Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers.
Some of the terms are cummunal fanfic terms. Tourniquet and Rawhide are I TELL YOU!
O_O
~Zex
-x-x-x-x-
"Tourniquet, that's all for today. Clean the tools, and put everything away before you leave!" Firestar called into the classroom. she received no answer, and stepped in. "Tourniquet." Her fledgling was nowhere to be found in the medical room.
She left, humming.
The door closed on the dimly lit room, and Tourniquet walked in from the supply closet. He hated to deceive Firestar like that, but he had work to do...
He got together the piping, adhesive, and steel wool pads. He sliced the piping in half, adhered steel wool to the curve of the pipe, and applied a generous amount of anti-rust gel to the wool. He grabbed some medical tape, and pressed the wool-laden pipe to his leg. It blended nicely, and no one would really notice unless they looked close. He cleaned up the unused supplies, shut off the lights, and hobbled out of the medical center. Tourniquet cursed himself for letting Rawhide talk him into another one of her hit-and -run exercises. She had taken to munitions studies on the side, without Ironhide's knowledge, and going along was all Tourniquet could do to keep the femme in one piece. Himself, on the other hand...he would have to deny her for the next few solar cycles, so he could heal. If memory served correctly, Rawhide would be going to Earth for a while with Ironhide and Chromia.
It was a start.
He stepped out onto the streets of the academy campus, and tried not to limp too much as he made his way toward the monorail station. Tourniquet paused at the bottom of the staircase.
Stairs. Why did it have to be stairs? He held his head, wondering why he was doing this, why was he risking his potential medical license to help Rawhide deceive her imprint and motherspark? He pushed the thought aside, closed his blue optics then opened the casings, and bit back the pain in his leg.
Tourniquet started up the metal stairs, but couldn't make even one before the wound on his leg cried out, and almost verbalized via the young white mech. Quickly he turned, prayed to Primus no other bot was dumb enough to be out this late with classes in the morning, and reluctantly rode the lift to the monorail platform.
The air around Tourniquet as he stepped onto the metal platform made his gears shudder. Iacon's version of winter was like some deity took Cybertron, and shoved it into a freezing unit for a few vorns then with sadistic care, will slowly take it out again.
Tourniquet a mental note to insulate his plating for the cold, and to add extra padding around his wounded leg; cold was the worst medicine for curing plasma burns.
Where Rawhide had an itchy trigger finger as Ironhide, she most decidedly did not have the mech's control. Tourniquet looked down at his leg. Or his aim, either.
He could feel the cold seeping into his wound like Rawhide's demeanor managed to slide soundlessly past all of Tournquet's pre-meditated social barriers.
Again, he wondered why he risked everything he had been working for medically to help the femme. He shook his head, and stepped back as the train arrived. With calculated steps, he boarded, and sagged into a seat along the side. A few other late night travelers absorbed in their transit routines sat scattered about the car, but Tourniquet ignored them all.
As he rode, he pictured Rawhide apologizing - something she never did as far as he could remember. She'd sooner put the blame on Tourniquet, say the blaster thing was all his idea, his insistence that he could cure anything. The white mech had been through this song and dance before. Rawhide blames, Tourniquet defends, Rawhide protests, and they both get sent to the detention center.
He grumbled and tried to duck his head into the little warmth his body secreted naturally. "Why do I bother?" He muttered to the empty end of the car.
He de-boarded in the suburb sector of Cybertron, and sighed; More stairs, and a broken lift. He girded his sensor clusters, and slowly made his way down the flight of stairs. At the bottom he paused, allowed an elderly femme to pass him on her way up then continued down the last three stairs, each step stinging his leg, burning the wound, and sending sharp lighting-like strikes of pain all the way up to his hip.
The site-to-site tram ran late that night, so Tourniquet decided to walk to the nearest friendly home. He stepped onto the stoop, and the door opened.
Rawhide sighed. "You're not insulated."
Tourniquet frowned.
Rawhide set him up in the den, and helped him re-dress his wound.
"You should go to Ratchet. Tell him you mixed some bad chemicals in Perceptor's class." Rawhide said, sealing off the bandage with an external domestic medical laser. She looked up at the white mech, her lips drawn tight together.
Tourniquet shook his head, his gaze lingering to the left. "No. I won't lie for you. If I go to Ratchet, I'll tell him everything."
Rawhide stood up then sat next to Tourniquet. Her faceplate contorted as if she wanted to say something.
Tourniquet sighed, and shook his head. There was no reason for him to risk it all. NO reason for this nonsense to continue breaking rules. So, why? Why did he stay night after night, watch her plead with him with her eyes. Why?
Rawhide pressed her mouthplate to the side of his face. "I'm sorry I shot you, and thanks for not telling on me."
Tourniquet sighed. He let the side of his mouth Rawhide had kissed turn up slightly.
He remembered why.