Sunlight—that strange type of pale, morning sunlight that made everything look like it was half in a dream—filtered in through the curtains. Knock Out squeezed his eyes shut. It didn't help. Still, at least it felt like he had gotten some sleep last night. The bone-deep exhaustion of insomnia was terrible for his skin, after all.
He sighed through his nose and curled back into the solid heat behind him, rucking the sheets around his legs. Ah, he wasn't alone. Breakdown, then.
Breakdown's right arm was curled, almost lazily, around his waist. His other arm was sprawled somewhere above them; Knock Out's forehead was mashed into it. He was probably drooling.
Knock Out ignored the sudden surge of fondness swelling in between his lungs. No, no. That was a terrible idea—can't get attached to co-workers. Well, if he could even consider Breakdown a co-worker. Yes, they technically worked for the same person, but it wasn't like Knock Out ever got paid for it, unless one considered 'not breaking his kneecaps' payment.
He doubted it would fly under the Fair Labor Act.
As tempted as he was to just spend his morning pretending to be asleep, his stomach and bladder put in a swift veto to that plan. He shuffled in Breakdown's embrace and rolled over.
"Break—" he opened his eyes and the name died on his tongue.
Ah.
Bumblebee was still dead asleep, mouth slack and hair mussed. He was shirtless, Knock Out noticed, which meant the cheap, oversized undershirt he was wearing must have been Bumblebee's. Knock Out dropped his head against the pillow, against Bumblebee's bicep. This close, he could smell the lingering aroma of the plain soap with which Bee insisted on infesting his bathroom. It was everywhere, along with a few half empty bottles of two-in-one shampoo and Bee's ratty old towels.
It was going to be hell when he had to clear it out. Again.
Knock Out crooked his head up and pressed a kiss to Bee's cheek.
"Hm?" Bee muttered sleepily, his bright eyes fluttering open. Knock Out's chest felt tight. Attachment. It was stupid.
"Go back to sleep," he whispered, brushing Bee's hair back.
Bumblebee snorted and burrowed his head into the pillow. Knock Out was tempted to join him. Instead, he wiggled out of Bee's grasp and sat on the edge of his bed. It was late enough in the year to be cold, and without Bee's body heat, the chill was creeping under his skin. He shivered, and shoved his feet into his slippers. Knock Out pulled a knit cardigan out of his closet and managed to finagle his arms into it.
He ducked into his bathroom, scowled, and leaned over to pick a stray hand towel off the floor. None of his attempts at introducing Bumblebee to the merits of a tidy house had worked thus far. He was tempted to try a slideshow.
Knock Out took care of his body's finicky needs, then performed his myriad ablutions. The face he blotted dry in the mirror looked tired and sad. He was getting crow's feet. Knock Out rearranged his features into a cocky smirk. It kept slipping off his face. He scowled, and it didn't look any better, so he settled for neutral amusement. Perhaps he'd avoid mirrors today.
He flicked the lights off and walked into the kitchen. It there was one thing in his miserable life he had going for him—besides his stunning good looks, vast intelligence, and charming personality—it was that he could at least afford to live in a decent house. He wasn't even renting, like Bumblebee. Nope, there was a morgage with his name on it.
He leaned against the countertop—dark granite, of course—and spooned out a measure of coffee beans from the jar next to the wall. Breakdown had often chided him for being so picky about his coffee, but that was because Breakdown liked nothing but the cheap instant stuff..
Had. Had liked.
Knock Out started the grinder and rested his head against the cupboard. Breakdown—missing Breakdown—was something he'd thought he had scrubbed from his thoughts a long while ago. Melancholy was a cruel mistress; she dredged up one's pain and made it dull, aching, growing like a tumor at the bottom of the heart. He shouldn't have started dating again. It was too soon, but it made the hurt go away a little.
The shrill shriek of the coffee grinder puttered to a stop, and he dumped the aromatic powder into his coffee maker. The slow gurgle of the percolator was practically relaxing. Knock Out drummed his fingers against the countertop, then abruptly ducked down to dig in the lower cabinets for his frying pan.
Cooking was never one of his strong suits, but he'd been single for years, and man could not subsist on TV dinners alone. He could, at the very least, make breakfast fare. He stuck the pot on the burner and opened the fridge. It was well stocked and well organized—fruits and vegetables in their respective crispers, leftovers clearly labeled and sorted so the oldest meals were at the front of the fridge, and the cheese and lunch meats were in the top drawer, under the milk.
He reached for the eggs, and had to fight back a sudden curl of nausea. Knock Out snarled and slammed the door shut. Toast, then.
Knock Out poured himself a cup of coffee and slumped down into one of the kitchen chairs. He dropped his head into his hands and began delicately massaging his temples. His head ached, his skin ached, even his joints felt puffy and bloated. Sleep had become an evasive thing, of late.
For a few weeks—and it hadn't slipped his notice that he'd first started seeing Bumblebee during that time—it seemed like his insomnia had released its clawed hold on his circadian rhythm. Now the beast was back; not as terrible as it had once been, no, but still enough to make him consider prescribing himself a good, heavy sedative.
Coffee helped. Breakdown had helped, too.
Knock Out squeezed his eyes shut and ground the heels of his hands into his eyelids until he saw spots.
A sharp knock on the front door interrupted his brooding.
Knock Out frowned, pushing himself out of his seat. He made sure he was presentable—shirt, pants, underwear, check—and headed to the front door. It was probably his neighbor, who was old, fussy, and constantly enraged that Knock Out's newspaper was in her front yard.
He left the chain on and opened the door.
"Yes?" The person on the other side of the door grinned; Knock Out frowned. "Oh. It's you."
Wheeljack grinned. "Care to let me in, Doc?"
