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"We need to talk."
Pharma looked up, optics glowing in the dim light of the brig.
Ambulon closed the cell door behind him, then turned to face him. His own optics seemed to focus on anything other than Pharma, glancing around uncomfortably before settling on the floor, optical ridge furrowed.
Pharma fidgeted minutely, chained and magna-locked to the wall by cuffs that covered the stumps where his arms ended. His new hands had long since been removed.
"Straight to the point," he replied curtly. "You're as abrupt as ever, I see."
"You didn't do it to First Aid," Ambulon said.
Pharma stopped. He fixed Ambulon with a long, hard look.
"And by it, I assume you mean—"
"The—the bisecting, yes. The cutting me in fucking half."
Ambulon finally looked up, and Pharma could still see the faint weld lines where he'd been painstakingly pieced back together. He had to hand it to First Aid and Ratchet—combined, it seemed their abilities could even bring back the dead.
"I see," he replied. "Go on, then. You haven't come down here just to state the obvious; you clearly have a theory. This should be good.”
Ambulon was absentmindedly picking at the paint on his wrist again. It was a nasty habit, and one Pharma had chided him for in their more private moments at Delphi. It all seemed a lifetime ago, now.
"At first, I thought you'd just... lost it. I don't know. Then I thought it was just because I'd pissed you off with my "Doctor DJD" comment."
"You did, by the way. For the record. After everything I did at Delphi—to protect us, to protect you—and you, the Decepticon defector, dare to call me that?" Pharma wrinkled his nose. Bared his teeth. "If I had done it out of spite, I'd have been entirely justified, I think. Ungrateful wretch."
"...Right. Yeah. I... yeah."
Ambulon could've brought up the needless deaths. He also could've talked about how he'd spent countless sleepless nights thinking about how he knew Pharma telling him and First Aid the truth wouldn't have solved anything in the end, not really. He could've told him how he'd lamented in the aftermath, knowing all too well how much of a threat the DJD posed, a target of The List himself. He could’ve talked about how it hadn't escaped his notice that the plague had been engineered to activate upon transformation—something he and First Aid either wouldn't or couldn't do.
He could've. Now wasn't the time.
"It was... instantaneous," Ambulon continued. "I don't really remember feeling anything. I was there, terrified out of my fucking wits, confused... and then I wasn't."
"You really don't have any sense of self-preservation, do you? You're talking to your would-be killer like this is… like we're having a heart-to-heart after some inconsequential squabble," said Pharma. “I tried to destroy you. I cleaved your spark casing and brain module in two. And I don't regret it, you know.” He paused, expression faltering. “The image haunts me. All of it does. But I don't regret it.”
Ambulon, despite himself, took one careful step forward. Then another. Eventually he was close enough to see all the little nicks and dents in Pharma's plating... close enough to feel the soft ventilations coming from his shoulder stacks.
"It was kinder, wasn't it?"
Pharma could no longer look him in the eye. He gave one weak, frustrated thrash against his bindings.
"You knew the alternative would be worse," he continued.
"I knew," Pharma hissed, "because I was subjected to every phase of testing for that damned killswitch. Tyrest could only be certain it worked on cold constructs exclusively because I had been made to suffer through the kinks, bear the feeling of having my spark pierced and gripped, teased with the threat of being unmade, but never quite there, never quite enough—and so often, I wished it would just work on me. I knew! I'd seen others go through the agony, I saw its full capabilities! And let me tell you, Ambulon," he said, words practically a snarl, "as much as you frustrate me—as much as I still haven't forgiven you for abandoning me, for leaving me in the snow—"
"I told them!" Ambulon cried, optics flashing, "I said we needed to go back, it went against every line of Autobot code in my processor—"
"—And even now you make excuses! But even then, despite all of that, I couldn't bear the thought of you suffering that agony! It was all I could do, those... those wretched little moments where I tried to convince myself I wasn't entirely too far gone. Between watching the Circle of Light get their sparks eviscerated, I'd work on cures for incurable illnesses. I decided that if I could still help people despite my circumstances, and if I could put those I cared about out of their misery before suffering a fate worse than death, then I would. I couldn't stop it, but I would do what I could with what I had. I could play the role—I could be mad doctor Pharma—if it kept me alive long enough to do that."
"So you finished me quickly," Ambulon finished. “First Aid was forged. You knew he'd be fine."
Pharma stayed silent. Ambulon, servo shaking, reached out, stopping short of Pharma's cheek.
"You must be insane," Pharma sneered weakly. There was no bite to it. "I killed you. Tried to. You always were horribly sentimental to a fault."
"It’s not like I'm thrilled about the whole thing, but… you made a call," Ambulon replied. "Same thing you had to do daily as a medic, before... before all that shit with the DJD. You knew which course would cause the least suffering, and you made a call."
With a huff, Pharma glanced at Ambulon's hand, still just hovering there, and nodded almost imperceptibly. Ambulon touched his cheek gently, then stroked it with the flat of his thumb.
"I'll tell them," Ambulon said softly. "I'll explain. I'll get your hands back—not your new ones, your originals. It made my plating crawl a bit when Ratchet started using them, you know."
"How magnanimous of you," Pharma scoffed. "And what makes you think they'll listen?"
"I don't know. It can't harm to try. I did you wrong before, Pharma. I want to make things right."
"I tried to kill you."
"Because you cared enough to spare me the alternative. I think you care far more than you'd ever like to admit."
Slowly, with an upwards glance at Pharma's optics, seeking permission, Ambulon leaned in and bridged the gap between them to press the softest of kisses to Pharma's lips.
Pharma shut off his optics. For a moment, he was back at Delphi, awkward and trembling and utterly indignant, in full denial that he could possibly, ever, feel anything more than disgust for an ex-’Con.
For all Ambulon infuriated him, he was right. He often was, his odd moments of incomprehensible stupidity aside.
Pharma cared.
And a tiny part of him, deep in his wounded spark, felt relief knowing that despite everything—despite all he’d done—someone still, somehow, saw that.