This fic could be considered one of two things; an expansion fic on my ongoing "We" continuality, or a stand-alone one-shot. Either way, it's here for all of you to enjoy! I needed to write something like this to make sure my skills don't get rusty! I hope I haven't lost my 'special' touch! xD

Keep the PJ love going!

Read and review, but no flames, please!

The setting for this is probably near the early to middle stage of the war, just to give you a better idea of when this is. Long enough for Jazz and Prowl to have established a relationship, but not long enough for Prowl to have dealt with all his emotional demons yet.

Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Transformers. Big surprise.

Make Me Feel

If there was anyone in the universe who could forget what feeling emotion was like because he was too busy, it was Prowl.

The ability to feel interfered with every other aspect of his life- he needed to be cold, hard, and logical; everything else was simply superfluous. There was no room for ridiculous notions like taking others' feelings into consideration. There was absolutely no room for considering his own feelings and how they could possibly be affected by what his tactical, logistical processor would dictate as the best course of action for any given situation. Emotion was a downfall when compared to the clarity of logic.

When the rage of war swelled to the breaking point and orns would pass before any mech on the base was allowed to recharge, Prowl was required to be in his best tactical form. He couldn't let what he felt interfere. His emotions were a burden he could only be weighed down by. They were a distraction he did not need. Suffering in the middle of a war, there was no room for the mistakes a spark could make.

So, for those difficult orns when important decisions had to be made, he got rid those useless emotions.

Not completely. Only temporarily.

It was a simple procedure, really. For him, at least. It required very little thought to shut down his emotional center and let his tactical application programs take over, letting his battle computer take reign over his thoughts and actions.

On the orns that he allowed hard logic dictate to him over his spark, the world would lose its colour, its beauty, and turned into cold, hard blacks and whites and nothing more than numbers, percentages, calculations, and statistics.

Those orns were the easiest for Prowl to live, because that was how he'd been created. Emotionless.

He had been a pre-programmed mech, sparked and brought online for immediate service in the Security Response teams in Simfur. There had been no younglinghood for him. No 'growing up' in a Youth Sector like so many other bots experienced. He was thrown into immediate consciousness, knowing exactly what he was and everything he was supposed to do; he was created as a tactician, a thinker, someone who saved lives with his mind. He was designed to assess a situation and determine that best course of action for the highest chance of success. He wasn't created to have emotion.

He wasn't meant to have emotion.

Nevertheless, living in the precinct constantly surrounded by bots from all walks of life had made him curious of their behaviours. They had all been capable of things that were impossible to his programming. Their laughing, smiling, illogical behaviour had intrigued him to the point that he wished to indulge in what they had. As per any pre-program's prerogative, he chose to expand his existing programming by learning about these emotions that other bots loved to employ so frivolously. He wanted to know what made them so special.

He learned of happiness and camaraderie from his comrades. They were all too happy to teach him, to help him understand. Like the many pre-programs that floundered before him, his comrades all shared in good-natured humour at his expense as he attempted to comprehend the complexities of such seemingly simple things. Some of the officers had been pre-programs created for the Security Response teams like himself, so they gladly shared their own experiences. Sadly, sometimes they only managed to confuse poor Prowl more.

To his immense surprise, he learned to enjoy feeling happy. Friendship was a light to his spark that he had never realized was so warm. He felt affection for other bots, fond of his caring superiors, and even love for fellow officers in his division. He even dared to indulge with the newer bots who transferred into Simfur's Security Response division; he helped other new pre-programs when they sought the same curiosities he had. Joy, and contentment, and pride, and humbleness; kindness, civility, sympathy, empathy, delight, and satisfaction; Prowl was a quick study, he learned his emotions quickly. He grew to appreciate them deeply.

Unfortunately, in his line of work, he also learned what loss felt like when he was called upon to respond a break in, a murder. He learned agony of the emotional kind when he responded to accidents, when only one sparkmate was left alive. When loved ones were ripped apart.

Horror came too, and helplessness, and then a revile for the droves of bots who let themselves be pulled along on the useless tides of their emotions, flinging themselves headfirst into stupid situations that hurt not only themselves but bots around them.