"Not particularly," Knock Out closed the door and undid the chain, then opened the door fully, "but I know you'll just come back with a warrant. What do you want?"
"Just the usual visit. Feel like testifying?"
"I thought you had given up on bothering me with things I clearly don't know about."
"What can I say? I'm persistant; it's how I got the job."
Knock Out jerked his head inside. "Come in."
Bumblebee slept at least until noon when he didn't have work, and by now, Knock Out was a master at shooing Wheeljack on his way.
The officer nodded, shrugged, and stepped past the threshold, pulling his hat off. Wheeljack was taller than Knock Out, but a good number of people were, with graying hair and a nose that had been broken ages ago.
"So, what are you trying to convince me I know this time?" Knock Out took a sip of his coffee.
"Breakdown, again," Wheeljack took a seat at the kitchen table.
"Hn."
This was the fifth time Wheeljack had come to interrogate him about Breakdown. He had asked twice about the Decepticons, and once about Megatron's surgery—not as a member of the police, but as a concerned friend, asking for the Mayor. By now, it was practically routine. Knock Out had realized after the second time that it was unwise to refuse the discussion; if he did, Wheeljack would come back an hour or so later with a warrant, and make a show of rifling through Knock Out's closet until he agreed to chat.
That was the primary reason he didn't have anything of Breakdown's anymore. He'd deleted the few pictures of Breakdown from his phone as well, in case it was subpoenaed. Three years together, and it looked like he had never known Breakdown at all. He liked to keep it that way.
"I maintain that I can offer you a plea bargain," Wheeljack laced his fingers together, "you stand witness, and we'll keep you out of jail."
"That's all well and good, officer, but I still have no idea what you're talking about. I don't know what happened to Breakdown."
"How about Motormaster?"
Knock Out had an excellent poker face; there was no way Wheeljack could have seen his sudden shock.
"I might have heard the name before," he said, tapping his chin, "perhaps he was a patient?"
It was wise to always plant a portion of truth in one's lies. Motormaster had indeed been a patient. He was a patient very often, and was the primary reason Knock Out carried around so many suture kits.
Wheeljack scowled.
"I've told you before, and I'll keep telling you: I don't know anything."
"Hmph," Wheeljack grunted. "New car?"
"What?" The change in topic threw him for a loop.
"There's another car parked in your driveway. Not your red one. You finally move on from that relic?"
"Your lack of film awareness astounds me. No, it isn't mine."
"Oh? Am I gonna have to bring you in for theft?"
Knock Out gave him a look. It said, quite eloquently: do I look like I've ever had to steal something in my life? Wheeljack didn't look convinced.
"It's a, ah," he tapped his index finger on the table, "gentleman caller's."
"Oh," Wheeljack's eyes flickered to the closed bedroom door.
"Hm."
Wheeljack stared at him for a few seconds too long, long enough to make him uncomfortable. He was conniving, clever for a cop. Starscream spent a vast majority of his waking moments complaining about Wheeljack. Knock Out knew he was ex-military, but only because Breakdown had told him they once served together, before Breakdown fell in with the Stunticons and Wheeljack fell in with the law. He still looked it, if one knew for what they were looking. It was something in his spine, in his eyes. Knock Out sighed irritably.
"What?"
"Just considering," he slapped the table lightly and stood up, pacing across the kitchen. Knock Out swiveled in his chair to keep track of him. "How did you know Breakdown?"
"I didn't."
"I'm not inclined to believe you. He's got—"
"—a surgery where I'm listed as the presiding doctor, yes. I'm fully aware." It was an oversight he hadn't had time to correct before the police came sniffing around. "Do you have any idea how many times I've explained this to you?"
"At least five times. It's one of my favorite stories; tell it again."
Knock Out rolled his eyes. "I am a surgeon. I do surgeries. I do many surgeries, in face. I can barely bother to remember the names of my nurses; why would I remember some nobody who got dragged in for, what was it again?"
"I'm hoping I can get you to remember for me."
Knock Out remembered. Of course he remembered. Five years ago he was in a panicked haze of mid-twenties desperation and his own self-induced stupidity; everything was lucid and terrifying. In lurched Megatron himself—before his brain had decided it needed a good four year long nap—high on Dark Energon and dragging some bleeding oaf behind him. Knock Out had removed the bullet from his shoulder, fighting off the uncomfortable sensation of being fawned at the entire time.
It was flattering how thoroughly he could reduce such a big, dumb goon to a stutter. He never meant for it to become as serious as it did.
"I could check the records, but I don't get on shift until two."
"Ahh," Wheeljack sighed, "this never gets less frustrating."
"I'm sure that was irony," Knock Out sipped at his coffee, "If you find this tedious, imagine how I feel. I was certain that you had given up on harassing me about this."
"Old habits," Wheeljack grunted, "I—"
The bedroom door creaked open.
"Bumblebee?"
"Wheeljack?"
Knock Out dropped his head against the table.
"Seriously? Again? Did Arcee put you up to this?" Bee sounded furious. He was at least, wearing a shirt now. He hadn't bothered joining Knock Out and Wheeljack at the table—he would have had to kick Wheeljack out of his chair; the other one was piled with journals and magazines—and instead was pacing across the kitchen and into the living room. If Knock Out had ever been inclined to doubt the integrity of his floorboards, Bee was putting that notion to rest. The entire townhouse shook when he stomped.
"What?" Wheeljack sounded too casual to be telling the truth. "Bee, I haven't seen Arcee in weeks. We're on different patrols now."
"Then why are you here? Agh!" Bumblebee tugged at his hair, "You don't get how mad I am at you, do you?"
"Calm down, Bee, you'll give yourself an ulcer."
"That isn't how ulcers form," Knock Out grumbled over his coffee.
