[ti]Ep 3[/ti]Interior Design [Carbine, Patch, Ratchet, Thunder]
Dec 27, 2019 19:25:50 GMT -5
Post by Patch on Dec 27, 2019 19:25:50 GMT -5
((Permission has been granted by the player for man-handling))
Patch didn’t respond to Carbine’s laughter. Not more than a lower of her brow, and a huff. Simply staring back at him as he DARED to find amusement in this. She wasn’t even pissed. That was the scary part. She was tooooo fuckin’ PISSED to be pissed at him. Indeed, Patch was so far down the rabbit hole at this point, she was far closer to planning how to get up and rip out the backs of his knees if he went to hit Windshield AGAIN. There was about an ounce of… More curiosity than concern as to THE FUCK was wrong with his optic, but besides that?
Patch, no longer cared, what Carbine’s problem was.
That is… Until what came next.
A twisted garble, a heaving retch. Damn, he looked fragging ruined, and Patch highly doubted it was due to the gore alone. Young though she was the femme KNEW what this felt like. She had DONE THIS. Which is why, angry or not, she felt a sudden urge to go and help him. A tug on her spark to try and ease what he was going through. Though she was absolutely not friends with him right now, Carbine was still Patch’s family. She loved him, weather she liked him or not… Brutal as it sounded, however, he simply wasn’t priority right now.
Right now, Windshield was her patient. She couldn’t abandon him; not yet. Not until it became clear Carbine was incapable of resetting himself alone. No, instead she simply turned away and listened to that horrible sound as he struggled. Paying attention to his status in the back of her helm as she waited in hopes it would stop.
Meanwhile, she had a facial hemorrhage -quite literally- on her hands.
It was intimidating to sit so close to someone having convulsions. It always was, but it did get easier with experience. As Windshield twitched, and stuttered, and seized in front of the young femme, she simply looked right at him with those big blue optics and listened. Optic ridges down, intake flat. Still sitting on her knees. Waiting and staring until he managed to get it all out. Her optics widened with a nod once he’d finished. The only logical answer jumping out of her intake with a strong tone of ‘you have no idea.’
“Yup.”
She simply went back to her bag. “I am aware, I am well aware, my dude, and I am sorry.” With a click of release from it’s mount as she tugged, the medic produced a scanner. A white little box, with red stripes, and a bright yellow beam, that shown quickly over Windsheild’s bloodied faceplate, and onto his chest. The light shut off. She stared, for a solid two seconds, then tore into her bag once more.
Uup, and- he was movin’. A shoulder to her’s as he shoved himself away from the cobbled mess that had been made of the wall. A half-sparked attempt to stop him, that failed, as the mech then fell forward to his knees… Oh... Lovely, they were both nuts...
“Ohhh, I will.” She said, caning her own frame back, to try and get a hold of him. Wrapping her right arm across his chassy, as her left came up under his shoulder. Chest to chest. Lifting, as she used her own weight, to ease him back to the wall. She felt two pips of fuel land on her shoulder, as energon no doubt started running down, and dripping off his chin. One that flicked to the white of her chest, and rolled down to the left of her autobot sigil. Like twisted tears of glowing blue.
“But you know what?” A light strain fell into her voice beneath the mech’s weight as she moved him. “I think I’d like you sittin’ up right at this moment, can you do that for me?” Despite the scenario, the words were actually quite calm. Frighteningly conversational and easy, as though asking the mech to watch the coms, for a minute or two while she went to grab fuel.
She held her position. Awaiting some form of confirmation from Windshield before letting him go. Helm lower than his, so her optics turned up like a dog awaiting food. One warm servo against his left shoulder, the other wrapped around his right arm. If he were to push back against her, she’d simply remain where she was. Gently easing in with only just enough pressure, and slowly shaking her helm. Confident she could easily overpower him, in this state, and therefore not stressed in the slightest he’d fight her for too long.
Patch didn’t respond to Carbine’s laughter. Not more than a lower of her brow, and a huff. Simply staring back at him as he DARED to find amusement in this. She wasn’t even pissed. That was the scary part. She was tooooo fuckin’ PISSED to be pissed at him. Indeed, Patch was so far down the rabbit hole at this point, she was far closer to planning how to get up and rip out the backs of his knees if he went to hit Windshield AGAIN. There was about an ounce of… More curiosity than concern as to THE FUCK was wrong with his optic, but besides that?
Patch, no longer cared, what Carbine’s problem was.
That is… Until what came next.
A twisted garble, a heaving retch. Damn, he looked fragging ruined, and Patch highly doubted it was due to the gore alone. Young though she was the femme KNEW what this felt like. She had DONE THIS. Which is why, angry or not, she felt a sudden urge to go and help him. A tug on her spark to try and ease what he was going through. Though she was absolutely not friends with him right now, Carbine was still Patch’s family. She loved him, weather she liked him or not… Brutal as it sounded, however, he simply wasn’t priority right now.
Right now, Windshield was her patient. She couldn’t abandon him; not yet. Not until it became clear Carbine was incapable of resetting himself alone. No, instead she simply turned away and listened to that horrible sound as he struggled. Paying attention to his status in the back of her helm as she waited in hopes it would stop.
Meanwhile, she had a facial hemorrhage -quite literally- on her hands.
It was intimidating to sit so close to someone having convulsions. It always was, but it did get easier with experience. As Windshield twitched, and stuttered, and seized in front of the young femme, she simply looked right at him with those big blue optics and listened. Optic ridges down, intake flat. Still sitting on her knees. Waiting and staring until he managed to get it all out. Her optics widened with a nod once he’d finished. The only logical answer jumping out of her intake with a strong tone of ‘you have no idea.’
“Yup.”
She simply went back to her bag. “I am aware, I am well aware, my dude, and I am sorry.” With a click of release from it’s mount as she tugged, the medic produced a scanner. A white little box, with red stripes, and a bright yellow beam, that shown quickly over Windsheild’s bloodied faceplate, and onto his chest. The light shut off. She stared, for a solid two seconds, then tore into her bag once more.
Uup, and- he was movin’. A shoulder to her’s as he shoved himself away from the cobbled mess that had been made of the wall. A half-sparked attempt to stop him, that failed, as the mech then fell forward to his knees… Oh... Lovely, they were both nuts...
“Ohhh, I will.” She said, caning her own frame back, to try and get a hold of him. Wrapping her right arm across his chassy, as her left came up under his shoulder. Chest to chest. Lifting, as she used her own weight, to ease him back to the wall. She felt two pips of fuel land on her shoulder, as energon no doubt started running down, and dripping off his chin. One that flicked to the white of her chest, and rolled down to the left of her autobot sigil. Like twisted tears of glowing blue.
“But you know what?” A light strain fell into her voice beneath the mech’s weight as she moved him. “I think I’d like you sittin’ up right at this moment, can you do that for me?” Despite the scenario, the words were actually quite calm. Frighteningly conversational and easy, as though asking the mech to watch the coms, for a minute or two while she went to grab fuel.
She held her position. Awaiting some form of confirmation from Windshield before letting him go. Helm lower than his, so her optics turned up like a dog awaiting food. One warm servo against his left shoulder, the other wrapped around his right arm. If he were to push back against her, she’d simply remain where she was. Gently easing in with only just enough pressure, and slowly shaking her helm. Confident she could easily overpower him, in this state, and therefore not stressed in the slightest he’d fight her for too long.