Halcyon part 2
Apr. 16th, 2011 08:38 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
niyazi-a.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vectorPG-13
IDW
Drift, Perceptor, Wing
angst
Drift’s systems onlined slowly: he was floating in a cloud of hazy nonfeeling. Blissful nonfeeling, and acutely aware that he should be feeling something agonizing. It was a sort of welcomed void, muzzy and warm and bright, yet still...unreal.
And all the more unreal: the face that hovered over his vid feed. “Drift?” Wing’s voice, Wing’s face, Wing’s helm; the same earnest openness.
Drift made some answer, or tried to, some garbled collection of syllables colliding in his vocalizer.
Wing tried to read his mind. “You’re here, yes. And your Autobot friends.” Wing’s optics flicked, briefly, the smile ratcheting down for a klik, looking at the Autobot insignia in Drift’s spaulders.
His Autobot friends. “Perceptor,” he managed. The syllables exhausted him.
“He is recovering,” Wing said. “As is the other one, designated Topspin? He suffered only temporary damage from the crash, while you and your friend were...more severely injured.” A worried tilt to the optics.
Drift struggled up onto one elbow, looking down his still-ravaged frame. Rifle fire scorched the white, energon spattered over him, indiscriminate, and one hip? Shattered ruin. If he looked this bad now...?
Wing perched one hip on the edge of the berth, a Great Sword’s hilt canting to one side above his helm. The movement caught Drift’s gaze.
Wing ducked his head, self-conscious. “It’s a different sword.” Like an apology. “Yours is over there.” He pointed, as though wanting Drift to see, to acknowledge, that he hadn’t taken it. Why? He had every right to: it was his sword.
Drift’s spark clutched at the thought of handing the sword back. Could he? It was...part of him, part of who he was, so much a part that the weight felt welcoming when he wore it, that he shifted it without a second thought when sitting or leaning, that his hands sought it for comfort.
As though it was a talisman, a vessel holding his memories of this place and all it meant, his memories of Wing.
“Do you want it?” Wing offered, the words rushing from his vocalizer. “Maybe it would comfort you?”
Drift hesitated, and Wing made the decision for him, pushing off the berth to cross over to fetch the sword, where it had been laid, carefully, on a bracket. Drift tried not to let his gaze follow the familiar, smooth roll of Wing’s hips, the slide of light over the armor. The...damaged armor, he saw now. And the pieces snapped into place just as Wing turned, Drift’s Great Sword cradled in his palms.
“You were out there.”
Wing nodded. Only the nod, nothing more. He approached, holding the sword out. Drift took it, his damaged hands closing around it, one stroking the hilt. Wing smiled down at him, the edges of the smile soft and sad. Drift looked up. “Thanks,” he said, lamely, knowing, feeling how inadequate it was. Thanks for saving my life. Again.
Wing leaned in, abruptly, pushing his mouth into a sudden, febrile, kiss. Drift’s mouth opened against it, from surprise and a faded familiarity. Wing moved forward, pushing Drift against the berth, throwing one leg over Drift’s body, palms on the berth, his EM field flaring and urgent. He whimpered against Drift’'s mouth, the sword between them like a bond and a barrier both at once.
Drift tore his mouth away. “Wing...” He couldn’t make the other words come.
Wing...knew. Somehow. And that made it worse. “Someone else?” Wing whispered, as if not daring to make the words too loud, too true.
Drift nodded, the gesture small. “Perceptor.”
Wing shuttered his optics for a long moment, but it didn’t mask the expression of pain rippling across his face. “I...understand,” he said. He moved back, withdrawing. Drift stopped him. He had no idea why, other than the look of heartbreak on the mech’s face. Wing had saved him—saved all of them for all Drift knew. And this is how he repaid him? His hands rested, helplessly, on the nacelles.
