Spark sinking even further at the lack of positive reaction, Rodimus can't focus on Drift's face - optics trained on some vague point over his shoulder. He winces when Drift mentions his state of mind, childishness winning out over better responses as he mutters "Yeah. Can't imagine why," before sinking into the seat he'd claimed as his next to the head of the berth.

Because he can't leave. Not this time.

But he's reluctant to extrapolate, fingers tapping against the berth next to Drift's arm. Rodimus wouldn't even know where to begin. Nor does he know what's making him the most upset at this point in time - Drift's not even saying a word to him before asking for Megatron, the fact that it's just one more thing proving that Megatron is more highly valued, that he can do what Rodimus can't (he would have figured out a way to get back at Tarn, he would have!). His helm makes a small thump as he lets it fall back, connecting with the back of the chair. "It's bad enough he's on my ship. Why does he have to be here, too?"