He should have never come to the party. If he hadn't then maybe he'd be sober. And blissfully unaware of the intricate details of Tarn's interface life and maybe Trailcutter would still want to speak to him. First Aid's frame was dented and aching, but it was the despair that was worse.

First Aid intended to go home and resume his routine of wishing he didn't exist, but as he spots Rampage's frame his legs take him on a detour. Hopefully the crab didn't mind a drunk, partially weeping, medic coming over to crawl into his lap and bury his face down against a warm leg.

First Aid wasn't exactly the happiest Autobot. He'd spent the last several months before arrival caring little for himself and only emerging from his room for work, taking little interest in anything besides the dead and dying. Needless to say, Rampage was stating the obvious.

His fans stutter at the touch, the dent aching, but it takes a moment for him to actually respond to the question, his vocalizer emitting a few electronic, glitching sounds before he resets it enough to produce words.

"Tarn," he rasps, his hands curled against himself. "I hate him. I want him to die, but I want it to be slow. I want him to suffer, I want him to watch himself waste away and feel every moment his spark shrinks."

Rampage could probably do it. He's seen him get blown through a building, his frame torn apart, but shake it off like it was nothing. It was such an easy solution being proposed, but the helpless frustration just makes him dissolve into weeping. First Aid smacks his head softly against Rampage's leg, the filaments in his visor so hot they were shorting out.

"I'm so, so stupid." His voice is barely a whisper over static. "I just-- I just wanted, but I'm just some weird medic. Not even a good one! Oh, it's First Aid. He's erratic."

That wasn't an answer to his question, or any question, but in his misery and drunkenness he couldn't quite string together a sentence or thought.

"Why am I so weird?"

"You don't know!"

The badge collecting, his fascination with war heroes, the demotion, every disappointment. First Aid was caught in a loop of thinking about all his failures and everything he found bad about himself. The light stroking felt good, but his spark felt clenched in his chest, constricting painfully.

"You can't kill Tarn," he manages finally, backpedaling. "Sixshot's fragging him. He'd-- He'd probably never forgive you."

Betrayal twisted in his tank, making him feel sick. If his friendship with the Phase Sixer was ruined he could at least make sure Rampage's relationship with him wasn't.

An attempt was made at least.

First Aid knew sparks. He'd studied them thoroughly throughout his stay at Delphi and while in medical school. He knew the health of his own, the difference between spark types and color. He knew his own blue spark was unremarkable in every way, save for being forged. To others, he'd argue it was their mind that was important-- that made them who they are. The same knowledge he'd used to comfort others makes him ache a little more.

"You'd want to take out his vocalizer first. Tarn is unique. He can make your spark give up with his voice."

The medic turns over in Rampage's lap, rolling onto his back so he was looking up at him, light still spilling in streams from his visor. His neck cabling was dented, a few finger grooves pressed in the metal. He reaches his hands up towards the mech's face, trying to get him to lean closer.

"Do you still hate me?"

Touching the marks on his neck doesn't hurt as much as touching the dents did; the damage was mainly internal. First Aid reaches and pats the hand, his fingers curling around the thick thumb.

"You hate medics. You think I'm a weakling and pathetic."

He stretches out his other hand, fingers brushing over the horns along the mech's mask.

The horns were warmer than he'd thought they'd be, but Rampage pushes his hand back down before his thumb could trace to the sharp time of one. His limb felt heavy and it was harder to raise it a second time even if he wanted to.

Some of the filaments in First Aid's visor had broken, leaving parts of it dim and other parts still streaming. He curls his hands back around Rampage's palm, holding onto it tightly, but he looks away at the comment.

"I do stupid things when I'm angry."

That's how Pharma got killed, and that's how he nearly was crushed by Tarn tonight.

"Can I-- Can I stay with you tonight? I just want to be somewhere no one will find me." Primus knows he can't bear to be around anyone who was at the party and may have heard his argument.

First Aid falls quiet, save for the little hitching of his venting as his frame shudders in a quiet sob. He didn't think that was particularly funny; he didn't delight in mechs getting hurt. Normally his anger was so controlled, channeled into quiet seething or snarky commentary. He didn't particularly like the furious side of him.

He turns in Rampage's lap again, rolling on his side so his back was to the mech's stomach and the arm he was holding was pulled so it was almost draped over him. First Aid keeps clinging to it, holding the warm palm in both hands, his optic visor dimming.

"That's fine."

First Aid was usually so good with handling his issues quietly and alone, but being completely wasted made him want nothing more than to curl up next to a warm frame and feel wanted. He clings to the hand, unwilling to let go but he turns and looks up at the question.

"Yeah, sure. Let's get out of here."

He's embarrassed himself enough at this party.

It was probably for the best that Rampage was carrying him. Drinking and driving didn't really mix and the last thing First Aid needed was to Scooty Puff Jr. straight into a wall. It was still an odd sensation, his legs dangling in the air and his head swimming, that when Rampage found a good spot and settled down he still felt like he was moving.

He turns, his hands curling around the crab mech's shoulder armor, his weight heavy as he sways in the mech's lap. First Aid feels somewhat ill after that emotional rush and he hiccups, just a few times at first, and then a bunch of small little sounds and jerks.

"You don't keep anything?"

First Aid leans against Rampage's chest, his expression saddening again. Sixshot seemed to be the same way, moving through life without any particular attachment to anything. Thinking about Sixshot just made him even sadder.

"I used to have badges. A whole wall of them. Now all I have is my friend's brain."

In his drunkenness he doesn't really get how cryptic that sounded. Instead he lays his head against the mech's chest and vents deep as he listens to his mechanisms, the hum of his spark and power plant.

"It's okay." He snorts. Why would he want Rampage's brain?

First Aid quiets again, slowing his own venting and the spinning of his fans so he can listen to Rampage. He traces small, idle circles on the plating beneath his hands, just enjoying the feel of his field against his palm.

"I can hear you. It's the nicest thing I've heard all night."