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“Don’t touch me!”
A crash echoed in the room, metal slamming into the ground and shouting. First Aid glanced over to the other corner of the operating suite, and almost cursed. Ambulon was backed away about a foot from the patient’s table with his hands up in a surrendering gesture. His face was reserved, but his body was tense and ready to move. His groggy patient was staring at the turned over cart on the ground, where a scalpel lay next to a few spare parts.
“Are you okay?” Ambulon asked, keeping his distance. First Aid was impressed with his calm tone, and the evenness in his voice. “I was checking your vitals and I didn’t realize how quickly you’d come out of the sedative. I’m sorry I startled you.”
“Get away,” the patient said. He hissed, and his hand trembled where it clutched the edge of the bed. It was more disgust than anger, and First Aid’s own fists started to mimic them for the same reasons. The patient yelled, “I don’t want you and your shoddy paint job touching me!”
“That’s fine, but I do need you to lie back down. You’re still under a bit, and I don’t want you falling off the table,” Ambulon said. He lowered his hands, and reached to pick up his data pad that had been thrown off the table. First Aid made ready to walk over and give that patient a piece of his mind, but Ambulon beat him to it. Turning straight to Aid, he said, “First Aid, would you mind assisting Low Gear?”
“Sure,” First Aid said, his voice as flat as possible. He had a lot of other things he’d much rather be doing to assist Low Gear.
Ambulon smiled weakly at him as he walked away toward the main door of the room. First Aid went to the trouble patient and took great joy shoving the petulant truck back down on the berth, and upping the dosage on his sedative until those angry blue optics flickered out.
First Aid returned to his station to finish prepping and cleaning the utensils, but his body felt stiff and heavy. He was angry. Ambulon had been at Delphi for a full two years since his defection four years ago. If he was going to jump out at all of them as an angry Decepticon spy, he would have done it after the first day of having to sit through Pharma glaring at him.
Not a spy on in the universe would have been able to keep his cover with Pharma breathing down his neck every second of the day. First Aid dumped the tray of scalpels into the disinfecting solution. Only an honest mech could resist shooting their control freak boss.
And even the honest ones were tempted.
First Aid shook his head, and rubbed the station down with a cloth. The point—was even though it was common knowledge that Ambulon used to be a Decepticon, he was harmless. He did his job. First Aid would never know how he put up with how everyone treated him so calmly. Aid would have clocked someone by now. But no. Patient, tired, Ambulon put up with the name-calling, the teasing, and the hostility like a pro.
First Aid respected him.
“Nurse, are you working or lost in your head,” Pharma said, lurking up behind him. First Aid stopped and looked over his shoulder. Pharma rubbed his finger along the surface of the table, and inspected it. “My mistake, it appears you’re finished.”
First Aid nodded, counting his blessings. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Pharma drummed his fingers on the table. He looked around the lab, his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed in annoyance. “Where did Ambulon go?”
“A patient got unruly, so he’s putting some distance between them. I think he’s waiting for the patient to be completely under before coming back in,” First Aid replied. He bit his lip behind his face-plate, and added, “He’s never gone long, and I think he took some paperwork with him.”
“Of course,” Pharma said. He rubbed between his optics and frowned, his mouth twisted in a snarl. “Well, go find him. He had a check-up scheduled, and I’d rather get it over with now than have to deal with it later.”
“I could do it,” First Aid blurted, volunteering before his brain could catch up with his mouth. “I’m sure you’re busy, and I just finished up my work here.”
“I’m not sure, nurse,” Pharma said, the corner of his lip smirking up. “Do you think you can handle it?”
“I’m more than qualified,” First Aid said, steel in his voice. His current title was due to a mental evaluation by that blasted Rung, not because of his qualifications. Pharma knew that. “It’ll save you the trouble.”
“If you insist,” Pharma said. He slapped a data-pad against First Aid’s chest. “His medical records. Have fun.”
First Aid nodded and tapped out of the lab, smacking Low Gear in the side of the leg for good measure. Not like he could feel it—he was dead out.
He found Ambulon cooped up in a corner in the next bay over. He was hunched over his data-pad and taking notes. First Aid made his approach slowly, and tapped him on the side of the shoulder, “Hey.”
Ambulon jerked under the touch, a shock and fear on his face for a flash, but it left as fast as it appeared. He tapped the pad off, and gave First Aid his full attention. “Is Low Gear asleep? I want to re-check his vitals again. He shouldn’t have woken up that quickly, and I’m a little worried something might be running improperly.”
First Aid’s spark ached, but he resisted acting on it. “He’s fine, and I’m not really sure why you’re wasting your worry on him.”
“He’s a patient,” Ambulon said, plain as day and optics wide and confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“He’s an aft, for starters,” First Aid said, tapping his procured data-pad on his arm. “If he’s going to treat you that way, I really don’t see why you need to go the extra mile with bedside care.”
Ambulon snorted, and covered his mouth to hide the laugh. He shook his head and pointed at First Aid’s hand. “What’s that? Something need signed?”
