Recuperation

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

R
IDW/MTMTE
First Aid/Drift
sticky, fluff
for tf-rare-pairing weekly request

First Aid adjusted the swordsmech’s arm back onto the narrow berth of the jumpshuttle. He’d checked Drift’s vitals—four times—but the mech was simply exhausted, it seemed.  He’d worked hard, loading everything salvageable from Delphi through the decon unit, and then onto the shuttle, before he’d finally taken Ratchet’s yelled order to lie the hell down.

And promptly fallen asleep, apparently. 

Ratchet bustled past First Aid, shooting a look down at the repair berth. He flexed his hands, new and black, as though thinking of something, then back down at Drift.  “You could,” he said, his voice almost quiet, as though making clear that this was not an order, “clean him up if you want.”

First Aid nodded. “Makes sense.” Drift had done more than his share, while sick. It would be a nice surprise to wake up and have all traces of the plague gone. The cure had stopped the disease, but he was still stained by the stuff, long, acrid-stinking lines of rust streaking his armor.  And it was just like Ratchet, he figured, to have to mask the fact that he really cared.

He dug around in a cubby under the small berth, rummaging up a rag and some cleanser, and got to work, wiping the arms,  working his way up from the hands, to the elbows, to the complicated mounting of the red spaulders. 

Drift was…beautiful.  Really, First Aid couldn’t think of any other word for it—just a perfect confluence of function and form, a certain elegant economy.  Even the spaulders were beautiful, buttressed underneath to be used as armor against blows. 

And Drift’s face.  Asleep, the intense lines had softened a bit, into a face that was just…striking under the sweeping lines of the helm.

First Aid knew he shouldn’t be thinking like this: Drift was a patient, after all. He’d nearly died.  It was wrong to look at a patient and feel your spark stir this way, wrong to stroke down the powerful arms, and think of the battles they’d fought.  Wrong to look at the face and wonder how that mouth would kiss….

Right.  He wrung out the rag, watching the nasty liquid swirl down the small sink. Patient. That’s all. He’s just another patient.

Only.

This was Drift. The ex-Decepticon, the ex-Wrecker, the one who had seen this hidden city of lost Cybertronians. He turned back, feeling his spark flutter. This was Drift. Drift, who sighed at the cool touch of the rag on his autorepair heated armor, turning his face into First Aid’s touch. 

First Aid sighed, forcing himself to concentrate. Another patient, that’s all. And the best thing he could do would be to clean him off. 

He wiped down the thighs, hands shaking as they moved over the powerful servos,  the sleek, complicated shapes of Drift’s armor. First Aid’s own frame was square and simple, blocky and clumsy by comparison. He felt awkward and useless, even as he swiped the rag over the sweep of the powerful legs, the lines accentuating the narrowness of his waist, the broadness of his shoulders.

First Aid rinsed out the rag again, returning to see a line of red from Drift’s interface hatch, the rest of his armor clean and white.

Oh.

But.

He couldn’t.

But.

He should do it. He didn’t like to leave a task incomplete.  He was known for it, being thorough. And he’d seen his patients’ equipment before. Repaired it, even. A medic sometimes got treated with shyness and embarrassment, but a nurse? A nurse saw and heard it all.

He was hardly innocent.

Right. Just a spike. You’ve seen hundreds of them. Probably more than Drift has. He nodded to himself. See? Simple logic and sense.

He opened the interface hatch with brisk, practiced fingers, swabbing the rag over the mass of rusted gunk.  It was a mess, but it was healing now, already, Drift’s autorepair knitting together the metal. And it was just.

A spike.

Half jutting from the ruined equipment cover, it was not like any spike he’d seen before, the metal plates chased and  covered with intricate engravings.  It was…beautiful.  At least, where it wasn’t smeared with rust.

His fingers brushed the spike’s head, no longer even pretending to be professional, just  fascinated.

Drift groaned, the spike surging against First Aid’s hand. His hand closed, a reflex, over the spike, feeling the push of lubricant against his palm. 

“Nnnnnh,” Drift murmured, the hips shifting toward First Aid.

First Aid’s ventilation caught, his optics flicking up to Drift’s face.  The optics were still closed, but the mouth had pulled into a gentle smile. He felt a gust of hot air over his hand, the cooling systems doing their best to compensate for the autorepair.  He released his grip on the spike, guiltily, reaching for his rag. 

Another sound, almost like a whimper this time, a line between the optics furrowing, and Drift shifted on his back as First Aid moved to swab carefully around the spike cover, the exposed spike, trying to ignore the EM field growing dense and plush around him. 

And then, the spike itself remained, everything around it wiped and clean.  Just the spike, its length stained with clotty rust.  Come on, First Aid. You can do this. Well, you can do this and remain professional. Can’t you?

He nodded to himself, taking a new rag and wrapping it gently around the spike.  It pulsed against his touch, and he couldn’t help but think of what it would feel like, all this sleek metal, the intricate repousse against his valve’s sensormesh. His valve tingled at the thought, a small bleat of want leaking from his vocalizer.

So much for professional.

Suddenly a hand clamped over First Aid’s wrist, Drift’s whole body tensing, the optics blazing blue down at him.

First Aid squeaked, trying to pull away but Drift had a swordsmech’s hands, a grip of iron, the optics fierce and hard and dangerous. “I was just…just cleaning.”

The hand loosened its grip on his wrist, the mouth softening into a smile, almost sheepish. “Sorry. Not used to waking up…uh, like this.”

The smile dazzled First Aid for a long moment. His ventilation systems flushed all their air in a whoosh.  “I…I’m really sorry.”

The head tilted, the long finials tracing arcs in the air. As though just like that, it was over. “Why?” 

