robothell | (no subject)

Entry tags:

first aid | lifepersists

(no subject)

Who: First Aid & open
What: post-Tarn drama
When: SHRUG
Where: Autobot Medibay
Warnings: mention of horrible robot gore, hospital setting

First Aid was conscious before he had sight, but the damage to his brain made him too confused to really react much, so eventually he just faded back to unconsciousness. The next time he onlined it was to test his eyes, and he remembers flinching at the light as the freshly built apertures of his optics cycled to pinpoints. Funny, he can't feel his face. That's mildly alarming.

Coherency was a slow build, but by the time First Aid felt fully awake he finally was aware enough of his surroundings to realize where he was, but not entirely how he ended up there. His whole body ached, and he didn't have the strength to lift his hands to his still numb face.

Even after the surgery his frame was sort of a mess of patches of weld marks, not yet fully integrated with his auto-repair to be painted over. His face itself was the worst part, having suffered the most damage, and most of it was a dull gray instead of his usual bright white.

Recharge didn't quite seem too unpleasant, especially when confined to a slab and hooked up to life support and IVs feeding fuel directly into his lines.

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You fell for his trap, Ratchet. As soon as his head is settled against his chest, First Aid moves his arms. Ratchet could very well move away easily, but the younger medic curls his arms around his head, 'trapping' it.

"I've got you. This is punishment."

He could, you know, just pull away since First Aid's grip was weaker than rice paper in a storm. Truthfully, he's angry at Ratchet for putting himself in danger. He just never listens to him, even when it's as simple as following the directions he's outlined on a procedure.

"We need you." That was a very suble 'thank you'. "What were you thinking?"

Ratchet shifts under First Aid's shaky grip but he doesn't go far--just turns his head on First Aid's chest so he can look up into the small, masked face higher up on the berth, his own expression still and serious.

"I was thinking we need you too."

First Aid rumbles at that, closing his arms tighter around Ratchet's head. He doesn't want to let him go. This was punishment, remember.

"What if we both died? What then?"

"Yes. No." He knew Tarn wanted First Aid dead. But Tarn was supposed to respect Sixshot's connection with First Aid the same way Sixshot had respected his connection with Pharma. Tarn was supposed to be taking care of Megatron, putting Megatron's will and well being before his personal desires.

He didn't care about Sixshot's end of the unspoken deal. He didn't care about being Megatron's mentor as much as Sixshot thought he did, willing to throw compromise and patience under the truck to enact vengeance.

Surely, Tarn had foreseen this outcome? If not the execution, then the exile at the very least. If he hadn't expected to get caught, then he knew that Sixshot would grieve.

Did Tarn even care about that?

"I wanted so badly for us to coexist somehow." Sixshot nudges his muzzle against First Aid's side. "It didn't have to be perfect. I was so naive."

"Then I think Ambulon and Megatron would have necessarily had some very awkward talks about division of responsibilities," Ratchet says, but he's not really being flip--he reaches behind him with a crutch, not lifting his head, and drags a stool over so he can settle down onto it and lean his crutches against the berth, folding his arms next to First Aid's side and letting First Aid keep him right where he is.

"I knew the probability of that happening was low. And I couldn't--I couldn't do nothing." He's silent for a moment before he speaks again, slowly.

"I've already failed Ambulon once--nearly twice, now. I wasn't about to fail you, too. Not like this, not unless I'd done everything I could."

"That's not... wrong." It was naive, but First Aid could imagine the sentiment behind it.

He feels that way about a number of things. He does want peace, even if it was hard. He wanted Decepticons and Autobots to blend. But he had his limits, and the DJD were that limit. He would have left Tarn to burn out in that field of pollen if he had more control.

"Is he... alive? Where is he?"

Ambulon. Was that a failure? He'd been so angry, so devastated for so long. He felt that same loss when he watched as the orange DJD mech pressed Trailcutter's brain against the forcefield right in front of his face, killing him.

"You need to follow my advice more."

Thank you for settling, Ratchet. First Aid was content at least that Ratchet had decided to settle down. That was good, at the very least...

