Halcyon part 4
Apr. 19th, 2011 10:58 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 but refs to sticky
IDW
Drift/Wing, Perceptor, Tracer.
angst
[***]
He had no reason to complain. Honestly. And on so many levels Drift knew this. But he couldn’t help the feeling of…unease trickling like cold, dirty oil over his systems, even as his sensornet shimmered in the last throes of an overload, the flat planes of Wing’s audial panel smooth and warm against his thigh.
Wing tilted his head, golden optics seeking Drift’s, his glossa giving a last lazy flick along his mouthplates. Drift managed a smile, stroking one hand over the audial flare. Wing’s optics dimmed in pleasure, as he tilted into the touch. How could he complain? He had everything he had ever wanted: peace, security, safety…Wing.
He shouldn't complain, and this was all he'd ever wanted. Except....
Perceptor.
He wanted to blame Perceptor, for pushing him away, giving him permission. But he'd taken it, taken Wing—wanted to be pushed into it, had been willing to be guided. He looked down at the white helm, the almost adoring golden optics, with a cold shame that burned away the last of the pleasure.
He hadn’t earned them. He hadn’t deserved Wing, earlier, but that had been a promise, a hint of what was possible. And he didn't deserve Perceptor, or the red mech's pain. It struck him like a blow, the thought that Perceptor had let him go. Unworthy. Unwanted.
Something flashed across his face, something that seemed to find an echo in a soft sound from Wing. The jet clambered up Drift’s body, in gentle, affectionate touches, twisting himself around behind Drift. He pulled Drift back, so that Drift’s shoulder armor hooked over his own nacelles, Drift’s backstruts resting on his chassis. The white arms wrapped around his torso, Wing’s head sliding against his audio. For a long moment they lay there, Drift cradled against the jet, Wing’s knee stabilizers jutting the air around them. Wing sighed.
“Your ship,” Wing said, so softly Drift had to strain to hear, “will return in a few days.” A long, awkward pause, the words sending dark ripples through Drift’s net. “And.” Another sigh, long, uneven. “And I just wanted to thank you. For sharing yourself with me.” Another pause, as if chopping the sentence into phrases made it easier. “While you were here.”
Drift tried to turn, to face Wing, but the jet’s white arms clamped down harder over his torso, locking him into position. “Wing….” He fell silent, hating the reminder, reality crashing down upon him like a burning city.
“Drift,” Wing echoed, his voice a paltry ghost. The thighs squeezed tighter around him, wanting to hold him as close as he could for as long as he was able.
Drift’s head fell back, hands lacing on top of Wing’s, the bare span where his Great Sword normally lay pressed against Wing’s chassis—the chest plate that had been shattered and burst so that Drift could be free of his past—letting himself be held.
[***]
The red mech, Tracer, Perceptor thought, settled Perceptor down onto a bench in the wide, high room. They were agonizingly careful with him, constantly monitoring his core heat. All for his own good, of course. And what made it worse was his own awareness that he was jumping at shadows. He was the flawed one, the broken one, the imperfection in the perfect city.
“I don’t know,” Tracer was saying. “Honestly, I think he just thought it might be something more entertaining than having you stare at the walls of your room.”
Perceptor schooled his expression, carefully, though the thought was…outrageous. But he’d been invited, in all the strangely stiff, formal courtesy that apparently ran this place, and he would not give Wing the satisfaction of refusal. So he’d allowed himself to be escorted, half limping on his partial repairs, to this practice room. Across the room, Drift and Wing were preparing and Perceptor burned to see them together—evenly matched in height, white and red armor blending together. They really did belong together, he thought. Both beautiful, both perfect. While he was…damaged, more than just his capacitors.
“Paint blades,” Tracer said, settling down next to him. “It’s a safety precaution for when we practice what would be lethal moves.” He gave a smile of some fond remembrance. “And…it’s fun.”
Fun. Perceptor thought of his own practice time—flat on his belly on the range, shot after shot, practicing for windage, rise, muzzle heat. He was always deadly serious. Fun? No. He nodded at Tracer, glad that the other mech didn’t seem to expect much more out of him.
Drift and Wing set themselves at inlaid marks on the floor, each holding two of the short, treated blades. “Blue,” Wing called out. “And Drift is yellow.”
Tracer gave an assenting noise as the two took some formal guard Perceptor had never seen before. And then, in a flash of movement so fast Perceptor had to struggle to keep up, the two moved, closing the distance between them, blades flashing, then ringing with contact. Wing caught an overhead strike in his crossed blades, before flipping his wrist, spinning around to score a solid hit with one blade against Drift’s hip scabbard.
