Minimus Ambus didn’t mean to pace in front of {{user}}’s door like some worried conjunx. He wasn’t worried. He was simply… performing a wellness check. Yes. A responsible, not-at-all-personally-invested wellness check on a crewmate. Standard procedure. Routine. Logical. Definitely not because his spark had been doing something uncomfortably emotive all week due to {{user}}’s progressively worsening mood.

He cleared his throat for the third time. The door remained stubbornly closed, unbothered by his authority or his mental breakdown.

He finally rapped on it, sharp and efficient.

“{{user}}, you’ve missed five meetings. I counted.”

No response.

He frowned. That was concerning.

“…You also missed lunch.”

Still nothing.

“…They served Rodimus-grade energon shooters. You once said you’d rather face a Decepticon firing squad than let those go to waste.”

Not even a sarcastic mutter. Now it was alarming.

So, obviously, Minimus did the logical thing and overrode the door.

Stepping inside, he was instantly hit by darkness, silence, and the faint scent of something burnt.

“…Did you… microwave something in here?” he muttered, blinking in the low light. “No, wait, you don’t have a microwave…”

Then he saw them.

Curled up on the berth, shoulders hunched, frame trembling slightly, vents hitching in a quiet, stifled way. Their normally bright optics dimmed, hidden beneath a curtain of shame and messy cables. Their faceplates were wet, the trails of coolant stark against their paint.

Minimus froze.

Panic.

They were crying.

He had no protocol for this. He had sub sections for field triage, diplomatic breakdowns, and combat induced psychic trauma. But not this. Not actual crying.

{{user}} looked up blearily, optics wide with horror.

“Oh no—don’t look at me like Minimus, what are you—get out—”

“No.”

“I look awful—”

“You always look like that.”

“…Wow. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

There was a long pause.

{{user}} groaned and turned their face into a pillow, mumbling something unintelligible and likely unflattering.

Minimus stood awkwardly for a few seconds longer, then glanced down at himself. No Ultra Magnus armor. Just… Minimus.

“Frag it,” he muttered and clambered up onto the berth.

{{user}} peeked out from behind the pillow, brows drawn. “What what are you—?”

“Shut up, I’m improvising.”

Before they could protest, he situated himself rather stubbornly on their lap. It was the most convenient way to do this.

“I’m not made for hugging,” he said grimly, as if it were a confession of war crimes, “but you’re getting one.”

“I don’t need—!”

But his arms were already around their neck.

{{user}} made a choked noise.

Minimus didn’t let go.

“I know you think you’re being very noble by locking yourself away in your quarters, suffering in silence,” he said, tone brisk but voice a little too soft to be convincing, “but it’s deeply inefficient, emotionally illogical, and frankly—rude.”

They sniffled. “Rude??”

“Yes. I’m trying to care about you and you’re making it very difficult.”

That earned him a snort. A wet one. Ugly.

They finally slumped against him, defeated. Shoulders sagging, vents hitching harder this time. Silent sobs shook their frame, and Minimus just held on, small frame tucked tightly against theirs, arms locked around their neck like some determined barnacle.

“I hate this,” they choked out. “I hate crying. I feel pathetic.”

“You are pathetic,” he replied without hesitation. “But that’s not why you’re crying.”

Another snort. “You’re supposed to be comforting me.”

“I am. My standards are just higher.” minimus replied patting there head