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Energon soaked First Aid up to his elbows and pooled on the table as he worked to snip and secure the loose wires and tubing that spilled out from Vortex’s abdominal cavity. It was a mess from the start and it was made even more a mess when First Aid couldn’t reach his servos in deep enough to search and explore without hearing Vortex utter the same obnoxious gasping noises while squirming beneath First Aid’s touch.
First Aid grit his teeth behind the mask as another messy valve squirted energon all over his face and down his front before he managed to tie the wriggling thing down and tape it off. He wasn’t supposed to be performing an impromptu surgery like this—not without the proper tools and especially not without a hell of a lot of advanced notice—but the situation called for it. Vortex was being an ornery little slagger, which was nothing new, but he was also being pointedly obtuse and painfully unhelpful in this whole endeavor.
First Aid liked splitting a mech open and clawing through their innards as they gasped and moaned beneath him just as much as the next guy, which was actually a hell of a lot more than any other medic he’d talked to would admit, but still. He hadn’t been planning on filling his night with botched surgical procedures and poking through his partner’s insides in search of some object that may or may not have even existed in the first place… and yet here he sat doing just that as he tried valiantly to ignore the needy throb behind his panels that pulsed in time with every arch of Vortex’s frame off of the kitchen table.
Vortex was the one who had asked him to come over for once, which had been nice. What wasn’t so nice was finding the copter sitting on the edge of his berth and twiddling his thumbs in his lap like he’d just done something terribly wrong. He’d asked First Aid to come over for assistance, he eventually revealed—not without First Aid threatening to leave him high and dry a few times beforehand, of course—but the reason behind his request was still left vague.
First Aid had asked if he had broken something. Vortex said no. He asked if Vortex needed to discuss one of his most recent visits out to that sleazy old bar he frequented far too often for First Aid’s liking. Vortex still said no.
There was no good explanation given, no specific reasoning behind the demand. After the third or fourth time he had threatened walking out, Vortex finally relented, but it wasn’t anything good.
“I need help getting something,” he said simply, shrugging his shoulders like they were just friends chatting over a late lunch. “Nothing crazy, but I ain’t gonna be able to do it myself.”
They made no progress with a quick examination, even when Vortex’s intentions were made clear by his provocative movements into First Aid’s prodding fingers and the constant sounds punctuating every touch First Aid made. He made it as horny as an in-house medical visit could possibly be, and slag, First Aid was falling for it hard. When push had finally come to shove, he had had no hesitations about dragging the needy and uncooperative copter out into the living quarters before throwing him on top of the kitchen table and hoping it would hold his weight long enough for First Aid to go back to retrieve his medical bag.
None of his dates had ever before started with one-sided flirting or dissolved into opening up his partner’s panels and getting elbow deep in their guts—not like this, at least. This time, it was leaky valves and sparking wires, energon up to his elbows and a gory mess all over. He didn’t have painkillers on him, and he had warned Vortex of that before he resorted to opening him up and getting some answers that way—he really really didn’t want to have to do this if he didn’t need to—but Vortex, of course, being the fragging masochist he always loved to be when First Aid was involved, had all but beamed at the precautionary warning.
Of course, First Aid thought to himself as he pinched another bundle of wires and peeled back a sticky layer of energon-soaked mesh lining. Of course this was how he would be spending his night. Of course Vortex would be difficult enough for him to have to turn to at-home surgery as a radical sort of punishment. Of course the mech beneath him wouldn’t shut up for more than a few seconds, wouldn’t stop moving for more than a minute between snips, and wouldn’t stop nagging at his growing frustration and flustered state.
Of course.
Vortex moaned again as First Aid pulled back a bundle of wires to reveal another layer of metal he would have to slice through. The sound was deep and guttural, gargled and painful, but arousing at the edges in a way that made it taper off into that pitiful little whine First Aid always loved to hear. That got him blushing hard behind his mask, and when he accidentally yanked on the bunch of cordage in his fist as he moved to push it aside, he blamed it solely on Vortex being an ornery little shit that simply couldn’t keep his mouth shut long enough for him to do his job properly.
