tender loving care.
Taste. He wanted a drink of water to wash out the taste in his mouth.
Sight....
"Prowl, where's m' visor?" he asked, voice rough from an unwilling throat.
"By your right hand," his friend replied calmly.
"An' what're ya doin' in Ratchet's recovery ward?"
"Waiting for you to wake up."
Jaysen tried to make that make sense. "Am I dreamin'?"
"If you were, I'd imagine you'd be able to see. As it happens, Sam and Brian came down to police headquarters and dragged me out here to figure out why you were taking an extended course in the art of unconsciousness."
And people thought Prowl had no sense of humor.
"What... happened?"
Another creak of the chair, as if Prowl was leaning forward, and a rustle of paper again, though this time it sounded like he was setting something down. "From what I've been told, several men with guns and more bullets than you had armor. Ironhide took the last few out after you fell and dragged you back here."
"An' ya cowed Ratchet outta his own recovery bay? 'M impressed, man."
"From what you've told me, no one could 'cow' him out of anywhere. He probably just got tired of watching your unconscious face and needed a break."
"Ya've got no idea how scary ya get when ya go all cold an' logical on people, do ya?" Jaysen said, chuckling as he struggled to sit up a little.
"Bed controls to your left," Prowl directed him. Questing, Jaysen found them on the railing and figured out how to manipulate the shape of the bed to what he wanted. Prowl was quiet.
"What's up?"
"When Sam and Brian came for me... I thought it was to tell me you'd been killed."
"'M not allowed t' die," Jaysen said with a faint chuckle, but meaning it. "Still owe ya a play, 'member?"
"Heh." Prowl allowed himself a soft laugh, though it didn't hide the shadow of distress Jaysen had heard. "The junior college is putting on 'An Enemy of the People' next week if you want me to hold you to that."
"I'll never understand what ya see in Ibsen," Jaysen groaned. "Gimme Shakespeare any day, man."
"You're a heathen who is unable to appreciate the elegant simplicity of Ibsen," Prowl informed him.
"An' ya've got all th' emotional range of an ice cube, Prowl," Jaysen shot back. "Shakespeare's all about passion, th' drama an' excitement...."
"I have quite enough drama and excitement with you in my life," replied Prowl.
"Hah. Knew ya loved me," Jaysen crowed with a smirk.
"Yes, well." Prowl was silent for a moment. "I must keep you around for something."
Jaysen froze. "Prowl...?" he asked cautiously.
"Next time duck," Prowl told him flatly, just barely sounding uncomfortable. "I don't want to be hauled back out here just to say goodbye to your corpse."
Jaysen was silent. Then, "Just so ya know... they're always listenin', here."
"Yes." Prowl's voice was dry. "I'd rather figured that."
The private comm channels in his head were all mercifully silent, but Jaysen didn't dare to reply even so much as Prowl's subtle, ambiguous confession. Not here. Not now. As long as there was plausible deniability, the obfuscation of ambiguous words... no one could know, not for sure. Even if they all did.
He closed his eyes, wretched, and reached for his visor, cradling it in his hands. Light plastic, hi-tech. Most of the time he forgot he was wearing it. He never took it off, not even when he was sleeping or showering. A few seconds to swipe the connections on its ends and his temples with rubbing alcohol, that was all. Never blind. Except with Prowl. As much as the scent of his Old Spice aftershave, that was how he'd known it was Prowl sitting with him. No one else would have even considered taking his vision from him.
Mouth in a line, he lifted the visor to put it back on.
Prowl caught his hand.
Pulling it gently away, Prowl opened his grasp, unfurled his fingers, touched his palm. And wrote carefully I care.
The words made their silent way inside of Jaysen. There, they dissolved the painful helplessness that was tying him up in knots. The words, unseen, unspoken, let him breathe again. And he did, taking a shaking, cleansing breath and letting it go before capturing Prowl's hand in return. So do I, Jaysen wrote. He hesitated, then gathered his courage and quickly drew a heart on Prowl's palm before closing his fingers around it. A message just for the two of them. Something no one could take away.
