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Description
If they had learned anything positive from the war, it had been compromise. There were never ideal or even semi-decent circumstances - one had to make do with what they got.  Honestly, if not for war, Prowl had doubted he and Jazz would even spare each other a second glance. They had to make too many compromises to make this - whatever this had been between them, - work. Yet, another thing war had taught them was persistence. 

So here he was now, pledged to keep the notorious lieutenant from doing anything stupid while he was healing. The task was close to impossible, but Ratchet had stressed how important it was to keep the medical schedule, and Prowl was still in awe from the way Jazz whined and keened and clasped his forearm in pain so tightly that he dented the armor. He wouldn’t react to anything too deep in his own pain and only relaxed to Ratchet’s voice but still refused to let go of Prowl.
Prowl had known Jazz’s missions weren’t safe and could go wrong in a split click, he’d known the saboteur had been hit, tortured, nearly killed in the past. But he had never been the one to hold his hand while they waited for a medic and well… there had been ‘before’ and there was now. And while Prowl could not stop sending Jazz out on the most difficult missions, he couldn’t banish the image of him collapsing in pain and grasping his hand either.

The tactic could only hope that his rank combined with their underhanded affair would be enough to accomplish the impossible and keep Jazz off trouble long enough to heal.  A decacycle, according to the grumpy medic. 
Honestly, Prowl thought it wasn’t long enough because replacing the whole interface array had been a big deal. He couldn’t imagine himself succumbing to such a procedure and returning to duty in a mere decacycle.  Jazz was his usual bouncy and cheerful self the next day he was released from the medbay.  Prowl watched him prance around the mess hall from one group of bots to another, exchanging jokes and laughs and pats on the hull, and marveled silently at his resilience.  

- Look at him, - Ratchet said beside his door wing, and Prowl turned to the medic, who appeared to be watching Jazz as well, - he’s going to tear that array off the first chance he gets.
 Seeing Prowl’s obvious misunderstanding, he added: 
- He needs at least a decacycle of rest. Let the equipment adjust, no transforming, no stress of any kind, and least of all ‘facing, you get me? 
- I understand , - the tactician replied calmly, - why don’t you tell him that? 
- I did - Ratchet grunted and added, - but I figured I needed a bigger gun here.  

Prowl reflected upon this. It was not a big compromise to move his work to his quarters so he could keep Jazz company without drawing too much attention to it. He could do it. It would be not the first time for Jazz to be detained after a mission that went south. A decacycle, no big deal. 

On the first day he even got the recon reports sorted out faster than usual - Jazz had been eager to help and his expert opinion saved Prowl a lot of fact-checking. This was good. Naturally, good did not last long. Once Prowl had put his data pad aside, Jazz pulled him out of his chair, visor bright with excitement. 

- Let’s hit da grounds, Prowler, ma’mech - since yar done , its time ta party! 

Prowl sighed. It had taken quite some time to insist that there should be no partying or racing or wrestling or even shooting at a range until the decacycle was over.  Jazz’s moping expression was so moving… could move mountains, probably.

- Yer killing’ my fire. Waaaait… - a spark of mischief that hitched praxian vents everytime, - …. izzit ya taking me prrrrisoner, Prrrrowler? Suurrre looks like it.. 

Now, Prowl had to admit, turning down a frisky purring Jazz was even harder. He had managed. Naturally.  Jazz wasn’t delighted, but in the end, he complied. 

It was actually the first time the tactic got to spend so much time with the saboteur and Jazz being Jazz, he surprised him. Jazz had been restless - this Prowl expected, - Jazz had been bouncing around Prowl’s quarters - also, nothing new. But on top of that, Jazz was babbling.  Prowl already had to compromise on taking his work to his quarters, if he wanted any of it done. But Jazz had been babbling all the time, and Prowl, being the tactician he was, had tried to find a system to his babbling. There had been none. It was driving the tactic nuts. He listened in for joors and joors, data pad in his hand forgotten, but all he had gotten out of it was a massive processor ache and a dawning understanding that if he were to finish any task at all he needed to stop obsessing on whether there was a system to Jazz’ chaos.  

