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Ratchet was worried about First Aid. Ever since Luna 1, he had been disheveled. He moved slowly, his mind was absent, he drifted off while talking, and Ratchet could swear that he had seen him mumbling to himself. Nothing seemed capable of keeping his attention for more than a few kliks.
Except a corpse. First Aid was very attentive whenever he was presented with a corpse. Ratchet had at first felt relieved when First Aid returned a little to his former self, but he had quickly realized that it only lasted as long as he was with the corpse, and it was not a sign that he was getting better; he had just gotten an unhealthy obsession with death. After Luna 1. After Pharma. After Ambulon.
When First Aid had asked for Ambulon's corpse, Ratchet had hesitated. He had turned First Aid's former friend into a cannon. And either way, the corpse was split in half. Lengthways. But First Aid had kept pestering him – he had said something about wanting to restore it so it could look like it used to, at least – and out of pity – or maybe annoyance – he had finally given in. First Aid had quietly thanked him, and taken the corpse with him.
After that, First Aid had been spending more and more time alone, in his room, with the corpse. Ratchet had asked to see his progress once, and while the corpse looked more like Ambulon, it was still disfigured, unnatural, an abomination. It was almost worse that it had a likeness to Ambulon again, and Ratchet had not asked to see it again. First Aid kept mumbling to himself, and he would show up at odd times to borrow a tool or another, but having something to do, something to work towards, seemed to help him, so Ratchet made no comments. Time passed, and life went on more-or-less as usual on the Lost Light.
–
First Aid was sitting in his room. A great variety of tools were spread over several medical trays, and his friend's body was lying on a surgical table in the middle of his room. His and Ambulon's room. He was standing over his friend's body. It looked... Okay, he supposed. It looked like Ambulon. Undoing Pharma and Ratchet's damage to his form had taken a long time, but slowly, slowly, he had managed to put his friend back together, his plating looking as good as new again, without even a trace of being cut in half anymore. Ambulon looked peaceful, almost as if he was just recharging. On a surgical table.
That was... Not right. It was wrong, it was not a place for a healthy mech to be recharging. First Aid carefully picked up his friend's body, and placed him on Ambulon's own berth, untouched since... Since then. Ambulon still looked unnatural. First Aid rearranged his limbs, making him lie on his side – he usually recharged like that – tried to make him look more natural. There. It looked like he was just resting. But his frame was cold, there was no whirring of his system, and there was no pulsing from his spark. First Aid carefully laid down next to him.
They were resting on the berth, facing each other. He extended a hand, stroking his friend's frozen face. He had rearranged that early on. The look of horror was too unnerving, too painful. He had always thought that Ambulon's face, if not exactly handsome, was nice to look at, even with that perpetual frown. He was not frowning at the moment. First Aid shuffled closer to his friend. He would fix him. He would make him good again. He would resurrect him.
He had told the truth to Ratchet. At first, he really only wanted to make his friend look like himself again, even if he was dead. But as he worked, he had begun thinking. After all, he was First Aid, inventor of the revolutionary jump-starting technique. He had invented that; not Pharma, not Ratchet, not any of the other famous medics. Him. If anyone would be able to bring someone back from the dead, it would be him. It had to be him.
He had worked even more vigorously after deciding that he would bring his friend back, and he had come far. So very far. Ambulon' body was technically functional – though offline – and he looked like himself. First Aid was getting very close to being ready to try resurrecting him. All that really remained was figuring out the technicalities of it all. But he had worked for very long this day – 10 cycles without break, at the very least – and he was tired. He needed a break. A rest. And, according to his rumbling fuel-tanks, some energon.
He brought out two cubes. He drank his in a few gulps, and sat the other down next to Ambulon. A few moments passed before he dejectedly put the cube back again. He discarded his own cube, and laid back down next to Ambulon.
Ambulon was cold. Of course he was. First Aid snuggled closer to his friend, wrapping him in a sort of half-hug. He missed his friend. His body was right there, but... He wrapped himself tighter around Ambulon, and slowly started stroking his back. He fell into a light recharge while still wrapped around his friend's body.
–
He woke up again after only half a cycle, according to his chronometer. He had somehow ended up on top of his friend, weighing him down. He was closer to his friend's body than he ever had been while he was still alive, and he had no desire to leave the position. Ambulon was always so cross, so curt, and always so insufferably professional. First Aid thought he had caught him staring a few times, but then time passed, and nothing happened, and somehow he ended up with a dead friend and confused feelings.
