Halcyon part 7
Apr. 23rd, 2011 09:17 pm![[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
IDW
Drift, Perceptor, Wing, Topspin
sap
Drift awoke, some time much later, after they had all fallen into an exhausted, blissfully drained recharge. Perceptor lay on one side of him, Wing curled against the other, helm nestled against Drift’s chassis, thigh thrown over Drift's pelvic frame, the red of his knee stabilizer just brushing the silver of Perceptor's armor.
And over his chassis, their hands—one larger scientist's hand, fitted with microtools and gauges, the other smaller, but with reflexes and motion actuators and basic strength far beyond a normal mech's—were joined, fingers interlaced, like the last wire closing a circuit. The ship was coming in the morning, but for now...Drift determined to stay awake the rest of the night, to record as much of this bliss, this beautiful rare moment, for as long as he could.
Slowly, moving gently, he moved to rest one hand atop theirs.
[***]
Drift shifted, feeling a cool blankness against his side. He cracked the shutters of his optics, head turning slowly, stealthily, toward the sound of careful, quiet footsteps. Wing, moving to the bracket on the wall, where Drift had hung his sword. Drift stiffened, and the motion nudged Perceptor, who sat up, half-alarmed, blue optics wide and keen over Drift’s torso. Drift kept his ruse--optics nearly lidded, lowlight dim, pretending to recharge, not wanting to intrude. It was Wing’s sword. If he wanted it, what could Drift say or do? He was leaving the jet, and the least he could do would be to leave the sword as some feeble weak reminder.
Wing took the sword from its bracket, holding it reverently between his hands, before tilting it up, pressing the gem on the crossguard against his mouth. He stood, silent, focused, and the hum of unintelligible words floated over to him. Wing’s hand closed over the hilt, and Drift felt a pulling ache in his spark. He wrestled it down: it was Wing’s sword. Not his. Never his. Dai Atlas had had no right to give, and he had been too weak, too needy to do anything but take.
Wing held the blade aloft blue light crackling along the glyphs carved down the central channel, the light flaring across the room.
And then, just as suddenly, just as quietly, the light died, and Wing laid the blade back in its bracket, almost hastily, as if not entirely trusting himself with the temptation. He snatched up his own blade, the second one, the gem a lambent emerald in the soft glow of pre-dawn. Wing wheeled around, without looking at the sword, at Drift, aiming for the door, his face a tight mask.
Perceptor pushed off the berth, moving to intercept the jet just at the threshold of the room. Drift saw the black helm tilt down, the stern blue optics sharp on the jet’s face. Perceptor leaned in, murmuring something. Wing stepped back, shaking his head. Perceptor’s hand squeezed the white shoulder, his gaze saying something he didn’t trust to words. A shiver ran through Wing’s frame.
“Just...think about it.” Perceptor gave the arm one last squeeze before relinquishing it. Wing stilled, nodded, bowing his head before he dashed out of the room: a mech determined not to have to witness the wreck of all his hopes.
And it struck Drift, what it was all about, Wing, his sword. Wing was saying goodbye.
He let his optics open as Perceptor tried to ease back onto the berth. “What did you ask him?”
Perceptor's mouth quirked as he stretched himself along Drift. “What would make him happy.” He gave a sphinx's smile.
[***]
//Roger. Have landing coordinates. Inbound.// Topspin wasn't much for words, but the relief seeped through. And in that, Drift and Perceptor didn't have to ask if the mission was a success, if Prowl had gotten his data.
//Inbound acknowledged. Defenses on standby,// Tracer's voice was cool, professional, as though he had done this thousands of times. The Circle had decided it needed to be adaptable, and Tracer was determined to excel. Soon, they might be doing this more regularly.
//Roger. Confirmed two for pickup?//
Tracer looked back over his shoulder. Last chance to back out, his look said. Wing nodded, firmly, his smile a little nervous, tight, but solid. //Change. Confirm three.//
//Three.// A moment, digesting, putting pieces together. Topspin was big, but that did not mean stupid. He'd seen. //Springer's going to fraggin’ flip.//
Perceptor leaned forward, asking permission with his optics before he tapped the comm. //I'll handle Springer.// He reached his free hand back, squeezing Wing's hand.
