Bumblebee was in his room, hunched over his berth. He was shaking, plating quivering with every tremble. His was venting harshly, pixilated optics staring down at his mess of a berth as he propped his helm on one servo.
His berth, chassis, chin, derma, and servos were covered in a mixture of oil and energon, meanwhile coolant tears tracked the bottom lining of his optics.
His sparkling was safe in their own berth, separate from his, and recharging peacefully. Bee wished that could've been him . .
Another wave of nausea swept his chassis and tanks, and he groaned audibly, horns pressing against the back of his helm. He'd already purged up everything in his tanks, there couldn't possibly be more, why did he still feel terrible?
In his distressed discomfort, he didn't realize he'd left the door to his room open.