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From a distance, Wheeljack quietly observed the odd couple as he methodically cleaned his surgical tools. The sight of a bot hovering over the downed frame of their partner wasn't new or particularly innovative. In fact, it was so dreadfully common that his spark hardened a protective shell to prevent it from cracking entirely. If he wasted time to shed tears, then he couldn't help anyone and in these dire times his assistance was more necessary than ever.
Even still, the bowed helms and the silent prayers to their Prime of worship—Wheeljack didn't miss any of it. He thought such times were finally behind them, but, well… Not much he could do about everyday accidents.
In the corner of his field of view, he watched as the mech reached out to link their servos together. Scarred, worn digits lovingly caressed the still and lifeless ones tied down to the medical slab. They twitched, as though sensing the presence of their partner and tried desperately to curl back into the embrace only to fail. Grey on grey, stained magenta by spilled energon that flaked off at the slightest of movements from his patient.
Attentively, he wiped the energon from his own digits with a microfiber cloth. The shock of Bumblebee's return to the Autobot base—missing a wing and writhing in near hysterics as he fought off any and all help—wasn't one that Wheeljack could purge from his memory banks any time sooner.
Neither was the sensation of holding him down, ignoring his cries as he strapped him down onto the gurney for transport further into the base.
With a sigh, Wheeljack stopped his farce of cleaning his tools. While, yes, they needed sterilization post-surgery, he admittedly more so wanted something to do with his servos to prevent the conversation that needed to happen. "Swindle, not that I don't mind your aid in bringing Bumblebee back to us after this accident—because I truly appreciate it, I do—but I can't help but wonder… Why do you care?"
Swindle gave him a rather impressive stink-eye for a mech without visible optic tracking. He scowled blatantly at Wheeljack, digits creaking around Bumblebee's unresponsive ones. "Oh I'm sorry, next time I see this bozo swimming in his own fluids I'll make sure to walk on by and ignore our truce that states that we all help each other out in the advent of an emergency."
Abrasive, defensive, all words that Wheeljack wouldn't typically ascribe to Swindle. Out of all the Decepticons remaining on Earth, he had pegged the mech down as one who would cater to both sides so long as he could get something out of it. And certainly, while saving Prime's star cavalry unit on the brink of total energon loss would have made for good leverage, Swindle hadn't made a single comment yet praising himself as the hero of the situation.
No, instead he had rushed around the med bay attempting to provide comfort and relief to Bumblebee as Wheeljack attempted to stem the bleeding from one of his major energon lines. When the scout seized, he stood by his side and found a scrub to wipe away the mix of semi-processed fuel and lubricant. Bumblebee was hardly cognizant to display any sign of gratefulness and likely wouldn't remember the specifics of Swindle's care so why…
"That's not what I meant and you know it," with a frown Wheeljack turned to face him. "I want to know why you're still here." And what his intentions were with his little friend.
Swindle went to retort, but before he could Bumblebee groaned a miserable little whimper. In a flash, his focus returned onto the scout. The pad of his thumb pressed hard against Bumblebee's palm, his digits kissing Bee's knuckles briefly as they soothing ran across the back of them. The scout settled eventually, no less in pain than before—Wheeljack noted to adjust the amount of modified-energon that acted as painkillers feeding into his drip.
"Haven't you heard? We're a thing," Swindle answered, keeping his gaze locked onto the scout. Wiper fluid gathered at the corners of Bumblebee's intake, pooling from the mouth guard they were forced to insert when he nearly bit clean through his glossa. His servo reached out for the same scrub from earlier but grimaced in disgust at the crusting fluids still on it.
"Here," Wheeljack brought over a spare washrag, allowing Swindle to nick it from his offered servos deftly before putting it to work. The Decepticon didn't say thank you, not that he was expecting one, but Wheeljack found that his immediate action remedied that lack of social etiquette. Swindle dabbed at the sides of Bee's lips as soft vents puffed against the cloth as it dawdled there before he pulled it away and set it down on the slab.
