robothell | (no subject)

(no subject)

Who: Tarn and Spinister
What: life is bad
When: sometime
Where: The wastes
Warnings: none

The wind howls through the skeleton of their meager shelter, bringing with it thick clouds of soot. Unfortunately, dust storms were more frequent out here in the middle of nowhere than Tarn had hoped. The vast expanse of the wastes left little to prevent the cloud from building on itself.

As it stands, the state of their dwelling is… unsustainable to say the very least. Tarn has begun to lose count of the amount of times that he’s woken up from recharge and had to chase after supplies that had been caught in the wind. However, shelters in the wastes are far and few between, and he finds himself hesitant to move further away from the city and its supplies. His occasional sneaking trips into the city outskirts have yielded just enough to make the risk work it.

Tarn pulls a tarp tighter around his body in a futile attempt to keep his vents from clogging. in truth its more for show than anything; his entire frame, from the top of his head to his feet, is covered in a thick layer of sand and dirt. He can do little but wait for the storm to pass and wait for Spinister’s return in hopes that he has been able to dig up something of use.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Tarn does as he’s asked and lugs the canister over to the fire, arranging it so that is is steady, before going back to the sled to root through the leftover scraps. His fingers quickly find the brush; it’s old and worn but more than he could have hoped for.

Tarn settles down by the fire, soaking in the warmth as he begins scrubbing and brushing weeks of caked on dirt from his plating. He finds himself paying extra attention to his joints and in between his treads. It’s an oddly peaceful moment as he enjoys the feeling of soft bristles and listens to the walls rattle and bend in the wind, accompanied by the quiet crackle of the fire.

His optics dim as he indulges in a moment of contentment, letting his stress be brushed away with the dirt; if only for a little while.

How strange that they went from wanting to murder each other to this strange calm all in span of a few hours. Of all the things to make Tarn listen, being extremely wrong about Spin jumping the local Phase Sixer wasn't really at the top of the list.

Spinister finishes pinning the tarp to the top of the door frame and places some concrete chunks on the bottom to keep the fabric from blowing up. Not the most elegant solution and noisy as heck, but he can make a proper door later.

By the time he makes his way over to Tarn, he's picked up a bucket and two cubes of energon.

"Here," he says, offering one of the cubes to the purple mech.

Apology accepted.

For now.

“Ah-Thank you.” He takes the cube of energon, sipping from it immediately. He isn’t sure if he’s just become accustomed to it, or if Spinister’s home-brew is getting better, but it goes down smoothly, ending with a slightly sweet note. Tarn doesn’t comment on it, but he does go back to take a larger gulp, suddenly realizing how empty his fuel tank is.

At least he can’t feel rage rolling off of Spinister anymore. It’s really the last thing that their already strained relationship needs.

Months ago Tarn would never have allowed himself to be seen by the scavenger in this capacity. Calm and relaxed, but also weakened, and rather hopelessly at odds with roughing it in the wastes. But now, after all they’ve been through, he can’t bring himself to care.

Spin was a bit more well equipped to distill their energon this time around. The setup looked significantly less crude than the one he'd been using before Megatron had gathered them together in the Decepticon house. He'd originally been preparing it if they ever needed a backup way of making energon in a disaster, but apparently Tarn was the disaster.

He sets the bucket and his own cube down, reaching to take the brush from Tarn's hand so that he could get to work on the tank's back. The cleanser in the canister should be getting up to temperature in a few more minutes.

"You know if Galvatron is going to visit?" he asks, because he wants to know if he needs to leave again soon.

Tarn hums softly, handing the brush to Spinister without a second thought. His armor loosens to allow the brush to get into transformation seams,

"He never tells me when he will arrive... He just appears." Usually at the most inopportune time; though Tarn would never say so to his new Lord and Master. But, it has left him doing a lot of damage control between Galvatron and Spinister.

"I wish I could tell you more."

"Ugh, gross," Spinister mutters, and one gets the impression he's not talking about the clumps of dust he was getting out of Tarn's threads.

