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shadow_vector2011-05-08 08:16 pm
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in shadow_vector2011-05-08 08:16 pm
Entry tags:
How It Has to Be
PG
IDW Forlorn Hope AU
Jetfire/Sixshot
angst, glossed over pnp
for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
tf_speedwriting prompt ‘seeking acceptance’
Jetfire had hated the words, even as he’d said them. “I…think I need to return.” They had tasted vile, like rancidity and ash, bitter poison, and his wings had trembled, anticipating Sixshot’s reaction—rage, refusal, denial.
Sixshot had merely looked at him for a long moment, face unreadable behind the mask and said, quietly, eventually, “Tomorrow.”
And then he’d stood up, offering a hand to Jetfire as if nothing was wrong, nothing was changed between them, and drew him down to the berth, his hands roaming over Jetfire’s white wings with the knowledgeable grace of a lover, Jetfire quivering against him, trying to push from his mind the notion that this was the last time, the very last time and never again. Never again. He’d found himself sobbing into the overload, ecstasy burning into tears, and Sixshot simply held him, the sole stability in his world, the one he was pushing away, holding him close.
And he was leaving him: drawn by some…ridiculous notion of duty and service and loyalty. He was turning his back on the one thing, the one mech that never questioned him, that accepted him utterly. Even to his decision to leave.
Jetfire knew how different it would be if it had been reversed. If Sixshot had been the one to sunder them, Jetfire knew he’d be a ball of self-recrimination—that he was not good enough, engaging enough, interesting enough, just…not enough. He would have spent their last night tearing himself apart.
He already was, and he was the one who had made it so.
And now he sat, half numb, one of Sixshot’s pistols pressed into his palm, while the Phase Sixer piloted the Devil King to a low synchrony orbit. The vertical stabilizers on his shoulders tensed as he dropped the ship’s cloaking, fingers flying over the console, firing the weapons systems on hot, just long enough for the Autobot proximity sensors to pick up and begin a howling alarm.
Sixshot stood, slapping the cloaking protocol back on. The ship blinked off sensor array. “Ready.”
“Sixshot, we don’t have to--,”
“Has to be this way,” Sixshot said, striding past Jetfire toward the entryramp, allowing no further words, dragging Jetfire in his wake.
He turned, palm on the release, his other hand hauling Jetfire closer, his mask retracting, mouth fastening onto Jetfire’s with a yearning passion, as though he were kissing a phantom. Jetfire melted under the kiss, his own mouth fiercely hungry, tasting the sweet pain of a last embrace.
Sixshot tore himself away. “Know what to do.”
Jetfire stood, trembling, Sixshot’s pistol held limply in numb fingers. He nodded. Sixshot had gone over the plan, insisting on it, saying at every question ‘has to be this way.’ As though he could read fate.
Maybe he could—Jetfire could imagine no other reason Sixshot seemed so calm. Until he tasted the desperate longing in the kiss. “Yes,” he whispered. “And…thank you.”
Sixshot’s optics held his, coruscating strangely, before he turned and slapped the door release.
The entry yawned before them, and Jetfire took his cue, throwing himself into space. Sixshot followed, a half-klik later, folding into his space mode.
Their last flight together, Jetfire thought, watching the stubby wings slice through the expanse of the heavens, chased by the sound-damped puffs of light and sound from the Autobot defenses. Sixshot eluded them easily, wheeling and spinning around their shots.
And then the first rosy bolt lanced near his wings. Jetfire startled before remembering. Yes. Part of the plan, and part of the trust: Sixshot tore the air on all sides, each shot careful, precise, and every single one of them missing Jetfire utterly. How…easily he reads me, Jetfire thought, as even his erratic sluicing through space didn’t throw off Sixshot’s aim. And how much I trust him. There was not even a thread of fear that Sixshot would hit him, and definitely not on purpose. Sixshot was capable of planning—clearly. He’d thrown this plan together from the time Jetfire had first spoken to now, less than a Standard Rotational Cycle later.
Jetfire whirled, spinning, trying to catch sight of Sixshot, imprinting every instant on his memory—those wings he had caressed in flight, those stabilizers that seemed to call to his palms.
//Missed your cue.// Sixshot’s voice, calm, and somehow always more inflected over comm: teasing.
//Oh. I….// He’d balked at this part of the plan. The last thing he’d wanted to do was…shoot Sixshot. With his own weapon. But Sixshot had just shaken his head and insisted. This was how it had to be.
