robothell | ROOOOOBOT PROOOOM

Rampage could probably do it. He's seen him get blown through a building, his frame torn apart, but shake it off like it was nothing. It was such an easy solution being proposed, but the helpless frustration just makes him dissolve into weeping. First Aid smacks his head softly against Rampage's leg, the filaments in his visor so hot they were shorting out.

"I'm so, so stupid." His voice is barely a whisper over static. "I just-- I just wanted, but I'm just some weird medic. Not even a good one! Oh, it's First Aid. He's erratic."

That wasn't an answer to his question, or any question, but in his misery and drunkenness he couldn't quite string together a sentence or thought.

"Why am I so weird?"

"Hmm," Rampage hums, bracing his elbow on one knee and leaning his head against his hand, staring down at First Aid. With his free hand, he tentatively strokes a finger over First Aid's back.

The words aren't particularly coherent, but the sentiment and final question are clear enough.

"Aside from consorting with Decepticons and monsters, you seem like a completely ordinary Autobot to me."

"You don't know!"

The badge collecting, his fascination with war heroes, the demotion, every disappointment. First Aid was caught in a loop of thinking about all his failures and everything he found bad about himself. The light stroking felt good, but his spark felt clenched in his chest, constricting painfully.

"You can't kill Tarn," he manages finally, backpedaling. "Sixshot's fragging him. He'd-- He'd probably never forgive you."

Betrayal twisted in his tank, making him feel sick. If his friendship with the Phase Sixer was ruined he could at least make sure Rampage's relationship with him wasn't.

"I do know that you're perfectly normal right here-" Rampage taps on First Aid's back, right above his spark casing. "-At your core."

He lets out a heavy sigh as First Aid tells him he can't kill Tarn. "That's a pity, I was so looking forward to it."

He doesn't actually have any clue who Tarn is other than the fact that he upset First Aid and now that apparently Sixshot likes him. "And here I was already planning to pull off his limbs and use them to pin him to the ground."

That's supposed to cheer you up, First Aid. Thinking about murder cheers him up.

An attempt was made at least.

First Aid knew sparks. He'd studied them thoroughly throughout his stay at Delphi and while in medical school. He knew the health of his own, the difference between spark types and color. He knew his own blue spark was unremarkable in every way, save for being forged. To others, he'd argue it was their mind that was important-- that made them who they are. The same knowledge he'd used to comfort others makes him ache a little more.

"You'd want to take out his vocalizer first. Tarn is unique. He can make your spark give up with his voice."

The medic turns over in Rampage's lap, rolling onto his back so he was looking up at him, light still spilling in streams from his visor. His neck cabling was dented, a few finger grooves pressed in the metal. He reaches his hands up towards the mech's face, trying to get him to lean closer.

"Do you still hate me?"

"Really?" Rampage says, his curiosity suddenly piqued. He gives a short, dark chuckle. "Well, he's welcome to try, but I suppose there's no harm in tearing out a voice box. They're rather tasty."

He leans back a bit as First Aid reaches for him, but leans in again as he investigates the marks on the medic's neck. A thick finger comes up to touch them.

"Since when have I hated you? Any more than I hate everyone, anyway."

Touching the marks on his neck doesn't hurt as much as touching the dents did; the damage was mainly internal. First Aid reaches and pats the hand, his fingers curling around the thick thumb.

"You hate medics. You think I'm a weakling and pathetic."

He stretches out his other hand, fingers brushing over the horns along the mech's mask.

Rampage's optics dim slightly at the touch on his horns before he jerks back and gently but firmly pushes First Aid's hand back down, feeling flustered. The impromptu cleaning session had made him feel awkward enough already. He doesn't know how to deal with the weird fluttery sensations in his spark and he doesn't want to.

"That isn't personal," he says. "You're much less disagreeable than the other medics I've known. And just because you're weak doesn't mean I hate you."

His optics crinkle in a wicked little grin. "Though you are much more entertaining when you're angry and murderous."

The horns were warmer than he'd thought they'd be, but Rampage pushes his hand back down before his thumb could trace to the sharp time of one. His limb felt heavy and it was harder to raise it a second time even if he wanted to.

Some of the filaments in First Aid's visor had broken, leaving parts of it dim and other parts still streaming. He curls his hands back around Rampage's palm, holding onto it tightly, but he looks away at the comment.

"I do stupid things when I'm angry."

That's how Pharma got killed, and that's how he nearly was crushed by Tarn tonight.

"Can I-- Can I stay with you tonight? I just want to be somewhere no one will find me." Primus knows he can't bear to be around anyone who was at the party and may have heard his argument.

Rampage could tug his hand away. It wouldn't be especially hard given how much he outclasses First Aid in strength. But he decides against it. The little medic really seems to be clinging to him like a lifeline at the moment, and while one part of him argues how entertaining it would be to watch him fall apart, a larger part reminds him that he is, in fact, somewhat fond of First Aid.

"Stupid, entertaining..." He gives a little shrug of his shoulders. "It's all fun and games when someone loses an eye."

The request takes him by surprise. "I... suppose? Not that I stay anywhere particular."

Seriously, he's a vagrant, wandering from place to place without a home, camping in strange holes.

First Aid falls quiet, save for the little hitching of his venting as his frame shudders in a quiet sob. He didn't think that was particularly funny; he didn't delight in mechs getting hurt. Normally his anger was so controlled, channeled into quiet seething or snarky commentary. He didn't particularly like the furious side of him.