"So does he actually bring anything useful or is it just straight to the blowjobs?" Working his way across the large mech's shoulders, he starts paying close attention to the seams, pausing now and against to scrape dust out with some leftover soldering wire. "Because I'm going to have to ask you to put, like, a little flag up on the door or something if it keeps happening. Or just moan really loudly? That'd still be traumatizing, but less than me walking in on it again."

Tarn burns with embarrassment at Spinsters comment. Being caught sucking his lord’s dick was not his best moment by any stretch of the imagination. His shoulder’s tighten, threatening to trap the piece of soldering wire chipping away at the caked dirt.

He’s lost for words, stuck between an apology and an agreement. Its the last conversation he wants to be happening.

“He has his uses, yes. Galvatron's knowledge of survival in less than ideal climates rivals that of your own. He’s a bit rough around the edges, perhaps, but he’s very willing to share information.”

Of course he would never say that the main appeal of Galvatron has everything to do with what he does for Tarn's dwindling and flickering ego. He makes him feel wanted, and capable, and desirable; which is more than he could say for Megatron.

"I'll do my best to warn you when he next comes around."

The tension in Tarn's shoulders makes Spin pause. He keeps forgetting that frank talk about sex wasn't really a thing a lot of people did.

The relationship between Tarn and Galvatron was looking pretty unhealthy though, and while Spin was usually the sort to let officer-sorts work it out by themselves... well. If it boiled over somehow, he was pretty sure he'd be in the middle of it. Being nosy was a survival mechanism at this point. And he did say he would help Tarn, although the tank probably didn't realize he needed help just yet.

Cycling a quiet sigh, the heli-former decides to give Tarn some reprieve and changes the topic. He needs to finishing fishing the dirt out of the DJD commander's seams and that wasn't happening when the afthead was tensed up.

"Think we ought to dig out this place's basement?" he asks, brushing his way down to the small of Tarn's back. "Might be useful stuff down there.

He’s quiet for a long while, lost in thought. How had he gotten here? Sunken so low that he’s willing to do whatever Galvatron desires of him for a simple pat and being told he’s done a good job. He shakes his head slightly, banishing the thought. It’s not important right now.

Tarn takes another long drink from the high-grade when he realizes that Spinister was still talking to him.

He's is grateful of the change of topic for the time being. Although, Tarn is sure that he has not seen the last of the conversation, but he’s happy to end it now, if just for a while.

“Yes, I imagine that w— should.” He clears the heavy static from his ruined voice. "It will be quite the project.”

A basement would be quite valuable, even if they don’t find any thing useful stored away; protection from the elements chiefly.

Edited 2016-01-03 20:21 (UTC)

"How far down do you reckon it'd go?" Spinister wonders, pushing one of Tarn's arms up so that he could get at the tank's armpit. "This place doesn't look like a residence. Might've been some kind of office. Might even connect with one of the metro systems from the basement."

Which means there could be all sorts of neat stuff around! Like repair depots for the train system! Or batteries that might have escaped the EMP damage that everything on the surface had suffered!

... On the other hand, he could also be hyping himself up for nothing.

"We gotta find shovels though. Or make them."

It feels nice to have this much attention paid to his armor. Tarn allows his arm to be lifted and holds it awkwardly as Spinister brushes and picks at the dirt clogging the mechanisms. Detailing like this was a commonplace activity amongst his team, particularly after a hunt. However, the last person to assist him with bathing to this extent was Sixshot. A sickly depression crawls over him as he recalls the memory. How he misses his old lover…

Tarn tries to snap himself out of it to address Spinister.

“Yes, I expect that you’re right.” He forces himself to relax again, if only to allow the brush and wire to continue to pick all of the dirt from his back and sides.

“Shovels should be easy enough to come by. And, if need be, I am not above beginning to dig out with my bare hands. At least for a while."

"Absolutely not!" Spin exclaims, smacking the back of Tarn's shoulder. "Do you know what kind of damage dust can do?! And this is Cybertron too, most of the grit is metallic and you're basically going to be sanding your joints down. Let me tell you, I am not replacing every bit of your hands for you."

Grumbling, the heli-former shuffles to Tarn's other side and lifts the arm there.

