robothell | insert one arm joke here

Who: First Aid and U
Where: Red Alert's clinic
When: Post-Pharma cutting off his arm
What: wow the medics are gimpier than the rest of you guys
Warnings: mild robot gore, a sad cinnamon bun

[ Closed to Ratchet ]

Leaving his arm behind was the last of First Aid's problems. His run in with Pharma left him a bit more damaged up mentally -- and physically -- than he'd care to admit to himself. At the very least, he hadn't lost a wheel, something he was grateful for as he speeds off. Parts of his altmode still dragged as he drove through the city, uneven from the loss of a limb, leaving a trail of sparks and energon puddles behind him.

He had nowhere to go except away from the clinic, no ability to comm someone else to locate him. Eventually, he stops, ducking into a half collapsed building, and weeps privately. Seeing Pharma again brought back the rush of emotions he felt after killing him, making him feel drained for more reasons than the loss of energon.

Well, he's a rightful pathetic scene.

First Aid vents raggedly as he reaches up and brushes his fingers over the shredded joint where his arm used to be. He hisses in pain, pinching at a few ragged lines and clamping them closed, before he starts the arduous task of welding broken parts together. It might make the reattachment harder in the long run, but he'd be bleeding less.

It's a few hours before First Aid returns to the clinic, faint and tired, dirty with grit and sticky with drying energon. Even longer he waits outside, making sure that Pharma had left the premises long enough for him to slip back inside. He's tired-- he really wants to sleep, but he knows well enough that it's pain and energon loss, so instead he drags himself into the main clinic, clutching his shoulder.

"Ratchet?" he asks, trying not to be too loud so he doesn't wake the other patients.

-------

[ OPEN ]

Having only one arm proved to be difficult in accomplishing anything useful. It was a significant blow to First Aid's self esteem, and sometimes he spent ages just staring down at his work, feeling helpless. He couldn't lift with ease, but he could clean as much as he's able with one hand and take care of basic maintenance tasks, such as changing fluids and updating charts. Nurse work. He felt so humiliated.

First Aid touches the stump where his arm used to be, rubbing it thoughtfully. Sometimes he thought he could feel it still. Not really uncommon-- it was a psychological phenomena. Sighing, he drops his hand and begins piling charts, looking over each carefully to make sure that he hadn't missed any details. They didn't have a sophisticated database here, so it was important to keep manual records at the very least.

He picks them up holding them delicately in his hand and attempting to balance them against his chest, but they just end up slipping out of his hand and clattering to the floor.

"Oh--" he makes a soft sound. "Slag."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"First Aid?"

Of course Ratchet isn't recharging, but it's dimly lit in the medibay. Ratchet stops and stares when he gets a good look at First Aid's plating, the odd absence where his arm should be. He curses softly and limps over, his optics pale with something like fright.

"What happened?" he hisses, already starting to inspect the wound.

First Aid hadn't thought he'd be angry, but seeing Ratchet's face almost makes him wish that he'd run into another medic besides him. Of course Ratchet wouldn't be resting, though. Ever vigilant, never getting enough recharge, even when he was hurt. He turns his head to the side as the older mech checks over the twist of wiring and broken metal at his shoulder, venting softly.

"Pharma."

He wish he'd gotten the chance to kill him again. He wished that Ratchet hadn't just let him go. He feels frustrated-- which is all he can really feel right now that doesn't involve more anxious weeping.

Ratchet's hands actually falter, stilling for a moment as he stares down at First Aid, lightheaded and sick. There's a dull roaring in his audials as he struggles to process, his ventilation a stalling and his lips parted.

"Hell," he says, woefully inadequate, and he shudders a little before he forces himself to move again, patching carefully, his hands gentle. "Anything else, besides the cuts?" He gets to work on those as soon as the shoulder isn't leaking, his face weirdly calm, almost empty.

"Well, my arm's off?" At least he was trying to have some sense of humor. First Aid is tired though and his visor dims after. "Been a few hours. Did what I could to stop the bleeding."

That's a hint that he should probably lay down, since he was feeling somewhat faint, his plating unusually cool. First Aid starts moving towards a berth without waiting for Ratchet's response, wobbling slightly.

"He was hanging around outside the clinic."

Ratchet follows him without comment.

"I'll get you a cube," he says, moving off and transferring both crutches under one arm to hold the energon in the other as he limps back to First Aid's berth, hesitating slightly.

"Where is it?" he asks. "Your arm, I mean."

First Aid sits up as Ratchet returns with the energon, taking a moment to vent and steady himself as his dizziness brings on a wave of nausea. He turns, leaning on his arm, and tries to reach for the energon with his arm arm automatically. The mechanisms give a grinding protest before he remembers, and he grunts softly as he pushes himself up fully.

"I had to leave it. It should have been right outside, but it's not there anymore."

Ratchet reaches out to steady him with both hands, hot and cold all over all at once, feeling sick and almost numb.

"I'll see what I can do to find it," he says, struggling to focus on the problem at hand instead of the hard press of emotion welling in his chassis, uncomfortably akin to grief.

"Don't get hurt."

First Aid has to lean into Ratchet to drink the energon, since otherwise he's not able to prop himself up. As he's taking careful swallows of the fuel, a slow tremor starts to come over his frame. It was... really starting to sink in what had happened. That Pharma was alive and remembered what he... did.

He feels sick to his tank, the fuel fighting its way back up his intake, and First Aid has to clamp a hand over his face to keep from purging everything he just swallowed down all over himself. It's a response to anxiety, one he channels instead into shakes as he swallows again, steadying himself, and it's a full few moments before he trusts his tanks enough to pull his hand away.

Ratchet watches as First Aid curls in, an awful sort of helpless swamping him almost entirely for a moment before he just reaches out, wrapping both arms around First Aid's shoulders and just letting him rattle against his own chest, heedless of whether or not First Aid is going to purge.

"I won't," he says, a hand running absent up and down First Aid's back. "I've got you. And I won't."

First Aid can't remember ever being hugged by Ratchet. Not after Delphi. Not after Luna-1. It was Rung who curled his comforting arm around his shoulders when he killed Pharma. He makes a soft, vulnerable sound, still fighting the burn of fuel up his intake, his fuel tank feeling like it was bubbling.

"He remembers what I did." He's not sure why he's telling Ratchet that. Ratchet knows Pharma remembers. He talked to him. "I don't-- the arm isn't a big deal. It's just seeing him. It's like seeing a ghost."

"I'm sorry," Ratchet says helplessly, his own tanks rolling. "It is a big deal, but I--I get what you mean. I'm sorry."

One hand settles against the base of First Aid's helm, swallowing hard. "We'll figure something out. And you don't--I know I wasn't at Delphi with you and I don't know what it was like. But you're not on your own, in this, all right?"

insert one arm joke here

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