Title: Amnesia

Warning: Nonconsensual medical procedure (within the context of war), definite dubcon as a result

Rating: R?

Continuity: MTMTE AU

Characters: Pharma, Tarn, Ambulon, First Aid, Prowl, Ratchet

Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors.

Motivation (Prompt): FelixFellow made a gorgeous picture of Pharma kissing Tarn. I had to reason out how this could happen. Things got a bit out of my control.

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Part Ten: "Kiss kiss fall in love"

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He didn't remember.

He didn't remember why his mask looked like a Decepticon symbol when everyone around him wore the Autobot one. There were reasons that Pharma gave him, and a long story about what had happened while he'd been a Decepticon prisoner, but none of it sounded familiar. It all made sense, but it didn't trigger any memories in his empty archives.

He didn't know why the patients and soldiers feared him, but his sheer size and strength filled in some of those blanks soon enough. That, at least, wasn't a mystery long. He got used to explaining that he wasn't who he'd been under Decepticon control. He got used to moving slowly whenever someone looked tense, and calling for someone to intervene if wariness escalated into anger or terror. Letting Pharma fight his battles for him made him feel useless, but watching the surgeon protect him from backlash from stubbornly ignorant mechs turned his spark to quivering jelly.

Wasting Pharma's time on calming fearful Autobots let Tarn admire him. At least it wasn't a total loss. Besides, it was hard to defend himself from vague accusations of things he didn't know anything about, and Pharma had authority to spare. Even hysterical mechs subsided when the surgeon stared them down. They got worse when Tarn tried the same trick.

He didn't remember why.

He didn't know why the Autobot scientists swarmed him after every battle. They asked him questions about his reformatting that he didn't have the memories to answer, although he would if he could. They grumbled that he was being uncooperative, but the Autobot Second came to speak with him once, calculating optics locked on his face. Tarn tried to explain that he just didn't know any more. The knowledge was gone, if he'd ever had it, and an uneasy swish of static filled his mind when his mind searched for the missing memory banks.

Prowl told the scientists to stop harassing him. He also touched Tarn's forearm, less a reassurance than a careful measure of personal contact that nonetheless made the massive tank like him just a little. "He'll be here soon," the small Autobot told him, and Tarn's fuel pump skipped a beat.

Tarn sang that night in his guarded quarters, songs he didn't know the lyrics for but still expressed his happiness. He would be here soon.

Tarn had spent a hazy length of time on Planet Messatine, defending the clinic and the mines from attacks by Decepticons who claimed to know him, who claimed he was a traitor. Bewildered, head strangely empty and pained, he'd returned to the Delphi Medical Clinic less than sure he belonged there. Ambulon's jittery fear around him didn't help. First Aid's quiet suspicion and sidelong threats were easier to deal with, if not understand. But he had welcomed Tarn back every time. Sometimes only a brusque transmission acknowledging his return, but occassionally Pharma had waited at the main entrance. All the doubts evaporated away those familiar, achingly lovely red and blue colors became visible through the glare off the ice. His surgeon didn't look up watching for his return, but even working on a datapad, he exuded responsibility.

Even when he hadn't been there waiting, Tarn knew the flyer had been at the ready to check his health. No other medic at Delphi was allowed to repair his wounds. Pharma was his protector and solid comfort, just as when the tank had first woken up under his care.

Tarn had left Messatine under heavy guard and in chains he didn't remember how he'd earned, but he had taken him aside before the Autobot ship launched to return to Cybertron. Those insanely talented fingers had slid over the planes of Tarn's mask, blue over purple, and Tarn had gratefully leaned into the caress.

"Why?" he'd asked, and he hadn't even been sure what he'd been asking about. About the betrayed hatred in the D.J.D.'s optics when he'd faced them across the battlefield, or the terror on Ambulon's when they encountered each other walking the halls late at night, unable to recharge for the dreams of emptiness that now haunted them.

A small smile had answered him, a tad mad but mostly satisfied. "Because I was abandoned here to create a solution out of nothing but desperation. I found the solution they didn't expect, and now they don't know how to deal with the results." Pharma had reached up, hands bringing Tarn's mask down to meet him, and Tarn's hands had slid around to cup the smaller, frailer, far more beautiful mech's helm in turn as the gentle pressure of a tongue slipped hot and weirdly, tenderly possessive over where his mouth lay. Under the mask, Tarn's lips had parted as if he could feel the kiss.

Blue optics had closed. Tarn's own, red and afraid to miss even a moment, had watched greedily until he stepped away, leaving Tarn straining after him. "Don't worry. They'll have to transfer me back to the main hospitals after this. I'll see you again, my Tarn."

The claim made his spark flutter even now, and he sang for joy that his love would come for him.

In the morning, the guards - respectful as ever but wary as anything - asked him if he knew other songs he could sing. Any other songs. Anything but the wordless anthems he'd crooned.

Since he didn't entirely know what he'd been singing in the first place, he said no. They found him someone to teach him more appropriate music.

"Be good," Pharma had ordered before the Autobot ship took him away from Delphi.

Tarn didn't remember being bad.

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