It wasn’t at all anything to do with the way he was tapping his pede incessantly against the floor and counting to ten in his mind over and over again to keep himself from thinking too hard about horrible, sexual thoughts. No, that was just standard procedure for dealing with difficult and horny patients. First Aid was sure of it.
“Lie still,” he demanded, his voice hoarse in a way that caused him to lose any real bite behind the words. “Your squirming isn’t helping.”
Vortex looked half drunk off of the pain of being operated on without any proper medication, and First Aid hated the way it kept his spike aching behind his panels. The copter’s visor was dim as he lifted a shaky servo and let it fall onto his chest, his fingers patting the untouched metal in an obnoxiously teasing rhythm.
“I can’t help it,” he all but slurred, “you haven’t even come close to fixing me up and yet you’re still digging around in my guts.”
First Aid’s jaw ached from the pressure of clenching his teeth so hard. He took a long, deep intake before he even dared to respond.
“You’re not being a very helpful patient,” he said. “Most of the bots I operate on have told me what the problem is before I start digging around in their body.”
He could practically see the smug satisfaction growing on Vortex’s face. The mask and visor did little to hide the way his brow lifted and his shoulders shook from his laughter.
“Most?” he said.
“Yes,” First Aid nodded. “Most. Obviously I need to account for you in that calculation.”
The unhelpful little tangent they ended up on was enough to convince First Aid he had earned himself the right to get a little rough with Vortex’s internals, if only for a moment. He grinned through his grimace and clenched jaw as he dug deeper into the mech’s abdomen and rummaged through pooling energon and the mess of wires snapping in half and detaching from their ports.
His incisions were clean, but the mess from his rushed and sloppy handiwork was growing worse as motor oil came into the mix and swirled together with the dark blue of thick and fresh energon pooled in the pit of Vortex’s guts to create a disgusting concoction of soupy fluids First Aid wished he had the proper tools to flush out. Digging deeper meant listening to the slosh of energon splashing over the table’s edges and feeling sticky oil clinging to his frame like a slimy residue, but he kept working. Vortex hardly looked any better from the way it stained his front and dribbled down the edges of plating torn back and lines cut deep into the thick outer layers of metal, and that only helped to remind First Aid that in emergencies like these, a bit of a mess was to be expected.
Primus, First Aid was wishing he could add a whole new fluid to that mess. He caught the thought quickly before it could dissolve into something awful, though, and he went right back to work.
It was messy as hell, working like this, but it was necessary. Vortex made it necessary. The mech wouldn’t tell him what was wrong, so First Aid had to go looking for himself… and for him, a little bit of free styling was never a bad thing—especially not when he had such a noisy patient to operate on.
Up to a point, he was making less progress and doing more exploring. Vortex hardly seemed to mind, and though he hated to admit it, First Aid was enjoying the process, too. He stopped halfway through peeling back a freshly sliced wall covering a section of Vortex’s engines to kick an empty bin across the room closer to the tables edge, dribbling his sickly mixture of oil and energon all of the floor in the process. He had left a foot trail in his wake, and the table looked more like the operating room of a mad scientist than the dining area of a few choice Decepticon brutes anymore, but he hardly cared at this point.
Vortex didn’t want to cooperate, and First Aid couldn’t make him. He could, however, make him want to… so long as Vortex was still coherent enough to give proper instructions when the time came.
He was still looking giddier than ever and squirming like mad beneath First Aid’s touch as First Aid worked. He trembled as First Aid fingered his leaking ports, his digits plugging the holes where tubes and wires had been before. He gasped as First Aid drew his knife over untouched metal and fondled the sliced seams before tearing it in two and peeling back the layers. He moaned as First Aid buried himself elbows-deep in his innards, and by the time First Aid had stopped with the tip of his blade pointed at the center of Vortex’s fuel tanks, he was already begging for more.
