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Slow. The afternoons were always slow, just a few quiet patrons came in to relax and read. Swerve took the time to organize new materials and glasses around, keeping the music soft and gentle for now. He was no perfect businessmech, but he wouldn’t chase out his customers with the usual loud prattle; Ratchet’s dislike for the earth techno made Swerve chuckle to himself.
As the afternoon dragged on, a small lunch crowd came in. He already knew what bots wanted, having a set of regulars during the day. As he was getting out a glass of Special Red, a very low-proof grade of enjex for Red Alert, a slim orange figure came in. Swerve looked up questioningly as Rung made his way to the bar, sat down, and took a box out of his subspace. A model ship, Swerve guessed, and the barkeep made his way over to take Rung’s order.
“What’ll it be, slim? A Titan?” Swerve joked, the huge potent drink made for the gentle carrier-class that ran cargo to and from the island all day. Rung looked alarmed and shook his head.
“I would like something very light. I’ve a low tolerance.” Rung smiled apologetically but Swerve waved him off.
While fixing another Special Red, Swerve looked up at the therapist. “So. Not usually like you to drink in the afternoon. Rough day?” Rung watched his hands prepare the drink, nodding slowly. “Want to talk about it, Rung?”
It mildly surprised him Swerve knew his name. “Yes. I suppose every once in a while, I need to get things off my chest.” Rung accepted the drink and took a sip, smiling a bit. “This is good. Very sweet.” Rung honestly preferred a bit of sour to his drinks when he did have them, but this was a special sweet that warmed him up. “I had a rough day in the medical ward.”
Medical ward? Rung had an office, not a ward. “Someone try to crush you again?” Swerve picked up some glasses to polish, settling in to listen.
“Not this time. This time I ended up finding Vortex in a very… Compromising situation. That mech is going to get himself killed.” Rung stopped there, sipping on the drink and sighing softly. He took his glasses off, rubbing at his eyes; Swerve never noticed the blue-green color. It occurred to Swerve that the thin head-doctor was kind of handsome.
“I know I’m a blabbermouth but if you need to get it off your chest, you’re in the right place.” Swerve felt the skepticism in Rung’s stare. “I’ll keep quiet okay? But I’m pretty sure I know what you’re talking about. Vortex has a reputation. Mech’s have literally fragged him on my bar counter.” Rung instantly let go of the counter and Swerve laughed. “Oh stop that, I’ve poured so much cleanser on this thing it could wash Fort Max.”
Rung chuckled a bit, already feeling better talking to the funny little minibot. “Its things like that I worry about. A lot of bots get riled up in here, the music and lights and whatnot, but Vortex always seems to end up with one of two bots. Whirl, or Knock Out. Today it was Whirl, who left him bound, gagged and wrenched into a position that cut flow to his legs and arms. Three hours. It took Ratchet three hours to fix that.” Rung rubbed his face with both hands. “I’ve tried to work with them both. Whirl’s anger and impulsiveness gets him into a lot of trouble, but it’s his apathy that most concerns me. Vortex just doesn’t care how much pain he’s in. He actually yelled at me for getting him loose!”
Swerve quirked a brow and nodded slowly. “Guess I could see that bot being into some masochism. Anyone that gets with Whirl has to be.”
“Exactly my point. That isn’t healthy. At least not to this degree. Believe me I know everyone has their fetishes…” The therapist quieted his voice down, and his face flushed pink for just a moment; Swerve resisted chuckling at his shyness. “But it’s going to kill him! Whirl has no inhibitors for destroying things. And from what I’ve gathered that includes life.”
“Why not tell Prime about it? Optimus is sure to lock Whirl up.” Swerve felt a prickle of new fear for Whirl crawl up his spine. The mech drank heavily in his bar, and often was prone to fits of rage. The tip jar was renamed the Whirl Fund, to repair damages. Almost everyone chipped in at the end of the night.
“Because it’s not Whirl’s fault.” Rung bit a lip and downed more of his Special Red. “It has to be some miscalculation on my end—“
Swerve snorted and smacked his hands on the counter, causing the patrons of the bar to look up and Rung to flinch back. “Like Pit it’s your fault! Doc, you do the best you can to bring out the best in every mech! You got the stick out of Prowl’s aft, you got Cyclonus and Tailgate to a healthy relationship, and you are the only mech that doesn’t have a therapist to go to yourself. How long have you been racking your own processor over this?”
Rung stared wide-eyed and adjusted his glasses. “T-Two weeks, Swerve.” He admitted quietly. “And yes, I helped all of those bots. It’s my job to help bots realize their full potential and admit unhealthy habits. But I cannot help everyone it seems.” A shaky sigh, as if Rung was going to tear up. His glasses’ glare hid if his blue-green optics were going glassy.
Swerve crossed his arms. “And I can’t either. But you got to talk to someone Rung. Before there were therapists, there were bartenders.” Swerve pushed a glass of simple energon across the counter. “You can’t take the world on your shoulders. And if you keep trying to, you’ll end up like Ratch. Grumpy, old, and nothing like the kind guy you are now.”
“Swerve…” Rung tilted his head thoughtfully and smiled.
“You are going to come in here every night from now on and spend a few minutes enjoying the crowd. Bartender’s orders.” He got a napkin and pulled out his order pad’s pen, scrawling down his prescription. “One dose of social interaction every solar day. And every other day private sessions with the barkeep.”
Rung took the napkin offered to him and stared at it delicately. Nobody had ever given him a prescription for mental health. It felt strangely good to not be the one handing the Rx out. “Yes, Swerve.” He said softly, chuckling and putting the box of his model ship on the counter. “But I will be bringing these in to work on.”
Swerve looked at the box. It was a small model, to them at least; a model of the first aircraft humans ever had flown. Really, really boring but the friendly little smile of Rung’s that looked so natural made him put down his cleaning rag and spread out a towel so glue wasn’t dripped on the counter. “Alright you nerd.” He said good-naturedly. “Tell me the story.”
And Rung did, telling him all he had read and learned about Kitty Hawk, North Carolina and the story of the Wright brothers. Swerve found himself enraptured in it, and the afternoon ticked away into swapped stories and putting together tediously small bits of wood. In the end, Swerve found he could enjoy this in the afternoons, and settled back to watch Rung’s nimble fingers paint final details as he launched into another story about different ships. In the end, Swerve thought, he had become the therapist’s therapist.