"Speaking of," he continues in a more level tone of voice as he keeps cleaning. "We should be prepping up for just walking in this stuff. Some fellows that I used to know worked on a dust planet and they'd over-grease their joints and tape over some kind of fabric to keep stuff out in the storms."

He looks thoughtful for a moment before continuing.

"Gotta get my hands on some proper weather resistant duct tape though. And also grease."

That slap barely registers through Tarn’s thick plating, but he turns to glare at Spinister anyway. It’s the principle of it!

“Yes, yes, Whatever you say.” He waves off his companion’s concern. He does have a point after all; Tarn hadn’t considered that threat. Absentmindedly he flexes the joints in his fingers testing to see if he could feel any grind from every day exposure. Only the slightest bit, so far.

Tarn listens quietly to Spinister’s suggestions as his frown turns more and more severe.

“No. No Tape. I will wrap myself in tarps, over-grease my joints and follow any other ridiculous guideline that you suggest, but I am not going to rust out here endlessly tacky with tape residue.” Is it a vain refusal? Probably, but the thought of that slag stuck to him makes him shudder. He knows that Spinister is right, that in the end it will save him a lot of grief. But, he deserves at least this one entitlement. This one comfort in his otherwise miserable existence.

"Uuuuuugggghhh."

Leave it to Tarn to have a problem with tape residue.

"Alright." Spin finishes with a final brush over Tarn's shoulders. "We'll tie the tarp in place with cables or something then and you'll just have to deal with looking even more ridiculous."

He stands up and goes to fetch the bucket, calling over his shoulder, "Get that canister off the fire, would you?"

“Fine.” The word comes out clipped and irritated. He’s not enthusiastic about this alternative, but it’s better than his armor being constantly sticky and catching dirt and grit. And if it ends with him looking a bit foolish then so be it. It’s not like there is anyone out here to see him anyway.

He’ll deal with it.

Tarn stretches his back as he stands up to take the canister from the fire. He uses the discarded tarp to protect his hands from the burning metal as he hefts it to drag back over to his spot on the floor.

“I’ll pour if you hold the bucket.”

"Here," Spin replies, setting the bucket in place and holding it to make sure the force of the cleanser being poured in wasn't going to set it rolling. It'd be super annoying to waste that stuff, especially after the pain of dragging it all the way over here.

"I'll try and make another shower soon," Spin says at last, although it's the look of a mech who's had to fix one too many a broken shower. "Probably after the dig. If there's any kind of space down there, then it'll be a good place to keep dust out of the stall."

Tarn pours slowly, careful not to spill any of the precious cleanser. Warm steam curls up to lick at his dull plating, creeping into seams to chase the chill from his very core. He wishes there was a pool of it to fully submerge in.

"I don't suppose that you received any clean rags from Brainstorm during your little rendezvous?"

He's sure he can find an old one, but everything that they own is coated on that blasted dust and he doesn't want to soil the cleanser with grit. The presence of a shower would make things so much more simple. Tarn would kill for that shower right now. He's willing to do whatever Spinister needs to ensure its construction.

Instead, he has to sit here like an invalid and recieve a sponge bath.

"I don't need Brainstorm just for clean rags, you know that, right?" He's a weapons maker, not a person who supplied cleaning accessories. "I wash the damn things like any normal afthead would when they're stuck out in the wastes without a bleeding washing machine."

Once the bucket was mostly filled, Spin pops a couple of aforementioned CLEAN rags from his inventory and drops them in. He also brings out two well-used but clean brushes and shoves one of them in Tarn's face. Sorry, mate, but you're participating in this showering because Spinister's not your goddamned servant.

Tarn stares very levely at Spinister for a few moments before taking the brush thrust in his face.

"Come now, no need to be so rude." He rumbles with only a touch of disdain. He's not an idiot; how was he supposed to know that Spinister brought the rags with him to clean? The last he saw of them was that morning when they were piled in the corner.

Still, he's glad that the heli had thought to wash them today when he went out.