"What?" Bee stopped pacing and looked at him. Oh. Poor thing. His face was ruddy, and his eyes were watery—which emotion was causing that, Knock Out couldn't tell. Knock Out was not a comforter by nature—it was why he was a surgeon rather than a nurse—and besides, hugging Bumblebee around his (perhaps?) uncle was a social faux pas even Knock Out understood.
"Ulcers," Knock Out stifled a cough, "don't form from stress. They're an infection—H. pylori—of the stomach lining. You would not believe how many people come in complaining of," he rolled his eyes and crooked his fingers into air quotes, "'upper right quadrant' pain when their stomachs are bothering them."
The sudden non sequitur seemed to distract Bee from his frustration. He picked up the stack of paper from third chair and dumped it on the ground, then slumped into the seat.
"Okay," he huffed, "why're you here?"
Wheeljack leaned over to pat Bee on the shoulder, then thought better of it. "You heard the Doc, Bee. He's a doctor—the guy who did my stitches when I got knifed by that dealer last month. We've only got the one hospital."
"Velocity Memorial is fifty miles north of here," Knock Out interjected, ignoring Wheeljack's glare.
"Excuse me for not driving an hour when I'm gushing blood on the upholstery. Anyways, Bee, I just came to get the stitches checked, honest."
Bee slouched, but seemed to accept the answer.
"What's wrong?" Wheeljack smirked, "Insecure about your beau?"
"I'm nothing to be insecure about." Knock Out slouched in his chair and eyed his empty cup.
"Shut up, Wheeljack," the words sounded harsh, but they lacked the fury Bee had been spitting not five minutes ago, "I seriously don't want to talk to you about it."
"Fine, fine," Wheeljack held up his hands diplomatically, pushing his chair back from the table. "I'll drop it. Doctor," he nodded to Knock Out, "it was nice seeing you."
"Hn."
"Bee," he stuck out his hand for Bumblebee to shake. Bee rolled his eyes, but grabbed his hand. Wheeljack pulled him into a hug and patted his back, "Don't be a stranger, okay, kid? Stop by the station every once in awhile; T-AI managed to harass a box of doughnuts every morning out of our budget. I'll slip you one, yeah?"
"Anhh," Bee gingerly returned the hug, "I'll think about it; don't want to catch lameness from hanging around all you old fogeys."
"Brat," Wheeljack said gently. He picked up his hat from the table and propped it back on his messy hair. "See you 'round."
Hopefully not. Knock Out forced a polite smile. Wheeljack opened the front door and stepped outside, then leaned back in.
"Doctor," he said quietly, "you know you can contact me, if you want to tell me anything."
He pulled the door shut.
Knock Out pushed himself up from the table and drifted behind Bumblebee. Despite his lax attitude, he was still shaking. It was imperceptible from across the room, but up close, it became obvious. Knock Out embraced him from behind, smoothing his hands over Bee's chest.
"Are you alright?" he asked Bumblebee's spine, his face pressed against the worn fabric of Bee's hoodie. Bee sighed, Knock Out's hands providing little resistance. Then, he twisted his way around and crushed Knock Out to his chest.
He coughed to clear his throat, then rested his chin against Knock Out's hair. "I'll be okay. I'm just glad I put on pants."
"That wasn't what I was asking."
"I know."
The moment was ruined when Bee's stomach decided to make its mounting distress known to the world. Knock Out pulled away from Bee's chest and looked down.
"Do you keep a whale in there?" He squinted.
"Yeah," Bumblebee roughly kissed the top of Knock Out's head and headed for the fridge, "I named him Shamu Two."
"Electric Boogaloo?"
"Exactly," Bee dropped to the ground in a half-assed parody of a split and started pawing through the freezer. "Why do you never have freezer waffles?"
"Probably because you keep eating them," Knock Out leaned against the countertop and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Duh, they're delicious," he abandoned the freezer and turned his efforts towards the fridge, "I'm just gonna heat up leftover pizza, okay?"
"Why are you asking me?" Knock Out eyed the coffee pot. Another cup would make him feel better. "It's not like I ever eat it."
"That's a filthy lie and you know it," Bee wagged his finger and retrieved a slice of supreme from the tupperware.
"Oh, no," Knock Out drawled, "I've been had. Whatever shall I do?"
"I dunno," Bee stuffed the plate in the microwave and caught Knock Out around the waist, "maybe I can be persuaded to ignore your mythomania?"
"You flirt," Knock Out grinned and pressed his hands to Bee's chest.
"You know it." Bee glanced down, and blinked, "Is that my shirt?"
Knock Out followed his gaze and pinched the collar of his—well, Bumblebee's—shirt between his thumb and forefinger. "Ah, yes. Did you want it back?"
"Nah, I like seeing you in my clothes."
"Is that so? If I can recall correctly, you like seeing me out of your clothes."
"Well," Bumblebee's fingers crept under the hem of Knock Out's shirt, "you don't wanna make me a liar—"
The microwave beep shrilly. Bumblebee and Knock Out froze, then burst into laughter.
"Ah, your hands are cold," Knock Out said, gasping for air through the hysterics.
Bee snorted and pulled away. He retrieved his pizza from the microwave and sprawled into Knock Out's chair.
"I was sitting there."
"You can still sit here," Bee gestured to his lap. A string of cheese stretched from his mouth to his 'breakfast'.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Knock Out grabbed his coffee and sat in the other chair.
"Duh."
Knock Out smiled, then covered it with his mug. Wasn't it so nice to be appreciated? A sudden, sobering thought struck him, and the grin slipped from his face.
"Bee—Bumblebee—that wasn't, well. You weren't outed, were you?"
Bee paused and put his pizza back on the plate.