He learned to hate. He hated the mechs that went out with the sole purpose of hurting another. He hated mechs that did stupid things and put other at risk. He hated that there was very little he could do about it. He was only a tactician after all; all he did was figure out the best way to react to a situation for the highest chance of success. That did nothing to prevent it from happening in the first place.

Prowl then learned to hate his emotions. He learned to hate those who revelled in them.

It didn't matter though. It was too late for him. Too late to go back into the logically ordered world from which he came. He was trapped. He couldn't hide from the scary, dark, emotional world he'd crawled into.

He could escape though.

He learned through another pre-program in another precinct how escape from the emotions for a few orns by shutting down his emotional center. A few orns was all he could manage, and then fail safes would kick in and restore it. A few orns was enough in most cases.

A few orns was all he could have of peace.

Once the war started and Prowl joined the Autobots, as the most logical thing to do, his fellow comrades learned quickly to stay clear of the tactician on the orns he shut down emotionally. He was labelled an extreme aft on those orns. No, wait, that's what he was on normal orns; on the orns when he thought in nothing but logic, he was labelled an extreme aft to the power of 10.

But without feelings to hurt, Prowl was left unbothered by the name.

He could work without interruption, without distraction, without care for any other thing but his task and its deadline. Those were the days he revelled in. He would let his work consume him. Mountains of data would simply rise up out of the ether to take hold of his attentions, and then disappear as he cut his way through. Tactics, logistics, statistics; how he found peace in that black and white world or numbers and calculations.

The only thing he despised about turning his emotional center off was when he had to turn it on again….

Ratchet's hard faceplate glared down at him with icy optics. "How long has it been?"

Shielded by his desk and the wall of data pads piled on it, Prowl shrugged. "Seven orns."

"You're pushing it, Prowl."

"I need to get this work finished first."

"The longer you keep your emotional center off, the more difficult the transition will be when you turn it back on."

He grimaced. "I am aware of that."

"Then turn it back on now." Unlike Prowl, Ratchet could be an extreme aft to the power of 10 any orn, with or without his emotional center.

"I have work to see to."

The CMO's optics flashed dangerously. "Not anymore, you don't. I'm pulling rank."

Prowl regarded Ratchet coolly, daring to call his bluff. "You can't do that. These reports need to be finished."

Too bad it wasn't a bluff.

A dark glare eased onto the medic's faceplate. "Smokescreen has already been alerted to the situation and is coming in to finish the reports himself. You are hereby pulled off duty until I deem you emotionally fit to return; remove yourself from your office or I will have you escorted to your quarters- by the twins."

"You can't just arbitrarily take someone off duty without due cause."

"I just did. Get moving or Sunstreaker and Sideswipe with be in here in under a breem to take you to your quarters."

That was a humiliation he wasn't willing to subject himself too. With pursed mouthplates and a dour expression clouding his optics, Prowl rose and marched from his office.

His quarters were dark when he entered them.

Enwrapped in the cool fingers of shadow, the reassuring sight, smell, and sound of his own quarters offering comfort and strength, Prowl steeled himself for what was to come. It was only on Ratchet's orders that he was doing this, turning it back on. He didn't want to. He was loath to the idea. But it had to be done.

And suddenly sensation flooded through him; the damn broke and strong, real, hard emotions flooded into him. He was brought to his knees. His thoughts raced. Memories of the past seven orns raced passed his mind's optic and where once a cold mind could review them, empathy took its place.

A list of dead mechs came in, many of them he knew. Other mechs mangled. Neutrals being targeted, their camps destroyed, all their meagre possessions gone. He felt for them. He felt too much for them.

Regret. Remorse. Revile.

Anger. Hatred. Helplessness.

Struck by the powerful tides, Prowl's tanks churned and his frame seized forcefully. He had only a fraction of an astrosecond to reach out and grab the waste receptacle unit lying in the corner before he purged into it. The energon was hot in his mouth, burning. Its dull, murky glow reflected gloomily in the room, off of his armor. He tried not to look at it lest he wished to purge his tanks again. He tried to guard himself against the relentless crash of thought and emotion that cascaded in his processor.

