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Pharma's commlink blinks to life, rousing him from recharge. Of course it does. He can't have one Primus-forsaken night at Delphi to himself.
TDJD-DONOTRESPOND: doctor
TDJD-DONOTRESPOND: doctor please open the door
The medijet immediately processes who the messages are from. He turns over in his berth in response to seeing the contact name. This can be dealt with another time. Or never, if he's lucky.
TDJD-DONOTRESPOND: i hear you in there, i know you're reading these
TDJD-DONOTRESPOND: it's cold please let me in
Pharma huffs, turning to get out of berth. He opens the blinds to his window, welcomed by the sight of Tarn outside. His massive hulk makes him look like an overgrown turbofox left in the rain. The bright red of his optics cuts through the chill of Messatine's night, drowning out Pharma's own dim blue. He can't see behind that mask, but he knows Tarn is pouting sadly.
P-CMOD: Don't make a mess.
He moves away from the window, opting to leave the blinds open to let Tarn watch him leave. He opens the exterior door closest to his habsuite. Messatine's frigidity immediately bites into the insulated warmth of Delphi, finally waking him up. The stench of high-grade reeking off Tarn gets him all the way awake.
"Doctor Pharma. It's good to see you. It's very cold out here," he states, lighthearted pleasure nipping at the edges of his voice.
Pharma doesn't verbally respond, opting instead to grab Tarn by the servo (by the wrist, actually. He doesn't have the energy to send sweetness the tank's way right now) and drag him in, trying to save the last vestiges of warmth in the room.
"Your servo is so warm, Doctor," a warm mirth softly erupts from Tarn's vocalizer as he mumbles.
The medijet chooses once again to ignore him, turning on his heels and pushing Tarn into the nearest seat. From this position, he's just barely looking down on him, between his legs. "What are you doing here?" Pharma taps a digit on Tarn's chestplate, trying his best impersonation of something intimidating.
Tarn's fans speed up despite his insistence on being cold. "I was offered one-too many drinks tonight. The trek to the Tyranny is so long... and cold... Especially in comparison to the warmth of my favorite medic at Delphi..." His optics look up to Pharma's, apologetic like a dog being scolded.
Pharma squints at the light, then turns away. He mutters a quiet "whatever," before beginning the walk back to his hab and then to his berth. What a bad lie. No grounder, let alone Tarn, would travel such a distance in root mode. The Peaceful Tyranny always lands closer than Delphi is to the rest of Messatine's civilization. Pharma runs cold on the regular. He's already thinking about how good he wants his recharge to be once he makes it.
Of course, it's an unattainable want. He can hear Tarn stand up almost immediately to chase after him. The tank's heavy pedesteps dragging against the linoleum threaten to wake all of Delphi, if not the whole planet. Pharma chooses to ignore it.
The jet enters his hab, making sure the door shuts behind him. Pharma's barely sat back down to his berth when he hears the door slide open. He's got to change that lock. Far too friendly. He doesn't need to look to know who it is, but he does anyway. If this was any other situation and he were any other bot, the sight would've been terrifying. Tarn's bulk is blocking the door. His frame is punctuated by the low moonlight. But Pharma can only pay attention to the reek of high-grade and can only see the face he must be pulling behind the mask, optics blown wide and chewed-up derma pouting.
"Are you going to enter or what?" the jet snaps, more of a command than a question. He resigns to his fate, standing up to retrieve a cube from a nearby cupboard and pour a glass of medical-grade.
Tarn finally breaches the room, finding home in the now-empty spot on Pharma's berth that the medic had just vacated. He lays down and curls up like a turbofox, enshrining himself within Pharma's meshes. He doesn't fall to recharge immediately though; Pharma taps the cube against his chassis. Perfectly firm enough to rouse but not enough to spill any of the liquid.
Pharma insists on him taking it. "If you're going to stay the night, you might as well be bearable. Leave before anybody is lucid enough to recognize you, okay?"
"Yes, of course, Doctor," Tarn mumbles. He takes Pharma's servos in his own, painfully obvious he wanted to hold the jet's servos rather than take the cube from him. Pharma makes a clear tsk with his glossa, shoving the cube and weasling his hands out from Tarn's claws. The tank whimpers in disappointment, but finally sits up and tilts his mask far enough to drink. One of his fangs catches the moonlight, much to the chagrin of Pharma and his need in the moment to be firm. Tarn downs the drink in one go.
Pharma tsks again, shooing the tank to the other side of his berth so that he may lay down too. Tarn relents like it's nothing, scooching in a way that keeps him facing the jet and arms open and ready to recieve him. Pharma scoffs and rolls his optics. He gets into berth facing away from the tank, but Tarn still wraps his arms around his chassis.
It's an terrible fit. Pharma's turbine is large and in charge and prevents Tarn from pulling him in any closer. Tarn pulls him in all the same. His fans spin happy and lazy.
The jet grumbles. Whatever. He's this far in anyway. Despite Tarn's strong grip around his chest, Pharma manages to flip around, now faceplate to neck cabling with the other mech. The dose of medical-grade he gave him doesn't fix the smell of high-grade directly wafting into his nasal sensors. He opens the vents in his shoulder stacks, hoping the extra ventilation will help with the stench.
Tarn, on the other hand, has seemingly already fallen into recharge. His engines contently rev and purr like a housecat. Pharma decides to sleep as well, making the most out of a rare warm night on Messatine.
TDJD-DONOTRESPOND: goodnight, doctor. rest well.