His anger is like a thundercloud over his helm, lightning sparking in all directions and air rumbling ominously. Wiser mechs have already fled the Bay. Only a couple brave sparks have remained behind, electing to watch the fireworks with glee in their optics. That the twins are these brave sparks is no surprise to Jazz.
Jazz himself has no choice in the matter. Ratchet’s cut the mobility to his legs so he couldn’t get up even if he wanted to. (Though he can hack through Ratchet’s medical overrides and restore function, Jazz prefers the rest of his limbs intact. He wouldn’t put it past the Hatchet to simply remove his legs.)
Still, despite the stormy anger, Ratchet’s hands are unfailingly gentle as they delve into Jazz’s internals, dutifully removing scrap after scrap of shrapnel that had managed to pierce his armor.
“You’d think a member of Spec Ops would have learned to duck by now,” Ratchet hisses, outwardly seething, his fury outmatched only by the fear-worry-relief mixture that vibrates in his energy field.
“Ah, come on, Ratch,” Jazz replies cheerfully, ignoring the fact that they have an audience. “I did duck. It jes didn’t do any good.”
A rumble echoes in Ratchet’s engine. In the background, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker make simultaneous noises of shocked glee. Previous attempts to get them to leave had done no good, especially since Ratchet’s attention had been completely purloined by Jazz’s incapacitating injury.
“You and your pit-slagged confidence,” the medic all but snarls, though his vocalizer is low, the sort of soft tone that would make even Megatron have a second thought. “Only the twins are worse than you, Jazz, and you know better.”
“Hey! We resemble that remark!” Sideswipe comments, not at all offended. Sunstreaker then elbows him in the side with an echoing clang of metal on metal.
Ratchet swings toward them, death in his optics. “Get. Out.”
They get. Rather quickly for that matter. Scurrying out as though Slag had breathed fire on their afts.
Huffing, Ratchet returns his attention to Jazz and nearly startles when Jazz reaches up, curling fingers around Ratchet’s arm. “I cut access to your motor functions,” Ratchet says bluntly, but he doesn’t return to work.
Jazz grins cheekily. “Sparkling play and you know it.” He gently strokes a finger over white plating. “Forgive me?”
Ratchet lowers his head, optics everywhere but on Jazz. “I can’t keep doing this.”
He says that everytime. And yet, days later, Jazz crawls back into Ratchet’s berth and the medic welcomes him. Each and every time.
Jazz sighs. “Ya really want ta play this game again?”
“It’s not a game!” Ratchet all but roars, and then hurriedly dials down his vocalizer again, before too-curious audials try to learn more gossip. “I’m serious, Jazz.”
“Ya always are.” At least Ratchet is looking at him now, and Jazz meets his gaze evenly. “Say what ya mean, Ratch. Cause this time, I ain’t fighting. I’m already locked in one never-ending war, I ain’t keepin’ up another.”
Ratchet’s answer is to bend his focus back to Jazz’s repairs. The silence that drifts through the Medbay is as unsettling as it is heavy. Jazz, having not released his hold on Ratchet’s arm, strokes the white plating softly.
“Is it that much of a bother?” he asks, his spark twisting inwardly.
Ratchet pauses as though considering. “No,” he answers finally, vocalizer a bit staticky. “No, it’s always been worth it.”
He says nothing more. Jazz lets him work in silence, mulling over their conversation. And when his repairs are complete, Ratchet doesn’t ask him to leave. There is, instead, a soft request to stay.
Pandora's Box 