Without any tact at all, Swindle said, "You should bring a wash pan into here because if he's gonna keep leaking essential fluids from who knows where I'm gonna be up all night cleaning him. Make my life a little easier, why don't you…"
Without meaning to judge, Wheeljack hadn't known that a Con of Swindle's opportunist nature could… show such diligent attention to another without any clear gain. He took on the duties of a caregiver without question, not trying to put it off onto Wheeljack who should have taken on the role before Swindle commandeered it.
He nodded his assent, finding no harm in the request. Still, he returned back to the prior comment and with an ample amount of concern he posed, "What do you mean by you two being a 'thing'?"
"A couple, linked, spark-mates, what have you," he sneered, not really selling the story to Wheeljack in the slightest. "Come on, you have to have heard about us before now. We're the talk of the town!" Faintly, in a quiet murmur he added, "Or we better be after all this…"
"Sure I had. But that was before you dragged him here half-dead. I'm sure you can understand my skepticism."
"It was an accident, I told you that already," he hissed.
In the spirit of fairness, Wheeljack let him know, "I've heard that story many times before, and I'll warn you now— It never ends well for the one that tells it."
Outrage crossed Swindle's features the instant he connected the dots on the accusation. "Fine, you want more details? Luckily you're with a professional information dealer. Picture this: here we were having a lovely little date when Bumblebee decided to spring his gun kink on me apropos of fragging nothing and my computer promptly—appropriately!—crashed, dragging the two of us off the side of the bridge. And that's the truth unless you think that this," he waved at the swath of dented metal curving around the side of his helm, "Is a fashion statement and not proof that I fell too."
He remained silent for all of a moment, digesting the explanation. "I could have done without mention of Bumblebee's… habits and, uh, interests. But… I suppose that I'll accept it."
"I don't care if you do or don't," Swindle spat. "All you need to concern yourself with is fixing him and that's it."
Wheeljack narrowed his optical field. "Frankly, no I'm afraid I'm going to have to disagree with you on that. There was a time when Bumblebee was my ward when he first enlisted into the Autobot ranks–"
"Ugh, I know, he's told me this ages ago."
"And I've come to care for him greatly as a friend." Wheeljack ignored his interruption, continuing and looking down at Bumblebee's still form. With a gentle servo, he caressed the side of his helm—adjusting the position of it against the slab to ensure that he didn't wake from stasis with a painful crick in his neck cabling. They had to lay him on his front what with his wing missing entirely. "I can't say that I have any authority on the matter as I haven't been his mentor in some time, but if I find myself concerned about his life choices I'm going to speak up. Whether he takes my advice or not is entirely up to him."
Contemplative, Swindle didn't argue further. Whether he respected Wheeljack's stance or not, he supposed he'd never really know.
"That's something we share in common then," he remarked eventually. "We both care about this afthole more than we should."
He debated letting the comment slide, but he was never one to stay silent and allow a misconception—especially about himself—to stand. "On the contrary, I believe that I love him just the right amount. I won't speak for you, however."
Pulling away, Wheeljack looked back at his tool station and debated returning to his previous cleaning task. Instead, he made his way to the door with a comment of, "I'll go get a water basin." And promptly left without any fanfare or an opportunity for Swindle to have the last words.
He simply had far too many things to think about and consider, none of which he felt he could do with Swindle—and the poor unconscious Bumblebee—remaining in the room. One of which was determining how to inform Optimus about this whole little fiasco and the validity of the rumors spreading across the base.
Optimus likely wouldn't like to hear about how damaged his scout got from what should have been harmless flirting. He'd likely come to the same assumption that Wheeljack had, and Primus forbid when Prime got an idea in his head about something—he only very rarely turned around after the fact. Stubborn as any one of those backpack animals they had here on Earth.
Wheeljack, for the moment, remained apprehensive. He needed more time to think everything over and more than that he needed to have a conversation with Bumblebee… whenever he woke up.
To lose a limb—and a sparkling brand new one at that—it was a wonder that he had even been stumbling on his two pedes instead of locked into a stasis coma…