“I…it’s a little inappropriate.” A little? You think? 

Drift chuckled. “Is it?”

“Well. Me. Your, uh, your spike,” ….which he just realized he was still holding, hand squeezing tight around the silver plating.

“You’re a medic,” Drift said, reasonably. Wow, he hadn’t been listening in on First Aid’s thoughts, good thing! 

“N-nurse. I’m only a nurse.” 

“Only a nurse.” Drift shook his head pushing himself up onto one elbow, his other hand still over First Aid’s wrist.  The servos wobbled for a klik, then steadied. “No such thing. What you do is important.”

“All I did was…well, a washrack could have done it better.” And without the lascivious commentary. He was glad for his facemask, hiding the wince of embarrassment.

“A washrack wouldn’t have cared,” Drift said, quietly, his optics earnest and intense.

W-was Drift flirting with him? Hitting on him? Something somewhere in between? He was so bad with words he couldn't even think what to call what he thought this wasn't.  “I-I-I…can I have my hand back?” he asked, meekly.

“Do you want it back?” Drift said, and the swordsmech’s thumb stroked the inside of First Aid’s wrist. The smaller mech shivered. This was not happening. This was just another of those dreams he had sometimes, you know, the ones he woke up from, burning with arousal and shame? The ones where Springer stormed into the medibay, calling for him by name, thrusting him up against the wall, pinned by a fierce kiss. Or Topspin and Twin Twist. Both.  At the same time.

He shouldn’t have these thoughts, not about patients.  Ever. And especially not right now.

He shivered, his entire body tingling and electric.  No, he didn’t want his hand back, not if it meant losing that almost gentle touch on his wrist, those bright blue optics, that self-assured but somehow still shy smile. His hand seemed to tighten of its own accord over the spike. Drift tipped his hips up, into the pressure, optics dimming with pleasure. First Aid couldn’t help himself—he pushed his hand down the spike, barely even pretending that he was cleaning it this time, his optics on Drift’s face.

Drift…purred. A rumble of the engine First Aid had never heard before. It’s not like he’d never interfaced before, or anything. There’d been some, you know, stuff back at the medical academy. But it had been furtive, sort of dirty.

Nnnnnot that this wasn’t that. Like, at all.  But somehow, Drift’s engine humming, the EM field pulsing softly against his, made it seem less…dirty. “I…I want….” He shivered, and Drift released his wrist, reaching forward with that hand to First Aid’s shoulder, pulling the smaller medic onto the berth with him, hands running down the square plating of First Aid’s back, sending trills of sensation over his net.

“We shouldn’t,” First Aid said.

“Why not?” The hands curled over his hips. “You want to. I want to.”

“You…want to?”  This…didn’t happen. Big, fierce, powerful warriors didn’t want First Aid. It just didn’t happen.  They were happy enough to see him when they needed repairs, but even then, they were wary because of his reputation: the medic who got downrated.  Which was why First Aid had to resort to fantasies. And the washracks.

More of that sparkbreaking smile.  “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes.” The word slipped out, before he could stop it. First Aid stiffened, then buried his face against the broad, black shoulder, mortified. And for a moment Drift just held him, the hands stilling on his back, arms around his shoulders.  “Sorry,” he said, the words muffled against the dark armor. Drift smelled clean now, at least, and…good.

“Don’t apologize,” Drift said, the voice vibrating against First Aid’s chassis.  “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

First Aid pinched his mouth plates bitterly behind his mask. “For ruining this?” Here was Drift: beautiful, powerful, heroic, everything he was not, first offering something no one offered First Aid and then holding him while he went all emotional.  This was a disaster. This was why he didn’t deserve a chance at someone like Drift.

“Nothing’s ruined,” Drift said. He tipped First Aid’s chin up, meeting the other’s gaze. “We’re on our quest because we believe even Cybertron isn’t ruined. It’s not. This isn’t either.”  He rolled his hips, his wet, aroused spike sliding over First Aid’s belly. 

“But I--?”

Another quirk of the smile. “Sometimes, it’s best to stop thinking.” His hand skated over First Aid’s aft, pulling one thigh over his hip.

“Ratchet could catch us!” First Aid whispered, even as he wriggled upright, hand moving to his interface hatch. He felt a thrill race through his fuel lines, as though he’d been injected with some pure engex.  So maybe this was what it was like to feel brave, confident, alive. 

Drift bumped his helm against First Aid’s, almost playfully. “That’s half the fun.”

Comments

[eerian_sadow]

oh, this was delightful. <3 i love the shades of Wing you could see in Drift here.

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

oh maaaan! they're so cute together!!! First Aid is such a sweetheart; he makes me want to cuddle them both in fluff!

[playswithworms.livejournal.com]

I'm gonna sit here in my happy place and glurble for awhile *happily glurbles* AWwwwww ^_^ First Aid, so conscientious, and thorough. Thoroughly thorough. Can't leave a bit uncleaned! That would be just wrong! XD Poor guy, if he's not supposed to have "those" thoughts about patients - who's left that isn't a patient, at one point or another?

And Drift is pure love - I love his response to Aid's wibble there, Cybertron isn't ruined and neither is this <3

[mmouse15.livejournal.com]

That was awesome. I love how First Aid is trying so hard, and being so very thorough, and Drift is able to soothe him.

[tainry.livejournal.com]

Thorough! Yes. Very important, thoroughosity. ::nods firmly:: Also mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmshiver. <3 And helm bumping! Also also repousse! A hammered spike! ..........A dildo made like that would indeed be very verrrrrrrrry interesting. ::flails::

[swift117.livejournal.com]

thanks for a writing not only delightfully sensual but so very in-depth with psychology... "So maybe this was what it was like to feel brave, confident, alive. "