Wing hesitated. “M-may I...lie with you while you rest?” His voice was small, timid, not daring to encroach. How could Drift refuse? Wing had saved him, not just his life. Everything he was, everything he had, he owed to Wing. Drift tugged him down against him, the white jet folding into the space between Drift’s body and arm, one thigh sliding over Drift’s waist, one shy hand and Wing’s silver cheek on his chassis. Drift curved his arm around the jet’s shoulders, fingers splaying on one folded wing.
Wing cycled a vent, body softening against Drift. “I missed you so much,” he breathed, his EM stabilizing, spreading warm against Drift’s frame.
“Yes,” Drift croaked. He hated that he’d felt the same way. It felt like a betrayal, but he couldn’t stop himself from curling around the jet’s frame, resting his cheek on Wing’s helm as recharge took him under its own wings.
[***]
Perceptor pushed himself to a seated position--or as much as he could--when the mech walked in. His last memories had been bullet-riddled pain, metal punching at metal, denting, staggering him, and the hot flash of an incendiary demolishing his right arm. Sunlight, actual planetary sunlight, lanced into the room, clean and bright, and almost blinding where it struck the jet’s white armor, the too-new silver shine of the replacement arm, bare systems, with no armor, none of his modifications. But it was an arm, a hand. It was something.
The armor spoke volumes: he’d seen the style only once before. Drift. And he’d seen this mech before as well--his memory cache fed him a flash of white and red, then two blinding flashes of blue, like lightning from the jet’s black hands, blinding under the blaze of the desert. “You,” Perceptor said, his voice hoarse with disuse.
“Me,” the mouth quirked into a warm smile, the small jet settling sideways onto a chair, a Great Sword depending from his shoulders. Another reminder: just like Drift. And Perceptor found the size unsettling--this jet was the same size as Drift, small, compact: all the jets he’d known, the three that had been with Megatron for ages now, were large, massy things. “You are Perceptor?” At Perceptor’s consternation, he added, hastily, “I’ve been speaking with Drift.”
“Drift,” Perceptor managed. A question he didn’t even have the strength to formulate.
“Drift is recovering. As soon as he is mobile, he will visit.” The words were intended to be soothing, but they just...stirred something dark and green and scaly in Perceptor’s systems. The gold optics tilted, worried. “You are discontent?”
“The mission,” Perceptor murmured, determined to distract himself from what he was trying hard not to think. His one hand--the other too damaged to flex--rubbed worriedly at a puncture in his chassis.
The jet smiled, bright and warm. Perceptor squirmed, inwardly, under the light of it. “Your third, Topspin, is ambulatory. And the...crate he was guarding is intact.” The wedge shaped pinions over the jet’s nacelles flared. “Drift told me you were in charge of this mission.”
Perceptor wondered what it was between them that made Drift talk to this jet so damn much. It couldn’t just be the gentle glow from the optics, the open, earnest face. Drift would not fall for that. “Want to see Topspin.” Topspin was as no-nonsense as they came. He’d resettle Perceptor’s whirling emotions.
“Yes.” A nod, but the jet showed no sign of moving. “Is something else troubling you, Perceptor?”
“Who are you?” Perceptor’s optics narrowed.
The jet tilted his head, his helm--familiarly ornate, familiarly white, with the sweeping nasal that Perceptor knew all too well--showing dents and scratches. “My apologies,” he said. “We’re still not used to strangers. My name is Wing.”
Wing. The pieces clattered into place, like an explosion played out in reverse, all the heat and light and pressure cramming back in.
“Drift has talked about me?” Perceptor could hear the eager curiosity in the voice. Hopeful, wanting. And he wanted to shut down, to turn frigid and lethal before that voice, those hopeful optics, the way he lined up a target in his sights...but he couldn’t.
“Yes,” Perceptor said. An admission. I know who you are. I know what you meant to him. And what he might mean now...? Perceptor slumped to the berth, tanks chill and roiling.
