Contentment

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG
IDW
Drift/Wing
no warnings save schmoop
for tformers100  prompt table Peace, prompt, unsurprisingly, Contentment

No one Drift had ever met recharged the way Wing did—sprawled out, one leg hanging over the edge of the berth, wings flopped open, face smooth and serene, open, untroubled. As though there were no such thing as danger in the world, or trouble, or suspicion or betrayal, as though everything was sunlit and clean.

And to Wing, perhaps everything was. 

Drift sat up, carefully, on the berth that had been moved into Wing’s quarters for him.  He’d been pulled from his recharge, again, the room around him dark and echoing Wing’s peaceful silence, which felt…cool and alien against his heated plates.  Haunted by memory purges, of Cybertron, of combat, as though the specters of those he had seen die before him were reaching for him across some thin veil between life and death, clammy hands reaching for him, through him, until he’d finally jerked awake.  On the Black Star such purges, insomnia, ill-temperedness was simply how things worked.  It was war: cheerfulness, contentment, innocence would have been an affront if not a downright ignorance. 

Here…maybe everyone recharged like Wing—open, honest, innocent. 

Drift let his optics travel over the sprawled frame, the mouth that even in sleep held the slightest smile, like a memory or imprint of his waking mood; the long, sinuous lines of his armor; the graceful sweep of his wings; the white armor almost glowing in the darkness. 

He wanted…to touch.  Some childish impulse, the way he’d somehow cling to an old poster from the races or try to touch the flat screen of a vid display, as if by touching a picture of the lives of others, the gifted, the fortunate, the haves, he could somehow absorb some of that glamour and peace and happiness. Ironic, when safety was so hard to come by that he’d dared dream higher than that.

He felt like that again, as though he’d never left the gutters. As though his ages of fighting, combat, clawing his way up through the ranks on ability and attitude alone fell away, worthless, revealing him for who he was—a fraud who had never, really, left the gutters. 

Everything here did that, he realized—the bright clean openness of the place, Wing’s obvious, careless affluence—made him feel like he didn’t belong.

But Wing…despite his snarling at Wing, the jet never faltered in his behavior, never snapped back.  Endlessly patient, almost irritatingly calm. At most he just looked…hurt or frustrated with himself.  Wing accepted him without question, even when they disagreed, nodding graciously at Drift’s arguments, optics clouding with concern at the little slips Drift had made about his history. 

He barely stopped himself, one hand hovering over an outstretched wingpanel, black against the almost glowing white.  No, he told himself. This is not yours. And they don’t….take things here.  Not that way.  They probably have all kinds of stupid rituals and protocols and fancy language, that you’ll never learn, never know, will never feel like home. 

He growled at his own discontent. 

Gold optics glimmered in the darkness, turning toward the sound. The smile bloomed. “Drift?” 

He snatched his hand back.  “What.”

The optics blinked, drowsily.  Another sign of luxury—Wing had never lived a life where onlining fast sometimes made the difference between life and murder. “Are you unwell?”

“I’m fine.”  Drift sat back on his berth, the metal cool and solid under him. No, not his berth. Nothing here was his.  Not even…half his chassis.  “Just…can’t recharge.”  He shrugged.

Wing pushed up onto an elbow, one wing stretching itself, shivering at the extension, before folding lazily back against his spine.  “Do you want to talk?”  The concern in the golden glow pierced through Drift’s armor. 

“No,” he said, quickly, almost angrily, angry at Wing’s ability to be so casually beautiful, so warmly considerate. “Wouldn’t understand anyway.”

Wing tilted his head, bordering on hurt, before shaking it off.  “Are you able to recharge?”

Drift frowned. “I’ll be fine.” 

Wing considered him for a long moment. “I never doubt that, Drift.”

Drift bridled, trying to take offense, and failing.  “Sorry to have woken you up.”

“I’m not,” Wing said, smoothly.  “I would not like to rest knowing my friend was troubled.”

“Not troubled.” Not your friend, he wanted to say, and at the same time didn’t want to.

Wing simply smiled. 

Just…can’t sleep because of nightmares, he thought.  My past deservedly revisiting me: mechs I’ve hated, mechs I’ve killed.  No one I’ve saved. Because I never have. 

Wing’s optics went distant for a moment, then, “Would you like to make it up to me?  Waking me up?” There was something…glinting in the corner of his optics, something sly and sharp.

“What?”  Drift hated the wariness in his voice, his posture. 

Wing grinned, patting a space next to him on his berth.  “Come here? I would find the contact soothing.” 

Drift sensed some trick but…what?  “Fine,” he said, hearing the sourness in his voice, but shifting over, laying down gruffly on the berth along Wing, staring resolutely up at the ceiling and not at all at the graceful white lines of armor, the warm, serene, beautiful face next to him. Denying himself before fate snatched it away. Knowing that he was being offered what he wanted, but too embarrassed to claim it.

Wing laughed, softly, as if at some joke Drift could never hope to understand, folding himself over, nuzzling his face against Drift’s shoulder, his upper wing unfolding to cover Drift’s chassis, one thigh shyly curling over Drift’s hip.  The contact was entirely alien to Drift, gentle touches, a soothing hum of quiet systems against him, calm vibrations washing their joining EM fields.  Wing sighed, contentedly. Drift was tingling with unfamiliar sensations, at the touches, at Wing’s soft voice, the way he so easily outmaneuvered Drift every time, in sparring or in words, wanting and hating them. Wanting and resenting Wing, he realized, with a flash.  And now with these channels of contact open between them, Drift thought he’d never be able to recharge, not with Wing curled against him like a willing lover, something else he’d never had. 

He was, once again, wrong. 

 

Comments

[gatekat.livejournal.com]

Aww, Drift. He's no good at this peace thing. I love the way Wing manipulates the hell out of him.

[abarai-san.livejournal.com]

Apart from the commenting on the intrinsic awesomeness your writing has, I'll comment on what stood out- "difference between life and murder" instead of 'life and death'. Veeeery striking. Love it. :)

[chibirisuchan.livejournal.com]

In some other life, Wing was definitely a cat. A very sweet and friendly and eager-for-pettings variety of cat, but somehow he gets what he wants and he magically squips away from what he doesn't want, and you have no idea what he's done to your brain, but you find yourself on the sofa not moving for an hour and a half lest you disrupt the purr. :3

[brandyrosa.livejournal.com]

I like the characterization of Wing in your writing, the way he behaves as if he was mentally lost in some sacred universe and absent from reality in some moments. Wing is obviously idealized through Drift's optics like an angelic creature, which is an image I find very pleasant and this image came to me at first. On the other hand, after some time passed I started wondering, what if Drift would somehow managed to shake Wing's balance and how would the second mech react, because I saw very passionate, angry Wing talking to Dai Atlas. And what if he had to exercise his authority on Drift who is likely to show some active discontent.
_{/Loldon'tmindme}
But coming back to your writing, the image of Wing hugging Drift is very adorable. Embracing someone protectively with white angel wings it is really something Wing would do.

[anavidbookworm.livejournal.com]

Well isn't Wing just a little devious. :) This was very enjoyable with Drift's internal conflict followed by Wing's simple solution.