robothell | (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

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.

The thing about face and brain injuries is that even though it was something a cybertronian was fully capable of recovering from, prospects were always up in the air. They could be fine. They could die. They could be in a coma for years, or they could have lingering issues.

First Aid's body was on the way of repair, but his brain had still been injured. His bouts of wakefulness were brief and usually ended in a headache or just drifting to sleep again.

He wakes again as Megatron takes his seat, the monitor showing increased brain activity as he drifts out of recharge. He almost bonks Megatron in the nose as his foot tilts to the side.

"...Hey."

He notices First Aid's awakening when the medic's feet stir. Whatever fatigue was in Megatron's frame evaporates as a little excitement fills him. After giving the monitor a glance, he stands up and gently rests a huge hand on his uninjured forearm, mindful of First Aid's own hands.

"How are you feeling?"

Cybertronians were hardy, but First Aid's injuries were severe. It was only with exhaustive efforts that they were able to help him thus far, so seeing him stir a little was an enormous relief.

"A little banged up," First Aid croaks out, trying to have some humor.

Truthfully he was feeling pretty awful both physically and mentally, but Megatron was a junior doctor, not a psychiatrist. And even when they had a psychiatrist, First Aid had never went to Rung to sort out his issues, opting to neglect himself and come out only when needed.

Slowly, he becomes aware of the warm hand against his arm, and his attention drifts to that. His eyes still need some work, but they do focus, the apertures cycling as he looked at the sight.

"Did you... work on me?"

First Aid's arm gets a light squeeze as the beginnings of a smile begin to tug at the corners of Megatron's mouth. If he could manage enough energy to crack jokes, then maybe he'd be better off than they originally thought.

"Ratchet and Ambulon needed a bit of help," he replies sheepishly,"You focus on getting your strength back."

He may not be a psychiatrist, but First Aid wouldn't be the first injured friend he's tended to. He didn't mind listening. At least now he could do more for someone than top them off with his own energon.

To be fair, it was better to make a joke than to sink deeper into the pit of anxiety and depression he was finding himself in. It helps to see Megatron smile, and his optics dim slightly as he lets his focus drift a little.

"This is my fault," he murmurs, unable to keep the wave of horrible guilt back. "I shouldn't-- I shouldn't have antagonized him. I j-just hate the DJD so much."

He wished Tarn would rot.

"Don't."

Megatron leans closer.

"Just - Don't. It's not your responsibility to prevent him from doing his grotesque acts."

He's not having any of this. Tarn has been looking for any excuse to hurt the Autobots, any at all. Whatever First Aid did couldn't have merited the retribution. Nothing could deserve this.

"But I will say you won't have to deal with him anymore."

Despite Megatron's attempts to cut that line of thinking short, First Aid still feels horrible. He kept his private life rather private and didn't speak much of his history at work unless it was relevant to the situation. There was a lot Megatron didn't know.

He should have known better. He should have avoid Tarn instead of confronting him.

"Six... Sixshot said he's been exiled."

The six changer was one of the first faces he saw when he awoke. Thinking about him made his spark ache more. He radiated sadness and betrayal; First Aid hurt having been the source, somewhat.

He can't fault Sixshot for loving someone.