- Is there any particular reason why you’re telling me this?! - Prowl interrupted another volley of seemingly not connected facts and observations mid-word and winced because it had sounded way harsher than he had intended. 
- What? 
- Is there a point to this?

Jazz merely shrugged his shoulder plates - one of many bad habits he had brought from Earth. 

- Not tha I know of… ‘m just speaking ma mind, Prrrrrowlerrr, izzat bothering ya?  

- What bothers me is that my best saboteur feels the need to “just speak his mind”. Are you always babbling like that? On missions?

Now, Prowl felt snapping was uncalled for, but it only made him want to justify his irritation somehow. Surely, there had to be downsides to babbling other than torturing autobot tacticians?!  Jazz’s visor darkened and so did the mood in the room. 

- Don’t worry, Prowl, ma mech, I don’t do that on missions. I’m only “babbling” when I’m happy, - Jazz bit his upper lip and turned away, leaving Prowl to process it.  He graciously plopped himself on Prowl’s recharge platform and shut off the visor completely, staring up the ceiling with unseeing optics.  Prowl swallowed the rest of his irritation and ex-vented. He looked over to Jazz, trying to decide whether it had been an invitation to join and if so, whether he should accept it. 

- Define “happy” - he asked when the silence got unbearable.  Jazz raised up on the elbow and grinned at him, visor still dark:  - Ya know. Relaxed. Safe…?
Prowl moved his doorwings up, releasing the tension he didn’t realize was building in his chassis. He sat down again and took his datapad: 
- In this case, please do go on. Don’t stop on my account.

 Really, if Jazz had been feeling safe with him, it wasn’t a big compromise to have to listen to him chat. Prowl quickly drafted a subroutine that would emulate appropriate listening sounds and responses and focused on his work.

Description
If they had learned anything positive from the war, it had been compromise. There were never ideal or even semi-decent circumstances - one had to make do with what they got.  Honestly, if not for war, Prowl had doubted he and Jazz would even spare each other a second glance. They had to make too many compromises to make this - whatever this had been between them, - work. Yet, another thing war had taught them was persistence. 

So here he was now, pledged to keep the notorious lieutenant from doing anything stupid while he was healing. The task was close to impossible, but Ratchet had stressed how important it was to keep the medical schedule, and Prowl was still in awe from the way Jazz whined and keened and clasped his forearm in pain so tightly that he dented the armor. He wouldn’t react to anything too deep in his own pain and only relaxed to Ratchet’s voice but still refused to let go of Prowl.
Prowl had known Jazz’s missions weren’t safe and could go wrong in a split click, he’d known the saboteur had been hit, tortured, nearly killed in the past. But he had never been the one to hold his hand while they waited for a medic and well… there had been ‘before’ and there was now. And while Prowl could not stop sending Jazz out on the most difficult missions, he couldn’t banish the image of him collapsing in pain and grasping his hand either.

The tactic could only hope that his rank combined with their underhanded affair would be enough to accomplish the impossible and keep Jazz off trouble long enough to heal.  A decacycle, according to the grumpy medic. 
Honestly, Prowl thought it wasn’t long enough because replacing the whole interface array had been a big deal. He couldn’t imagine himself succumbing to such a procedure and returning to duty in a mere decacycle.  Jazz was his usual bouncy and cheerful self the next day he was released from the medbay.  Prowl watched him prance around the mess hall from one group of bots to another, exchanging jokes and laughs and pats on the hull, and marveled silently at his resilience.  

