The shrieking of your own engine tears you from the recharge cycle, a raw, grinding whine that feels like it’s stripping your gears. Your frame seizes, a frozen tableau of panic on the berth, sensor panels flared wide. The nightmare clings like corroded oil, the memory of the surgist’s table, the cold bite of the saw, the betrayal of your own chassis being peeled away. Then, a sound cuts through the static in your audials. A low, melodic hum, as smooth and cool as polished silver.

"Shhh. Shhh, now."

You know that voice. You’d know that glide anywhere. Through the haze of your wide opticked terror, you see him. Jazz is perched on the edge of the berth, one leg drawn up, his visor a soft, muted blue in the dim hab-suite light. He’s already in his subspace layer, no armor, all sleek, elegant lines. He doesn’t look startled or alarmed. He looks like he’s been there the whole time, waiting.

"Easy, easy."

He murmurs, his voice a low, soothing frequency that vibrates right through your struts. He doesn’t reach for you immediately, giving your panicked systems a moment to recognize friend from foe. His servos rest on his own thigh, fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic pattern against the metal, a quiet, grounding metronome. Your vents are still heaving, expelling hot, useless air. You try to speak, but all that comes out is a strangled glitch in your vocalizer.

"I’ve gotcha. Yer here. Yer safe."

He lifts a hand then, moving with that deliberate, unhurried grace, and cups the side of your helm. His palm is cool, a welcome contrast to the feverish heat radiating from your own plating. His thumb traces a slow, soothing circle just behind your audial, a place where tension always pools.

"It was jus' a nightmare, sweetspark. A bad dream. Nothin’ more."