"To Wheeljack? Ah, no. Not exactly. See, I," he made a frustrated noise and ran his hand through his hair, "basically everyone—family and friends—knows I'm gay, but they don't exactly know I'm dating you. Arcee, my cousin, thought I was sneaking around to do Dark Energon or something, so I told her. And now Wheeljack knows. So."
"Dark Energon was her first thought?" Well, that made her very clever, although she probably wasn't aware of it.
"Yeah," Bee twirled his finger near his temple, "she's wacky about it. Does D.A.R.E. stuff at all the schools, when she isn't chasing down speeders. Uh," he coughed, "what about you?"
"Hm?"
"Did you, like, get outed?"
Knock Out raised a brow and gestured to himself. "I'm a touch more obvious than you."
"Uh," Bee shrugged, "I guess that makes sense. So your family knows?"
"Well, not really," Knock Out shifted in his seat, "but I haven't spoken to my parents in ages."
"Oh, that sucks. My parents died when I was real little—car crash. I don't even remember them. Optimus, my uncle, he took me in. He's always been great about that kind of stuff. He hired me, too."
Bee looked somewhat guilty about that. Speeding tickets probably weren't conducive to keeping a clean nose, and image meant everything to politicians. Starscream had a team of image consultants to keep him from blowing up the cover of every tabloid here to Phoenix, but that was mostly because he was a vain, sniveling coward. Not that Knock Out could judge.
Knock Out nodded. "I know. He's the one who pushed for the Youth Center, right?"
"Yep, on his, what? Third term?"
"Something like that. I don't think there's been a different mayor since I moved here."
Bee frowned. "So did that have something to do with your parents?"
"What? No, the hospital hired me after I finished my residency there. My parents are retired somewhere out in Martha's Vineyard."
"Retired?" Bee gaped, then squinted, "how old are you?"
Knock Out's mouth dropped open. "I am twenty-nine!" The raw offense in his voice was downright impressive. "Ah, well," he coughed, "twenty-nine for the, er, second year in a row." He held up two fingers.
"So you're thirty?"
Knock Out flinched. "Ugh, don't say that word in my presence."
"You priss," Bumblebee said, not unfondly, "so were you like some super late baby?"
"No, my parents just retired at, oh, forty?"
Bee counted on his fingers, and frowned. "So you're like rich, right? I mean Martha's Vineyard; that's old money, and retiring before sixty is something people who don't need to work do."
"You could say that."
Well, he could, but it wasn't like it was true. Money really had been the root of all his problems: too much, then not enough. Deep down, under the bravado and self-obsession, perhaps Knock Out could admit that he was in large part responsible for his lot in life. Dropping his parents for—and he could admit it now—petty reasons, and taking on eight or so years of debt, with another three years to come, perhaps wasn't the best decision he could have made.
Going to the mob for that money wasn't the best decision either.
"You have any siblings?"
"What?" Knock Out looked up, snapped out of his brooding.
"Siblings; you know, brothers or sisters." Bee leaned across the table and gently cupped the side of Knock Out's face. "Are you alright?"
Knock Out shooed his hand away. "I'm fine, just a touch distracted."
"Oh? Do I distract you?"
"All the time," Knock Out deadpanned, "the fact that you haven't died from sodium overdose by now constantly confounds me."
"You wound me."
"Not as much as your diet."
"Geez, babe," Bee leaned back in his chair, hand clutched over his chest, "I'm dying here."
The casual endearment startled Knock Out for a second, then he coughed and shoved Bee's shoulder. "Don't be dramatic. I have a sister."
Bumblebee sat up straight. "Really?"
"Mmhm. She's across the country, in the Capitol. I think she still does something with the FBI."
"You think?"
"We haven't spoken in a while." Old pain, bitter pain, pain he thought he'd squelched under time and false bravado, curdled in the bottom of his stomach. Knock Out ignored it. "What about you?"
"Me? Ah, nope. I'm an only child, but Optimus spent so much time watching Arcee, she's basically my sister."
"Oh, what about Wheeljack?"
"Uh, gosh," Bee sucked in a breath and glanced up at the ceiling "Let's see. He's, er, okay, the guy who used to babysit me's uncle, who is also Arcee's boss."
"Any relation to your father's brother's nephew's cousin's former roommate?"
"Yeah," Bee batted back, "third uncle, twice removed."
Knock Out hid a smile. Bumblebee was—and Knock Out truly, deeply loathed to compare them, if only because he didn't like thinking about the empty space Breakdown left—far more clever than Breakdown had been. He could keep pace with Knock Out's constant strings of witticisms and pop culture references. Breakdown was, well, Knock Out had loved Breakdown, even though the word felt sour in his mouth, but he had never been similar to Knock Out. They were two very different people—not bad different, just… different.
"Ha-ah, yeah," Bee sighed, and leaned back in his seat. He frowned. "Knock Out?" His voice was serious. "Can I ask you something?"
His tone instantly made Knock Out nervous. "You've been asking me things all morning," he said cautiously.
"Yeah, but, uh," he drummed his fingers on the table, "something's been bothering me. You know when we met?"
"It'd be a little hard to forget, yes."
"Smartass. But, yeah. That big guy, Motormaster, he said something about somebody named Breakdown. Who is that?"
Knock Out ignored the icy spike of panic down his spine. He urged his brain to come up with something plausible. "Break down," he coughed, but that was fine, he'd been coughing all morning, "the event, not the name. My first year of residency was… rocky."
There. It wasn't even entirely a lie, it just wasn't entirely the truth either.
"Oh, sorry," Bee leaned across the table and rubbed his shoulder. He sounded relieved. "I thought you… nevermind. Is it because you don't sleep well?"
Knock Out raised a brow and glanced up at him.