They separated, Drift giving a rueful shrug. “Least you’re not going easy on me,” he said.
“I knew you wouldn’t want me to,” Wing answered, a smile flashing brighter than his blade. And that comment held all the familiarity Perceptor had feared: Wing knew Drift, even after all that time, implicitly, intuitively. Things Perceptor had had to guess, to parse by trial and error...Wing just knew.
They reset, flew at each other again, and this time Perceptor could—barely—follow the movements, track the blades and the balance as they spun around each other, dashing in, fleching and blocking, big sweeping moves, delicate spins of the wrist, drops of the body as they helixed around each other, probing, parrying.
Perceptor could see, now, Drift’s style, evolved from, related to, Wing’s. But Wing’s was fluid, like plasma, constantly moving, anticipating and responding with the reflexes of one born to this language: Drift was just a bit slower, his movements heavier, more solid, committing more to each strike than Wing did, exposing more. Not that Drift wasn’t good, but Wing was…excellent.
“Is he the best you have?” Perceptor asked, suddenly.
Tracer gave a strange smile. “We don’t subscribe to hierarchies like that,” he said, and for a moment his optics were hard and unwelcoming. Drift had warned Perceptor of some of the stranger beliefs of these mechs—their names, their dislike of faction and ideology. “But yes. He is one of our best. And in these last years, it has been the only thing that has brought him any pleasure.” Tracer’s mouth quirked, zipping shut, as though he had said too much. “I’m sorry. Wing is…very dear to me.”
So much said—too much—in those words, and Perceptor could see the rest of the tale: Wing, pining, yearning for Drift, wrapping himself in memories and misery, refusing solace. He’d do the same, for Drift. He was already, he thought, doing it. Perceptor wondered what he’d find absorbed solace in, in the years ahead. He wondered if he’d carry it off with Wing’s grace.
He bowed his head, half a nod, watching the two of them. He could see Wing’s joy, now, incandescent, two things he loved most dearly laid before him, and determined to enjoy every last moment. And he could see Drift, his own style loosening up, his crouch less taut, a grin flickering like lambent flame with each of Wing’s warm, ringing laughs.
Drift got in a hit, a stripe of yellow appearing on the jet’s nacelle. “Excellent!” Wing cried, beaming as though the yellow smear was a badge of honor. And Drift…smiled. Shyly, not the half-ironic smile he hid his tentative affections behind, but an honest, genuine expression of pride. Perceptor ached, his hand rubbing over his chassis, as though its damaged panels were the problem.
“Are you unwell?”
“I’m fine,” Perceptor said, quietly. A lie. He didn’t think he’d ever be fine again.
[***]
Drift and Wing sparred for most of the afternoon. At one point, Drift had scored another hit, and Wing had stopped, and made him repeat the strike, slower, head tilting, considering. On the third try, Wing had worked a block for the maneuver, then walked Drift through it, pleased to have learned something, eager to share.
Perceptor had never seen Drift so absorbed, so…happy. Wing was so clearly his superior, but so generous about it, so casual, that it was impossible to feel anything other than a fierce pride when he gave the rare, genuine compliment. Tracer had become engrossed, studying Drift’s wilder style with keen interest. And when he’d leaned over and said, “He has a natural skill for this,” Perceptor had prickled with pride, as though he had anything to do with it.
Wing stopped, finally, raising his blades in a signal, happiness shining through the weariness in his gestures.
“You win,” Drift said, the smile Perceptor knew curling across his face, teasing where Drift didn’t dare expose himself. The grin he’d thought was his and his alone.
Wing studied their paint smeared bodies. Wing had won, decisively, Drift’s frame hatched with blue lines, while only a handful—a hard-won handful—glowed on Wing’s. “I do,” Wing grinned back. “And what do I win?” Like the lines of an old, familiar joke. Something else between them.
Drift glanced at Perceptor. His smile fell until he marshaled it back. “Whatever you want,” he said.
Wing looked up from where he’d been wiping down one of the blades, over to Perceptor, back at Drift. Perceptor saw him give a slow nod before he approached, his hand curving intimately around Drift’s white helm, stroking down the finial, as he pulled him closer to murmur something in his audio. Some small mercy, Perceptor supposed, this nod to him, this pretense of privacy. Drift twitched, almost pulling away. Wing gave a soft laugh, murmured a few more words Perceptor couldn’t hope to overhear and drew back, gold optics hungry on Drift. He gave Drift’s upper arm one last squeeze, leaving a handprint of yellow against the white, before he stepped back, with a strangely formal bow, and left.
