AN: Hey guys, sup? Sorry for the wait, of course... but... don't expect the updates to be any quicker. : / I am so sorry.

Prowl stepped into his office the next morning, reading through the offcycle notifications. There were only a handful, typical for a quiet shift. He made it halfway to his desk before his doorwings twitched and he froze. He glanced at the desk for a moment, the sensitive appendages swiveling and angling to pick up the various information the room was giving him. Then he relaxed and continued on his way, the ghost of a smirk crossing his face. He sat, logged into his untouched mainframe computer, and began his daily routine.

Once he was ready, he signaled Smokescreen and the other Praxian entered the office so they could discuss the events of the offcycle and what they had planned for the day. Smokescreen left and Prowl carried on with the paperwork he needed to complete. After an entire joor and a half of almost perfect silence in the room, Prowl spoke.

"I take it your somewhat rash decision to inform your subordinates has caught up to you," he commented mildly. There was a faint keen from underneath the desk, but that was all. Prowl couldn't help but smirk. "For what it is worth, if you trusted them enough to tell them, even if you didn't give yourself time to think about it, I believe they can be trusted." A frown replaced the smirk. "However, if you're in the business of telling people, you have to tell Bluestreak, Jazz," he said softly. "He's worried, he misses you, and he knows this all started from that mission. He feels responsible, and it is wearing on him. He's asked me more than once what is going on and I have informed him that you will tell him when you're ready. But you should make that soon."

There was no answer, no sound or movement from under his desk. He returned his full attention to his work.

At midmorning his door slid open and Red Alert burst in. Prowl looked up, his doorwings flaring in annoyance.

"That is it, Prowl!" the security director announced, stomping forward as the door closed behind him. "I have had it with this sneaking around and dodged questions and half answers! I want to know what the pit is going on with Jazz and I want to know NOW."

The mech sat down in the guest chair forcefully, glaring across the desk at the tactician. Prowl lifted an optic ridge. "Jazz's condition is medical and classified. You will be informed when it becomes pertinent for you to know."

Red Alert glared harder, a faint hissing rising from him. "He is dangerous and it is my job to safeguard the Autobots from all dangers, and you will tell me what is going on."

Prowl's bland expression didn't change. "Jazz's condition is medical and classified, and I assure you we are doing everything in our power to minimize the risks to all involved. When your expertise is needed, you will be informed."

The security director started vibrating. "I will pull rank on you, Prowl, do not test me," he warned.

Prowl put his datapad down, folding his hands on his desk. His doorwings lifted slightly, his expression going stony. "My rank is not the one in question here. Jazz's condition is medical and classified. If you wish to know the details, feel free to threaten Ratchet for them. I am neither authorized nor inclined to share that information with you, Red Alert."

The security director glared. The executive officer stared back, unyielding. Unstoppable force. Immovable object.

Prowl's internal comm blipped. /Prowl, is Red Alert in your office?/ Inferno demanded.

/Yes./

/Primus, I am so sorry, I'll be there in just a klik!/

The faintest hiss of a giggle came from underneath Prowl's desk. Red Alert shot a startled glance at it, and then jumped out of his seat. "IS HE UNDER YOUR DESK?!" he shrieked.

"No," Prowl said firmly, nothing in his body language changing.

"YES HE IS, I JUST HEARD HIM LAUGH!" Red Alert said shrilly, pointing.

Another, louder, stifled giggle came from under the desk. Prowl twitched and there was a soft clang, followed by an equally quiet "ow."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," the tactician told him.

Red Alert's helm horns sparked and he let out a grating screech—classic signs of a security director meltdown. He'd start frothing at the mouth in a moment if he didn't get calmed down. Fortunately, Inferno burst in right at that moment.

"Red! I told you not to do this!" the assistant security director exclaimed. He grabbed the incoherently furious Red Alert, who was gesticulating wildly, and shoved him out of the office. "I thought we agreed this wasn't a good idea, you can't just demand information that Prowl doesn't want to give you, do you want to be on his bad side?"

