Mabaya ch 14 Choke Point

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG-13
IDW
Drift/Deadlock, Perceptor, Turmoil
warnings: Turmoil (aka mindgames? ysplz)

 

Deadlock rounded the corner back to the cell, hating his own obedience.  You should leave.  Make a break.  Take down the guards who escorted you.  Find a way. 

No.  Perceptor.  He couldn’t leave the other mech. There was that much left in him of consideration or mercy, or sense of fairness. He’d thought, as he’d cleaned the weapons, about his options.  Join Turmoil again, go back to the Decepticons. No.  And the fact that that had even formulated itself into a question distressed him.  Stay with Perceptor and die but die together, as Autobots.  Possible, though…Turmoil would draw that out into endless agony.  And…was he an Autobot anymore? Would they ever accept him, especially after this?  Would Perceptor after what had just happened between them?  

Or do neither, escape by himself, become a free agent once again, neither Autobot nor Decepticon, neither Drift nor Deadlock.   

He’d wondered, briefly, what Wing would have chosen. Which is the pure choice here, Wing?  

An ache, hollow, cold, answered him.  

So he’d found himself horrifically obedient, cleaning the weapons, lying to himself that he was building a false trust from Turmoil, letting him think he was winning, letting Deadlock convince himself this was strategy.  And trying frantically not to imagine what Turmoil was doing to Perceptor, what he might have to go back to.   

Maybe, he thought, Turmoil would make his choice for him. 

No. Coward’s way.  

He froze, outside the force barrier.  Turmoil, hunched over the lean frame of Perceptor—limp and helpless on the floor. A fierce feral part of him rejoiced, as though weights had been taken from him, inhibitors taken off—he could go after Turmoil unimpeded, settle this once and for all. But another part fell in shock, horror, self-blame, that he had left Perceptor with Turmoil, knowing what Turmoil was capable of. And more than a little guilt for his earlier thoughts. 

“Turmoil!” he bellowed.  His hand pounded at the force barrier, uselessly.  Typical irony of Turmoil’s to use the barrier to keep Deadlock out.   

Turmoil didn’t flinch, didn’t move, showed no response.  “You’re back,” he said, blandly.   

“Get away from him.”   

Turmoil turned his head, looking at Deadlock over his shoulder, optics glinting orange warm in the dim light.  “Suspicious, Deadlock? Or jealous.”  

Deadlock seethed.  “Should never have trusted you.”  

“Trusted me?”  Turmoil rose, turning to face him, one hand splayed over his chassis. “Deadlock, I’m touched.” 

Deadlock glowered, pacing along the barrier. “Let me in.”   

A dark laugh. “That’s what I’ve been saying to you for…how long?” Turmoil stepped deliberately in Deadlock’s line of sight, blocking his view of Perceptor.  

Deadlock snarled in pure frustration. “What did you do to him?” 

Turmoil shook his head. “It’s what he did to himself, Deadlock. I’m merely trying to help.” 

“Help,” Deadlock said, bitterly.  “No one needs your help.”  He whipped out his short sword, striking the barrier.  Bluewhite sparks flew, shocking up Deadlock’s hand, but the barrier didn’t give.  

“You need it most of all, Deadlock,” Turmoil said.  He stepped away from Perceptor’s prone form, toward the barrier.  “Put your weapon away.”  He held a hand to the barrier, offering contact.   

Deadlock glowered, but, after a long moment, shoved his blade roughly in its scabbard, holding his hand against the force barrier’s surface for Turmoil to grab and drag through.  Turmoil took advantage—of course—of the forced proximity, letting his hands drag over Deadlock’s shoulders.  Deadlock merely shrugged past, more concerned with Perceptor than anything else.  

Turmoil trailed behind him, chuckling, as Deadlock dropped to his knees by Perceptor’s frame, just as the blue optics flickered dimly online. And then, he saw what Turmoil had been clever  enough to hide between Perceptor’s arm and his body.  