He was almost glad that he didn't have his visor on, though, so he didn't have to know what expression was on Prowl's face.
Prowl was quiet for a moment, then said, "So, would you like to tell me what went wrong on your mission?"
They were good. Breathing a soft sigh of relief, Jaysen picked his visor back up again and slipped it on, the world coming back in vibrant better-than-Technicolor.
"Let me see if I understand this correctly," Michael said. "Bumblebee was covering Spike as they retreated. And you were covering both of them. In the middle of the hall."
"How else was I s'posed t' make sure they didn't get hurt?" Jazz replied, sounding indignant.
"Bumblebee's armor is as good as yours... was, correct?" Michael asked.
"Yeah."
"And in the meantime, Ironhide was sneaking up behind the men with the guns, but couldn't fire at them because you were also in the line of fire, being, as you put it, 'between the bullets and the brats'."
"Yeah."
Michael closed his eyes and counted to ten. Then he opened his eyes and reached out, very deliberately, and flicked a finger hard against the center of Jazz's forehead, right above the visor.
"What's that for?" Jazz asked, sounding wounded.
"You're a military officer. Surely somewhere in your training they included a class in strategy and cross-lines of fire?" Michael demanded, irritated.
"Um...."
"And surely somewhere in that computer in your head is a set of basic tactics?"
"Um... not so much?"
"Obviously," Michael caustically returned.
"So what would have the correct procedure been, then?" a soft, deep voice inquired. Michael turned his head to see Optimus enter the room.
"To trust Bumblebee to do his job protecting Spike, take a sheltered position off to one side, and coordinate with Ironhide over communication lines to take down the gunners," Michael replied. It was a simple, clean strategy that he would have thought would be obvious.
Optimus smiled. "Effective. Unfortunately, we're lacking a tactician and the upper brass aren't likely to let us go recruiting around for one." He paused, then raised an eyebrow. "Would you be interested in a position to validate your clearance level?" he asked.
Michael blinked. "That's... unexpected," he managed.
"Don't break him, Prime," Jazz advised hurridly. "He doesn't handle curve balls well... 'less he's th' one throwin' 'em," he amended.
"We do need a tactician," Optimus said calmly. "Someone who could be back at base working from simulcast video and audio feeds to keep us all safe and our missions efficient. I need a way to justify your security clearance. And Jazz, obviously, needs someone to watch his back."
"Hey!" Jazz protested.
"And my current job?" Michael rebutted calmly.
"We're not on missions all the time," Optimus replied, bright blue eyes studying Michael. Swoops of gray threaded through Optimus' dark hair at the temples, lending him dignity. His was an imposing presence that made him seem somehow larger than he actually physically was. At the same time he seemed gentle... calming until provoked. Then, Michael had no doubt, he would be very dangerous to his enemies. "Consider it... a consulting position, if you'd like."
He would have to juggle things at the PD to rearrange his schedule around missions. He might have to take a rank demotion. At the same time.... "I don't even know what you do," he said.
Optimus' eyes drifted to Jazz, expectant. Michael looked at Jazz too.
"We're not an international unit at th' moment," Jazz said. "Jus' inside the country. We... take on th' guys th' FBI can't get the goods on. Mostly information retrieval, especially now that we've got Spike. Some sabotage. A few assassinations, when they're rightly deserved," he admitted. Given the lowness of his tone and the way Jazz had been when they'd met again, Michael didn't need it spelled out who performed most of the assassinations.
Could he be party to that? More importantly, even beyond the laws that he was sworn to uphold and protect, could he stomach making it possible for Jazz to kill? Could he live with that stain of further murder on his soul? He'd had to kill before, in the line of his job, but that had been self-defense. He'd had no choice.
But could he really say no?
