No one save Arcee and her partner were present at Airachnid's return, simply because the duo were the only ones assigned to the reading. Bumblebee was recharging, Bulkhead was on a drive, Ratchet was manning the bridge, Wheeljack was busy making bombs, and Optimus was taking his first day off in about a century. Raf was at home babysitting his little sister, and Miko was still in detention.

Margo didn't miss the shaking in Arcee's limbs as she walked, or how she held Jack close to her chest like he couldn't walk.

The top part of Jack's sleeve was covered with blood.

"Shit. Did you get the license plate?" Margo asked as she took out carefully wrapped bandages and disinfectant.

Jack blinked. Was this some sort of riddle or code? "What?"

"Of the truck that ran you over," Margo elaborated with a smirk, cataloguing his injuries as best she could without taking off his shirt. "You look like shit and pain fucked each other."

Jack hissed when her fingers pressed into the socket. It was loose. "Can you move your arm?"

He tried, but only got a flash of white-hot pain and screamed. Margo winced. "Okay, none of that then!" She sighed. "Probably dislocated or broken."

"D-disclotated," Jack stuttered.

"Have you had a dislocated arm before?"

"Mm-hmm."

Margo slipped into nurse-mode and immediately arranged the both of them for resetting Jack's arm.

"I'll set in on three," Margo said, shoving a towel in his mouth. "One-" Crack.

"I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO SET IT ON THREE!" Jack screamed once he could breathe again and he'd taken the towel out of his mouth.

"If I had, you would've tensed in preparation to bear the pain," Margo said softly, gently massaging the shoulder.

Jack huffed petulantly in response.

"Can you move it?"

He tried, and it wasn't quite as pained as before. The sharp stab in his shoulder from where he was thrown against the ground was far more dull. "It's better."

"Can you get out of your shirt on your own? It's bloody."

Jack hadn't even noticed. He tried moving his arm to get his arm off, but stopped with a painful wince.

"It's okay," Margo said gently, getting out her pocketknife. She started with the top shirt, getting at his sleeve and then working her way down. She then slid the destroyed shirt down his arm. His undershirt was far easier to remove, except around his chest, where she actually had to use the scissors from her sewing box. He twitched and winced.

She reached for the medical gloves in the kit, and started poking around to find something in the puncture wound that might get in the way of healing. The cut wasn't the jagged the expected from the decepticons. "Rocks?"

"Yup." He twitched again when she started cleaning away the dirt and rock with her finger. She stopped when the bigger piece were out, and then got a wet wipe, wiping until the only thing coming out was a deep red. Jack winced when she applied disinfectant.

"You're going to have to tell your mom this happened. She's going to want an explanation. I suggest you start crafting an alibi now," Margo said flatly, disinfecting her needle with a lighter and stringing it. She handed him a towel. "I suggest you bite on this."

"Why would he have to do that?" Arcee asked, getting her winglets and back checked out, minor dents and a few blaster burns all over.

"His back needs stitches."

"Wh- I do?" Jack asked.

"Dude, I don't even want to know how you got rocks stuck in your back this bad, or got a dislocated shoulder probably from the same thing? There are splinters all over. Did Arcee throw you into a tree or something?" Margo said sarcastically.

Arcee opened her mouth in defense of herself, but Jack cut her off. "Not Arcee."

"A 'con?"

"Nope," Arcee said. "Way worse. Decepticon-neutral."

"Yeah?" Margo asked, handing Jack the towel again. "Bite down, or have fun biting your tongue off."

"Airachnid's on Earth," Arcee hissed.

Ratchet's plating shuddered. "Black Arachnia?"

"Yeah, she just renamed herself." Arcee rubbed her wrist and her winglets drooped.

Jack winced every time the needle breached his skin. She carefully tied it closer, only able to follow a basic stitching pattern she'd learned in textiles class. This was no fabric, stretched taught under the thread and desperately being kept together. She tied it together with a moan from Jack, pulling the stitches tight.

"So, where'd you learn to stitch people up?" A shaky-voiced Jack asked, taking out the towel.

"My dad came home with a stab wound one day. He's a cop. Mom decided it was a nice time for a teaching lesson in case it ever happened to me." She took the roll of bandages and started wrapping his shoulder. "She'd a nurse. She wants me to be a medical worker too."

Jack darted a glance at her bag. "I've seen you reading. Deep Survival, the Gift of Fear, Anatomy of Motive? Sure are some psychology books."

"My mom's got a whole library back home. I... just took my three favourites."

"No college-level medical textbooks, then?" Jack asked.

"No. I've been listening to them like bedtime stories since I was two months old. I can practically quote the entire books frontside to backside. Been volunteering in the medical sciences since I was ten." She glanced at his cut-up and bloodied shirts. "I could put a few more tears in them, make it look like a struggle."

"And the bandages? Stitches?"

"Good samaritan?" Margo shrugged.