The cleanser is blessedly warm as Tarn fishes out a rag, running it down the length of his arm. He sighs in barely contained bliss. Something so simple has no right feeling this nice. Suddenly he can't wait to be clean and not covered in this wretched dust; to be a presentable mech again. But, even so, he wants to enjoy the warmth of the cleanser as he wipes down his plating, scrubbing at tough stains with the brush.

Rather than answering that, Spinister makes a rude face at Tarn. He'll be as rude as he wants to be, just you watch him.

He grabs one of the soaked rags and starts on the back of the DJD commander's helm. It made sense to start from the top most part and work down so that the dust followed the cleanser instead of getting everywhere.

This was probably edging into the sort of weirdly intimate area of things but Spinister was bound and determined to just keep powering through it. Tarn was going to be CLEAN.

Tarn watches Spinister critically from the corner of his eye. He really should not allow that attitude to stand, it’s just promoting insolence. But, he just can’t bring himself to fuss over it at the moment and finds himself slowly relaxing into the warmth of the cloth as it wipes at the back of his helm.

He sets to work purposefully scrubbing under his chin and around his jaw, careful around the welds covering his throat. It still stings when the cloth dabs gently over the healing wound, although he acknowledges that it may be slightly psychosomatic.

Tarn knows what needs to come net. His face is filthy under his mask, catching and keeping dust in its confines. Everything desperately needs to be washed, including the inside of the mask itself.

“Turn away, Spinister, i require a bit of privacy for a few moments. “

Tarn doesn’t wait for a response before his fingers reach up to the clasps, watching for Spinister to turn his back.

No amount of stomping down on the attitude was going to stop Spin from sassing Tarn. It's just something Tarn will have to live with now.

"Oh, what, and miss out on the face that fanboys keep swooning just speculating over?" Still, Spinister has the grace to turn away, taking the pause to go grab a container to put the soiled rags in.

"How's your throat feeling anyhow?" he quizzes over his shoulder. He'd seen the way Tarn had gingerly touched over the wound.

The minute that Spinister turns away, Tarn eases the mask away from his face, setting it aside. Fresh air feels strange against the delicate plating as he begins to brush the sand from his cheeks and forehead. He scoffs softly at Spinisters statement. It's true, however. More times than he can count, List Offenders were pawing at his mask, trying to peel it off to sneak a look at the face underneath.

"Don't worry, Spinister, you aren't missing much." Tarn rumbles, running the clean cloth over the vast, creeping scar covering the right side of his face, encompassing the plating around his optic.

It feels wonderful to finally clean away weeks of dirt, grime, and dried energon left from his fight with Megatron. Tarn finds his spirits lifting the slightest bit, feeling marginally less like a mangy animal and more like his old self.

"It still stings. I'd l--like you to take a look at it later to make sure it's healing properly."

"But Taaarnnn," Spinister whines in the most obnoxiously pitiable tone of voice he could manage. "I have bets I could win!" Not that Misfire ever paid up his bets (or even had anything Spin wanted to begin with), but it what mattered was winning.

He still doesn't turn around to look despite the whinging.

"You need to stop using it above normal volume," Spinister says once Tarn was done describing his symptoms, wiping the grime off of his hands. "If you have to shout, you grab my hand and we can argue in chirolinguistics."

He walks backwards with the container of dirty rags, coming to sit behind Tarn once again, his optics firmly in front of him.

"What about your knee?"

Spinister has been placing bets on his face? Tarn takes a moment to be outraged; what does he expect to be under there?

He gives his entire face, chin, and jaw a few vigorous scrubs with the cloth before picking up the discarded mask and working at the dried energon coating the inside of it.

“I wouldn’t ha-- have to shout if you were just upfront with me in the first place.” Tarn growls over his shoulder. Chronolingustics seems far too intimate for their already strangely close relationship.

Tarn jerks slightly as he feels Spinister’s armor brush his back, cautiously turning his head ever so slightly to ensure that the heli still has his back turned. Satisfied, he continues to work the cloth over the front of his mask, taking care to clean buildup from its various cracks and scratches.

“My knee is fine. It has some numb spots and moments of weakness where it doesn’t want to bear weight, b-- otherwise it seems to be healing.”