Wing jumped up, palm flat and cool on Perceptor’s helm. “Are you unwell? Shall I get the medics?”
Perceptor shook his head. “Fine,” he managed.
One corner of the sleek silver mouth quirked up, a shy attempt at a smile, like the first crocus in springtime. “I can see why you get along so well,” he said.
And Perceptor realized, in that statement, in that hesitant smile, that Wing knew who he was, what he meant to Drift, and what Drift meant to him. And Wing was uncertain, awkward, wanting but not daring to want.
It was impossible to hate him. He was, in his own mild way, envious of Perceptor. That had...never happened before. And he was a threat: he was Drift’s past, the one who had changed everything. And he clearly wanted Drift again. But somehow, threat though he was, Perceptor couldn’t summon anything like hostility against him.
It would be easier if he could.
Wing stepped back, his hand tracing down the side of Perceptor’s helm, optics distant and curious, knowing he was touching what Drift touched, imagining how it felt to him.
“You,” Perceptor said, quietly. “You were the one, in the desert.”
“I was not alone. Others were with me.” A wry flicker on the edge of the smile. “Behind me. I did...rush ahead of them.” He seemed embarrassed by it, now. “I just...the sword.” The hands flipped up, palms empty, nervous, vulnerable. Opening himself in front of an absolute stranger. Was it wrong that trust came so easily to Wing? Or were they, after ages of war, the ones who were wrong for withholding it so staunchly?
“The sword,” Perceptor echoed. His gaze went to the hilt over Wing’s head, ancient and powerful.
Wing resettled onto the chair. “Drift’s sword. It was...it was mine.”
Oh. Another bond between them, something Perceptor could never hope to share. The moment stretched, awkward, between them.
“Please,” Wing said like a supplicant, like the one who could only ask favors, instead of the one with any power at all. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
You rescued us. You’re repairing us. Risked everything for us. And you ask.... Perceptor shook his head. “No,” he murmured.
And for the first time, the light in Wing’s optics dimmed, disappointed.
[***]
“So that’s Wing,” Perceptor said, quietly, as Drift eased himself down onto the chair, the same way Wing had, canted, so that the Great Sword hung unfettered. Wing had excused himself, after bringing Drift over, hovering solicitously around Drift as he limped on his too-new components, giving one last wanting, worried look back over his shoulder nacelle as he crossed the threshold, leaving them together. The trust—still—amazed Perceptor.
Drift nodded. “That’s Wing.”
“He’s....” Beautiful? Modest? Sweet? Brave? Trusting? Perfect?
“...Wing,” Drift finished, a lopsided smile on his face.
Perceptor nodded. He looked down at his hands, the old, battered one and the half-repaired naked one, connected in his lap like a sign. “The mission.” Right. Business.
“Topspin’s in the best shape. And they can get the ship operational by tomorrow.” Drift shrugged.”Logical to send the data with Topspin.”
Perceptor frowned. That would leave them stranded until Topspin returned. If Topspin returned. If not…? Stranded...with Wing. But. The data had to get there. Perceptor looked down at his battered frame. “Take too long to get me functional,” he murmured. A statement and a question.
Drift gave a brusque, embarrassed nod. “My repairs went faster because, well, they had the specs from...last time. Topspin’s pretty standard, at least the parts they had to repair. You...,” he shrugged. “I think some of your modifications are complex.”
Ah. “They are...forthcoming with you.”
Drift ducked his head. “Wing. He feels responsible.” And he trusted Drift.
Another mental ‘Ah.’ “Topspin should go, then. The mission is vital.”
Drift nodded. The moment stretched again. Perceptor struggled to sit up, wincing as his damaged wrist gave under the weight. Drift lunged forward, hands under the joints, helping lift. Perceptor frowned. “Don’t have to do it all yourself. No shame,” Drift murmured, “In seeking help from your friends.”
“I’m fine.”