"Tying stitches up this tight, with the wrong stitch method?"

"Bad samaritan."

"Margo, be serious."

"Okay, I haven't actually gone to medical school, Jack. The most I've done is be a gofer, or replacing bedpans. But Mom's been teaching me the stitches on oranges since I was eight."

"Oranges?"

"It works."

"Why the wrong method then?"

"I've been slipping," Margo shrugged. "And I don't have the right needle for this. The medical supplies aimed at humans in this joint are... inadequate."

Jack sighed. "Well, I guess it increased credibility. Mom's gonna want to redo this on her own."

"I wouldn't blame her. This was done entirely by someone who doesn't know what they're doing. Patchwork at best."

"Then why-"

"Because it's better than nothing." Margo picked up her sewing box, sterilized the sewing needle again, and stuffed everything back inside the box. "Say it's something you decided to get for a friend's textiles class, and give it back to me tomorrow."

"And this is also what I managed to get someone to stitch me up with?" Jack asked.

Margo picked up his wallet. "For twenty bucks."

Jack shrugged. "Makes sense. But how did I get it?"

"Three options. Motorcycle accident or mugging."

"I thought you said three options."

"I lied. But good to know there's no discernable brain damage. What colour's my shirt, again?"

"Green with black butterflies and flowers."

"Good. And my shoes?"

"You're wearing boots, and they're black with blue laces."

"Correct. What about my jacket?"

"You don't have a jacket."

"Sweater, then, if you want to be so nitpicky."

"Black, white drawstrings. With a hood."

"Not describe the stitching on my pants?"

"Gold thread."

"And how many fingers do both of us have?"

"Twenty together, ten separately, five on either hand. Your eyes are blue. Your hair's brown. You're trilingual - french, german, and English. The autobots have t-cogs, which is the organ that helps them transform. They get married by merging sparks. Your favorite colour is purple, because you had a butterfly clip with purple sparkles that your mom gave you on your third birthday, just before she left to go to medical school. Raf has glasses. Miko loves a band called Slash Monkey. Ratchet sounds like Weyoun, and that's why you nicknamed him Weyoun 8 on the group chat. Would you like me to describe other random facts?"

"No, but good that you didn't lose enough blood to be snarky. You really should still have your mom take a look at that," Margo said, cleaning off her hands and putting the gloves in the garbage.

Jack shot a look at the lighter on the table. "Why do you have a lighter?"

"Because some idiot gets her daily adrenaline quota by rushing into battle, and blunt-force trauma injuries come just about as often as injuries that need stitches. Needles got to be disinfected, and medical-grade needles are hard to come by and harder to steal," Margo sighed. "Which reminds me, I've got to stock up on bandages before she gets out again. Now, Ratchet, please don't repair any of the dings on Arcee's armour. Not the superficial ones that won't do any damage in the long run. Cee, you can wait til tomorrow, right?" The motorcycle nodded. "Motorcycle accident is likely, and it puts credibility to the fact you still have money to pay for services and a sewing box."

"And also the fact that my shoulder was dislocated instead of broken?"

"It was an impact injury. Take that or your mom worry about who to press charges against for beating up her precious boy, and taking it to the police," Margo shrugged.

Jack sighed. "I guess."

Margo leaned in closer and packed away the medical supplies strewn around the table. "Do you want to talk about what's actually bothering you?"

"No."

"Have it your way. See you tomorrow." She kicked the supply bag under the coffee table and went off.

Ratchet was finally finished repairing the weld on Arcee's winglets, and gave her a small cube of med-grade. Arcee thanked him, sat up, and chugged it.

"Let's go, Jack."

Jack slid on his helmet. "Thanks, Margo."

"No prob, Jack," Margo said. "Sleep well. Make sure your mom takes a look at you."

Margo turned back to her books.

"I didn't know you were quite that acquainted with Earth medicine," Ratchet said slowly.

"Years of practise."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Emergency room got crowded sometimes. Triage kinda forces you to become jaded or let people die."

Ratchet hummed. "Yes, I know. I was a field medic during the war. There were... spark case surgeries I had to do within my first orbital cycle - a month in your time."

Margo winced. "So, how did the war start? Do you know? Optimus never talks about it."

"Then he doesn't want you to know. It isn't surprising, given his part in sparking it."

Margo's head tilted. "What?"

Ratchet shrugged. "If he doesn't want you to know, I won't tell you."

Margo sighed, and took out her phone, coming Optimus. It was easier than finding the training room, and she had him on speed-dial anyways.

"Hey, OP? You done?"

"No."

"Good opportunity for you to work under time constraints, then. It's late, and curfew's in twenty minutes. You're got five to finish your simulation before we have to go."

Optimus ex-vented in response and Margo heard another garbled shriek of metal slicing metal. "Very well."

As promised, Optimus was out in three minutes, battle mask still slid in place. He picked her up without a word, transformed, and sped her home.