It was an impossible endeavour.

Another thought crossed his mind, an unbidden emotion suddenly attaching to it. It had him bent over the waste receptacle again, hacking, seizing, purging everything within him before he even knew it.

He despised this.

He had never learned to manage his emotions properly like a normal mech; he always shut them down when the going got tough. He couldn't learn to manage them now, either. Not while a war was going on-

Another wave of nausea passed over him, tanks emptying the last of their contents.

This was the price he paid for his stupidity.

The quiet of his quarters helped. He drew himself off the floor and to his berth, tiredly crawling onto the solid surface and pushing his back against the wall. In abject silence, he sat there for untold joors, simply allowing the initial rush wash over him. He adjusted, like he always did. His spark slowly fell back into rhythm. His thoughts organized on their own, allowing logic and feeling to coincide with only the slight discomfort of a confusion of priorities that always seemed to clash when the two were side by side in his processor.

He'd gone seven orns this time. Longer than normal.

He shouldn't have tried to stretch it. The transition was only harder when all those orns of backed-up emotions hit him all at once.

Prowl sorely wished Jazz were there and not away on mission; the mech may have been a loud, distracting, and, in most cases, completely inappropriate presence, but he was also Special Ops, and he knew how to control his emotions when it counted. He had the ability to help Prowl where no one else could.

Laying in his self-induced isolation, lulled into a stupor by the pulse of his own spark, Prowl almost missed Primus granting his wish. A soft pneumatic hiss swished the air and stark light from the hall beyond hit the shutters firmly closed over Prowl's optics. The presence that entered the room was indisputable. Undeniable.

"I thought you were away on an infiltration assignment?"

"Mirage an' his mechs are good at their jobs; gave mah team what we needed. We were in and out 'fore the 'Cons even knew we were there."

Prowl nodded, accepting the answer. "And what are you doing here?"

"Ratchet might have mentioned a thing or two while Ah was in there."

Finally, Prowl glanced up, and what he saw was a mech shorter than himself, looking a little battered and worse for wear, but hail and whole nonetheless. Jazz's visor was retracted, his emotive optics watching Prowl unblinkingly, not bothering to hide the concern brewing in them.

The tactician grimaced, jerking his gaze away. "Ratchet needs to learn medic/patient confidentiality."

Jazz didn't answer, aside from the slight lift to the edges of his mouthplates as he took a step nearer to the berth. A gentle hand reached out, the tips of his claws barely scraping the stormy armour adorning Prowl's shin.

"He mentioned how long ya had it off this time."

"I'm fine now… I've had time to adjust."

A soft laugh whispered through the dark room. "He also happened ta mention that ya were a stubborn aft-headed mech who needed some sense beaten in ta ya."

"That is an over-dramatization."

"Ah don't know about that…" Jazz's frame was silent as a ghost as it moved from standing before Prowl to sliding into the berth next to him, taking up a sitting position with his back against the wall. His gaze never left Prowl's faceplate. "Ya sure ya're okay?"

"I'm fine."

Jazz raised his hands in a peace offering. "Ah was jut makin' sure… Ah know ya can handle everythin' jus' fine without me, but…" He knew how much Prowl disliked the disruption to his logic sensors it caused.

Prowl rubbed his faceplate tiredly. "I know. The worst of it has passed. I used several of the techniques you gave me."

Jazz's already bright optics brightened, his smile widening a fraction. "Good ta hear."

Comfortable silence slipped between them for a long while. Jazz was sneaking glances at him every so often. It wasn't until the fifth or sixth glance did the saboteur break their imposed quiet.

"Ah don't see why ya don't just leave it on all the time. Ya wouldn't have this problem if ya did."

"I don't want to feel."

A brief tension passed through the other mech's frame, instantly putting Prowl on alert. Jazz shifted, now facing the tactician. His clawed hand reached out again, this time tracing a line over Prowl's faceplate, following the sleek contours around his optic ridge and then down over the plates of his cheek.