Jazz exploded with laughter, shaking the desk a bit, as the door closed behind the two mechs. Prowl slid his chair to the side and the saboteur crawled out, but couldn't get to his feet. Prowl went back to work for a breem, waiting. Jazz finally calmed down, and once he'd gotten ahold of himself he staggered up and plopped down into the guest chair, grinning lopsidedly.

"Y'know, I really needed that."

Prowl smirked. "Then I'm glad, though knowing Red Alert, he will only get more aggressive until he has answers."

Jazz shrugged. "An' he'll have t'suck it up. He can't pull rank without two other officers t'back 'im, so we're safe for now."

Prowl nodded agreement, picking up his datapad to go back to work. "So, who did you tell?"

Jazz pursed his lips. "Mirage, BlackHawk, an' Springlock."

"All trustworthy and loyal. I approve." Prowl nodded. "What did they have to say?"

Jazz slumped in his seat. "Uh, like, three million questions, first off, but after that mostly jus' things we already figured out. 'Raj thinks it'll be helpful t'have 'im interact with different people, though, in case there's somethin' weird 'bout how he reacts t'you." The minibot shrugged.

"I concur, if you are comfortable having other mecha interact with Ricochet at this point?" Prowl lifted an optic ridge at him.

"Yeah, they'll be fine," Jazz agreed.

"Of course they will," Prowl muttered, rolling his optics.

Jazz snickered, grinning at his best friend. "I seen what Ricochet can dish out. 'S long as my mecha are as ready t'fight back as you were, they'll be fine."

The tactician hummed and glanced at him significantly. "Bluestreak."

"Nooooo," Jazz moaned, sliding right out of his seat and onto the floor.

"Why not?"

"'Cause… 'Cause it's Bluestreak, tha's why!" Jazz whined.

"I fail to understand your reasoning. He will not think less of you, I can almost guarantee it."

"'Cause…he's… I don'…I can't…"

Prowl leaned over the desk to look at the saboteur on the floor. "Stop. Think about what you're trying to say. Formulate a sentence. Then say it." He ordered.

Jazz fell silent for a long breem, and Prowl went back to work.

"I don' want him t'think…tha' I can't protect him," Jazz whispered. "I told 'im he would be safe with me, an' I don' want him t'think there's somethin' wrong with me tha' makes that a lie." He curled up a bit. "Even if it is," he whispered.

"It isn't," Prowl countered softly. "If Bluestreak's account is accurate, Ricochet was less aggressive toward him than he has been to me two out of three times I have interacted with him. I'm pretty sure you're hurting him more by pushing him away than by telling him the truth."

Jazz fell silent again. "Mech, how come everythin' sounds so simple an' straightforward when you say it?"

Prowl smirked. "Because I am a tactician and it is my job to make things make sense. I'll come with you to tell him if you want."

Jazz sighed. "Yeah, that'd help, thanks."

Several breems passed in silence while Prowl worked and Jazz stared at the ceiling from the floor.

"Don't you have work to do?" Prowl wondered. There was movement near the ceiling that made his doorwings twitch. He glanced back sharply, but there was nothing there. Another flash of movement on the other side of his desk drew his gaze back to Jazz… who was not there anymore.

Prowl sighed deeply, shaking his helm. "Sometimes I regret helping you learn how to do that," he said.

A quiet snicker echoed out of the vents, and Prowl continued his work in silence.

~0~

That evening, Bluestreak was in his room, reading an old comic on his datapad. It was his favorite comic. He liked to reread it when he was upset, finding the familiar story comforting. He was almost to his favorite part when Jazz kicked his door in.

"ALRIGHT BABY BLUE HOLD ONTA YER CHEVRON, IMMA TELL YA A STORY!" the saboteur hollered.

Bluestreak jumped straight up, datapad flying across the room, and when he landed he was clutching his rife, optics wide. Jazz bounced in, grinning manically, and plopped himself down on the berth next to the young mech.

"That was exceptionally rude," Prowl scolded the minibot from the door.

"I almost shot you!" Bluestreak exclaimed, subspacing his rifle and sitting up. "Could you knock next time? Please?"

Jazz was still grinning like a nutcase, his visor bright. "Sorry, I'll do that." He handed the thrown datapad back to him and Bluestreak took it, putting it in his subspace.