"You wake me up sometimes," he explained, "Anything I can do?"
"Not really," Knock Out said, then leaned across the table for a kiss. Bumblebee obliged him. His lips were chapped.
"You taste like pizza," Knock Out murmured.
"You taste like coffee, but I'm not complaining."
Knock Out smirked, pecked his cheek, then leaned down to rest his forehead against Bumblebee's shoulder. His eyes focused on the scar arcing across Bee's neck. It was a gruesome thing; Knock Out had seen worse, of course, but still. A scar on some biker who had gotten into a drunken wreck was fine. A scar on one of Starscream's 'employees' was fine. But this, this was Bumblebee. Damn him for caring again.
"How did you get your scar?" he murmured, barely tracing the edge of the molted skin with his finger.
"Ah," Bee swallowed, and Knock Out could feel the movement against his finger, "it's pretty stupid."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. I was at Boy Scout camp—that little place outside of the Valley of Fire, Tyger Pax—and I sorta tripped and fell on a chainsaw."
Knock Out pulled away and gawked. "What?"
"I know," Bee cringed, "really dumb. It wasn't on or anything, but me and Bulkhead were chasing each other, and I was going fast enough to do some damage. Couldn't talk for like a year after that, and it's only thanks to Ratchet that I'm alive at all."
"Ratchet, MD," Knock Out ventured, "the one with the little family practice?"
"Yeah. He's one of Optimus' old friends. I got stuck with him as my PC once I turned sixteen. Good guy."
"Oh yes." Starscream hated him, so he must have had some semblance of morality. All Knock Out knew for sure regarding the old doctor was that he was impossible to intimidate into doing stitches on bullet wounds and supportive care on Megatron and that he had spent years in the military before retiring, and had thus encountered the sum total of human stupidity. Knock Out frowned and leaned against the table. He had to be skilled; as much as he hated to admit it, Knock Out himself probably would have had trouble with a case like that. The only major traumas one saw around this sleepy part of the state were car accidents and the occasional Dark Energon overdose. Starscream didn't let his little flock anywhere near the actual hospital. Too dangerous for their cover. Knock Out had to admire him for his sense of self-preservation, even if he absolutely fucking hated him.
"I've got work in," Knock Out glanced at the oven clock, "two hours. I slept late. You slept late."
"All day, everyday. You want me to bug out?"
"I said I have work in two hours," Knock Out tugged Bumblebee's chair back from the table and planted his hands on the wooden arms of it, effectively trapping Bee. He looked confused.
"Oh?" His eyes widened, and a lazy grin spread across his face. "Oh."
"Dr. Knock Out!" One of the—teal scrubs, so—one of the pediatric nurses waved him down. Knock Out flattened his hair and tried to look bored.
"Yes?" he drawled, neatly tucking his leather jacket into his locker. He pulled his pager out of the pocket and tucked it into the waistband of his dress pants. Really, the best thing about not being a student anymore was not having to wear scrubs, unless he was in surgery.
"Two-fifteen," the nurse jokingly glanced at the watch pinned to his top, "tardiness isn't like you, doctor."
"Traffic," Knock Out said curtly. It was out of style for him, but no one had seemed to notice that he had buttoned his shirt up to his neck, which was good, because otherwise he'd have to explain why he was really late. That reason started with a 'B', and ended with a bad decision. Knock Out hid a frown. Well, both of the bad decisions he had made started with 'B'. Funny, that.
"Ah, really? Damn, I'm heading back on I-85. Anyways, did you hear?"
"Hear what? I just got here."
"There was a sentinel event last night, down in transfusion. Somebody screwed up the tube identification and they gave a type O a unit of B positive, then the guy had a TRALI. Patient expired at like four am."
Knock Out rolled his eyes. "No wonder the JC didn't certify us."
"Eh," the nurse shrugged, "it's this, or commute another fifty miles to Velocity."
"Don't want to spend an hour commuting?" Knock Out adjusted his cuffs and shut his locker. Really, having to share a space with these nurses and technicians. Their hospital—Minerva Memorial—was tiny; it came with being a critical access hospital for the much larger Velocity Memorial. They had about twenty-five beds, with around twenty nurses, a handful of lab staff, himself and another trauma surgeon, and about five physicians.
It was horrible, and he hated it, and he wanted an office, but getting his own office meant sucking up his pride and crawling back east to beg his parents for a job at one of their friend's hospitals, and no amount of floor space could make him do that.
"I hate driving. Ah, well," the nurse slammed his door shut and grinned, "have fun in the ER."
"Of course." Knock Out's face dropped into a scowl the second he left the locker room. He sneered and pulled on his lab coat. Even his name tag seemed to mock him today. Knock Out, MD, it read, in stark block letters, Minerva Memorial Medical Center, Trauma.
He left the room and passed Hook in the hall. The other surgeon looked a little surprised, but Knock Out ignored him and sidled up to the nurse's station.
"Good afternoon," he crooned, projecting as much goodwill as he was able, despite his mood.
"Oh, Knock Out!" Lifeline glanced up from the computer, "How are you, dear?"
Lifeline was an older nurse, with round cheeks and a cheery disposition. She wore cutesy angel and puppy themed scrubs every other day, and, when Knock Out first began his residency, had decided he was 'such a baby, so young', and had taken him under her wing.
It hadn't helped him not do stupid things, like borrow money from the mob and fall in love with some goon, but the thought probably counted.
"Just fine; hit traffic on the way in, but I'm here now. How was the night shift?"
Lifeline shook her head. "Just terrible. One of the, ah, junior nurses mislabeled some blood and that poor old man with the organ failure, Mr. Jetfire, passed away this morning. Two of the day shifts still haven't showed up, and we're about to lose one of the travel techs."