First Aid hesitated for a moment. No one was there to stop him. He could... He ground down on Ambulon's crotch. It had always protruded in such an inviting way, as if it wanted to be looked at. Who was he to ignore it? And Ambulon looked so calm. He would probably be back to constantly frowning if – when – he brought him back to life, so this was a rare opportunity. Thinking about his friend's frowning face, telling him off, being generally rude, made his valve lubricate, and his spike started pushing at its housing. It was a bit embarrassing, but no one was there to judge him.
He gave the command to open his panels – thick spike and slick valve getting exposed to the cold air – and after a moment of fumbling, located his friend's manual locks. Ambulon's panels snapped back, revealing an average spike for his frame-size, and a dry valve. Of course it was dry, he was dead! Ambulon would probably say that if he could comment. First Aid scolded himself for a moment, but found it only turned him more on.
His face heated up, and he leaned back for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Valve, or spike? First Aid inspected his friend's valve. It looked healthy enough, still soft, still... Appealing. He pushed a finger into it, to test its pliability. It was lax, and gave little resistance. It would probably not need any stretching, as its owner was not... Capable of clenching it at the moment. Valve then.
He lined himself up, and – as anticipated – entered without any issues. His friend's valve was cold, and a shiver went through him. He needed to move, or the cold would sap all of his arousal away. He set a brisk pace, but Ambulon – unresponsive as he was – moved with him, making it difficult to spike him properly. He grabbed a hold of Ambulon's thighs, holding him in place, and went back to swiftly spiking him.
The unaroused valve chafed his spike a little – he was a bit too big, or maybe it was a bit too small –but it gave way easily, and First Aid only found himself even more turned on. He increased his pace, completely losing himself in the act, and before long he could barely keep up something that resembled a steady rhythm. He settled for a back-breaking rhythmless pace, and after a few nano-kliks, he overloaded hard, releasing his transfluid into his friend, and collapsed on top of him, panting hard.
He remained on top of his friend, resting for a few kliks, before pulling out. He leaned down, and inspected Ambulon's valve again. It was still intact and unharmed. Nothing that needed immediate attention. He could clean it up later. At the moment, he was preoccupied by something else: A desperate need for more, urged on by his leaking valve. He nuzzled Ambulon's neck, and slowly moved his face down to where his spark-casing was, resting his head there. For once, he rued his lack of a mouth.
He pulled himself up, and crawled on top of Ambulon, legs resting on each side of his torso. His valve left a small trail of transfluid as he moved. He stroked Ambulon's chestplate. His paintjob was spotless. First Aid had made sure to keep it that way, even if it made the appearance less realistic. It was something he had helped Ambulon with in the past, and it was the closest he usually got to him. He missed it.
First Aid eventually hauled himself up again, resting all of his weight on his feet, and fumbled below him for Ambulon's spike. His own valve was slick and properly lubricated, allowing for easy entrance when he eventually managed to guide his friend's spike into it. He slowly sank down to the shaft, and settled there, resting for a bit, flustered while looking at Ambulon's serene expression.
He kept his optics locked on Ambulon's resting face, and started pulling himself up. He slammed back down again, causing himself to moan. Good. It felt so good. He pulled back up again, slid down, pulled back up, slid down... He was panting and moaning while spiking himself on Ambulon's spike, feeling his friend's spike slide so easily in and out of him. He felt himself close to overloading, and used his remaining energy to pull himself all the way off of Ambulon's spike, before letting himself fall back down, penetrating himself thoroughly. He overloaded again, coating his friend's spike with transfluid, and splattering Ambulon's – for once – spotless paintjob with transfluid.
He breathed in cold air with deep gulps, carefully placing the both of them onto their side, Ambulon's spike still lounging deep inside him. He stayed like that for several kliks, optics offlined and arms wrapped around his friend. Ambulon was with him. Ambulon was inside him. He never wanted to move again.
Unfortunately, the discomfort of the cold spike inside his warm valve eventually forced him to move, and he slowly dislodged the spike inside him, pulling himself away from it. He sat up, and stared at his friend's body. Ambulon's crotch and chest had transfluid all over, and his valve was dripping transfluid onto his berth. He knew he was a mess himself. Sighing, he set out to clean them both, sadly removing any and all traces of their interfacing.
He was finished soon, their interfacing equipment securely hidden behind their panels, their plating pristine. It was almost as if nothing had happened. First Aid lay down on his own berth – facing Ambulon – and settled in to recharge. The last things he saw before offlining his optics was his friend's resting form. “I will fix you, Ambulon. I will.” He promised into the night.