“Changing the subject?”
“Yes,” Ambulon said. “What is it?”
First Aid shook his head and threw up his arms. “Your medical chart. Pharma’s a little busy, so I’m taking over your check up.”
“Oh,” Ambulon said, something odd in the syllable that perked First Aid’s attention. Ambulon licked the side of his lip and looked to the side before turning his gaze back to Aid. “Alright. Did you want to do it now, or later?”
“Now is good,” First Aid.
Ambulon put his pad down and, laced his fingers together in his lap. He turned, giving First Aid easier access to the diagnostic ports on the underside of his helm. “When you’re ready.”
First Aid nodded, and plugged the first prong into the port. The data-pad in his hand lit to life, showing the results of his last check with Pharma. Short, brief notes were written in the margins, showing ‘All Clears.’ First Aid couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to have a total reformat shoved on you without permission, but at least physically Ambulon was handling it well.
First Aid was through the second sweep, when he couldn’t help it any longer. He had to ask, “How do you put up with that? I think if someone took a swipe at me, I’d hit them right back.”
Ambulon laughed, his body trembling as he tried not to move while his systems were scanned. “This is nothing, First Aid. I used to work with Decepticons, remember? Having someone take a swipe at you when they woke up from anesthesia was the norm. Even the trustworthy doctors couldn’t be trusted as far as they were concerned.”
“Yes, but you’re not there and neither is Low Gear. He should trust his Autobot doctors,” First Aid argued. “There’s no excuse for it.”
“I’m not an Autobot to him, Aid,” Ambulon said. His fingers tightened, First Aid could hear the metal straining. “I probably never will be. I knew things would be this way the second I ripped that wretched insignia off, so please don’t worry. I’m more than prepared for it.”
“It’s still absurd,” First Aid said, pouting behind his face-plate.
He worked in quietly for a few moments, checking off each level of the diagnostic as they passed. After the last check cleared, First Aid reached up to pull out the cord. As he removed the connector, a chip of paint caught on his finger and ripped free with it. He rolled it over in his finger, and startled when he caught Ambulon staring at it.
“I suppose I’m due for a touch up,” Ambulon said, reaching back to touch the exposed purple paint.
First Aid dropped his shoulders. Ambulon always fixed up his own paint in the solitude of his quarters. It was always half-done, and he never sealed it correctly. First Aid was starting to suspect no one had shown him how to do it correctly. As shabby as some ‘Cons were, that was a good bet. First Aid smiled, thinking of at least one good deed he could help with. “You know, I could help you with that.”
“With what?”
“Fixing your paint,” First Aid said. He tapped an exposed piece of blue on Ambulon’s chest. “I’ve got a top coat that’ll stop that chipping.”
Ambulon touched his chest where First Aid’s finger had been. He slowly shook his head and frowned. “No, that’s alright. It’s fine the way it is.”
“But why,” First Aid threw his hands up. He attempts a good deed and Ambulon shoots it down. Did the other mech want to be miserable!? “Okay, so no one’s going to trust you, but you could at least stop the teasing over this. Wouldn’t be getting rid of one little thing be better in the long run?”
Ambulon grabbed First Aid’s hand, and held it against a scraped piece of paint. First Aid’s spark stilled in his chest, almost afraid to sent a needed pulse of energy to his limbs. He was scared to move with that yellow gaze locked onto his visor. Ambulon said, “I’d much rather they make fun of me, than be scared of me.”
“What?”
Ambulon stood, and First Aid had to look up as the other mech towered about a head over him. Ambulon squeezed his hand. “If I were to walk around this base in my full shining purple, they’d know I was a Decepticon immediately. If Low Gear had woken up to that, in his groggy state after just being out in the battle field being shot at by said ‘Cons, he would have done much worse than knock over a tray and smack my arm away. He would have panicked, hurting himself more than me, and possibly another patient.
“If I were to completely fix my paint, perfectly sealed and polished, than I’d still look intimidating. I’d still be a Decepticon to him, just in a different set of colors.
“But,” Ambulon said, pausing. He released First Aid’s hand, and shrugged his shoulders, “This way, I look like a disheveled mess. I’m a doctor who can’t even get his paint job on correctly—I look pathetic. Who’d be scared of that?”
First Aid nodded, his spark racing a million miles in his chest. He rubbed at the side of his fingers, his thumb catching on the new dent from Ambulon’s grip.
“Sorry,” Ambulon pointed at the damage. “I’ll fix it after shift.”
“Right,” First Aid said.
Ambulon laughed a bit, and grabbed First Aid’s shoulder. He shook it once, and said close to First Aid’s helm. “Don’t worry. I can handle myself just fine, chipped paint and all. Now if you don’t mind, I want to finish up with Low Gear’s diagnostic, just in case he’s burning through the sedative too quickly again.”
First Aid stared at the wall as Ambulon tapped away back to the main operating suite.
He wasn’t sure ‘respect’ was quite the right word to describe how First Aid felt about Ambulon any longer.