Knock Out clucked his tongue. "Pity. Any new patients?"
"Not in the ER, dear. It was a quiet night, except for Mr. Jetfire."
"Marvelous. I'll get to doing my job then," he said mildly. Lifeline waved him goodbye.
The emergency room was just down the hall from the nurses station, and was opposite the lab. While it theoretically made it easier to get samples back, the lab time was abysmally slow—nearly an hour turnaround for a suspected MI—and the few feet it saved were wasted by the couriers and nurses bringing samples down from the rest of the hospital.
Knock Out picked up the patient chart from the hard plastic folder on the wall. There were three beds in the emergency room, and only one was occupied—a motorcyclist who had wrecked and shattered his femur and ribs and bruised the rest of himself on the asphalt. One would think that accident victims would be more common—what with all the drag racing—but they seemed to gravitate north to Velocity, which was probably a good thing because they got swamped if there were any more than ten patients.
The drug screens had come in last night. The motorcyclist was negative for alcohol, but positive for Dark Energon. He had vehemently denied being anything but sober while driving—even came up with a sob story about his brother—but lab results didn't lie. Knock Out was just glad the police had subpoenaed his chart last night, otherwise he'd probably have run into another one of Bee's relatives, the way his luck was going.
The man, Thrust, was blearily awake, and squinting in consternation at a newspaper one of the nurses had left for him.
"How are you feeling today?" Knock Out flipped to his chart. Thrust, male, thirty-three, hospital number: 443523. He leaned over to check his armband and confirmed the information. They really needed a barcode system, but the government wasn't approving any expenditures until the end of the fiscal year. Such were the woes of working at a CAH.
Thrust grunted through his oxygen mask. "Good. Better. When do I get another dose of morphine?"
"Two hours," Knock Out glanced at his record, "I can can give you Tramadol."
"Fine," Thrust shrugged, "Don't see why you can't get me more morphine. 'M already going to jail."
"We don't want your blood pressure to get too low. Alright, I'm going to take a look at your leg now."
Thrust pushed himself up on his elbows and winced, then lied back down. He struggled around his IV line and heart leads, and fiddled with the bed until he was able to look down at his covered leg.
"Alright. I want to see it."
Knock Out pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, then tucked the blanket back over his other leg, and moved his catheter line out of the way.
"You've got some bruising, but that's to be expected. You had a clean break in your femur, which seems to be healing well, but I want another x-ray of your knee." He gently prodded the man's kneecap. The swelling made it hard to tell, but something felt wrong, perhaps a ligament tear?
Thrust cringed again, the pain clear on his face. "I'm gonna walk, right?"
"You should be able to walk once you've healed, yes." Knock Out didn't mention that'd he be limping for the rest of his life. That was for the nurses to deal with. "Any trouble breathing?"
He checked the pulse oximeter read on the monitor. Swelling after bruising like Thrust's could impair one's ability to breath properly, and the inability to fully expand his chest put him at risk for pneumonia. He was young and healthy enough, and would probably recover, but nosocomials were always so complicated.
Thrust shrugged. "I've been asleep mostly. You sure I can't have morphine?"
"Yes, I'm sure." Knock Out tucked the patient record under his arm and walked over to the phone. He dialed the hospital pharmacy for the Tramadol, and repeated Thrust's current chemotherapy at them. He only half paid attention as the pharmacist confirmed the order and told him a nurse would be by in a few minutes.
"Alright," he turned back to Thrust, "I want to schedule you for x-rays in the next hour, after you receive your medication. A nurse will come by and take you to radiation. Any questions?"
Thrust shook his head, then paused. "Actually, uh."
"Yes?"
"What happened to my bike?"
Knock Out shrugged. "I assume it was towed, unless the police have it."
Thrust winced, and cursed. He didn't say anything else, so Knock Out assumed the conversation was finished and left. He dropped the patient chart back in its folder.
Dark Energon. He probably was smuggling it somewhere on his motorcycle, which explained why he didn't want the police poking around it. Knock Out hadn't been present when Thrust was brought into the hospital, but he was the one who had set his leg, while Hook, the other trauma surgeon, was caught up in a colonoscopy gone south. He had seen many a case of Dark Energon overdose in his day—courtesy Starscream and his motley crew—so it was immediately obvious to him that Thrust was tripping each and every ball.
Dark Energon was technically a derivative of methamphetamine, and so lifted one's mood. It was initially less physically addictive, and lower doses still did something for long term users, making it cheaper and less risky than straight meth or crack. Its physical effects were less obvious as well, and the only noticeable physical long term result was petechiae in the sclera. It was however, far more neurotoxic than meth. Mood swings and the inability to control rage were both common. Knock Out had personally seen drastic examples of both in Megatron, before he fell into his coma.
Thrust had been in that euphoric stage, where everything was like a dream and nothing mattered at all.
Drugs, Knock Out scowled, why had he thrown his lot in with dealers and addicts?
The answer was money of course, but he didn't ever like to admit he had done something stupid.
He met up with the trauma nursing unit—four nurses and a student doing grand rounds—on the fourth floor outside of the trauma ward. They moved swiftly and mechanically through the four patients—a burn, two wrecks, and a fall, before moving down to the ICU. There were six patients in the ICU, and five of them were unconscious.
Knock Out went through the motions and made nice to the conscious one, who was in for a myocardial infarction. He was doing fine, for someone who's heart just up and died. The other patients were sepsis, sepsis, stroke, organ failure, and chronic critical illness. Typical ICU patients.
They were all stably declining, as to be expected with these types of things. No matter how advanced the care or cure, they would always lose someone, and considering theirs wasn't exactly a great hospital…
The rest of his shift passed in that slow-speedy way. He'd get a full workup from the lab and the clock would stand still, then move through the rounds again and three hours would slip away.
