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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"That's not true." Sixshot's voice was quiet, the admission a little more than a whisper. "You make me happy, too."

It was more than he'd ever felt before. So strange that it took waking up on a desolate Cybertron to start feeling real again. Heh, that was kind of an over-dramatic way of putting it, but there wasn't... a better description for the transition. He'd never known happiness like this. He'd never known sorrow like this.

"I believed in him," he says quieter. "I didn't think he'd do this to you."

First Aid didn't really have all the optic components ready and repaired to show weeping, but his field ripples with it. He has his arm full of wolf head and he wishes he could hug it tighter, but his grip is fragile even as he tries curling his fingers around him.

He didn't have anything comforting to say to that. He never really believed that Tarn wouldn't savage him, especially after the mech had nearly crushed his neck cabling at the party, but at the same time he had the armor that Megatron's disappointment had afforded him.

"Really?" Because Sixshot had been there to see Tarn pick him up by the neck and slam his head into a table.

That was a warning sign First Aid should have probably picked up on, but at the time he was too drunk and hurt emotionally to really rationally assess his life may be in danger in the future.

Edited 2015-11-27 02:57 (UTC)

"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."

"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?"

"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.

"..." 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."

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."

"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.

"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."

"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.

Seeing Sixshot transform into his root mode still makes First Aid's tank knot and apprehension ripple in his field. It's a mode that unfortunately was presented with some rather uncomfortable feelings and memories.

The pause was just long enough to make him nervous, feeling like he's overstepped his bounds again, and his hands slowly move closer to his damaged frame.

"I just... wanted to see it. You've never willingly shown me."

A few skipped pulses register on the spark monitor, and First Aid's optic flicker slightly. He slowly moves his hands to his chest and takes a deeper vent to steady himself. His frame didn't need the cooling -- it was already rather cold to touch -- but it helped him to relax and focus.

He'd shown it to Tarn without even a second thought. Why was he questioning now? Why was he hesitating now? What was there to worry about?

The spark monitor skips a few pulses and Sixshot's optics dart briefly to the screen before returning his attention back to the medic, watching his friend steady himself. Guilt tightens the anxious coil under his spark again and he looks away, down at his knees.

It was just a mask. It was just his face. And First Aid of all people, deserved to have his request granted- especially something as innocuous as this.

There's a click, the quiet hiss of metal sliding apart. Sixshot clenches his hand and sets it on his lap before slowly looking up.

First Aid was being patient, but the longer Sixshot hesitated, the more he had time to think and regret asking. Embarrassment ripples over him, making him feel hot with shame, and as the silence stretched it just grew worse until he was about to stutter out an apology.

The hiss of the mask retracting makes him pause, and when Sixshot finally looks up his optics flicker again. It's not what he expected. Handsome, but soft. Even the most well maintained Wrecker had a more rugged face.

He puffs out a small laugh, smiling with the ruins of his eyes, and then slowly reaches out again.

"Thank you." He speaks very softly, his voice wavering slightly as relief begins to seep in. "May I have your hand?"

That little laugh was like starlight through dark clouds. Sixshot forgets why he'd been so anxious, forgets everything but the lingering note of abashment at having his face exposed just for the sake of it.

He reboots his voice box with a cough of static and forces himself to keep his chin up. There was no use trying to hide, but there was something about First Aid's gaze that made him feel oddly vulnerable.

"You're, ah, welcome," he mumbles, reaching out, offering his hand for his friend to take.

Sixshot's hand is massive compared to his own, he could crush it just by curling his fingers in too tight, but First Aid slides his palm into the other mech's and rests it there.

"I expected more scars," He teases, rubbing his fingers against Sixshot's palm. "How handsome... If the life support fails, got something nice to think about as I..."

Facts of life here. He knows he's not strong enough to be off the machines keeping him alive, even if he had consciousness now.

If Sixshot could blush, he'd be beet red by now. He curls his thumb over First Aid's tiny, tiny hand and very gently brushes it over his wrist.

"The support crew who worked on me tended to have exacting standards up to and beyond cosmetics." Of course, his support crew were the sorts who'd worked under Shockwave and knew how to maintain his ridiculous black hole fission cell power core.

Speaking of... "I can double as a back up redundant power source for your life support? Although I think Ratchet's already got it hooked up to several independent circuits as is."

In return, First Aid turns his hand and loosely curls his fingers around Sixshot's thumb. It was far too mangled to have a good grip yet, but it was enough.

"So sweet." He sighs quietly and rubs the thumb between his fingers. "You don't have to do that. Just being here is good."

As gently as he can, Sixshot lowers his helm and touches his nose to First Aid's fingers with the utmost care.

"Please don't die," he says very, very quietly, almost a prayer. "Please, please don't die."