A translation of this story in Russian by Gonshyk is available on AO3 under the title "Коллекция"
Another answered MTMTE request from Tumblr! Really happy with this one. 3
(Rated T for Sexual Suggestion/Dub Con. Author Note: I'm really happy with this one. *glitter* It turned out so well.)
"Your collection disturbs Ambulon, you know," Pharma said, smirking from the front door of First Aid's private room. Pharma's eyes were fixed on the center badge in his display case—the one with the bullet hole. First Aid rubbed the edge of the case's glass with his finger. Pharma entered, without permission of course. "That's pretty impressive to unnerve a Decepticon."
"Considering you made him the Ward Manager, I'd think you'd stop calling him that," First Aid said. He clicked his data pad off, and started to put away his paperwork. If Pharma was here, he wouldn't be getting any more work done. First Aid was confirmed in that assumption when Pharma set the glass of high grade on his freshly cleared desk. "You don't seem the type to let a Decepticon be second-in-command of your facility."
"There are three of us here, I'm the best and Ambulon is a better Doctor than you," Pharma said. He took a sip from his glass as he made himself comfortable in First Aid's guest chair and dimmed the lights. Pharma pushed the chair so that he sat side by side with First Aid. "Therefore, I'm in charge, he's second, and you're the nurse. Faction affiliation has nothing to do with medicine, personal feelings about how someone who only defected ten-years ago can possibly be a complete convert aside."
First Aid retracted his face-plate and took a sip from the warmed energon. Pharma always came with insults, but managed to remember how First Aid preferred his drink served. Inconsiderate, controlling, and obsessively detailed—that was Pharma.
"So why do you collect these?" Pharma asked, his mouth hovering over the rim of his glass. He placed the tip of his finger in the center of the laser burn of the center piece. "Do you collect any loose Autobot badge, or only the ones from our dead patients?"
First Aid hunched his shoulders and sipped his drink. Talking wasn't a requirement when Pharma visited.
"I mean, I know we aren't exactly shipping folks home to their loved ones over here, but I can think of an Autobot or two who'd be upset to find he was stripped of his badge in death," Pharma continued. He swirled his glass. His eyes were lidded, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Amused. "They'd call it desecration."
First Aid put his drink on the table when a wandering blue hand pressed against the Autobot Badge on his chest. Fingers traced along the seam, the hint of almost feather touches against First Aid's armor. The Badge felt nothing. The finger touches were so close, but still miles away separated by a plate of red metal. Pharma rolled his drink in the unoccupied hand and slouched closer.
"What about your own? Who will add your little badge to the collection when you pass? Or do you want the collection to join you? Do you want to be buried with your dead patients?"
"They're just badges," First Aid said. Pharma's hand refused to leave the insignia. Refused to touch the white metal just on its side. A tease. "Nothing more."
"Then why do you have so many? So decorated and displayed. Or, is this a small collection to you?" Pharma pressed his thumb in the Autobot Insignia's eye. He took his hand back and tapped the one on his own chest. "What about this one? Would you like mine, too? I'll give it to you."
"I don't take badges from the living." First Aid tipped his glass back and downed all of his drink. The spinning burn of the enhanced liquid was a distraction. A flood of nothing to cloud his head.
First Aid put the empty glass on the table. A click and he replaced his face-plate—Pharma's hand jammed into the seam. The Chief-Medical Officer's hand was clasped to First Aid's face, his thumb halting the return of one side of his mask. The other half was in place, waiting for its partner.
A blue hand touched the exposed sliver of First Aid's lip with the tip of a finger, and then pried the other half of First Aid's mask back. The face-plate halves were forced back until both clicked into the retracted position against their will.
Pharma kissed First Aid.
Hard and rough, the force of it threw them both against the desk. The abandoned glass hit the floor, shattering. Pharma held tight to First Aid's helm, thumbs positioned to catch the mask again should First Aid attempt to hide away from the searching lips. First Aid remained still. Pharma clutched tightly to his helm, though otherwise remained as still. Only his face moved, kissing and biting as if he could drink the life force out of First Aid via mouth to mouth.
They separated after a breath. Pharma drunk and nuzzling.
First Aid clasped his hands together in his lap. The late night talks. The kisses. The insults. The drink. It was all routine in their little Delphi post. "I'm not Ratchet."
"I know that," Pharma said, his lips so close to First Aids the vibrations traveled across them. Pharma kissed him again, gentler yet still mocking. Pharma's smile was straight from the pit. "Ratchet mourns the dead. You just collect them."
First Aid found he couldn't argue.