IDW
Drift/Wing, Perceptor, Tracer.
angst
[***]
He had no reason to complain. Honestly. And on so many levels Drift knew this. But he couldn’t help the feeling of…unease trickling like cold, dirty oil over his systems, even as his sensornet shimmered in the last throes of an overload, the flat planes of Wing’s audial panel smooth and warm against his thigh.
Wing tilted his head, golden optics seeking Drift’s, his glossa giving a last lazy flick along his mouthplates. Drift managed a smile, stroking one hand over the audial flare. Wing’s optics dimmed in pleasure, as he tilted into the touch. How could he complain? He had everything he had ever wanted: peace, security, safety…Wing.
He shouldn't complain, and this was all he'd ever wanted. Except....
Perceptor.
He wanted to blame Perceptor, for pushing him away, giving him permission. But he'd taken it, taken Wing—wanted to be pushed into it, had been willing to be guided. He looked down at the white helm, the almost adoring golden optics, with a cold shame that burned away the last of the pleasure.
He hadn’t earned them. He hadn’t deserved Wing, earlier, but that had been a promise, a hint of what was possible. And he didn't deserve Perceptor, or the red mech's pain. It struck him like a blow, the thought that Perceptor had let him go. Unworthy. Unwanted.
Something flashed across his face, something that seemed to find an echo in a soft sound from Wing. The jet clambered up Drift’s body, in gentle, affectionate touches, twisting himself around behind Drift. He pulled Drift back, so that Drift’s shoulder armor hooked over his own nacelles, Drift’s backstruts resting on his chassis. The white arms wrapped around his torso, Wing’s head sliding against his audio. For a long moment they lay there, Drift cradled against the jet, Wing’s knee stabilizers jutting the air around them. Wing sighed.
“Your ship,” Wing said, so softly Drift had to strain to hear, “will return in a few days.” A long, awkward pause, the words sending dark ripples through Drift’s net. “And.” Another sigh, long, uneven. “And I just wanted to thank you. For sharing yourself with me.” Another pause, as if chopping the sentence into phrases made it easier. “While you were here.”
Drift tried to turn, to face Wing, but the jet’s white arms clamped down harder over his torso, locking him into position. “Wing….” He fell silent, hating the reminder, reality crashing down upon him like a burning city.
“Drift,” Wing echoed, his voice a paltry ghost. The thighs squeezed tighter around him, wanting to hold him as close as he could for as long as he was able.
Drift’s head fell back, hands lacing on top of Wing’s, the bare span where his Great Sword normally lay pressed against Wing’s chassis—the chest plate that had been shattered and burst so that Drift could be free of his past—letting himself be held.
[***]
The red mech, Tracer, Perceptor thought, settled Perceptor down onto a bench in the wide, high room. They were agonizingly careful with him, constantly monitoring his core heat. All for his own good, of course. And what made it worse was his own awareness that he was jumping at shadows. He was the flawed one, the broken one, the imperfection in the perfect city.
“I don’t know,” Tracer was saying. “Honestly, I think he just thought it might be something more entertaining than having you stare at the walls of your room.”
Perceptor schooled his expression, carefully, though the thought was…outrageous. But he’d been invited, in all the strangely stiff, formal courtesy that apparently ran this place, and he would not give Wing the satisfaction of refusal. So he’d allowed himself to be escorted, half limping on his partial repairs, to this practice room. Across the room, Drift and Wing were preparing and Perceptor burned to see them together—evenly matched in height, white and red armor blending together. They really did belong together, he thought. Both beautiful, both perfect. While he was…damaged, more than just his capacitors.
“Paint blades,” Tracer said, settling down next to him. “It’s a safety precaution for when we practice what would be lethal moves.” He gave a smile of some fond remembrance. “And…it’s fun.”
Fun. Perceptor thought of his own practice time—flat on his belly on the range, shot after shot, practicing for windage, rise, muzzle heat. He was always deadly serious. Fun? No. He nodded at Tracer, glad that the other mech didn’t seem to expect much more out of him.
Drift and Wing set themselves at inlaid marks on the floor, each holding two of the short, treated blades. “Blue,” Wing called out. “And Drift is yellow.”
Tracer gave an assenting noise as the two took some formal guard Perceptor had never seen before. And then, in a flash of movement so fast Perceptor had to struggle to keep up, the two moved, closing the distance between them, blades flashing, then ringing with contact. Wing caught an overhead strike in his crossed blades, before flipping his wrist, spinning around to score a solid hit with one blade against Drift’s hip scabbard.
They separated, Drift giving a rueful shrug. “Least you’re not going easy on me,” he said.