He turns in Rampage's lap again, rolling on his side so his back was to the mech's stomach and the arm he was holding was pulled so it was almost draped over him. First Aid keeps clinging to it, holding the warm palm in both hands, his optic visor dimming.

"That's fine."

Sorry, First Aid, Rampage is the last person who's going to judge you for having homicidal thoughts. You'll have to judge yourself for that.

For awhile he simply stares at First Aid, watching with bemusement as the little Autobot uses his hand as a blanket. It's strange, this trust First Aid puts in him, when he could probably crush him right now with a simple flex of his hand. He certainly doesn't deserve such trust, but having it makes him oddly disinclined to lose it.

With a heavy huff, Rampage glares out over the remains of the party and momentarily considers just raining fiery death down upon it. Instead he says, "Do you want to go? This party is boring."

First Aid was usually so good with handling his issues quietly and alone, but being completely wasted made him want nothing more than to curl up next to a warm frame and feel wanted. He clings to the hand, unwilling to let go but he turns and looks up at the question.

"Yeah, sure. Let's get out of here."

He's embarrassed himself enough at this party.

With a shrug - and secretly glad that he's not going to spend the night alone - Rampage stands, awkwardly pressing First Aid against his chest with the hand the little guy is clinging to. It's easy to carry him. It'd be pretty easy for him to care most anyone here who's not Sixshot in beast mode.

He wanders away from the lights and sounds of the party, guiding himself only by choosing the point farthest away from any sparks he can sense other than First Aid's and his own.

Finally, he decides on a suitably dark hole where two buildings collapses against each other, and settles down in it.

It was probably for the best that Rampage was carrying him. Drinking and driving didn't really mix and the last thing First Aid needed was to Scooty Puff Jr. straight into a wall. It was still an odd sensation, his legs dangling in the air and his head swimming, that when Rampage found a good spot and settled down he still felt like he was moving.

He turns, his hands curling around the crab mech's shoulder armor, his weight heavy as he sways in the mech's lap. First Aid feels somewhat ill after that emotional rush and he hiccups, just a few times at first, and then a bunch of small little sounds and jerks.

"You don't keep anything?"

Rampage isn't sure what to do with his hands as he sits with First Aid draped over him. He awkwardly pats at the small 'Bot's back, probably a little harder than is comforting, but it's not like he's ever done this before. He's usually more about making people feel terrible than trying to make them feel better.

"I don't have anything," he says, stretching out to lean against some rubble, his free hand propped behind his head.

First Aid leans against Rampage's chest, his expression saddening again. Sixshot seemed to be the same way, moving through life without any particular attachment to anything. Thinking about Sixshot just made him even sadder.

"I used to have badges. A whole wall of them. Now all I have is my friend's brain."

In his drunkenness he doesn't really get how cryptic that sounded. Instead he lays his head against the mech's chest and vents deep as he listens to his mechanisms, the hum of his spark and power plant.

Well, that one certainly makes Rampage pause.

"That's... an interesting trade," he says after awhile, sounding a bit confused. What do badges have to do with brains anyway? "If you want to start a new collection I could probably lend you a brain module."

He doesn't really mean it, because ripping out his brain sounds pretty unpleasant, even if he knows it'll grow back, but he's not entirely sure what else to say.

"It's okay." He snorts. Why would he want Rampage's brain?

First Aid quiets again, slowing his own venting and the spinning of his fans so he can listen to Rampage. He traces small, idle circles on the plating beneath his hands, just enjoying the feel of his field against his palm.

"I can hear you. It's the nicest thing I've heard all night."

Well, he has someone else's brain already for some reason! For all Rampage knows First Aid is collecting them now!

The odd compliment accompanied by the soft touches leaves him feeling flustered and therefore defensive, and he crosses both hands behind his head incredibly casually and looks away before gruffly asking, "Hear me? What's that supposed to mean?"

That's a good question. First Aid doesn't answer right away and instead focuses on his venting, syncing it up with Rampage's own. The crabformer had a much bigger cooling system than him, so it was somewhat of a lost cause.

"Mmm. I can hear your body. All the little moving parts. Tk-tk-tk." He taps his fingers against Rampage's armor in the same pattern of the reverberation of his powerplant. "I can hear your spark."

Rampage has admittedly spent a lot of time listening to his own internals. There were times when he was ignored for ages by the scientists, left to sit in his cell with nothing but himself to entertain him. The boredom was almost worse than when they did pay attention to him.

He never thought about anybody else listening to his inner workings like that. It's... strange. Oddly intimate. He shifts uncomfortably, but doesn't push First Aid away.

"My spark?" he asks, uncertain. "It sounds... nice?"

"The nicest thing I've heard all night." First Aid sighs, stilling the tapping against Rampage's plating. "I could fall asleep to that."

And he was definitely mentally exhausted, but not as much physically. He didn't think he could actually sleep until he sobered up a little. It was nice to be laid against a big, warm chest after the night.

"Thanks, by the way."

His spark? His mutant spark? The one that shouldn't exist? Sounds nice?

"...You're imagining things," Rampage says after a moment. One of his hands shifts from behind his head to drape loosely over First Aid.

"For what?" he asks. "I didn't even help you murder anybody."

"No I'm not!" First Aid sounds so defensive at that accusation, lifting his head. "You helped me, though."

He settles his head back down, nuzzling his mask into Rampage's chest, just enough to bump rather than grind the metal. The hand draped over him feels good, securing, and he really, really needed the comfort.

"I know sparks. Yours is saying, 'I'm very cute.'"

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