[* * * * *]

Pt. 3

[* * * * *]


"I can feed myself." He took a swipe at the glass of energon.

Unsurprisingly, it was held out of reach. Sitting up to grab after it got him nowhere but sitting up, glaring further upward at the traitor smiling down at him in fond amusement, like Kaon watching the Pet roll about on the floor gnawing on a spark chamber. How cute. How adorable. How likely to rip someone's fuelpump out given half a chance.

"Now, now, Tarn, none of that now. You know I can't trust you with your own fueling, after last time."

Tarn drummed his fingers on the blanket. No comment on that. Flinging the full glass of energon into Overlord's smug face had been satisfying at the time, but it left whatever thin façade of trust the two of them played at weighted to Overlord's advantage. The traitor had been nothing but helpful, kind, and patient. A model caregiver. Tarn had been contrary, angry, and physically difficult in as many ways as possible, at least at first. Nurse Overlord looked down at Bad Patient Tarn with patently false worry in his optics, and Tarn's motors shifted up in disgruntlement.

The glass lifted a few microns higher. Overlord sighed, mocking. "Tarn. Are we going to have a regression? I thought we were making such progress. You've been so good, why, it's as though you'd slotted in a new ammo pack!" He beamed down at his patient. "You wouldn't be thinking of attacking me again, would you?"

No comment on that, either. Tarn had learned to prefer the stinging embarrassment of cooperation over the humiliation of defeat. Attacking Overlord didn't even earn a proper fight. Overlord just took it as a cue to lavish more attention on him. Tarn had found himself pinioned under layers of restrictive blankets and cradled in Overlord's lap. Locked into some sort of bizarre time-out punishment cuddle, Tarn had fussed without effect. Starvation-weak, his body recovered slower than Tesarus' P.D.P. scores. Exhausting himself fighting had led to actually falling asleep, a sleepily indignant kitten-weak mech soothed into recharge by the arms rocking him back and forth.

The thick, sweet corrosion of Overlord's words followed him offline. It ran beneath his restless sleep. He'd dreamt of violence, of rebellion. Defragmenting memory files pieced together a beloved voice raised in speeches that had started a revolution as Tarn ripped himself free of chains he hadn't known he'd been wearing. The freedom had been sudden, shocking, and cold.

He'd woken alone in the dark, having thrashed free of the blankets. Overlord had left him alone at last. Chilled, Tarn had clumsily pulled the blanket back up onto his recharge slab and turned onto his side to stare at the wall for the rest of the night, wide awake.

He wasn't going to pick a fight with the supersoldier again, not until he was absolutely sure he'd win it. The dreams weren't worth it.

Tarn folded his arms and chose not to resist the nudge to his mask. Overlord slid it up, and Tarn glowered as he opened his mouth to the glass rim pressed to his lips. Feeding him by hand was totally unnecessary. They both knew it. Overlord did it anyway, savoring his control over a mech who hated the very fuel in his tanks. He'd always enjoyed a challenge, but winning was the true joy. His engine all but purred satisfaction.

It made a familiar backdrop to this inane ritual. Tarn leaned his head back to accept the energon poured into his mouth one swallow at a time. The glass tipped up until the last trickle went down. He resisted the urge to wipe the back of his wrist across his mouth, afterward. He still wasn't used to drinking without a straw. His lips felt uncomfortably wet, tricking him into thinking he'd spilled energon, but if he wiped his mouth so crudely, Overlord would laugh at his lack of manners.

A broad thumb ran under his lower lip, collecting a stray drop. This time, instead of bringing it to his own mouth and closing those full lips around it, smirking, Overlord dragged it across Tarn's mouth back the other direction, smearing the energon over his lips. Taken off guard, Tarn licked his lips before he thought about it.

"There. Good."

Tarn blinked a second before scowling. "And how is that necessary to my recovery? Do tell."

Overlord patted him on the helm, shunting the mask back into place. Tarn refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. "Behavioral training. Your little medic does have quite the strict system in place for how her patients behave under her care, have you noticed? I wasn't expecting to have a miniature dictator reading me my rights when I came back online." Amusement dipped toward darker emotion, the glimpse into Overlord's thoughts that occasionally showed through the supersoldier's careful tending.

Those flashes concerned the leader of the D.J.D. He didn't know if they were directed toward the ship of Autobots that had apparently both survived execution by his own unit and almost managed to kill Overlord, or if Overlord was simply losing interest in whatever game he was playing with Nickel.

"Speaking of our tiny medical tyrant."

Tarn eyed him. Those were never good words to hear from Overlord, especially said in that tone of muted glee. Overlord began the endless blanket tucking Tarn had become used to, but the tank didn't relax into the warm cocoon. He squinted his suspicion at his evil nurse, waiting for the blow to fall, but Overlord let the expectant silence stretch on. Tarn squirmed inside the ridiculous restraints. Overlord tucked them tighter.

Yeah, he definitely wasn't going to like whatever Nickel had planned for him next. Overlord was pretty much wrapping him for delivery. Frag this. He was going to find where the traitor put his fusion cannons eventually, and then he'd make Overlord pay.

"You'll recall the terms of your recovery, hmm?" Overlord put a hand on Tarn's chest, leaning just enough to pin him to the berth. "If your health is risked by any simple matter you should be taking care of yourself, it will fall to me to assume responsibility for it. For your sake, you understand. You are an 'at risk' patient, according to your ruling monarch of the medical field."

Actually, Tarn didn't remember that. He didn't remember much of Overlord's arrival. Everything had been a blur of low fuel warnings, apathy, and a listless, draining depression. "The only thing I'm at risk of is getting my fist stuck up your manifold," he said, but on automatic. This sounded somewhat dire.

Overlord looked pleased by his irritation. "And that's progress! I'm happy for you, Tarn, but Nickel isn't quite as pleased. As she told me earlier, there are certain hygienic rituals a healthy mech wouldn't neglect unintentionally." Tarn's spark plunged into his tanks. "Since you insist you are in control of yourself and your faculties, we've come to the mutual decision that you are intentionally ignoring your hygiene. That's unacceptable. So," Overlord drew out, leaning closer, coincidentally placing more of his weight on his suddenly squirming patient, "care of such matters has been formally transferred to my responsibility."

Oh, no. Oooooh, no, this wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. "Don't you daaaaaaare put me down at once!"

"It's time for a nice, long bath. You'll feel much better once you're clean," Overlord said, six kinds of pleasant. He adjusted his hold on the frantic bundle of bound mech in his arms and strode toward the door. "Don't make this more difficult than it has to be, Tarn. You'll enjoy this."

"I'll destroy you! Again!"

"I'm sure it'll be more effective a second time."


[* * * * *]