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shadow_vector2011-05-23 09:50 am
Sursum part 5
IDW
Drift, Wing, OC (Cloudburst)
pnp interfacing,
“I want to know what they're going to do with him.” Drift paced the vestibule.
“He'll be given a choice,” Cloudburst said. His own optics kept leaping to the barred, ornate doors.
“Choice,” Drift echoed. He folded his arms over his chassis, planting his feet, as though his truculence could change anything.
“From exile too...lesser punishments.” Cloudburst frowned.
“Exile.” Drift narrowed his optics. “I'll go with him, then.” Take him back to the Decepticons. With Wing on their side? It would be some advantage. And he'd have Wing, situation reversed, his charge, his prisoner, the jet turning to him for comfort. The idea was...almost too tempting.
“He gets to choose, Drift,” Cloudburst corrected, mildly. “But your loyalty speaks much about you.”
Wasn't loyalty, Drift thought. Just.... He growled at himself. Weak. This place was making him weak, making him question...everything.
The door opened with a resounding series of clangs and wheels, the bolts riding back along their tracks, the heavy panels rolling aside with a ponderous weight.
Drift straightened. Wing, glowing white against the darker mass of the other Knights. His face was tense, tight, optics creased with worry. Even then, he forced a smile on, one that barely kindled as he approached the pair.
Wing tugged his shorter blades from their sheaths, holding them out to Cloudburst. “Will you hold these for me?”
“Penitence, then.” The large hands closed over the deactivated blades, fingers moving to stroke Wing's hands.
Wing nodded, and then moved closer, rising up on his toe plates to place a gentle, brief kiss on Cloudbursts's mouth. “I'll be fine.”
“One day you'll be wrong about that,” Cloudburst said, stroking a hand over the white shoulder.
“I'll only be wrong once,” Wing responded, like some old joke between them, the sad smile warming slightly. “Take care of Drift?”
Cloudburst nodded. Drift glowered. He did not need to be taken care of. And that sounded...awfully final.
Wing turned to Drift, reaching over his shoulder. Drift stepped back, confused, as Wing held the heavy Sword out to him. “And will you keep this for me, Drift?”
He didn't want to take it, but he couldn't bring himself to refuse. The Sword was warm in his hands, from where it rested against Wing's humming systems. He looked down at it, the glyphs twining down the length of the blade, the jewel glimmering like a living thing. He looked up. “You're coming back for this, right?”
Wing laughed, leaning in to brush his mouth over Drift's. He tilted his head away, crest resting against Drift's. “Yes. I will be back for it. In the morning.” He tipped in again, the kiss more lingering this time, pulling at the lip plates, tasting Drift's mouth. One corner of Wing's mouth quirked in a smile. “You're worth it.”
No, Drift thought, as Wing pulled away, the gold optics lingering over his face, I'm not.
Another mech tapped him on the shoulder. “Time, Wing.”
Wing nodded, bowing his head. His hands, empty, weaponless, squeezed over Drift's on the blade. “Don't worry, Drift. I'll be fine.” He followed the other mech.
“No!” Drift's hand closed over the Sword's hilt, moving to dash after the white jet. “This is--”
“--what must be done.” Cloudburst's arms were dark bands around Drift's torso. “Please. Don't make it worse.”
“Worse?” Drift struggled in Cloudburst's grip. He could break free, he could tear himself loose, easily. He'd fought his way off a Decepticon warship, after all. But he didn't want to kill Cloudburst. That...wouldn't solve anything. That would definitely make things worse. And Wing's words echoed in his cortex: You're worth it.
He wasn't. But he wanted to be.
[***]
Cloudburst brought him back to Wing's quarters, where they'd sat for tense cycles, Drift squatted on the floor, staring at the door, as though that were the enemy. He wanted to break the door, tear it from its track, vent his helpless rage on it. But it was Wing's and he had no right.
And he suspected Wing was getting enough broken tonight.
“He will be back. In the morning.” Cloudburst settled down next to him on the floor. He placed a cube between Drift's feet. “You should refuel.”
“Don't need it.”
Cloudburst laughed. “He'll need you in the morning. You'll need it for then.”
Drift's optics flicked over to the blue armor, down to the cube. “Stupid penitence.”
“It is our way.”
If Drift had expected resistance, hostility, he was disappointed. He took the cube, took a long sip, wishing he could smash ‘it is our way’ into a thousand glittering shards.
“Drift,” Cloudburst began, leaning over.
“What.” He turned to the jet, startled to find the green optics nearly on top of his own, the mouth seeking his. His surprise was swallowed in the kiss, warm, soothing, not intruding, but wanting.
He pulled back, for a klik, stunned, and the thought of Wing, suffering, Wing alone, stabbed through him like the Great Sword's broad blade. But then his sensornet surged, electric and alive, and he found himself—traitorous, unfaithful—leaning into the kiss, twisting over, his free hand curling around Cloudburst's neck. It was inexplicable, inexcusable, but it was...as if his worry, concern, emotions so new to him he didn't know how to handle them, sought any channel of release they could, spilling over into his sensornet. “Wing,” he managed, a tissue thin protest.
“Doesn't want you to worry. He said that one of us in pain tonight was quite enough.” Cloudburst pulled back, giving Drift room, letting him make the choice.
Drift studied him. He had no doubt that Wing would say that, believe that. But what did he want? “Show me Wing,” he said, his voice husky, hand reaching to stroke the complicated shapes of Cloudburst's dark chassis. “Show me what you see.” His spark coruscated at the thought, as Cloudburst pulled him closer, arms around his shoulders, pulling him down along the floor.
Drift's hands roamed over the jet's chassis, so different from Wing's compact frame. And Cloudburst's larger hands were gentle, exploring, over his own back, the fingertips roaming over the seams in his armor, the alien, Decepticon design. Drift growled, finding Cloudburst's mouth, optics dimming, leaning into his desire, his own hands greedy on the broad span of the Vosian wings.
He hadn't realized until now how badly he'd wanted to touch them—the broad flat panels of metal, blades that cut through the air like defiance incarnate.
Cloudburst pushed off him, bracing on one straight arm over Drift's prone form, bent over to continue the kiss, his free hand stroking Drift's chassis, circling over the interface hatch, chirring as Drift's frame arched into the touch.
Drift's hands were less subtle, one tearing itself from the wings, to scrabble at the jet's hatch.
“You,” Cloudburst murmured, lifting his mouth, his green optics glowing against Drift's face, “are exquisite.” Drift sucked in a startled vent at the praise, barely feeling his hatch being slipped open, Cloudburst's gentle but sure hands on his module.
Cloudburst already had the memory file cued up when he seated his module into Drift's port, and Drift suddenly wasn't here: on the floor, with Wing suffering some voluntary torments for his sake, but swept up in a sort of radiance from the white jet, from Cloudburst's memories. Wing smiling, laughing, face intent and serious, the blue swords flashing through a twilit sky, Wing clinging to Cloudburst's frame, grinding his fear and worry, the black clouds of old memories, into the dark armor.
He found himself clinging, too, the resonances shaking something deep within him, Cloudburst's harmonics deep and strong, pushing him inexorably toward release.
“And you?” Cloudburst asked. “Show me your Wing.”
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lol im aware of different morals of alien robits. Especially Wing's.
Lovely as always.