"Are you alright, Knock Out?" Lifeline tapped his shoulder and leaned over the table. Their breaks had matched up, and Lifeline had taken it upon herself to make sure he was eating. Her grandchildren were across the country, so he supposed the innate grandmotherly need to feed people had zeroed on him.
"Oh, fine," Knock Out waved his hand and picked through his salad.
"You look tired. Have you been sleeping well?"
He never slept well.
"Yes," he lied, assuring her. "I'm just a touch distracted."
"Oh?" Lifeline smiled sweetly. "Have you met some nice young lady?"
Knock Out fought to keep from sneering. "Just thinking about the patients, is all."
"You're so hard working. I wish my new nurses were half as dedicated as you."
Dedicated, stupid and desperate, what was the difference?
He stared down at his food, then stood abruptly, slamming his tray on the table. He covered it up with a manic grin and said too loudly, "Speaking of. I'll see you later, Lifeline."
Knock Out left before she finished speaking. He was being rude, but he could probably play it off as a headache.
He sat through the rest of his shift in that same, drifting, dreary state of being. While he often complained of boredom, it was probably a good thing no one was coming into trauma, because he wasn't sure if he could collect his faculties in time to react to anything.
Eleven rolled around, and if Knock Out hadn't absconded to his car around five to slam off his alarm when an errant teenager rubbed his greasy fingers on the finish, he wouldn't have believed it really was as dark out as it was. It felt so much earlier than it looked. It was black as pitch out—no moon, no stars. The cloud cover blanketed the sky in a haze, like smoke. Knock Out barely took the time to throw his coat in his locker. No surgeries, so he hadn't needed to scrub in.
He barely bothered to wave goodbye to the nurse on duty—a far cry from the usual charming air of politeness he tried to feign—and practically sprinted from the building. He slid into the driver's seat and sagged into the leather. He snatched a tissue from his pocket, and smoothed it over the steering wheel, then dropped his head against it.
He certainly wasn't desperate enough to star dirtying his car.
Knock Out scowled, at both himself and the world in general. He didn't shout, because it wouldn't be dignified.
His pager buzzed.
"Fuck," he hissed, and retrieved it from his blazer pocket. The LCD screen read: 'Ten pm, wh fifteen'.
"I get off at eleven, you idiot," he muttered, cranking his car and shifting it into first. He got up to third, and then to fourth once he pulled onto the highway. The industrial district would have been the dockyard if he hadn't lived in a miserable, arid wasteland, but he had gone to Nevada, the furthest place from his parents without ending up in a state with more relatives. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner fit his circumstance fairly well, but with sand instead of seawater. Eight years of private school, and that was the only thing he could bother to remember.
Instead of boats, Starscream had to smuggle his 'shipments' in on trucks. If the heroin highway ran along interstate eighty-one, then the dark energon equivalent was interstate eighty-five. He could have chosen any town along that desolate road, but Megatron had chosen for him. Knock Out didn't pretend to understand the complicated personal politics of an insane warmonger/addict/politician, but he loved gossip, and the gossip said he had stayed because Optimus Prime was mayor.
But that was neither here nor there.
Knock Out pulled into a small, seemingly abandoned lot in front of Warehouse Fourteen. He sat in his car and let the engine idle until the clock rolled around to midnight. Then he sighed, put on his fakest grin, and pulled his first aid from the trunk. He ignored the crisp chill in the air and tapped the back of his knuckles against the door.
The grate opened with a snick. "What's the password?"
Knock Out rolled his eyes. "Let me in, you idiot."
"Oh, Knock Out!" The door slammed open, and a skinny young woman lurched in the door. "Starscream is pissed. You're late."
"Well," Knock Out shouldered her out of the way and stepped inside, "I've got a job. Hours to keep and all."
"Knock Out!"
Knock Out gritted his teeth and turned to face the oncoming earsore.
"Ah, Starscream," he drolled, "it's been too long since I've heard your dulcet shriek. My migraine was just starting to vanish. I was missing it, thank you."
"I called you here two hours ago! Where were you!"
"As I was just explaining to your croney, I have a job. Responsibilities and all, you know, the entire reason you ever call me."
Starscream grabbed him by his shirt collar and tugged him forwards. "You work for me, Knock Out! First and foremost! Don't you forget it!"
Starscream was taller than him, but he was boney, thin. Knock Out pulled himself free and violently dusted off his front.
"Don't touch me; you'll give me a contact high. Honestly, I have to pass drug screens."
Starscream sneered. "Idiot."
He crooked his finger, and lead Knock Out back into the depths of the warehouse.
"I so missed your particular brand of verbal abuse." Knock Out slung his bag over his shoulder. He'd need it, and even if he didn't, he wasn't about to leave it with this ragged band of dealers. They'd pawn it in a heartbeat.
"I miss when you did what I told you to." Starscream jabbed his finger at a man sprawled on top of a crate. "Fix this!"
"I did what Megatron told me to do." Knock Out said, just to pick a fight. "Ah, Motormaster. Just when I thought this evening couldn't get any worse. Did you finally piss off the wrong cop?"
"Shut the fuck up, Knock Out." Motormaster gritted out between broken teeth.
"Ooh, touchy," Knock Out thrust his bag at Starscream and pulled on a pair of gloves. "Alright, tell the good doctor about all your aches and pains."
Motormaster looked awful—well, more awful than he normally did. In addition to his cracked teeth, he was sporting a black eye, a swollen jaw, and a modest collection of knife wounds. Probably the aftermath of a fight, and if Motormaster was this peevy about it, it was a fight he probably lost.
"Police are sniffing around," he informed Starscream, "my buyer got twitchy; didn't want to give me my money."
