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There’s just something about the way he walks. Or maybe it’s how he gestures with his hands as he’s talking, perhaps how he wiggles his fingers just so. Could be the way the fluorescent lighting glints off of his polished chest plates.. broad chest plates. That nice, wide chest. Leading up to a lovely golden faceguard hiding an even lovelier face.
Getaway is disgusting.
First Aid hates him.
He pretends to listen as Getaway continues running his mouth, not actually paying the speedster any mind whatsoever. The Lost Light’s hallways are emptier now, and surprisingly less full of holes in the floor and the walls now that Whirl isn’t around to damage them. Who would have thought that they could have had nice things all along if it weren’t for Whirl.
They wind up at Mirage’s, and First Aid finds himself missing the loud, bright atmosphere of Swerve’s. Missing his friends.. even Swerve himself. Mirage’s is dark and gloomy and only the losers are hanging out here, bots that First Aid never cared much about. Typical.
Getaway orders the medic a drink, who accepts it without so much as a thank you, mostly because the other bot is still talking and has hardly stopped since he started.
The two sit down together, First Aid lazily pushing the curly straw around in his glass and staring at it the entire time.
“Are you even listening to me?” Getaway quips loudly, snapping his fingers in front of the medic’s face to get his attention.
“Not really,” Aid replies, sliding back his faceguard to have a little sip. And maybe another sip. Mirage makes good drinks, he’ll admit. He’s not on Swerve’s level, but maybe enough of these and he can get drunk enough to not be able to tell the difference.
“Well you’re horrible,” Getaway huffs in response, laying back dramatically across the seat, crossing his long legs for emphasis. First Aid stares at the Autobot’s thighs as he idly sips his drink, giving him another lookover before turning his attention back to the glass.
“Okay.”
Getaway peers sharply at him, and Aid knows that he’s feeling miffed about his reactions. The speedster casually removes his own faceguard, chasing the straw to his own glass for a few seconds before taking a few large sips, giving First Aid the side-eye as he does so.
He ignores it.
The music is loud and irritating, and Aid doesn’t understand why Mirage keeps it so dark in here. He just wants to go to Swerve’s and hang out there with his friends, who are no longer around. But he has to play it cool, play it cool. Can’t go out all guns blazing. Not yet.
He’ll just have to play nice.
“Maybe if you were hotter, people might like you more.”
.. that wasn’t playing nice. First Aid shrinks back in his seat, taking a bigger sip from the glass than was necessary.
“As if anyone out there is hotter than me,” Getaway retorts, jabbing his thumb into his own chest, “I have more friends because of my good looks than my personality.”
“Yeah, cuz your personality is just like your aft: underwhelming.”
“So you like looking at my aft?”
“Of course I do,” Aid replies without thinking, only to quickly backpedal the instant after. “I mean, not like, I mean, I don’t—”
Getaway waves him off with a lazy hand, his blue optics narrowed in amusement and slight disdain. “No need to hide the truth from me, not with what you’re drinking.”
The medic stares at his glass full of fizzy orange liquid, and then slowly looks up at Getaway. “What did you put in my drink?”
“Nothing,” came the reply, “Everyone knows that you can’t hold your engex. What’s the point of spiking your drink when you have three sips and fall down the stairs right after?”
Frowning, First Aid sits further down into the seat, angrily chewing the straw while muttering something about how Getaway didn’t need to bring that incident back up. He involuntarily takes another few sips, telling himself that he would probably need them. Trying to justify this somehow.
“Y’know,” Getaway says a moment later, stirring his own drink, “It’s nice having you back.”
First Aid raises a brow ridge, still grinding the straw between his dentae. “Can’t imagine why,” he mutters, feeling his cheeks heating up and praying to Primus that it’s because of the drink, “Thought you’d be devastated at getting rid of everyone you hate and then in waltzes some other piece of scrap.”
Getaway shakes his head a little bit. “Maybe it sounds like it’s all fun and games to you, but sometimes I’m just sitting here wondering if I’ve fucked up.”
The sound of the straw slurping at the bottom of the glass leaves First Aid feeling slightly regretful about being rude at this point in their conversation, and he carefully sets the glass down quietly on the table. “I wasn’t trying to insinuate that I thought this was meaningless or whatever.. but if you want my expert medical opinion, yeah. You fucked up.”
“Figures.” Getaway chugs the rest of his drink at an alarming speed, and then merely stares at the empty glass in his hand, rotating it a few times. “I convinced myself that it’s the right thing to do. But now there’s really nothing I can do about it now. Everyone’s gone. All of the bullshit I kept telling myself just sounds exactly what it is: bullshit.” He throws the glass suddenly, watching it explode into a rain of shards on the floor, while Mirage sighs pointedly from behind the bar. Getaway rests his elbow on the armrest of the sofa, pressing his forehelm into his raised hand, looking thoroughly and utterly pathetic while doing so.
It just pisses First Aid off.
“Well, you know what?” The medic gets up off his seat, fairly stomping over to Getaway, who just stares at him. He looks like he’s drowning in his own sorrow, which is probably just brought on by the booze, but that doesn’t matter to the medic.
First Aid comes to a stomping halt in front of Getaway, and then promptly climbs into the speedster’s lap, straddling it as he faces him, even though he’s partially leaning sideways. Getaway merely stares at him, still looking overall pathetic.
Sighing, the medic gently takes Getaway’s face in both his hands, taking complete advantage of the fact that he’s not going to protest it. “Look,” he says firmly, looking the other mech in the eye, “You’re really stupid. I’m real hacked off just being here and learning about everything you did. I think all of your decisions have been both pointless and awful, and I won’t forgive you for any of them.” He ex-vents loudly, and his thumbs gently brush Getaway’s cheek ridges. “But one of the reasons I came back here at all was for you.”
Getaway’s hazy blue optics brighten just a little bit, and it makes him look slightly less pathetic, but only for a brief moment.
“I know flirting when I see it, okay? Ambulon flirted with me for years. I wasn’t blind when you did it. I guess I’m also stupid since I never did flirt back. But with all of Ratchet’s drama, I was kind of busy.” He lightly smooths Getaway’s face with his fingers, giving him a dopey sort of grin. “But while I’m here, maybe I can start rectifying some of that. What do you say to that, Roddy?”
The other mech seems to bristle at the name for a moment, but his expression softens as his own hands gently curl underneath First Aid’s jaw from both sides, leaning in to clumsily but eagerly kiss the medic on the mouth. Getaway tastes like engex and regret, but First Aid can’t make himself care too much. It’s been too long since he’s had a kiss, and a genuine one at that. Who cares if it’s probably making its way into the top 5 worst decisions he’s ever made?
He’ll worry about it later.