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

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.”

Knowing Spinister, he was probably expecting ridiculously huge buckteeth, a butt chin and dimples or something. He's drawn it out and argued a lot with Misfire about it. Sometimes there was punching.

"Oh, what, like how you were upfront with me about the Megatrons?"

Touchy much?

"I'm still going to take a look at it once we're done getting you scrubbed down," he sighs, inspecting his hands for any grime to wipe off. "Might have to make you a brace just to make sure everything is healing up proper since I can't exactly fabricate you anything new with the stuff we have."

UGH, really Spinister? That was months ago.

“I’ve already said my peace about the incident with Megatron. Besides, thi— arrangement has grown exponentially since that point. You were merely an ally then. Now you are a partner.” As if that is supposed to make him feel better.

Satisfied with the cleanliness of his face and mask he eases the jagged metal back into place, securing it with a quiet click.

Although still far from healed, the state of both his throat and knee are better than he could have hoped. Spinister did an excellent job with the repairs considering what he had to work with. Seeing as Tarn ruined his last brace within an hour of receiving it, he is grateful that Spinister is willing to give it another try.

“As you wish. I’ll try my best to keep this one intact for its duration.”

You should know by now that Spinister's grudges were rare but long lasting! Which is why Tarn gets an even ruder face in response and it was a good thing that fragger's back was turned.

"Look, I can weld a brace back together million times but if the brace keeps breaking then your knee is going to wear itself down to the point where we would need fabrication and then we're right and properly screwed." Spin rubs his chevron with a loud sigh before turning and getting up, pulling another clean cloth from the bucket so that he could keep working down Tarn's back.

"So just... easy on the pissing people off thing for a while? And any rough sex. And no transforming until the damn thing is at least seventy percent healed up."

Tarn scoffs quietly at Spinister’s suggestions.

“I will…try.” He makes no promises, but Tarn will make an honest effort to keep his helm out of frivolous fights... and other excesses. Although, the transforming bit might give him more trouble than he cares to admit. With nothing else to take his mind from the asperity of the situation, Tarn needs to transform. However, he also needes to remain mobile.

Wringing his cloth out, Tarn continues his way down his chassis, paying extra attention to the brand gifted to him by Galvaton.

“Still, I worry that another run in with that enigmatic Beastformer will leave me with more to worry about than a broken knee.” Loathe as he is to admit it, Tarn’s latest run-in with Rampage has left him more than a little anxious.

Spinister resists the urge to roll his optics at the special attention Tarn pays to his new badge. Ugh. Ugh! Shaking his head, the heli moves his attention to his companion's threads. The threads themselves were a rather pointless affair, but the mechanisms that moved them needed to be maintained.

"So are going to do the buddy system now?"

Oh boy does he not want to spend any more of his waking hours around Tarn. Tarn probably felt the same but to heck with Tarn's feelings. If the asshole wasn't constantly making enemies with people, this would be less of a goddamn problem.

“I’m afraid so.” Tarn sighs, hating the idea of giving up his last shred of privacy. There goes his nice, solitary, quiet, walks to clear his head.

The stress is short lived, however, as Spinister begins cleaning the mechanisms around his treads. The warmth of the cleanser in his structure has Tarn's shoulders slumping in barely contained bliss. His optics dim and his hand stills in cleaning the darkened and broken biolights lining his abdominal plating. It’s been ages since he’s been able to get back there and clean that deeply.

The pause lasts only for a few seconds before he forces his hand back into motion, swiping the cloth across his abdomen and moving back up to to get the cables under his arm

“You haven’t had any trouble out here have you?” Tarn is only slightly worried about Spinister being targeted, but guilty by association is always a risk for someone in his position.

"Nope!"

Unlike some people, Spin hasn't managed to piss off a small city and get exiled. He's just tagging along out of contractual obligation. A lot of people probably didn't even know Spinister existed for the most part.

There's an air of something like smugness about Spin at the way Tarn slumps under his hands. He has the grace not to comment on it and the touch stays professional instead of turning pokey, but it's definitely smugness. He gets too concentrated on the gross sludge he starts pulling out of the crevices in a moment anyways and- eugh!

"Holy moley, when was the last time you got a deep cleaning up here?"

Tarn grumbles, slightly embarrassed of the answer. He’s always held himself to a high standard of cleanliness, which he has unfortunately let slip over the past few months. Nickel would be ashamed.

“Since before I arrived here, for certain. I haven’t exactly had the opportunity to have someone reach back there.” Other than that instance with Sixshot, but there wasn’t a whole lot of bathing happening in that shower when they were together.

His struts turn to jelly as Spinister’s brush reaches particularly deep, cleaning out months of sludge. It certainly wasn’t a subsonic purr vibrating in his chassis. No. Of course not.

It just felt so wonderful to be getting clean after everything that he’s suffered through.

"We gotta find a proper tube cleaning brush after this," Spinister mutters, trying to get the right angle to scrape the brush hairs against the deep crevices of the mechanisms there. "There's no way I can get it all off with just a wire."

The subsonic purr was a little distracting. It was a funny kind of distracting though. Out of all the sounds he ever expected the commander of the DJD to make, purrs weren't really up on the list there.

Tarn makes a small noise of acknowledgement, forcing his hand back into action. It won't do to let Spinister do all of the work.

Every inch of his armor is loosened, leaving him limp and hunching forward ever so slightly. As Spinisters wire brush tweaks against a particularly sensitve wire, the purr only grows louder and his optics darken completely. After a few moments of bliss, Tarn clears his throat, taking with it that contented rumble.

"I'm not sure where you think we will find a tube cleaning brush. I haven't seen one since I arrived here."

"I can make one if we don't find any? I just need wires and stuff."

He's honestly not sure why Tarn thinks most of this stuff is hard to make. Shaking his head, Spinister turns his attention to the other set of threads and goes to work there.

Here and here he makes it a point to gently smooth over and knead at kinked cables, ignoring the crud getting on his hands. Tarn doesn't deserve it, but... well, Spinister like the peace of mind that seems to come with the DJD commander getting relaxed. For now at least.

"Yes you are quite resourceful." It's all Tarn manages to say before Spinister moves on to his other shoulder.

He slumps harmlessly as recessed cables are gently kneaded, nearly melting into a puddle. He hadn't realized how tightly he had been holding his shoulders until Spinister's fingers began coaxing them to relax. But, between his skyrocketing stress levels, and the various injuries wreaking havoc on his frame, he supposes that he shouldn't be entirely surprised.

"It seems that you're capable of making basically anything with the right raw supplies..."