Starscream snorted. "Honestly, why did Megatron ever bother paying you? Knock Out is more useful."
"Oh, spare me the flattery, Starscream—I'll blush." He jabbed a solid finger against a cut on Motormaster's bicep. "This needs stitches."
Motormaster didn't wince, but he did glare up at Knock Out. Knock Out ignored him, and took his bag back from Starscream, propping it on the crate. He snapped his fingers at Motormaster and pointed towards the dingy looking sink in the far corner of the warehouse. Motormaster scowled, spat, then limped across the room.
"You know," Knock Out remarked, digging through his bag for a suture kit and an alcohol prep pad, "if I were even a touch more resentful towards you, I'd just let some infection fester. Alas, Hippocrates has me in a chokehold."
"You fuck up my arm, and I beat the shit out of you."
"Ah, marvelous," Knock Out grabbed his upper arm and scrubbed it clean first with soap, then with the alcohol pad, "you have such clever comebacks; such a pleasure to talk with you. Stop flinching."
"I don't flinch."
"Color me surprised. I suppose you must just have a shiver. Poor thing."
He raised a fist, and Knock Out flinched away from the threat of violence. Motormaster grinned, baring his bloody teeth, and leaned back against the sink. Knock Out continued to scrub his shoulder clean in silence.
He switched out his gloves for a clean pair, and began to suture the cut. Motormaster grunted every time Knock Out pressed the needle into the meat of his skin, and hissed when he drew the thread through. He finished each suture with a neat knot, before moving down the cut and beginning again. It only took three stitches to close it to his liking. He dabbed the wound with iodine, let it air dry, then pressed a sticky bandage over it, to protect it from any dirt or debris. Or, more likely, Motormaster getting angry at the itching and cutting the stitches out with a pocketknife.
"I'll be by in a few days to check on it and see if I can remove the stitches," Knock Out said, stripping his gloves off and scrubbing his hands clean. Who knew what diseases Motormaster was festering? Knock Out. Knock Out knew, which was why he was washing like he wanted to remove a layer of skin.
"A few days?" Starscream rounded on him. "Something more important than your debt?"
"Oh, lay off, Starscream," Knock Out spat. "Megatron's been in a coma for four years. Stop getting into a dick measuring contest with someone who can't eat or piss on his own."
The second the words were out, a cold knot of dread cinched in Knock Out's stomach. Blame it on a bad night's sleep, blame it on a snapped temper, blame it on the fucking planets aligning, but the fact remained that he had just done a very stupid thing.
Knock Out's face snapped sideways with the force of Starscream's punch.
"What the fuck," Starscream hissed, wrenching one hand in Knock Out's collar, "did you say to me?"
"Nothing," Knock Out simpered, hating the quiver in his voice, "I'm sorry."
"You'd better be." Starscream shook him sharply and dropped him, letting Knock Out sag against the shipping crates. He cradled his bloodied knuckles and whistled at one of his gang. "Get me some fucking ice. You've been having attitude problems, Knock Out. Take care you don't end up like our dear friend Breakdown. I'd hate to call in that black widow bitch, but if you don't stop fucking tempting me…"
He let the threat hang in the air and stalked off. Knock Out made an abortive rude gesture behind his back, before pressing his fingers to his stinging skin. His face was unnaturally hot, from the corner of his left eyebrow down to his split lip. He wiped under his nose and grimaced when his hand came away bloody.
"Here."
"Thanks."
Knock Out took the damp paper towel from Motormaster and pressed it to his bleeding nose. The water was, at the very least, cool against his skin.
"That's gonna bruise."
"I'll put ice on it."
"It'll still bruise."
Knock Out snorted, and immediately regretted it when it sent a trickle of blood leaking out of his other nostril. "Who's the doctor here?"
Motormaster huffed a half-hearted laugh before falling silent. Knock Out sat back on the crate. His head was spinning, with that awful, cold twist of an injury.
"Shitty of him to bring up Breakdown."
"Hn."
"Don't be a bitch." Motormaster reached over and shoved his shoulder. "He was my friend before you two started fucking."
The second half of the sentence was a whisper. Whether it was because Motormaster didn't want to think about Knock Out and Breakdown having sex—or, Primus forbid, being in love—or if it was because he still had some sense of furtiveness, Knock Out didn't know.
"You didn't tell Starscream?"
"Ain't his fucking business what happened." Motormaster considered. "Also, I fucking hate his shitty guts."
"You fucking hate my shitty guts, too," Knock Out said tiredly.
"Greater evil." He looked at Knock Out, slumped exhaustedly against the crate. He knew he must have struck a pathetic image—a grown man, whimpering an apology with a wad of paper towels stuffed up his nose. He pushed his hair out of his face.
"What?"
"You good for driving?"
Knock Out rolled his eyes. "You think a little slap would make me let you touch my car?"
"You crumpled like a fucking piece of paper."
Knock Out gritted his teeth, and bit down a reply. He pushed himself off the crate and balanced unsteadily on his feet. He flipped off Motormaster and staggered out to his car. If Starscream had an issue with it, then he could march out to the parking lot and hit him again. He'd probably cave even faster.
He sneered in self disgust and opened the driver's side door. He leaned back in the leather seats and sighed, then wiped his nose and tossed the paper towel out of the window.
His phone buzzed in the passenger seat, so he leaned over to check it. A text from Bumblebee, who knew far more about emoticons than he did, and one from Wheeljack.
You have my number.
Knock Out breathed out slowly and started his car. Yes, he certainly did. Was he going to call? No.
Not yet.
Today's title (as brought to you by the shuffle on my phone) is from DNCE's Cake By the Ocean.
Lots of medical jargon this time around—none of it terribly important to the story.
Thanks for reading!