The touch made Prowl feel something. One of the emotions that he had not been taught, had not learned, during his time in Security Response. These were feelings exclusive to Jazz and what the mech could evoke in him.

"Ya'd be like Shockwave if ya didn't feel," Jazz said as his claw tips lingered at the edge of Prowl's faceplate. Jazz had seen enough of Shockwave's work to know he'd never want Prowl to be anything like the fragger.

Prowl turned his faceplate away from the touch, drawing away from the other mech. He knew he was being a coward, but it was too soon, everything was too raw right now. He was too weak.

"Not all emotions are bad, Prowl."

"I know that."

"Ah can make ya feel the good ones."

Prowl's optics met Jazz's firmly. "I know that too."

"Then let me."

He wanted to say no. He desperately, urgently, frantically wanted to say no. He didn't want to be made to feel. Not now. Not in the ways Jazz was offering. It'd be too much too soon. However, even his logical side was railing against him in this instance. Jazz had never hurt him in the past, had never drawn a negative emotion from him, except perhaps extreme annoyance. There was no harm in this. It would help.



"Ah'll be gentle."

"…I know."

And he was. Those claw tips were almost too gentle as the skated over the surface of Prowl's armor, searching out memorized slates in the plating from which to delve into and play with sensitive wiring beneath. Magnetic fields were at play, twisting him from the inside in rolling waves of ecstasy. The simple touch ignited passion within him, made him feel the passion as a physical force.

As Jazz worked, Prowl studied his lover, from the silver of his paint to the handsome sharpness of his features. When he looked at the saboteur, something stirred within him. Out from the depths of the jumble of suppressed emotion came something that he wanted to cringe away from but he didn't. It was delicate, yet powerful. So gentle at times, and then others it held the power of a raging storm. With a mere look from Jazz, the mech had the ability to drudge up oceans of sensation within him, make him feel things that no one else ever had. But even with tempest he could summon, Jazz was there to keep it check too; he knew of Prowl's shortcomings, he was okay with them, accepted them. He even helped Prowl deal with them.

Jazz was special that way.

A tiny noise, barely audible, slipped from Prowl's vocal processor. His hands began to search out in the dark on their own, looking for Jazz's frame to grasp as he worked his magic.

Prowl could only manage a strangled gasp. "Jazz."

"Don't worry, Ah'm here," Jazz's smooth voice soothed, vibrating a mere breath away from Prowl's audio. The proximity surprised him. He hadn't realized he'd been guided onto his back, Jazz now over him, fingers still exploring the crevices his frame held. Having long since memorized each other, Jazz knew exactly where to touch. He leaned down close, so close that his forehead pressed intimately to Prowl's as his hands slid over and around, brushing along the projections that jutted out from his back.

Prowl groaned as those skilled hands modulated the perfect pattern of magnetic pulses, timing each one so that it resonated throughout his frame, mingled with the pulse of his spark. Stars erupted before his optics. Cooling fans began to hum as internal temperatures began to rise.

Seven long orns had made him forget all this. Jazz was reminding him in mere breems.

Tension seeped out of his frame, control slowly slipping as he lost himself in the tides of ephemeral sensation that Jazz orchestrated with too-knowing hands. He shuttered his optics, arching into the sensations that, joors before, he had been denying vehemently.

And Jazz watched with a smirk playing against his mouthplates. He knew what he was doing. He knew what he could illicit from the other mech.

With a gentle touch, a smooth slide of the fingers here, a modulated magnetic pulse there… He could make Prowl writhe. Like now, with just a simple twist of the wires hidden beneath slates of armor connecting the tactician's arm to his frame, Jazz could render a choked groan from him, have his frame move in delicious way, force him to feel in manners most elicit.

The two jutting structures that formed from Prowl's back, excess pieces of armor from his alt mode allocated to his back because there was no more surface area on his frame to carry it, were Jazz's favourite area of attack. The connecting area was sensitive. Nobody knew this but him; he was the only one Prowl trusted with the secret. Primus, how he loved to press that advantage, to play with those connecting wires and circuits and toss his lover into the deeper throes of passion.