Drift gave his winsome, lopsided smile. “Of course.” Still, he let his hands slide gently over Perceptor’s chassis, soothing contact.
“I can see the attraction of this place,” Perceptor offered. He gestured around the room. “Even their repair facilities are beautiful. And...the peace.” He hadn’t heard so much as a raised voice since he onlined. “I imagine it was...hard to leave.”
“There was nothing left for me here,” Drift said, realizing too late what he’d implied: with Wing dead....“Too peaceful,” Drift added. “Haven’t earned it.”
Perceptor’s mouth pinched down at the first part, but nodded. Yes. He understood, all too well. Drift was not his, had never been his. Drift had always been beholden to a ghost. Even now, looking at him, the armor, the mannerisms--everything he thought of as Drift...was rooted in Wing. The same way of sitting, the same slight pause before speaking. Even, Perceptor thought, the same smile, though Wing’s was readier, wider, more freely given. As if Drift knew he were a counterfeit.
Drift shifted on the chair, the Great Sword tilting, the blue gem glinting in the sunlight. The sword. Wing’s sword. Every time Drift touched it, Perceptor thought, he’d been touching Wing. Thinking of Wing.
“You have earned it,” Perceptor said, quietly, the words burning like acid with their truth. He pushed himself further upright, wincing at the strain on his snapped clavicular struts. Drift’s optics were worried, tight. Perceptor jerked his chin at the door. “Go to him.”
Drift blinked. “What?”
A vent rattled through Perceptor’s intakes. “Go. Be with him. Be happy.”
“Percept--” Drift began. Stopped. “Is this what you want?” Something liquid glistened under his optics.
No. Nothing like that. But my wants...don’t matter. You never wanted me. I was just a replacement. A stand-in to a phantom. The right thing, the least humiliating thing, was to cede ground, give up the salient that had been lost. Lost because it had never truly been his. “Yes,” Perceptor said, his optics flat and hard.
IDW
Drift, Perceptor, Wing
angst
Drift’s systems onlined slowly: he was floating in a cloud of hazy nonfeeling. Blissful nonfeeling, and acutely aware that he should be feeling something agonizing. It was a sort of welcomed void, muzzy and warm and bright, yet still...unreal.
And all the more unreal: the face that hovered over his vid feed. “Drift?” Wing’s voice, Wing’s face, Wing’s helm; the same earnest openness.
Drift made some answer, or tried to, some garbled collection of syllables colliding in his vocalizer.
Wing tried to read his mind. “You’re here, yes. And your Autobot friends.” Wing’s optics flicked, briefly, the smile ratcheting down for a klik, looking at the Autobot insignia in Drift’s spaulders.
His Autobot friends. “Perceptor,” he managed. The syllables exhausted him.
“He is recovering,” Wing said. “As is the other one, designated Topspin? He suffered only temporary damage from the crash, while you and your friend were...more severely injured.” A worried tilt to the optics.
Drift struggled up onto one elbow, looking down his still-ravaged frame. Rifle fire scorched the white, energon spattered over him, indiscriminate, and one hip? Shattered ruin. If he looked this bad now...?
Wing perched one hip on the edge of the berth, a Great Sword’s hilt canting to one side above his helm. The movement caught Drift’s gaze.
Wing ducked his head, self-conscious. “It’s a different sword.” Like an apology. “Yours is over there.” He pointed, as though wanting Drift to see, to acknowledge, that he hadn’t taken it. Why? He had every right to: it was his sword.
Drift’s spark clutched at the thought of handing the sword back. Could he? It was...part of him, part of who he was, so much a part that the weight felt welcoming when he wore it, that he shifted it without a second thought when sitting or leaning, that his hands sought it for comfort.
As though it was a talisman, a vessel holding his memories of this place and all it meant, his memories of Wing.
“Do you want it?” Wing offered, the words rushing from his vocalizer. “Maybe it would comfort you?”