"You swear, before God, that you're on the right side?" he asked quietly. And he couldn't see Jazz's sightless eyes through the visor, but he'd learned long ago that truth wasn't to be found in the human gaze anyway. Jazz nodded. Optimus did too.
"Th' data's always mounted too high for it t' be any other way," Jazz said lowly. "'Tain't politics or anythin' like that, Prowl. Maybe it ain't on th' side a' th' angels, t' be doin' this kinda work, but... no one gets hurt who oughtn't. I swear it."
The door hushed shut behind Prime and Prowl as they went off to do some official-type paperwork, and Jaysen was finally alone for the first time since he'd woken back up on the base. Alone in body if not mind... a hundred channels or more hummed through him as he was wide awake like he was on communications duty. Damned if he didn't want to just say screw it all and go back to Prowl's apartment with him, though. But even if he could've, he wouldn't've. For one thing, he had his duty. For another, Prowl had his. And for a third, if he shirked Prowl would give him that look, the one Jaysen had memorized early on and subsequently used himself on misbehaving subordinates more than once.
There were the moments of peace and quiet, sightless touch and being touched in return, trust and safety. Those were the moments that mattered, that enabled him to carry through with who he'd been made to be. And, really, Jaysen thought, watching the shifting numbers of the stock market flow past him, an intricate dance of patterns that moved to their own unknown music, that was enough for him. Let whatever anyone else thought be damned. He had his sanity and a measure of what he might call contentment or happiness; that was a shield. Everything outside of that space was... play.
Grinning, Jaysen found music to set the back of his mind humming and tapped into the wireless links that led back to the communications center on the other side of the building. He dove into the numbers and the communications, catching up from while he'd been out, looking for patterns, for puzzle pieces to be fit together, a whisper here, a rumor there, anything he could download, store, and use.
Well, Richard thought to himself, watching Jazz resume remote communications duty, at least that had all turned out well. His patient was nicely recovered mostly under his own volition; Jazz was awake and as dubiously sane as ever. His "friend" (and Richard paused to snort at the term, being far too familiar with it being applied to various relationships around the base, some of which held only marginal connection to the word's actual meaning) was now nominally part of the Project and thus no longer an exposure danger. And... he checked the monitors in the pool room... yes, Spike and Bumblebee were getting into another water fight, this time armed with contraband bright plastic water guns. Richard wondered if the two teenagers even knew what they were doing, but doubted it.
"Has anyone ever accused you of being a voyeur?" a mildly amused voice asked. Richard turned his chair to look at the Army Captain leaning on one arm against the doorway of the central communications room.
"Frequently," he replied dryly. "Usually you or Ironhide, if I recall correctly."
"You sound like we're incorrect in those accusations," Will Lennox replied, walking forward.
"I'd use the term 'hypocritical,' actually," Richard replied. "Back from your assignment, I see."
"Six months of sand, sand, and more sand," Lennox quipped. "And you say that like it's a bad thing."
The medic raised an eyebrow. "As the one who has to put up with you two getting into one a.m. arguments about marksmanship, breaking into the closed firing range, and then putting you both back together after you've completed your male bonding rituals by beating each other up, I feel I have the right to make judgement. I'd get a better night's sleep in my medbay."
"Yeah," Lennox said with a grin, "but the medbay lacks certain benefits to be found in our sterling company."
"Such as?"
"The only two people stubborn enough to work you out of one of your frustrated doctor snits and ensure you actually get a good night's sleep," Lennox replied. "So, miss me?"
"I'll doubtless feel otherwise in two weeks," Richard said, "but for now... yes. Welcome home, Captain."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-08-19 05:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-19 08:26 pm (UTC)Love it, as always. <3 to Prowl flicking Jazz's forehead.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-19 08:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-19 08:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-20 03:48 am (UTC)I also am looking forward to any future inclusion of the Decepticons. Because that would be awesome.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-20 02:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-06 11:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-20 04:54 pm (UTC)Love Prowl, the natural tactician, finding his place.