"I haven't made a very good CMO here, though."

"He's been exiled. Ratchet intervened before Megatron could execute him." The fact that he felt any kind of relief at Tarn's life being spared just sent him spiraling deeper into the mounting guilt.

"I should have been the one holding the sword." He was still playing the part of Megatron's hound when that was the last thing this young mech needed. "I should have killed him. Megatron's hands would be clean and Tarn would never have been a threat ever again."

Sixshot could still go out and do just that. He could leave this moment, track the scent and blow a hole clean through Tarn's head, quick and painless.

"Kffft." The sound of static from his vocalizer was a good summary for First Aid's feelings about that.

A hazy memory helped First Aid's anxiety at the moment. He might feel more aprehensive about Tarn being alive, unwatched, and at large once his memories of the events become more clear. Distantly, he knows it's worrying. He knows his life is still in danger, now for the insult of the outcome of his failure to kill him, only now Tarn just had nothing to lose for finishing it. But...

He didn't want Megatron to be a killer. He was angry. He was hurt and has had a hard, short life, but he can be good.

"Is that what you want?" It's a simple question, one he already knows the answer to. Tarn and Sixshot had shared something he and Sixshot never had. Might never have.

"I've been told that by a surprising number of people." Maybe not so surprising. Ratchet cycles his vents in a shaky sigh and leans closer to First Aid.

"You're doing fine, kid."

"..." The silence probably answered that a lot better than any words could have. No, Sixshot did not want to hunt down his ex-lover. Despite all the pain he'd had caused, he still, desperately, wanted Tarn to live.

"If he comes back here, I will kill him," he concedes unhappily.

That, at least, was true. It was Megatron's wish. It was to protect First Aid. It was to maintain peace. The next time Tarn attempted to hurt anyone else would be his last attempt.

"I'm going to be taking up the role of teaching Megatron to fight. There's no one else left and we need Megatron at his fullest. I suspect this is only the beginning of whatever is about to come."

Maybe so. He remembers helping save Thunderclash without ever having left this place. He remembers mentoring Velocity. He remembers leaving, defending Caminus as-- First Aid's body ached to combine. Deep down to his core he's felt wrong, alone.

He wonders if Ambulon feels like this frequently.

Distantly, he remembers the panicked instinct, the reach to try and combine when there were no others to combine with as Tarn twisted his fingers free.

"Have you recharged?"

Unpleasant thoughts had to be chased away.

He wants to go back to sleep. The escape of dreams seemed like a pleasant alternative to the ache in First Aid's spark, deeper than physical.

"Megatron's a medic." He has his stripes and everything. They'd helped teach him, watch him grow into something he wanted to be, rather than what the Senate and war forced him to be. Why did everyone want to train him to be a killer?

His hands brush over the sides of Sixshot's face, nudging him softly to lift his head and look at his scarred, gray face.

"Sixshot, why are you here with me?"

"He will still be a medic." That was was a promise he intended to keep. Megatron was not their leader: he was a young mech with his own hopes and dreams and it was something he'd failed miserably at acknowledging before, merely acting as a follower doing as he was told. Something Tarn had ignored entirely in favor of attempting to groom him. "He's just one with more enemies than usual."

The gentle nudging of First aid's hands makes Sixshot's optics brighten slightly in puzzlement, but he lets his head be guided. Staring up at the scarred face, he feels exhaustion sinking into his struts all over again.

He should have been there. He could have stopped it.

"I was... worried."

First Aid sighs, softly holding Sixshot's head gently between his hands. He gets tired quickly, his grip going limp but not moving, trapping Sixshot's head in a loose hold against his chest.

"Do you want to be with him?" Tarn, that is. Getting mauled has made him reflective on the situation. He feels...okay enough to ask about it now, but already his tank was starting to knot.

"Why? So he can lie to me again?"

There's a vindictive and deep bitterness in those snarled out words. Initially, he bristles in First Aid's hold, suddenly angry all over again.

