That's easy to say, and a lot harder to come by. "So we give him some of mine, and then what?" Rodimus would probably offer to try and peel some off of Tarn if it'd help. Rubbing the back of his helm with an energon covered hand, he doesn't pay attention to the fact he's getting it all over.

His optics land on Drift's face, or what's left of it, and he feels as desperate as he did when he was carrying his body with no idea if he could even be saved. Letting out a shuddering vent, Rodimus almost curls in on himself. It'll be fine, he thinks, it has to be fine. Ratchet's the best.