Caring Technobots
"To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved." – George McDonald
Barely two weeks since their creation, and when Nosecone wound up in medical with both his legs blown off First Aid had expected a bombardment of Technobots. He'd even adjusted the energon dispenser in his office to produce enough for six instead of just the one or two he usually had it at. Then he'd settled in to wait.
And, apparently, wait.
Two days later, and First Aid was at a loss.
No Technobots.
Nosecone didn't seem bothered. First Aid hadn't even caught him gazing toward the door with the sort of half-hidden longing that the Aerialbots usually allowed themselves. He wasn't fidgeting and asking after them, or showing any signs of restlessness, but, considering this was Nosecone, First Aid wasn't overly surprised. Puzzled, yes, even worried: But not surprised.
Still. No Technobots. Not even a concerned pair of optics peering from the doors at odd hours just to check in.
So First Aid, who was bound mostly to his bay until Nosecone's systems finished adapting to his new legs, enlisted help.
It didn't take more than a day later for Hot Spot to herd an irritated-looking Scattershot into medical. Nosecone looked up from contemplating his medical readings (something First Aid had granted him with an amused sort of air before realizing he'd have to make a copy of the thing since Nosecone wouldn't give it back), expression flickering with vague surprise. "Scattershot?"
Scattershot jerked his shoulder out of Hot Spot's grip, transferring the dark look he'd been aiming at Hot Spot to Nosecone. It might have softened a bit, but First Aid couldn't be sure. "How're you feeling?" Scattershot asked gruffly, hands shifting to his hips.
Nosecone's optics flickered and he didn't answer immediately, watching instead as Scattershot grew steadily more irritated as the silence stretched on. It was just when Scattershot started fidgeting in place as though he'd rather be somewhere - anywhere - else, that Nosecone shifted slightly. "I'm fine."
"Good."
Hot Spot and First Aid traded looks when Scattershot left shortly after. "Do you want me to go get him?" Hot Spot asked gently. Nosecone replied with uncharacteristic swiftness.
"No," he said. Then he tilted his head, something in the way he was watching them softening. "No. And I suppose I should thank you, but you shouldn't have forced him to come in the first place, you know."
And that, as far as Nosecone seemed concerned, was that.
Later, once Hot Spot had been assured (though not necessarily convinced) that no, Nosecone did not want any of his teammates dragged to the bay and had left, leaving First Aid to bustle about in troubled silence, Nosecone spoke again.
"We just don't have much to talk about."