Drift hesitated, and Wing made the decision for him, pushing off the berth to cross over to fetch the sword, where it had been laid, carefully, on a bracket. Drift tried not to let his gaze follow the familiar, smooth roll of Wing’s hips, the slide of light over the armor. The...damaged armor, he saw now. And the pieces snapped into place just as Wing turned, Drift’s Great Sword cradled in his palms.
“You were out there.”
Wing nodded. Only the nod, nothing more. He approached, holding the sword out. Drift took it, his damaged hands closing around it, one stroking the hilt. Wing smiled down at him, the edges of the smile soft and sad. Drift looked up. “Thanks,” he said, lamely, knowing, feeling how inadequate it was. Thanks for saving my life. Again.
Wing leaned in, abruptly, pushing his mouth into a sudden, febrile, kiss. Drift’s mouth opened against it, from surprise and a faded familiarity. Wing moved forward, pushing Drift against the berth, throwing one leg over Drift’s body, palms on the berth, his EM field flaring and urgent. He whimpered against Drift’'s mouth, the sword between them like a bond and a barrier both at once.
Drift tore his mouth away. “Wing...” He couldn’t make the other words come.
Wing...knew. Somehow. And that made it worse. “Someone else?” Wing whispered, as if not daring to make the words too loud, too true.
Drift nodded, the gesture small. “Perceptor.”
Wing shuttered his optics for a long moment, but it didn’t mask the expression of pain rippling across his face. “I...understand,” he said. He moved back, withdrawing. Drift stopped him. He had no idea why, other than the look of heartbreak on the mech’s face. Wing had saved him—saved all of them for all Drift knew. And this is how he repaid him? His hands rested, helplessly, on the nacelles.
Wing hesitated. “M-may I...lie with you while you rest?” His voice was small, timid, not daring to encroach. How could Drift refuse? Wing had saved him, not just his life. Everything he was, everything he had, he owed to Wing. Drift tugged him down against him, the white jet folding into the space between Drift’s body and arm, one thigh sliding over Drift’s waist, one shy hand and Wing’s silver cheek on his chassis. Drift curved his arm around the jet’s shoulders, fingers splaying on one folded wing.
Wing cycled a vent, body softening against Drift. “I missed you so much,” he breathed, his EM stabilizing, spreading warm against Drift’s frame.
“Yes,” Drift croaked. He hated that he’d felt the same way. It felt like a betrayal, but he couldn’t stop himself from curling around the jet’s frame, resting his cheek on Wing’s helm as recharge took him under its own wings.
[***]
Perceptor pushed himself to a seated position--or as much as he could--when the mech walked in. His last memories had been bullet-riddled pain, metal punching at metal, denting, staggering him, and the hot flash of an incendiary demolishing his right arm. Sunlight, actual planetary sunlight, lanced into the room, clean and bright, and almost blinding where it struck the jet’s white armor, the too-new silver shine of the replacement arm, bare systems, with no armor, none of his modifications. But it was an arm, a hand. It was something.
The armor spoke volumes: he’d seen the style only once before. Drift. And he’d seen this mech before as well--his memory cache fed him a flash of white and red, then two blinding flashes of blue, like lightning from the jet’s black hands, blinding under the blaze of the desert. “You,” Perceptor said, his voice hoarse with disuse.
“Me,” the mouth quirked into a warm smile, the small jet settling sideways onto a chair, a Great Sword depending from his shoulders. Another reminder: just like Drift. And Perceptor found the size unsettling--this jet was the same size as Drift, small, compact: all the jets he’d known, the three that had been with Megatron for ages now, were large, massy things. “You are Perceptor?” At Perceptor’s consternation, he added, hastily, “I’ve been speaking with Drift.”
“Drift,” Perceptor managed. A question he didn’t even have the strength to formulate.
“Drift is recovering. As soon as he is mobile, he will visit.” The words were intended to be soothing, but they just...stirred something dark and green and scaly in Perceptor’s systems. The gold optics tilted, worried. “You are discontent?”