What was even more satisfying what that Prowl let him.

When in most cases the mech would fight back, touch him in return, roam his hands along Jazz's frame until he, too, was delirious with ignited passion, tonight was different. Despite Prowl's statements to suggest otherwise, he was looking for a way to feel.

A gentle scrape against his interface panel pulled Prowl back into reality. Through the succour of perfection he was blissfully thrust in, Prowl managed to help navigate- he tugged loose his own cable, inserting it into Jazz's port. Jazz groaned rapturously, his own fingers playing around Prowl's panel, dancing over the metal that connected his neck column to his shoulder. Growling impatiently, utterly forgetting himself, Prowl bucked, reminding Jazz of what he was here for.

The saboteur's sensual laughter stoked the fires simmering between them, the vibrations from his deep revving playing a harmony between their frames.

"Don't get yer wires in a bunch."

"You're taking too long."

"Ah'm not in a rush."

Jazz completed the connection with more grace than any other mech inserting an interface cable into a port ever would be able to.

"Primus, Jazz." It'd been too long since they'd done this.

"Ah missed ya, too."

Suddenly they both laid as open books before the other, able to move and mingle throughout the other as they please.

Prowl was systematic and logical in his approach, gathering a torrent of the rapacious sensations storming through him and forcing it into Jazz. It was wholly satisfying to hear the pleasured gasp, to feel the mech move deliciously atop him in a fit of unadulterated ecstasy. He pressed his attack as he would on the battlefield; ruthlessly giving as much as he got, perhaps more.

Jazz, unlike Prowl, was unpredictable, wild, uncontainable. His emotions were a rampant part of him, however sealed away he kept them as a Commander of the Special Ops division. He poured through their interfacial connection like a torrent of raw need. He hit Prowl hard, mentally, sent him reeling. It was as if the mech was too big for his own processor to contain him, and almost too big for Prowl to take him in either.

But Jazz had a plan of attack, too. He wasn't just flying blind. He knew what he wanted to do for Prowl.

Energy pulsed between them, hot, searing, alive.

Heat throbbed in the air as their internal temperatures skyrocketed, fans whining in a desperate attempt to keep up. They were climbing to a precipice like this. A place that was coiling within them, every astral touch they exchanged leading them closer.

Diving deep, almost too deep, niggling in information that was nearly forbidden, even from him, Jazz found what he was looking for. That one line of code; that single thought that hovered that the bare edges of Prowl's mind… He urged Prowl to acknowledge it.

"I can't," he rasped, attempting to draw away, even though it was nearly impossible to do so now. They were too deeply entangled now, mentally and physically.

"Prowl, please. I'm trying to help you."

That voice. That deliciously sensual wonderful voice; Jazz had only to ask for anything in moments like this with that voice and Prowl would have gladly acquiesced.

Like now.

Hanging on the very edge of the divide between utter madness and pure elation, Prowl acknowledged the one thought, the one emotion that Jazz so desperately wanted to show him. A piece of himself that he denied fervently. A piece only Jazz held and only he could enflame. An emotion that Jazz, himself, had taught him.

Prowl felt love.

For Jazz.

"I love you too, Prowl."

The rapture that hit them was indescribable. It was a swell of so many things to be felt at once that their processors became blank, white slates imbued with only the basic ability to feel, to be swept away on the tides of mind-blowing ecstasy that rocked them and shattered their worlds.

It was breems before they came back to their senses.

Prowl lay in the aftermath of his overload, panting, spent, and entirely sated. He felt at ease. A little bit more at peace than before. Jazz had did what he set out to do.

His optics traveled to Jazz's frame as it laid contentedly slumped above him, revving gently as a Cheshire grin of satisfaction painted his features. The saboteur needed not say what he knew; Prowl needed not say what he felt.

The truth was undeniable.

No matter how much Prowl wished he didn't have to feel; no matter how strongly he wished to crawl back into his world of pure, cold logic…

What Jazz did for Prowl was something that no other bot could do.

Jazz made Prowl feel.

He made him feel good.