"May I come in, Bluestreak?" Prowl asked politely, still standing in the hallway.

"Of course, Prowl," Bluestreak said, with a smile that wasn't quite enthusiastic enough for the chipper Autobot.

Prowl took a seat in the desk chair, the door sliding shut behind him with a quiet grinding. Jazz rubbed his hands together gleefully.

"A'right, kiddo, you ready fer one crazy story?" he asked.

Bluestreak eyed him. "I… guess?" he said, drawing his knees up to sit cross-legged.

"This's a story 'bout a mech called… what're we gonna call 'im?" Jazz asked Prowl.

"Rude," Prowl deadpanned.

"Tha's a terrible name, try again," Jazz said.

"Then troubled."

Jazz nodded. "Troubled's a good name. A story 'bout a mech called Troubled. Now, Troubled grew up on tha streets a one'a th'most gang-ridden cities on Cybertron, back in th'day, an' like most mecha on th'streets in tha' town, ended up joinin' a gang. Troubled did a lotta bad things in th'gangs, like a lot, just like ev'rybody else there with 'im—butcha see, Troubled wasn' like th'other gangsters. No," Jazz shook his head, frowning with an exaggeratedly solemn face, "y'see, Troubled had somethin' wrong 'im, with 'is processor. Made 'im somethin' o'a wild card, unpredictable inna bad way, an' really hard t'like. Ya'd be talkin' with 'im one moment, an' th'next he'd be stabbin' ya t'death." Jazz shrugged. "Like I said, messed up. But th'real trouble with Troubled, was he knew he was messed up."

Bluestreak was listening intently, frowning. "That sounds awful for him," he commented.

Jazz nodded, and his solemnity was real instead of exaggerated. "It was. He hated it. An' the real real trouble with Troubled, was he didn' know what was wrong with 'im, an' that messed 'im up almost as much as 'is messed up processor did. But then," Jazz grinned again, a sparkle coming back to his visor. "Then Troubled met Mr. Officer!" Prowl rolled his optics. "An' Troubled was in a pretty bad place when he met Mr. Officer, like mentally an' all, but Mr. Officer was like…" Jazz cocked his helm. "Well, he was like Primus himself had risen from th'depths o'Cybertron t'knock some sense inta Troubled."

Prowl blinked, his doorwings flicking, but otherwise he didn't react.

"An' it worked!" Jazz announced with a wild gesture. "Mr. Officer knew stuff 'bout Troubled's condition an' how t'handle it, an' t'gether they got Troubled outta th'gangs an' inta somethin' tha' resembled a normal life. I guess. Fer a while. But… then things started gettin'… dangerous again. There was a war. An' Troubled had ta do stuff… a lot like what he'd had t'do in th'gangs, 'cause people needed 'im to. An' that was really bad fer Troubled, 'cause Troubled had a breaking point that nobody—not Troubled, or Mr. Officer, or anybody else—knew about. Th'gangs never could push 'im t'that breaking point, but the war… the war could, an' it did." Jazz fell silent, staring down at the floor for a long moment. Prowl could see how much Bluestreak wanted to say something, or ask a question, but the mech restrained himself, waiting. Jazz finally looked up, meeting the young Praxian's gaze. "That's what you saw, baby Blue. Tha's what happened t'me last vorn. 'M sorry I didn' tell ya all this time, but I didn'… I didn' wantcha t'think I couldn' take care o'ya. Ya had enough problems t'deal with, without worryin' 'bout mine," he said softly.

Bluestreak didn't say anything for a long moment, though he kept opening his mouth like he was going to. Jazz was staring at the floor again, waiting like a mech condemned.

"You've been this way… all this time?" Bluestreak finally asked, his voice a bit shaky.

"I been borderline personality disorder as long as I c'n remember," Jazz admitted. "Only been split since last vorn though."

Bluestreak's doorwings trembled while he did another fish impression, either completely lost for words or with too many words to decide what to say. Jazz was still staring at the floor, sinking lower every second there was silence in the room. It was heavy to him. So heavy. Prowl just waited, trusting them to work it out.