“The mission,” Perceptor murmured, determined to distract himself from what he was trying hard not to think. His one hand--the other too damaged to flex--rubbed worriedly at a puncture in his chassis.
The jet smiled, bright and warm. Perceptor squirmed, inwardly, under the light of it. “Your third, Topspin, is ambulatory. And the...crate he was guarding is intact.” The wedge shaped pinions over the jet’s nacelles flared. “Drift told me you were in charge of this mission.”
Perceptor wondered what it was between them that made Drift talk to this jet so damn much. It couldn’t just be the gentle glow from the optics, the open, earnest face. Drift would not fall for that. “Want to see Topspin.” Topspin was as no-nonsense as they came. He’d resettle Perceptor’s whirling emotions.
“Yes.” A nod, but the jet showed no sign of moving. “Is something else troubling you, Perceptor?”
“Who are you?” Perceptor’s optics narrowed.
The jet tilted his head, his helm--familiarly ornate, familiarly white, with the sweeping nasal that Perceptor knew all too well--showing dents and scratches. “My apologies,” he said. “We’re still not used to strangers. My name is Wing.”
Wing. The pieces clattered into place, like an explosion played out in reverse, all the heat and light and pressure cramming back in.
“Drift has talked about me?” Perceptor could hear the eager curiosity in the voice. Hopeful, wanting. And he wanted to shut down, to turn frigid and lethal before that voice, those hopeful optics, the way he lined up a target in his sights...but he couldn’t.
“Yes,” Perceptor said. An admission. I know who you are. I know what you meant to him. And what he might mean now...? Perceptor slumped to the berth, tanks chill and roiling.
Wing jumped up, palm flat and cool on Perceptor’s helm. “Are you unwell? Shall I get the medics?”
Perceptor shook his head. “Fine,” he managed.
One corner of the sleek silver mouth quirked up, a shy attempt at a smile, like the first crocus in springtime. “I can see why you get along so well,” he said.
And Perceptor realized, in that statement, in that hesitant smile, that Wing knew who he was, what he meant to Drift, and what Drift meant to him. And Wing was uncertain, awkward, wanting but not daring to want.
It was impossible to hate him. He was, in his own mild way, envious of Perceptor. That had...never happened before. And he was a threat: he was Drift’s past, the one who had changed everything. And he clearly wanted Drift again. But somehow, threat though he was, Perceptor couldn’t summon anything like hostility against him.
It would be easier if he could.
Wing stepped back, his hand tracing down the side of Perceptor’s helm, optics distant and curious, knowing he was touching what Drift touched, imagining how it felt to him.
“You,” Perceptor said, quietly. “You were the one, in the desert.”
“I was not alone. Others were with me.” A wry flicker on the edge of the smile. “Behind me. I did...rush ahead of them.” He seemed embarrassed by it, now. “I just...the sword.” The hands flipped up, palms empty, nervous, vulnerable. Opening himself in front of an absolute stranger. Was it wrong that trust came so easily to Wing? Or were they, after ages of war, the ones who were wrong for withholding it so staunchly?
“The sword,” Perceptor echoed. His gaze went to the hilt over Wing’s head, ancient and powerful.
Wing resettled onto the chair. “Drift’s sword. It was...it was mine.”
Oh. Another bond between them, something Perceptor could never hope to share. The moment stretched, awkward, between them.
“Please,” Wing said like a supplicant, like the one who could only ask favors, instead of the one with any power at all. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
You rescued us. You’re repairing us. Risked everything for us. And you ask.... Perceptor shook his head. “No,” he murmured.
And for the first time, the light in Wing’s optics dimmed, disappointed.