He held up the emergency ration pack, optics hard with accusation.  “What--?” He didn’t even know how to finish that question, what upset him so much about it—beyond the sight of Turmoil’s emergency ration pack being fed into Perceptor’s body.  Like some…contamination.

Perceptor’s lean face was stricken, mortified.

Turmoil came up behind Deadlock. “You let him divide the rations, of course.  Two hands. It only makes sense.  It would seem that your scientist shorts his own rations for your sake. Or,” Turmoil’s smirk was audible, “he is not such a good little scientist and miscalculates how much his autorepair needs.”

Deadlock’s optics bored into Perceptor’s, reading the downward tug of Perceptor’s mouth as an admission of the first.  “You didn’t.”

“You need the energon,” Perceptor said, quietly. “I do not.”

Deadlock glared down at the flabby bag—obvious testimony of how wrong that assessment was.  “Apparently, you do.”

Perceptor looked away. “I’m…unimportant.”

You’re what this whole thing’s about, Deadlock howled inside his head, barely managing to master himself before blurting it out in front of Turmoil. Deadlock’s hand tightened over the bag, force-squeezing more energon up the line.  Perceptor winced as the new energon kicked on another level of systems.  “You lied to me,” he said, mouth flattening.

“Seems a lot of that,” Turmoil murmured, “For Autobots.  Your scientist has led me to understand you were not entirely…forthcoming about our tryst.”

Deadlock stiffened, blinkering his optics against the soft sympathy in the blue gaze.  No, no you don’t understand, he thought, angrily, and then…he didn’t want Perceptor to understand. Didn’t want to have done what he did, what he knew he’d succumb to again. 

Turmoil approached, and Deadlock’s sensor net registered the familiar coolness of his degaussed field.  Large hands stroked over his shoulders, familiarly, affectionately, one then dropping to wrap his waist, pull him back against Turmoil’s frame. 

Deadlock saw the look of jealousy, hurt, and confusion mixed on Perceptor’s face. “Not,” he hissed, “now.”

Turmoil chuckled, his mouthplate brushing into Deadlock’s throat. “Why not now.  He says himself he’s unimportant.” The hand on his waist’s thumb brushed up, against his interface hatch.  “And all of this…Autobot self-sacrifice,” he purred, rubbing a thigh against Deadlock’s, “is so incredibly erotic.”

“Because I said not now,” Deadlock snapped.  His one hand pushed away Turmoil’s groping arm, acutely aware of Perceptor’s gaze, his tight, stricken expression. It was one thing, possibly, to imagine the two of them together, and nominally accept it; quite another to actually witness it, accept it that way. 

Turmoil laughed, agreeably, releasing his grip with one last reluctant stroke.  Deadlock gave a warning snarl, turning back to Perceptor.  “Why?”

Perceptor struggled to sit up, hands regretful on the tube of the autoinjector. “You need it more.”

“You don’t get to decide that.” 

Perceptor looked stricken, his mouth playing through a range of expressions. “It was a…tactical decision.”

Deadlock glared. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“Oh,” Turmoil goaded. “Don’t let me keep you.”

“Go away, Turmoil,” Deadlock said, optics glinting dangerous over his shoulder. He would not give Turmoil the satisfaction.

Except, of course, they already had.  How stupid could Perceptor have been?   

“You want to do something useful, Turmoil?” 

Turmoil laughed. “Do I?”  

Deadlock wheeled to face him, jabbing at the chassis with one finger, the gutters of Iacon in his words. “You could have given us enough fraggin’ energon to begin with. So we wouldn’t have to split it so fine.”

“Now,” Turmoil said, tilting his head, his optics an orange, amused line, “Where’s the fun in that?”

Comments

[chibirisuchan.livejournal.com]

Turmoil totally redefines magnificent bastard here: there's no question at all that he's evil, but he's so damn good at what he does that you can't help admiring the skill even while you're wanting him to get smashed into smithereens...