"You should have… you should have told me," Bluestreak finally choked out, a keen rising from his engine. He reached out, his vents ramping up and down trying to control his internal temperature. Jazz looked pained, but lifted an arm with only a scant instant of hesitation so Bluestreak could hug him. Bluestreak scooted closer, trying to stifle his keens, and rested his helm on Jazz's shoulder.

"I could have… helped you, or, something…" the young mech said over his quiet cries, his voice wobbling.

"Ya did help," Jazz said softly, rubbing the mech's dorsal plating comfortingly. "Jus' by bein' yourself, ya helped plenty, baby Blue. Ya gave me somethin' t'look forward to, someone t'be better for."

"But I could have helped… I didn't know…" Bluestreak whined, getting control of himself a bit. "I'm sorry."

"Ain't got nothin' t'be sorry for." Jazz said firmly. "I'm th'one that didn' tell ya, even though ya deserved t'know. I'm sorry, Bluestreak."

Bluestreak's vents cycled, clearing the last of the overwhelming emotions from his systems, though he didn't pull away from Jazz. "I accept your apology," the young mech murmured. Then he frowned, his doorwings drooping. "Did you split because of me?" he asked in a small voice.

Jazz didn't answer for a long moment, glancing at Prowl for guidance.

/The truth./ Prowl commed, lifting an optic ridge.

Jazz sighed. "I split 'cause you were gettin' tortured, but that ain't your fault. 'S my fault for bringin' ya. Don' blame y'self for this, alright? Blame ain't gonna control Ricochet." He muttered the last part, almost to himself.

Bluestreak sat up, pulling away. "Ricochet?"

Jazz winced. "That's 'is name, or that's what he tells us."

Bluestreak cocked his helm, doorwings fluttering in confusion. "He has a name?"

The saboteur smirked a bit. "Lemme explain."

~0~

Much later, Jazz followed Prowl to his room and threw himself on the Praxian's berth while Prowl pulled some datapads out of subspace and set them on his desk. He glanced over as he organized them with what was already there.

"You did very well, Jazz," he said.

Jazz just groaned, staying face down on the berth dramatically. Prowl rolled his optics and sat down in the desk chair. He worked for a few breems while Jazz recovered from the stress, but then remembered something and frowned. After a moment of thought, he turned to Jazz.

"Jazz… when you described our first meeting to Bluestreak…" he began hesitantly. Jazz turned his helm, pillowing it in his arms. "You said it was like Primus had confronted you. You were embellishing, weren't you?"

Jazz cocked an optic ridge behind his visor, the tilt of his mouth translating it beyond the translucent material. "Mm.. not really," he admitted.

Prowl just stared at him, his consternation subtle but still visible.

Jazz chuckled, sitting up. "Guess it didn' feel that way to you, huh." He met Prowl's gaze solemnly. "Never got around t'askin' ya, but… why didn't ya shoot me that night?"

Prowl cycled a vent out, glancing down. "A couple decaorns before we met," he started quietly. "I responded to a call regarding an armed femme on a busy street threatening to shoot herself. I tried to talk her down… and I believe I could have, if I'd had more time, but another patrol responded, she startled and appeared threatening to the officers…" he trailed off, and then shrugged his doorwings, looking back at Jazz. "I saw the same thing in her that I saw in you that night. I didn't want it to end the same way."

Jazz nodded, and then smiled. "Don' think I ever said thanks for that, so… thank you, Prowl. Anybody else woulda killed me."

Prowl smiled back. "You're welcome, Jazz."

AN: In case it wasnt clear, each department commander can pull rank on other department commanders who outrank them when something happens involving their department (like Jazz being a threat to their security). However, the officer has to get two other officers to back them up, and then their combined authority overrides the other officer. Three officers working together could insist Optimus Prime himself cooperates with something they want him to do. What are the odds of that happening, tho?

This stipulation applies to the CMO as well. Does Ratchet care?

No.

Does that stop Ratchet from pulling rank on anybody and everybody?

No.

Does anybody call Ratchet out on his misuse of power and slighting of protocol?

Not if they want to live, they dont.