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"You fucking idiot," Springer cursed, holding pressure on his leg. The sound of bombing in the distance was slowly dying down, the battle was almost over. Some gravel sprayed over the top of the wall the rubble had formed around them.
"Calm down, it’s just a flesh wound," Impactor said.
"You don't have flesh," Springer said, deeply annoyed and much too concerned for banter. He glanced at the wound again. Thankfully, the stream of Energon was slowing significantly under his fingers, already drying into a sticky film.
"Been hanging around Verity too much," Impactor replied.
His voice was much too even. They were all too used to wounds already, and for a moment Springer cursed the fact that he couldn't trust Impactor to fucking tell him when he hurt. He just leaned against the rubble as if it were a normal wall he could lounge against.
Springer rustled around in his subspace one-handedly for his medkit. He drew out one of the emergency field-dressings, that'd snap any non-mortal wound closed until they could get the mech to a medic. They used them far too often for his comfort.
Impactor didn't even grimace when he slapped it on. "See, I'm fine."
Springer looked back at him. "You were hit by a fucking grenade, you idiot." His fingers tightened on his leg, unable to let go of Impactor’s plating.
He'd seen it from the corners of his optics, unable to do anything: Impactor had been thrown thirty astrometres through a wall. That his leg was the only major wound, was more of a miracle than Spring wanted to think about.
Impactor, the bastard, just shrugged. "Wasn't that bad."
He was covered in scrapes, his paint ruined, and he was bleeding sluggishly in more than one place. But he was still smirking at Springer like he'd just sucessfully swiped the remote from him, like this was an evening back in the rec room where they’d met up to watch some space wrestling.
As if Springer couldn't have lost him just now.
He couldn't take it anymore. The frustration, hot in his tanks beneath the worry and the fear, boiled over.
"You-!" he cursed, and surged forward into a bruising kiss, biting at Impactor's lips in punishment.
Impactor took it smoothly, unsurprised. He wound his arms around Springer's neck and nipped back a little. "I'm fine," he panted, in between kisses.
"Almost – weren't," Springer replied, and then he was disinterested in continuing the argument further. He knew it was fruitless, it wasn't the first time Impactor had gotten hurt, and it wouldn't be the last. If Springer was a better commander, he wouldn't care.
Impactor, infuriating, awful Impactor and his hot, hard kisses made that impossible.
Springer could feel his spark beat under his palms and something at the back of his processor finally calmed down.
Meanwhile, Impactor's hands were sliding lower on his back, skirting the paneling over his aft, in an unsubtle suggestion.
"No," Springer breathed, winded. "You almost died."
Impactor smirked against his lips. "I didn't. Isn't that worth some celebration?"
Springer didn't cave – not yet. "We should bring you – mmh – to a medic–!"
"Later," Impactor said, and he kissed him deeply. His fingers were teasing the transformation seams at Springer's back, and he shuddered. Impactor knew perfectly well how to touch him, and Springer could feel the adrenaline of the battle transform into arousal, low in his gut.
Impactor ground up, his panel scraping against Springer's. The indirect pressure on his spike felt too good.
"'m not taking out my spike on a battlefield," Springer gasped. His own fingers tightened on Impactor's shoulders, clawing deep into the servos beneath. Impactor just moaned in response.
He thrust up against Springer again, unconcerned for their surroundings.
Springer could feel his own spike, half-transformed beneath the panel and already weeping. He thrust back instinctively, one of his thighs sliding between Impactor's. The friction against his own panel was so fragging good.
Suddenly, he no longer cared about the rocky ground beneath their frames, or the possibility of optics on them. Just Impactor, and the way his frame felt against him.
They both entered into a rythm, modesty paneling in place but grinding against each other, panting into each other's mouth.
Distantly, Springer noticed the fading commotion of the battle, the last cleanup efforts of their troops – but the rest of his processor was just focused on Impactor, the way Impactor's chest was heaving beneath him, alive, alive, alive –
There was heat shooting through his frame, Impactor twitching beneath him. His fingers tightened on Springer's back, clawing at the seams roughly. "Spri–" he moaned, too loudly for a battlefield, and Springer came.
Right into his panels. He gasped at the heat.
Impactor shuddered in his arms a moment later, a slightly dazed version of the shit-eating grin back on his face. "Told ya. Fine," he said, but his voice was a little breathy. His gaze was stuck on Springer, and for a moment, they just breathed each others air.
Springer moved, rolling off of him with a groan. Dismayed, he noticed the sticky sensation beneath his panels.
Impactor looked up at him. "Going somewhere?" He was breathing unevenly, Springer noticed with some smugness. Then, he glanced down at the drying energon on Impactor’s plating, and frowned.
"I’m taking you to a medic," Springer replied, grabbing his hands and yanking him upwards.
It'd have to be in root mode. Even though Impactor played tough, he didn't want to chance the bucking of his own suspension on the uneven terrain on his leg.
True to his assessment, Impactor stumbled for a moment, but Springer caught him in time.
"My hero," Impactor said, sarcastically, but he let Springer throw his arm around his shoulder, so he could half-drag half carry him to the next drop-off point. It was a lot harder to be afraid for his life, when Impactor’s frame was a warm weight leaning on him.
"Always," Springer replied, much more honestly than he wanted to show.