When the leader of the DJD was nudging a drink in your directly after politely refusing, sometimes it was best to just shut up and drink. At the very least First Aid was certain that it wasn't poisoned.

He can feel the warmth of Tarn's vents against his plates as he leans forward and he fights the urge to recoil. His spark starts to ache as he speaks, pulsing slightly irregular, and First Aid's visor widens slightly. It wasn't that he feared death; it's the pain that's startling.

"You can keep him. He certainly deserves you," he spits bitterly, his hand closing around his drink again.

First Aid's mask opens so he can drink and he takes a pull from it, looking at Tarn's face. He hoped he was satisfied.

"He might mistake a chainsaw for a scalpel though."