[***]
“So that’s Wing,” Perceptor said, quietly, as Drift eased himself down onto the chair, the same way Wing had, canted, so that the Great Sword hung unfettered. Wing had excused himself, after bringing Drift over, hovering solicitously around Drift as he limped on his too-new components, giving one last wanting, worried look back over his shoulder nacelle as he crossed the threshold, leaving them together. The trust—still—amazed Perceptor.
Drift nodded. “That’s Wing.”
“He’s....” Beautiful? Modest? Sweet? Brave? Trusting? Perfect?
“...Wing,” Drift finished, a lopsided smile on his face.
Perceptor nodded. He looked down at his hands, the old, battered one and the half-repaired naked one, connected in his lap like a sign. “The mission.” Right. Business.
“Topspin’s in the best shape. And they can get the ship operational by tomorrow.” Drift shrugged.”Logical to send the data with Topspin.”
Perceptor frowned. That would leave them stranded until Topspin returned. If Topspin returned. If not…? Stranded...with Wing. But. The data had to get there. Perceptor looked down at his battered frame. “Take too long to get me functional,” he murmured. A statement and a question.
Drift gave a brusque, embarrassed nod. “My repairs went faster because, well, they had the specs from...last time. Topspin’s pretty standard, at least the parts they had to repair. You...,” he shrugged. “I think some of your modifications are complex.”
Ah. “They are...forthcoming with you.”
Drift ducked his head. “Wing. He feels responsible.” And he trusted Drift.
Another mental ‘Ah.’ “Topspin should go, then. The mission is vital.”
Drift nodded. The moment stretched again. Perceptor struggled to sit up, wincing as his damaged wrist gave under the weight. Drift lunged forward, hands under the joints, helping lift. Perceptor frowned. “Don’t have to do it all yourself. No shame,” Drift murmured, “In seeking help from your friends.”
“I’m fine.”
Drift gave his winsome, lopsided smile. “Of course.” Still, he let his hands slide gently over Perceptor’s chassis, soothing contact.
“I can see the attraction of this place,” Perceptor offered. He gestured around the room. “Even their repair facilities are beautiful. And...the peace.” He hadn’t heard so much as a raised voice since he onlined. “I imagine it was...hard to leave.”
“There was nothing left for me here,” Drift said, realizing too late what he’d implied: with Wing dead....“Too peaceful,” Drift added. “Haven’t earned it.”
Perceptor’s mouth pinched down at the first part, but nodded. Yes. He understood, all too well. Drift was not his, had never been his. Drift had always been beholden to a ghost. Even now, looking at him, the armor, the mannerisms--everything he thought of as Drift...was rooted in Wing. The same way of sitting, the same slight pause before speaking. Even, Perceptor thought, the same smile, though Wing’s was readier, wider, more freely given. As if Drift knew he were a counterfeit.
Drift shifted on the chair, the Great Sword tilting, the blue gem glinting in the sunlight. The sword. Wing’s sword. Every time Drift touched it, Perceptor thought, he’d been touching Wing. Thinking of Wing.
“You have earned it,” Perceptor said, quietly, the words burning like acid with their truth. He pushed himself further upright, wincing at the strain on his snapped clavicular struts. Drift’s optics were worried, tight. Perceptor jerked his chin at the door. “Go to him.”
Drift blinked. “What?”
A vent rattled through Perceptor’s intakes. “Go. Be with him. Be happy.”
“Percept--” Drift began. Stopped. “Is this what you want?” Something liquid glistened under his optics.
No. Nothing like that. But my wants...don’t matter. You never wanted me. I was just a replacement. A stand-in to a phantom. The right thing, the least humiliating thing, was to cede ground, give up the salient that had been lost. Lost because it had never truly been his. “Yes,” Perceptor said, his optics flat and hard.
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no subject
Date: 2011-04-16 03:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-17 12:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-17 12:54 am (UTC)But if you don't want to read the prompts for fear of spoilers, I presume, then I'm not sure why you're asking spoilery questions. :)
no subject
Date: 2011-04-17 01:11 am (UTC)