“I knew you wouldn’t want me to,” Wing answered, a smile flashing brighter than his blade. And that comment held all the familiarity Perceptor had feared: Wing knew Drift, even after all that time, implicitly, intuitively. Things Perceptor had had to guess, to parse by trial and error...Wing just knew.
They reset, flew at each other again, and this time Perceptor could—barely—follow the movements, track the blades and the balance as they spun around each other, dashing in, fleching and blocking, big sweeping moves, delicate spins of the wrist, drops of the body as they helixed around each other, probing, parrying.
Perceptor could see, now, Drift’s style, evolved from, related to, Wing’s. But Wing’s was fluid, like plasma, constantly moving, anticipating and responding with the reflexes of one born to this language: Drift was just a bit slower, his movements heavier, more solid, committing more to each strike than Wing did, exposing more. Not that Drift wasn’t good, but Wing was…excellent.
“Is he the best you have?” Perceptor asked, suddenly.
Tracer gave a strange smile. “We don’t subscribe to hierarchies like that,” he said, and for a moment his optics were hard and unwelcoming. Drift had warned Perceptor of some of the stranger beliefs of these mechs—their names, their dislike of faction and ideology. “But yes. He is one of our best. And in these last years, it has been the only thing that has brought him any pleasure.” Tracer’s mouth quirked, zipping shut, as though he had said too much. “I’m sorry. Wing is…very dear to me.”
So much said—too much—in those words, and Perceptor could see the rest of the tale: Wing, pining, yearning for Drift, wrapping himself in memories and misery, refusing solace. He’d do the same, for Drift. He was already, he thought, doing it. Perceptor wondered what he’d find absorbed solace in, in the years ahead. He wondered if he’d carry it off with Wing’s grace.
He bowed his head, half a nod, watching the two of them. He could see Wing’s joy, now, incandescent, two things he loved most dearly laid before him, and determined to enjoy every last moment. And he could see Drift, his own style loosening up, his crouch less taut, a grin flickering like lambent flame with each of Wing’s warm, ringing laughs.
Drift got in a hit, a stripe of yellow appearing on the jet’s nacelle. “Excellent!” Wing cried, beaming as though the yellow smear was a badge of honor. And Drift…smiled. Shyly, not the half-ironic smile he hid his tentative affections behind, but an honest, genuine expression of pride. Perceptor ached, his hand rubbing over his chassis, as though its damaged panels were the problem.
“Are you unwell?”
“I’m fine,” Perceptor said, quietly. A lie. He didn’t think he’d ever be fine again.
[***]
Drift and Wing sparred for most of the afternoon. At one point, Drift had scored another hit, and Wing had stopped, and made him repeat the strike, slower, head tilting, considering. On the third try, Wing had worked a block for the maneuver, then walked Drift through it, pleased to have learned something, eager to share.
Perceptor had never seen Drift so absorbed, so…happy. Wing was so clearly his superior, but so generous about it, so casual, that it was impossible to feel anything other than a fierce pride when he gave the rare, genuine compliment. Tracer had become engrossed, studying Drift’s wilder style with keen interest. And when he’d leaned over and said, “He has a natural skill for this,” Perceptor had prickled with pride, as though he had anything to do with it.
Wing stopped, finally, raising his blades in a signal, happiness shining through the weariness in his gestures.
“You win,” Drift said, the smile Perceptor knew curling across his face, teasing where Drift didn’t dare expose himself. The grin he’d thought was his and his alone.
Wing studied their paint smeared bodies. Wing had won, decisively, Drift’s frame hatched with blue lines, while only a handful—a hard-won handful—glowed on Wing’s. “I do,” Wing grinned back. “And what do I win?” Like the lines of an old, familiar joke. Something else between them.
Drift glanced at Perceptor. His smile fell until he marshaled it back. “Whatever you want,” he said.
Wing looked up from where he’d been wiping down one of the blades, over to Perceptor, back at Drift. Perceptor saw him give a slow nod before he approached, his hand curving intimately around Drift’s white helm, stroking down the finial, as he pulled him closer to murmur something in his audio. Some small mercy, Perceptor supposed, this nod to him, this pretense of privacy. Drift twitched, almost pulling away. Wing gave a soft laugh, murmured a few more words Perceptor couldn’t hope to overhear and drew back, gold optics hungry on Drift. He gave Drift’s upper arm one last squeeze, leaving a handprint of yellow against the white, before he stepped back, with a strangely formal bow, and left.
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no subject
Date: 2011-04-19 11:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-22 12:21 am (UTC)(And is that possibly an impending OT4? Seems like Tracer's right there with Perceptor in the unrequited-love funk pit...)
no subject
Date: 2011-04-26 04:38 am (UTC)