Eventually, however, the growls die down and the bristling turns into silent, suppressed tremors, just barely detectable. He doesn't say anything for the longest time, careful to keep the weight of his head off of First Aid's chest.

"I don't know what I want. I mostly just want to be pissed off but it's hard to sustain."

Those tremors were right under First Aid's hands though. He was weak, aching, glitching, but his hands were still sensitive. Sixshot was hurting.

He'd wanted to talk to Sixshot about this for some time now. The small discussion they'd had when they were both inflicted with feverish charge, when the wound of rejection was still open and fresh, wasn't really quite a discussion. It ended in a short dalliance, one First Aid would have traded to go back to the way things were before.

He wishes things were different.

"Loving someone hurts." His voice doesn't sound like it's getting better. It actually sounds like it's getting a bit worse, with fluctuations in volume and static levels. "But it's also wonderful. It just... has to be worth the pain. You have to decide that."

"If the worth of Tarn's love is your life, I think I'll pass," Sixshot rumbles dryly. "It's not a particularly fair trade-off."

The tremors fade slowly as the Sixer regathers his composure. Eventually, hesitantly, he speaks up again. "... I'm sorry. About not telling you what was going on between me and Tarn."

"Yeah that might take a bit of time; Tarn really did a number on it.”

First Aid was victim to Ambulon’s worst fear. He can’t imagine what he felt as Tarn ripped into him. He knows that there is nothing that he could have done to stop it, but he can’t help but feel something like guilt. Like it should have been him. The Decepticon deserter, living right under the DJD’s nose for all those years.

All Ambulon knows is he doesn’t want to let go of his friend.

"I'm just an Autobot." It's humor, but it's dark.

First Aid takes a moment to debate his response to that. He'd been very, very hurt by it. Finding out in the way he did probably was one of the worst ways he could think of, shy of actually walking in on them. His EM field reflects this, pulsing uneasily.

"I forgive you." Saying anything else would be too much, or a lie.

It's been an exhausting week.

Between managing more rogue Decepticons and trying to keep the shaky, tentative peace in the city, doing familiar work in the clinic was calming to him. Even though First Aid was there under circumstances he'd do anything to reverse, going through the motions of checking his vitals and helping nurse him from near death brought an odd form of ease to his mind.

It seemed paradoxical, how gentle and quiet he was while managing the machinery that helped keep First Aid alive. When everything seemed to check out, he just sat by the medic's berth, resting his head in his arms on the emptier end by First Aid's feet. It's only now that he realizes it's been a few weeks since he's recharged.

"An awful snarky one, too." There's very, very soft puff of air against First Aid's chest.

First Aid's forgiveness doesn't make him feel any less guilty, but it takes some of the weight off. He debates trying to explain himself more, but the words just taste like excuses on the back of his tongue. In the end, he simply turns his head and gives First Aid's hand a gentle lick.

"You should go back to sleep."

"I'm still handsome though, right?"

First Aid is trying to take some humor in it. He tries shifting, but he aborts it quickly as a stab of pain lances through his hip. He couldn't even prop himself up to get a better look at it.

He just manages to hold back a hiss. He doesn't want Ambulon to worry too much.

"Mmm," First Aid hums, sounding pleased with himself.

"Not yet. I don't... want you to leave me yet." Being alone suddenly struck him as very frightening, even the solitude of recharge.

He curls his fingers around one of Sixshot's ears, gently stroking it.

"Can I see your face?"

"I'll still be here," Sixshot promises, even as his voice wavers and his optics dim under First Aid's gentle touch. He's so blissed out by fingers on his ears he almost misses the medic's question entirely.

"My face?" he echoes. Then it clicks and his fields flicker with a sudden, anxious uncertainty. The last person who'd seen his face was Tarn, after all, the root of all his heartbreak and all their current misery.

The wolf-mech hesitates before drawing in a long, deep cycle of air and carefully shaking off First Aid's hand. The transformation from beast to bipedal mode was a simple one, easy enough to pull off in the tight space of the medical bay. He ends up on his knees next to the berth, hand hovering over his mask.

"... Why?" he asks suddenly.

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