Symbolism, Jetfire thought, as he obediently dropped flight, shifting to his robot mode, bringing the huge white gun to bear on Sixshot. Who slowed his pursuit, flipping to his root as well, trying to look menacing.
All he looked to Jetfire was…in pain.
He pulled the trigger, and the plasma bolt blasted from the muzzle of the pistol, recoil kicking the barrel upward as the plasma burst against Sixshot’s chassis, puncturing the small wingplane, the metal blackening and bubbling under the blast. Which Sixshot took, letting it propel him backward…and away. And Jetfire’s last sight of him was the golden optics, fixed on him, desperate not to look away.
[***]
“And,” Prowl prompted, in his way as taciturn as Sixshot.
“They sent him after me,” Jetfire said, quietly. A lie. But it was, as Sixshot had repeated ‘how it had to be’. It felt like a bond between them, to say the words, recite the plan, exactly as Sixshot had laid it before him. It felt sacred and Jetfire could almost taste, now, saying the words, what it had costs Sixshot to let him go. They believed his story simply because...the truth was unbelievable. 'He let me go.' No. They'd believe Jetfire a hero before that.
And in that realization he knew...how deeply Sixshot had known him and felt him. And he trembled, humble before it.
“Precedent,” Optimus said. “Salvvatan VIII. He went after the Throttlebots there.”
“And you got one of his guns away from him.”
Jetfire nodded. His palms burned for the weapon, wanting its weight, wanting the contact with the same hard, white enamel of Sixshot’s neutronium alloy. “I-I knew we were in the sector. The astrogation was open. And I took my chance.” He looked around, forcing a wan smile. “I knew my fellow Autobots would aid me.”
It has to be this way, he thought looking around the circle of optics, blue and wide and concerned.
“Glad to have you back,” Optimus said, offering a hand, a datapad. “I know you missed your research.”
It has to be this way. And Jetfire’s spark burned, empty and alone even as his hands were filled with duties and obligations. This was what I wanted. It has to be this way.
IDW Forlorn Hope AU
Jetfire/Sixshot
angst, glossed over pnp
for
tf_speedwriting prompt ‘seeking acceptance’Jetfire had hated the words, even as he’d said them. “I…think I need to return.” They had tasted vile, like rancidity and ash, bitter poison, and his wings had trembled, anticipating Sixshot’s reaction—rage, refusal, denial.
Sixshot had merely looked at him for a long moment, face unreadable behind the mask and said, quietly, eventually, “Tomorrow.”
And then he’d stood up, offering a hand to Jetfire as if nothing was wrong, nothing was changed between them, and drew him down to the berth, his hands roaming over Jetfire’s white wings with the knowledgeable grace of a lover, Jetfire quivering against him, trying to push from his mind the notion that this was the last time, the very last time and never again. Never again. He’d found himself sobbing into the overload, ecstasy burning into tears, and Sixshot simply held him, the sole stability in his world, the one he was pushing away, holding him close.
And he was leaving him: drawn by some…ridiculous notion of duty and service and loyalty. He was turning his back on the one thing, the one mech that never questioned him, that accepted him utterly. Even to his decision to leave.
Jetfire knew how different it would be if it had been reversed. If Sixshot had been the one to sunder them, Jetfire knew he’d be a ball of self-recrimination—that he was not good enough, engaging enough, interesting enough, just…not enough. He would have spent their last night tearing himself apart.
He already was, and he was the one who had made it so.
And now he sat, half numb, one of Sixshot’s pistols pressed into his palm, while the Phase Sixer piloted the Devil King to a low synchrony orbit. The vertical stabilizers on his shoulders tensed as he dropped the ship’s cloaking, fingers flying over the console, firing the weapons systems on hot, just long enough for the Autobot proximity sensors to pick up and begin a howling alarm.
Sixshot stood, slapping the cloaking protocol back on. The ship blinked off sensor array. “Ready.”
“Sixshot, we don’t have to--,”
“Has to be this way,” Sixshot said, striding past Jetfire toward the entryramp, allowing no further words, dragging Jetfire in his wake.
He turned, palm on the release, his other hand hauling Jetfire closer, his mask retracting, mouth fastening onto Jetfire’s with a yearning passion, as though he were kissing a phantom. Jetfire melted under the kiss, his own mouth fiercely hungry, tasting the sweet pain of a last embrace.
