"Five," Sixshot mutters, muffled against Tarn's wet plating, wings trembling under the touches. His own hand presses flat against purple chest armor and draws down, fingers sliding over cracked biolights and gliding lightly over the weld marks in damaged abdominal plates.

"Minutes, I mean." The little pops of residual charge between their frames makes the six-former hum pleasantly, spike twitching within the confines of Tarn's valve. "Roundabout."

Between the cleansers and the overworking fans, the heat in his frame was quickly beginning to dissipate, leaving behind a comfortable warmth instead.