Vortex was really out of it now—First Aid could tell by the way he clawed at the edges of the table and lolled his head as he struggled to lift it up high enough to see over his bleeding belly.
“Urgh…” he panted, “you… you—“
“I haven’t found anything yet,” First Aid said. He rested the servo holding the surgical knife on his hip and cocked his helm. “Any tips you wanna share before I go and ruin your tanks, too?”
Vortex’s helm fell back against the table with a thud. His intakes were shallow and raspy, but the chuckle he managed was still as smug and satisfied as it had been from the start.
“Nah,” he said as he turned to the side and caught First Aid’s eye. He was smiling again, the bastard. “Open it up, doc. Let’s see whatcha won.”
First Aid fought the urge to roll his optics and simply went in for the cut. He was gentle and slow, sliding the blade across the top and just far enough for him to reach a servo inside and feel around for anything loose floating inside. Vortex’s tanks were warm, and the stench of processing fuel burned in his nose through the mask, but First Aid kept feeling his way around.
There was nothing at first. No odd sensations, no hard objects, nothing sharp or out of the ordinary that caught his attention. He frowned, a nasty remark ready at the tip of his tongue, then paused as his fingers brushed across something soft and squishy.
“What the…” he began, his optics widening behind the visor. “Vortex, what did you…?”
The incision was small, but the object was smaller. Still, it took some careful maneuvering and a bit of spreading apart the walls of Vortex’s tanks before he could pull it out and take a closer look. It caught on the edges of the incision and required some maneuvering as he drew it out, and it was greater in length than First Aid was expecting, but finally, once he had finally gotten it free of Vortex’s insides and could hold it up to the light, he realized what they were dealing with.
It was a false spike. His false spike, actually, covered in energon and fuel and still wobbling in the air as he held it between two fingers.
“You’re joking,” he said, more to himself than to his snickering patient lying stretched out and bleeding below him on the table. First Aid found it in himself to direct his disgust and disbelief at Vortex a moment later. “You have got to be joking.”
Vortex’s mask had retracted sometime between First Aid pulling out the sex toy and now. It gave him the perfect view to that sickly sweet smile Vortex wore. He hardly seemed fazed by the pain now that his little secret was finally revealed.
“Congrats,” Vortex snickered between winces. “Ahh… ouch. You found it!”
“That I did,” First Aid said as he stared back at the false spike.
It was sticky with Vortex’s energon and still covered in his tank’s fluids. Not exactly salvageable at this point, but it did give him ideas… and he liked having ideas with Vortex still spread out beneath him.
The trash bin shook with a loud noise as First Aid dropped it inside and reached for his scalpel, smiling all the while as Vortex startled at the sound.
“Hey!” he shouted, managing to lift himself up ever so slightly as he peered over the edge of the table. “We could’ve used that!”
“That old thing?” First Aid said. He reached down to push Vortex back down against the table, his servo on Vortex’s chest. “When would we ever have time to use it? I’d have to clean it up and weld you back together… and I’m still not done here.”
Vortex’s helm tilted ever so slightly to the side. His visor was dim from the blood loss and excitement, but he still spoke clearly. “Uh… you’re not?”
“No,” First Aid said. “If that whole thing was hiding in you, who knows what else there could be left in there! It’s better to look while the wounds are still fresh.”
He paused, his servos hovering just above Vortex’s open and oozing abdomen.
“Besides,” he said, “I oughta check the rest of you. You know, make sure there isn’t anything I might have missed.”
Vortex’s smug expression quickly turned to one of startled horror, but the distinct sounds of his panels popping open and his spike pressurizing against one of First Aid’s energon-soaked servos said everything his tongue-tied self couldn’t utter.
He wasn’t getting out of this one that easily. He’d already had his fun. Now, it was First Aid’s turn.