Been a while since I updated Joyride. So here's a little Tracks and Raoul bickering. :3

Summary: Tracks is an aft.

"You're an aft."

"And you need an new insult, Raoul," Tracks replied. He rubbed his polishing cloth over a stubborn spot on his armor plating in a small circle. Scrunched in the small space, Tracks still had to lean over, even sitting upright. Raoul was sprawled over his thigh like a spoiled cat, and whined just as loudly. Tracks hummed, "You've been repeating the same one for an hour now."

"It's been true for the past hour," Raoul said. He rolled from his back to his stomach, and scraped the ground with his finger tips. He drew a little circle, and shivered from his soaked clothes. "You are an aft."

"You're acting like this is my fault," Tracks said, shifting his leg, and slipping Raoul off the side. The boy hit the ground face first, splashing up the wet muck on his jacket. "And stop sitting on me. I'm not a chair, and if I have to sit in the mud, so do you."

"A-F-T. Aft," Raoul repeated, wiping the mud off the side of his cheek. He threw the glop of it against Track's leg, and frowned. "And this is your fault."

"And how do you figure that? Do enlighten me," Tracks said, using a finger and the clean edge of his cloth to get the rest of the mud off Raoul's face. "I'd love to hear what that steel trap in your head has come up with."

"You-you," Raoul said, waving his finger in the air. He frowned, scowled, and rolled his eyes. "Fine, it's not your fault."

"See?" Tracks smiled. "I told you."

"But that does not change the fact, that you sir, are an aft," Raoul said, plopping down in the mud, leaning against the inside of Track's thigh. He rested his chin on the back of two of his hands, elbows on his knees and sighed. "How long'd you say it was going to take them to dig us out?

"The nearest Autobot to the mudslide was twenty miles away, and assuming that they're able to pick up and leave immediately, it's twenty minutes to get here," Tracks said. He scooted a bit, and a few clumps of dirt tumbled past his back wing. Tracks froze immediately and waited, making sure nothing else was going to make it past him. He continued, "And then add in the time to get actual help to clear the mud away, and it could be anywhere from an hour to three."

"It's been two and a half, " Raoul said, dropping his hands and leaning his head back. His muddy pony-tail bunched up on Track's armor to match the scrunch of his nose. "And I haven't even heard the start of digging yet."

"Just be patient," Tracks said. He could feel the dirt holding heavy on his back, seeping into the cracks and openings of his armor. He didn't know how Hound could adore this oppressive earth. "They know we're here."

"Then what's taking so long?" Raoul said, shifting his foot in the mud. He bit the edge of his lip, and his fingers twitched. Tracks could feel his body vibrating against his leg, cold or nervous. It was so hard to tell with humans. "They know you hate dirt."

"Why don't you take a nap or something?" Tracks suggested, twisting the polishing rag in his fingers. It's white color was slowly being overtaken by the black and brown soil, becoming less and less useful as Tracks fiddled with it. "Might make the time go faster."

"I'm not going to sleep in the mud, Tracks," Raoul said, through gritted teeth. He glared up, and his breath picked up. "Wouldn't leave you alone like that."

Tracks vented heavily, gritting his own teeth when he felt the mud shift beneath him. Raoul flinched as a clump of it passed his knee. Tracks bopped the boy on the head with a finger. "You're right. We're in it together right now, so we should keep it that way, hm?"

"You better believe it," Raoul said.

Tracks rubbed his hair with the same finger, and Raoul huffed—but he did relax a fraction. Tracks moved the finger down and rubbed his shoulder. "We're going to be okay, Raoul."

"I know that," he whispered, slumping down into the mud more. He curled into Track's thigh, and leaned the side of his head against the metal. Tracks couldn't see it, but the sensors in his plating picked up on the tiny smirk. "You don't have to be an aft about it."

Tracks dropped the polishing rag ontop of Raoul, covering the boy. He squirmed under the fabric and Tracks shuttered off his optics.

If it kept Raoul from being scared, he'd be an aft all night.