IDW
Drift, Perceptor, Wing, Topspin
sap
Drift awoke, some time much later, after they had all fallen into an exhausted, blissfully drained recharge. Perceptor lay on one side of him, Wing curled against the other, helm nestled against Drift’s chassis, thigh thrown over Drift's pelvic frame, the red of his knee stabilizer just brushing the silver of Perceptor's armor.
And over his chassis, their hands—one larger scientist's hand, fitted with microtools and gauges, the other smaller, but with reflexes and motion actuators and basic strength far beyond a normal mech's—were joined, fingers interlaced, like the last wire closing a circuit. The ship was coming in the morning, but for now...Drift determined to stay awake the rest of the night, to record as much of this bliss, this beautiful rare moment, for as long as he could.
Slowly, moving gently, he moved to rest one hand atop theirs.
[***]
Drift shifted, feeling a cool blankness against his side. He cracked the shutters of his optics, head turning slowly, stealthily, toward the sound of careful, quiet footsteps. Wing, moving to the bracket on the wall, where Drift had hung his sword. Drift stiffened, and the motion nudged Perceptor, who sat up, half-alarmed, blue optics wide and keen over Drift’s torso. Drift kept his ruse--optics nearly lidded, lowlight dim, pretending to recharge, not wanting to intrude. It was Wing’s sword. If he wanted it, what could Drift say or do? He was leaving the jet, and the least he could do would be to leave the sword as some feeble weak reminder.
Wing took the sword from its bracket, holding it reverently between his hands, before tilting it up, pressing the gem on the crossguard against his mouth. He stood, silent, focused, and the hum of unintelligible words floated over to him. Wing’s hand closed over the hilt, and Drift felt a pulling ache in his spark. He wrestled it down: it was Wing’s sword. Not his. Never his. Dai Atlas had had no right to give, and he had been too weak, too needy to do anything but take.
Wing held the blade aloft blue light crackling along the glyphs carved down the central channel, the light flaring across the room.
And then, just as suddenly, just as quietly, the light died, and Wing laid the blade back in its bracket, almost hastily, as if not entirely trusting himself with the temptation. He snatched up his own blade, the second one, the gem a lambent emerald in the soft glow of pre-dawn. Wing wheeled around, without looking at the sword, at Drift, aiming for the door, his face a tight mask.
Perceptor pushed off the berth, moving to intercept the jet just at the threshold of the room. Drift saw the black helm tilt down, the stern blue optics sharp on the jet’s face. Perceptor leaned in, murmuring something. Wing stepped back, shaking his head. Perceptor’s hand squeezed the white shoulder, his gaze saying something he didn’t trust to words. A shiver ran through Wing’s frame.
“Just...think about it.” Perceptor gave the arm one last squeeze before relinquishing it. Wing stilled, nodded, bowing his head before he dashed out of the room: a mech determined not to have to witness the wreck of all his hopes.
And it struck Drift, what it was all about, Wing, his sword. Wing was saying goodbye.
He let his optics open as Perceptor tried to ease back onto the berth. “What did you ask him?”
Perceptor's mouth quirked as he stretched himself along Drift. “What would make him happy.” He gave a sphinx's smile.
[***]
//Roger. Have landing coordinates. Inbound.// Topspin wasn't much for words, but the relief seeped through. And in that, Drift and Perceptor didn't have to ask if the mission was a success, if Prowl had gotten his data.
//Inbound acknowledged. Defenses on standby,// Tracer's voice was cool, professional, as though he had done this thousands of times. The Circle had decided it needed to be adaptable, and Tracer was determined to excel. Soon, they might be doing this more regularly.
//Roger. Confirmed two for pickup?//
Tracer looked back over his shoulder. Last chance to back out, his look said. Wing nodded, firmly, his smile a little nervous, tight, but solid. //Change. Confirm three.//
//Three.// A moment, digesting, putting pieces together. Topspin was big, but that did not mean stupid. He'd seen. //Springer's going to fraggin’ flip.//
Perceptor leaned forward, asking permission with his optics before he tapped the comm. //I'll handle Springer.// He reached his free hand back, squeezing Wing's hand.
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Date: 2011-04-24 01:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-24 03:40 am (UTC)^ I second the MOAR THREESOME plz?
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Date: 2011-04-24 06:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-24 02:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-01 04:47 am (UTC)This was beyond excellent; beginning to end. To the point where I am disappointed that I know Wing won't return in the comics. You made this work in the most wonderful way.