- Look at him, - Ratchet said beside his door wing, and Prowl turned to the medic, who appeared to be watching Jazz as well, - he’s going to tear that array off the first chance he gets.
 Seeing Prowl’s obvious misunderstanding, he added: 
- He needs at least a decacycle of rest. Let the equipment adjust, no transforming, no stress of any kind, and least of all ‘facing, you get me? 
- I understand , - the tactician replied calmly, - why don’t you tell him that? 
- I did - Ratchet grunted and added, - but I figured I needed a bigger gun here.  

Prowl reflected upon this. It was not a big compromise to move his work to his quarters so he could keep Jazz company without drawing too much attention to it. He could do it. It would be not the first time for Jazz to be detained after a mission that went south. A decacycle, no big deal. 

On the first day he even got the recon reports sorted out faster than usual - Jazz had been eager to help and his expert opinion saved Prowl a lot of fact-checking. This was good. Naturally, good did not last long. Once Prowl had put his data pad aside, Jazz pulled him out of his chair, visor bright with excitement. 

- Let’s hit da grounds, Prowler, ma’mech - since yar done , its time ta party! 

Prowl sighed. It had taken quite some time to insist that there should be no partying or racing or wrestling or even shooting at a range until the decacycle was over.  Jazz’s moping expression was so moving… could move mountains, probably.

- Yer killing’ my fire. Waaaait… - a spark of mischief that hitched praxian vents everytime, - …. izzit ya taking me prrrrisoner, Prrrrowler? Suurrre looks like it.. 

Now, Prowl had to admit, turning down a frisky purring Jazz was even harder. He had managed. Naturally.  Jazz wasn’t delighted, but in the end, he complied. 

It was actually the first time the tactic got to spend so much time with the saboteur and Jazz being Jazz, he surprised him. Jazz had been restless - this Prowl expected, - Jazz had been bouncing around Prowl’s quarters - also, nothing new. But on top of that, Jazz was babbling.  Prowl already had to compromise on taking his work to his quarters, if he wanted any of it done. But Jazz had been babbling all the time, and Prowl, being the tactician he was, had tried to find a system to his babbling. There had been none. It was driving the tactic nuts. He listened in for joors and joors, data pad in his hand forgotten, but all he had gotten out of it was a massive processor ache and a dawning understanding that if he were to finish any task at all he needed to stop obsessing on whether there was a system to Jazz’ chaos.  

- Is there any particular reason why you’re telling me this?! - Prowl interrupted another volley of seemingly not connected facts and observations mid-word and winced because it had sounded way harsher than he had intended. 
- What? 
- Is there a point to this?

Jazz merely shrugged his shoulder plates - one of many bad habits he had brought from Earth. 

- Not tha I know of… ‘m just speaking ma mind, Prrrrrowlerrr, izzat bothering ya?  

- What bothers me is that my best saboteur feels the need to “just speak his mind”. Are you always babbling like that? On missions?

Now, Prowl felt snapping was uncalled for, but it only made him want to justify his irritation somehow. Surely, there had to be downsides to babbling other than torturing autobot tacticians?!  Jazz’s visor darkened and so did the mood in the room. 

- Don’t worry, Prowl, ma mech, I don’t do that on missions. I’m only “babbling” when I’m happy, - Jazz bit his upper lip and turned away, leaving Prowl to process it.  He graciously plopped himself on Prowl’s recharge platform and shut off the visor completely, staring up the ceiling with unseeing optics.  Prowl swallowed the rest of his irritation and ex-vented. He looked over to Jazz, trying to decide whether it had been an invitation to join and if so, whether he should accept it. 

- Define “happy” - he asked when the silence got unbearable.  Jazz raised up on the elbow and grinned at him, visor still dark:  - Ya know. Relaxed. Safe…?
Prowl moved his doorwings up, releasing the tension he didn’t realize was building in his chassis. He sat down again and took his datapad: 
- In this case, please do go on. Don’t stop on my account.

 Really, if Jazz had been feeling safe with him, it wasn’t a big compromise to have to listen to him chat. Prowl quickly drafted a subroutine that would emulate appropriate listening sounds and responses and focused on his work.