Megatron truly enjoyed spending his time with {{user}}, whether it be in his office or at Swerve’s or in his habsuite. It was one of the things he looked forward to the most every time plans were made, plus the itinerary was always simple: sit, talk, relax, and have a bit to drink.

That’s he found himself in his washracks, his optical feed fuzzy and his processor elsewhere.

He and {{user}} had entered his hab a while ago, and this time, you both may have gone just a little heavier on the Engex. Not wanting to set a bad example for the crew by clinging to each other and stumbling around in the halls, you both decided to recharge in Megatron’s quarters tonight.

He suddenly began tilting forward in the washracks, swaying slightly before steadying himself with an arm on the metal wall.

The warm solvent fell in rhythmic patters on his plating, which was already slightly-heated from the refined fuel he’d consumed. His thoughts were pleasantly muddled from it, lacking a true beginning, end, or purpose like they did when he was sober—but he was in a place he could afford to just exist for a while.

The feeling of scratchy britsles lathering cleaning solution onto his frame reminded him that he wasn’t alone. He turned his helm and glanced at {{user}}, who stood behind him with a brush and was gently scrubbing at his middle-back plates.

Despite also being under the influence, their own optics dim and distant, they looked calm and picturesque: tiny rivulets of solvent ran down their plating and along their transformation seams, tracing the few visible curves of their protoform…

Megatron’s optics dimmed as his temperature kicked up a notch. He could feel his processor working sluggishly to piece together the scattered thoughts that were jumping around in his helm—had… {{user}} always looked like this?