Title: Newton's Law
Rating: eventually NC-17 (yes, you should probably stop reading this right now)
Warnings: angst, drama, hurt feelings, and mech-seckz
Summary: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. It is never nice, it is never neat, and it always hurts like the Pit.

Notes: I've actually had this written for... woah, a REALLY long time. Started it about half way through Jazzerella, and that feels like a friggin CENTURY ago. I even sent it to my beta for polishing. (...Or so my increasingly rusty memory tells me. Correct me if I'm wrong.) But I completely forgot about it, and thus it has not been posted. Good thing I felt my flash drive merited a good cleaning. Or not so good. You tell me.

Prowl woke to his internal alarm with his chassis aching, fuel tanks churning, and CPU screaming at him to go back into recharge. It was not a familiar feeling, but one he'd experienced enough times before to know what it meant, even if he could not recall just how he had done so this time: he'd gotten over-energized last night.

Rather badly, if the enormous processor-ache was anything to go by.

Prowl groaned, moving to roll onto his side, seriously contemplating just not getting up at all. Perhaps he wouldn't even calling in sick – he would just not show up at Headquarters that orn. He always worked hard, sacrificing much of his personal time to keep up with the work that it took to be Second in Command. He hadn't had so much as a single day of vacation in vorns. Now was as good a time as any to use one of those personal days Optimus was pressing him to take.

This thought process was rudely interrupted, however, when he finally did manage to wriggle his sensory panel from beneath him and flop onto his side, for as he did so, he reached out to grasp one of the gel-filled pillows he always kept aplenty on his berth but met instead the warm frame of another.

Prowl powered up his optics so fast they shorted, and he had to wait another panic-filled breem before they rebooted themselves. What he saw when they finally came on-line, however, was nearly enough to make them fritz again.

There, laying just an arm's length away, back turned to him, was Jazz.

Panic, already buzzing through his circuits, grew into

full blown terror. He was in berth with Jazz! Jazz! The mech he'd spent the last eight deca-cycles butting helms with, the mech he'd been trying to convince Optimus was just not good enough to be Third in Command, despite having run more successful operations than any other, whether they be under Prime's orders or not, the mech who was a cold hard killer, the mech who slit the throats of more 'Cons than -- Primus he's going to slit my throat!

Scrambling backwards off the berth as fast as he could (quietly, as to not wake the still-recharging Jazz and thus inflict his own doom upon himself), Prowl forced himself to calm down. He was fine, he was still functioning, he was –

He paused, looking around. Not in his apartment? Just how over-energized had he gotten last night?

Apparently very over-energized, if he'd somehow managed to stumble his way into Jazz's home, into Jazz's berth, and have absolutely no recollection of either.

Panic setting in anew, Prowl made a beeline for the door. It swished open at his approach – too loudly for his liking – and closed again once he had hurried through to the other side. That barrier, small and unimposing though it was, was enough to settle the tactician's frazzled nerves. Somehow feeling much safer with the thin layer of steel between himself and his least favorite, rather temperamental (at least when it came to dealing with Prowl) mech, he took a moment to simply stand there, staring at the closed door, wondering just where the frag he had gone wrong.

Accessing his core memory, he searched for memory clips of the previous night… and came up disturbingly blank.

Nothing. There was a fuzzy image of the meeting he had attended a joor before his shift ended, then nothing.

He was nearly sent into another frenzy, but logic – oh, sweet, cool, wonderful logic – took over. This was normal. Well, not normal for him, but a common enough occurrence to the general population that he should not worry (too much).

He was suffering from energon poisoning, something that happened when one consumed too much high-grade, or even enough raw mid-grade. It degraded files like recent memories or things that were stored as such, and could even impair motor skills during recovery. As it was the morning after, Prowl was obviously recovering, and as he could barely stand without swaying, his motor function was obviously impaired. Combined with his loss of memory – and, apparently, temporary loss of good judgment – logic dictated this was nothing more than a bad case of energon poisoning.

Prowl shuttered his optics, blocking out the visual of Jazz's apartment. A very bad case.

Opening his optics once more, he turned from the door leading to Jazz's room, intent on finding the one that lead to the street outside. It wasn't hard to miss – military-issued living quarters were woefully small – sitting just on the other side of the sitting room, which came equipped with an over-sized couch, a small table, and a few odd chairs, one of them overturned. He assumed the door to his right led to a small kitchen of sorts – nothing much, just an energon dispenser, a few cabinets for storage, and a heating apparatus to warm energon on cold days.

All in all, the apartment was very similar to Prowl's own. The only major difference was the… well, Prowl didn't know what to call it other than a "homey" feel. Jazz's living space actually looked lived in, knickknacks and holo-images lining the shelves on the walls, trinkets ranging from such things as some type of organic plant to a shard of what looked like the Towers to an impressive collection of wicked looking blades. (Prowl tried not to linger too long on these, one hand unconsciously coming up to rub nervously at the cables and tubing in his neck.)

In comparison, Prowl's quarters were very Spartan, nothing personal betraying his existence, save one very old holo-image of he and his creators, an image captured while he was still a sparkling, just before both their deactivations, but even that was stored away in the back of a drawer instead of openly displayed as Jazz's were. But that was just the way Prowl was, and it suited him fine, thank you very much.

Having lingered too long for his comfort, Prowl headed for the exit, only to be stopped once more by his ever-loathsome sense of morality. The thought drifted across his CPU that, despite the contempt he felt for the Special Ops mech, he should apologize to Jazz.

Another look at the array of blades hanging on the walls, though, convinced him that waking the saboteur was a potentially lethal idea.

A note will suffice, his CPU supplied helpfully.

Snarling to himself, Prowl marched over to the small table in the center of the room, snatching up one of the data-pads that lay scattered across it. Drawing up a blank file, he paused.

Just what was he supposed to write? "Sorry I interfaced with you, I was too over-energized to know what I was doing"?

That thought brought up another. Jazz kept it no secret that he disliked Prowl just as much if not more than Prowl hated him. He must have been rather over-energized himself if he'd allowed himself to be put in a compromising position such as interfacing. Perhaps Jazz did not remember anything either.

Prowl clung to that small hope. But still, that persistent sense of guilt nagged at him. He agonized over what to do for a good breem, finally scribbling out three words and throwing the pad down with a growl.

And without further ado, he turned on his heel and left Jazz's apartment, the still-active data-pad glowing dimly, short message on the display screen waiting for Jazz to wake and read it.

I'm so sorry.