[had a mildly emotional but outdated paragraph here. now i don't. this post's about footmuncher and doomback. wrote it in a sort of 'proper-story-like' style.]
[welcome to midnight o' clock, where there's currently a horny robot sitting on the living room couch with a sullen expression on his face and a half-empty energon cube in his hands. he's had a horrendous day yesterday, what with someone insulting his intelligence during a rescue operation, accidental friendly aa fire knocking him out and him almost causing a nuclear accident in nevada.]
[soon enough, as it is mildly common in all works of fiction, one of his good friends pops down next to him. a tank with 4 tracks and a bout of insomnia who prides himself on taking on the form of an infamous superheavy. the tank one pats the helicopter one on the back, and gets himself some insight on the helicopter one's problem.]
Dm: any solid reasons you're awake at midnight with a cube of energon, footmuncher?
[it's not customary for footmuncher to be awake at midnight, apparently. footmuncher sets the cube on the table infront of him, and leaning back in the couch, debates in his mind whether he should vent to the tank one about his yesterday, ignore him entirely, explain why he's acting out of his usual fashion, or brush off his question. with a bit of thinking, he opts to choose both the first and third options.]
FM: today has been... very fucky with me. care to be my venting buddy?
[the tank one, eager to gain more insight on footmuncher, perks up at the question.]
Dm: i've been waiting a million years for someone to ask me that.
FM: well... here goes. [he rubs his face with an open palm.] boney shook me awake this morning because we needed to get to a rescue operation, and he told me that the guy on the phone told him that they needed at least three fliers. i had to be one of them, because apparently ekrano isn't a flier by conventional means. on the operation, while i was getting some civilians to safety and keeping their spirits up, one of the strangers helping out called me naïve over the radio for keeping the civvies' spirits up and that stuck with me for the rest of the day. then, when the operation was over, all of the civvies were safe, and i was flying back over the pacific ocean, one of our oil rigs misidentified me as an autobot and let loose with their aa guns. patchwork still hasn't taken all of the shrapnel out of my panelling... and it doesn't stop there. oh no.
Dm: what, pray tell, could top being called naïve and getting shot by the same team?
FM: try mishandling nuclear warheads. i did. i had to carry around 10 of such warheads onto a cargo hauler, and when i was almost done with all of them, my hip servo malfunctioned because of the aa shrapnel and jammed in place. i almost butterfingered the warhead, but a friend took care of it for me, and i was allowed to come back home. worst bit about that is it took me 5 hours to get back here.
Dm: ...i... have no words.
FM: i don't blame you. i can't think of a day where everything went worse for me. all i want to do for the following day and a half is cry myself to sleep and drink myself into a coma.
[obviously concerned by that remark, the tank one lays a palm on footmuncher's thigh.]
Dm: do you need any positive attention right now, munchie?
FM: if by that you mean a long hug, then- [footmuncher jolts and wraps himself around the tank one.]
Dm: ...to be honest... i thought you were gonna tell me to fuck off.
FM, muffled: doomie, c-can i cry in you?
Dm: go for it.
[and so he does, starting out quiet and not rising much higher than a whisper. doomie wraps his own arms around footmuncher's hips, and lies back as far as he can go.]
Dm: i'm here for you, buddy... always will be.