robothell | (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.

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"Oooh my god, do you even remember your own reputation you dingus?" Spin asks fussing over the wrist Tarn had touched like it'd been irreversibly damaged.

Admittedly, the heli didn't really care about Tarn's reputation, he just hated having his hand-areas touched without his consent and especially so roughly. He likes his hands, goddamnit!

Spinister comes out of his offended wrist rubbing in time to see Tarn beckoning him over.

He doesn't come over.

He doesn't give Tarn a moment of his time.

He does, however, glare impotently.

"Of course, but I had thought that we had a bit more of a rapport than to get hung up on the most base presumption as a reputation."

Tarn doesn't deign to chase after the heli down. But, he does turn to stare very levely at him, ingnorning Spinister's poisonous glare.

"Surely you don't think after all this time together, that I would harm you when you have in fact done nothing wrong."

Dunking his rag in the bucket of solvent, he gives it a thorough rinse before ringing out the excess moisture.

"Now, I insist." He repeats, gesturing for Spinister to have a seat next to him by the fire. "Certainly you don't want to continue flouncing around covered in dirt from the storm, after going through so much trouble to keep the sand from our living space."

The glaring continues on for a another few seconds before Spin finally puffs air out of his vents.

Alright. Yes. It is, in fact, a good idea to get dust off of himself after they had, indeed, spent so much effort taking measures to keep it out.

He still doesn't like Tarn's condescension though.

"Don't touch my hands," he warns, grabbing a rag from the bucket and settling down next to Tarn.

Tarn knows that he’s won when Spinister doesn’t immediately shoot back a rebuttal. He tries not to seem to smug about it. Instead, he simply scoots over to allow the heli more space by the fire.

“As you wish.”

Tarn wastes no time in picking up the brush and sweeping at the thin coating of dirt covering Spinister’s shoulders, quickly working to his upper back and around the mechanisms holding his rotor blades in place.

"Don't try anything funny!" Spin snaps.

You know, because he can stop Tarn if the guy actually did try anything. Even injured and wounded, his house-mate was still very capable of crushing a genericon like Spinister if he just put his mind to it.

... Best not to think about it.

Flicking his rotor at the feel of a brush being worked against his armor, the smaller Decepticon gets to work, wiping the dust off his face with a puff of air.

Tarn snorts but otherwise ignores the snap comment. It's almost hard to tell that Spinister had showered at all while he was having dalliances with Brainstorm. He shudders, thinking of what the state of his armor would be if he hadn't.

He makes quick, efficient, work with the brush, working from the rotor mechanism to his back struts, sweeping off cloud after cloud of dust. Once satisfied, he reaches for his rag, running it across his shoulders and dipping it into the back of the heli's collar assembly to scrub at a bit of caked on grime.

"You'll tell me if anything that I'm doing is bothering you." It's not a request.

"If you do something that bothers me, you're not going to hear the end of it for a month," Spinister grumbles back as he tilts his head in order to make it easier for Tarn to reach the mechanisms around his neck.

He probably had ruder things to say to Tarn, but the scrubbing makes his optics slowly dim. The rag hangs listlessly in his hand after a minute and Spin looks like he might just fall asleep.

This was... kind of nice.

He kind of missed this.

Tarn dips the rag deeper as Spinister tilts his head, working on a spot as far down as his thick fingers can reach.

Spinister falls strangely silent and for a moment Tarn thinks that perhaps he's already done something wrong. But, judging by the way the rag hangs in his limp hand, he rather thinks that it's the opposite

This is preferable. At least he's stopped grumbling and decided to be agreeable for once.

Tarn catches himself wondering where else could clean that would keep the heli in such a state of sleepy bliss.

Oooohhhh heckkkk that was good.

Spinister is beginning to list slowly to one side and in a few seconds he's basically pressed up against Tarn, expression completely blissed out.

Also, he rotor hub was probably a good spot to go for if Tarn wants a helicopter pudding, hint hint.

Tarn stiffens slightly but doesn't push Spinister away as he begins listing into his personal space. If anything the slow contended dim of his optics sends a spike of warm affection through Tarn. This familiar calm camaraderie was definitely something that he had missed.

Dipping his rag in the warm cleanser, he goes right for the rotor hub, wiping away a stray smear of grease near the blade root before setting in to do a deep clean.

"Ooooohhh yyyyeeeeaahhhh."

Yep. That's a helicopter pudding, alright. Or a puddle might be more apt at this rate.

Spinister is shamelessly arching into the attention like a well-stroked cybercat, his rotor twitching in pleasure. He's going to fall asleep at this rate and then Tarn is going to be stuck under him for a good couple of hours.

Tarn continues to scrub, gently cleaning the length of his twitching rotor blades. He slings an arm around Spinister's lower back to support him from toppling backwards. Instead it urges him further into Tarn's space, and closer to his lap

There are worse things, he supposes, than having to sit in front of a fire with a warm heli-frame curled against him.

At lease they'll be clean.

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should we head for wrap soon?

sounds good to me!