Sixshot tore himself away. “Know what to do.”
Jetfire stood, trembling, Sixshot’s pistol held limply in numb fingers. He nodded. Sixshot had gone over the plan, insisting on it, saying at every question ‘has to be this way.’ As though he could read fate.
Maybe he could—Jetfire could imagine no other reason Sixshot seemed so calm. Until he tasted the desperate longing in the kiss. “Yes,” he whispered. “And…thank you.”
Sixshot’s optics held his, coruscating strangely, before he turned and slapped the door release.
The entry yawned before them, and Jetfire took his cue, throwing himself into space. Sixshot followed, a half-klik later, folding into his space mode.
Their last flight together, Jetfire thought, watching the stubby wings slice through the expanse of the heavens, chased by the sound-damped puffs of light and sound from the Autobot defenses. Sixshot eluded them easily, wheeling and spinning around their shots.
And then the first rosy bolt lanced near his wings. Jetfire startled before remembering. Yes. Part of the plan, and part of the trust: Sixshot tore the air on all sides, each shot careful, precise, and every single one of them missing Jetfire utterly. How…easily he reads me, Jetfire thought, as even his erratic sluicing through space didn’t throw off Sixshot’s aim. And how much I trust him. There was not even a thread of fear that Sixshot would hit him, and definitely not on purpose. Sixshot was capable of planning—clearly. He’d thrown this plan together from the time Jetfire had first spoken to now, less than a Standard Rotational Cycle later.
Jetfire whirled, spinning, trying to catch sight of Sixshot, imprinting every instant on his memory—those wings he had caressed in flight, those stabilizers that seemed to call to his palms.
//Missed your cue.// Sixshot’s voice, calm, and somehow always more inflected over comm: teasing.
//Oh. I….// He’d balked at this part of the plan. The last thing he’d wanted to do was…shoot Sixshot. With his own weapon. But Sixshot had just shaken his head and insisted. This was how it had to be.
Symbolism, Jetfire thought, as he obediently dropped flight, shifting to his robot mode, bringing the huge white gun to bear on Sixshot. Who slowed his pursuit, flipping to his root as well, trying to look menacing.
All he looked to Jetfire was…in pain.
He pulled the trigger, and the plasma bolt blasted from the muzzle of the pistol, recoil kicking the barrel upward as the plasma burst against Sixshot’s chassis, puncturing the small wingplane, the metal blackening and bubbling under the blast. Which Sixshot took, letting it propel him backward…and away. And Jetfire’s last sight of him was the golden optics, fixed on him, desperate not to look away.
[***]
“And,” Prowl prompted, in his way as taciturn as Sixshot.
“They sent him after me,” Jetfire said, quietly. A lie. But it was, as Sixshot had repeated ‘how it had to be’. It felt like a bond between them, to say the words, recite the plan, exactly as Sixshot had laid it before him. It felt sacred and Jetfire could almost taste, now, saying the words, what it had costs Sixshot to let him go. They believed his story simply because...the truth was unbelievable. 'He let me go.' No. They'd believe Jetfire a hero before that.
And in that realization he knew...how deeply Sixshot had known him and felt him. And he trembled, humble before it.
“Precedent,” Optimus said. “Salvvatan VIII. He went after the Throttlebots there.”
“And you got one of his guns away from him.”
Jetfire nodded. His palms burned for the weapon, wanting its weight, wanting the contact with the same hard, white enamel of Sixshot’s neutronium alloy. “I-I knew we were in the sector. The astrogation was open. And I took my chance.” He looked around, forcing a wan smile. “I knew my fellow Autobots would aid me.”
It has to be this way, he thought looking around the circle of optics, blue and wide and concerned.
“Glad to have you back,” Optimus said, offering a hand, a datapad. “I know you missed your research.”
It has to be this way. And Jetfire’s spark burned, empty and alone even as his hands were filled with duties and obligations. This was what I wanted. It has to be this way.
no subject
*Exhales*
Nice chapter :) Wasn't expecting it, obviously, but good. Sixshot would do anything for Jetfire, wouldn't he? And I don't think Jetfire is as convinced about his decision as he thought he would be. :P
no subject
How is it that you manage to make me love a Phase Sixer? I mean... Decepticon! Planet. Killing. Decepticon! And this fic makes me so damn saaaaad! It's not fair that they can't seem to have their happily-ever-after, damnit. stupid war.
no subject