Parallax part 4

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG-13
IDW
Perceptor, Wing, Kup, Drift
ref sticky.

Perceptor would hate to admit how much he found he enjoyed the jet’s company. Wing was endlessly curious, the fear and shyness giving way to a coy teasing.  Wing would sit, patiently, watching Perceptor work, asking questions. At first Perceptor had thought that, well, Wing was starved for any contact, but the mech really did seem interested, remembering details of Perceptor’s life, as he told them, asking about Kimia, knowing, instinctively, not to ask about other things.  He’d asked—once—how Perceptor had met Drift, and immediately swerved the topic away at Perceptor’s distant, pained expression.  

And touching.  Wing couldn’t touch in a real sense, but Perceptor got used to, and then came to enjoy, the gentle, fuzzy prickles of the jet’s ghostly arms around him.  Sometimes, if he was bent over some difficult piece on his bench, he’d feel the soft fuzz around him, and Wing would just stand there, wordlessly, curled against his backstruts, giving silent comfort, mute support.  

And Wing told him stories—things he’d found on his wanderings through the Axion, such as Springer needing music playing to fall into recharge, or Twin Twist’s collection of ‘special’ holovids.  And he told him about Drift, those long months together.  Perceptor was fascinated, seeing Drift through Wing’s optics.   

Today, Wing perched on the table’s surface, the sleek lines of his thighs, the stabilizers on his shins, beautiful distractions. As always, politely sitting to Perceptor’s right, where his optic could most easily see him. Another unspoken thing that Wing did with a natural grace.  “Well,” he laughed, modestly, “After all, he’d seen a sword for less than a decacycle.”   

Perceptor nodded, reaching for a new capacitor from the small cabinet.  “I had wondered. Deadlock was not known for bladed weapons.” 

Wing nodded. “He did always have tenacity,” he added.  “When he wants something, nothing stops him.”  He grinned. “I suspect you know that.”  

Perceptor felt a faint grin.  It felt good to talk like this, sharing stories, with someone. It felt…nice, even though his own stories were telegraphic and flat by comparison to the long, descriptive tales Wing spun.  “He can be…headstrong.” 

“Who?” A voice from the doorway. Perceptor twitched: Wing’s head snapped up, optics wide in alarm.  “Who can be headstrong?”   

“Kup,” Perceptor nodded, evenly, turning around to face the green mech.   

“Weren’t talkin’ about me, Perceptor.”  That half-frown that told Perceptor Kup wasn’t in the mood for games.  

“Drift,” Perceptor said. “Merely thinking aloud.”  

Kup gave him a keen look.  Beside him, Wing frowned, guarded, hands clutching for weapons.  A movement of old instinct, Perceptor thought—Wing had said he couldn’t do any harm. Still, the defensive gesture, the way Wing stepped between them as if guarding Perceptor, touched him. “Seem to be doing that a lot lately.”   

“Have I?” Perceptor deadpanned.   

Kup cocked one supraorbital ridge. “Yeah.  You have.”  He sighed. “Look. Not trying to accuse you of anything.  Just…it’s been noticed.”   

“That I talk.”  He tried to sound disbelieving.  It was fraught with irony.  Before….before Drift, most mechs would agree that Perceptor talked too damn much.  

“Springer,” Kup shot back.  

Perceptor’s shoulders sagged. Springer did have the authority—and he was not one to wield it with half-measures—to pull him from the Wreckers.  To separate him from Drift.  “What does he want.”  Surrender, complete and utter. He cast a quick, apologetic look at Wing,   He could not risk it.  In a strange way, he felt a flare of envy: Wing could not be separated from Drift. Not the way he could.  

Wing nodded, pale optics glowing with understanding, even as he edged behind Kup.  

Kup nodded, as if relieved this wouldn’t be harder. “Just to run a psych diagnostic. I know, I know.  Fraggin’ joke for the Wreckers—we’re all crazy as slag on a smelterplate.” He gave a shrug. “Just play along.”   

Perceptor paused, considering. He had nothing to fear. It was more the insult of being asked to take it. “Tomorrow.”   

“Good enough,” Kup said.  “I’ll tell Springer to lay off your case.”  He turned to leave, turning right into where Wing had moved, glaring, behind him, arms folded, hostile and helpless.  He gave a strange, shudder, shooting one look over his shoulder back at Perceptor, as he passed through Wing, the white form rippling like an image on water, as if Kup could sense the hostility.  “And clean up in here.  Kinda…creepy.” 

 

[***] 

“He will accept it,” Perceptor murmured, careful to keep his voice low, chin tipped downward, not looking at Wing, in case someone was watching.   

“But…they think you’re crazy. Because of me.”  

“They do. It doesn’t matter.” Wing needed him more. He could pass the psych diagnostic. It was just…humiliating. And he could, and would, do more for Drift.  And, he  realized, for Wing, who had given him Drift to begin with.   

Wing fretted, his wing panels riffling.  “I’m sorry.”   

“Don’t be.”  He moved down the corridor, Wing keeping pace.   

“What can I do?” Perceptor could feel the emotion sheeting off Wing: guilt, dismay, frustration.  Had he been this emotive in life? Perhaps all jets simply broadcast their emotions like auras. “Surely there’s something.”   

Perceptor hated to say no, those earnest optics glowing gold on him.  So few mechs asked to help—most demanded he help them.  “You know Drift.” He ducked his head, hiding the movement of his mouth.  “I could use some advice breaking the news to him.”

 

[***] 

“You’re in early,” Drift said, sitting up, startled, his arms unwrapping from around the Great Sword.  Wing rushed forward, at the sight, hands outstretched, giving a poignant chirr. Perceptor stopped in the doorway, feeling, stupidly, betrayed.  Did Drift seek comfort from the sword when Perceptor wasn’t there?  Did he look…guilty?  

“Yes,” Perceptor managed, still numb, in the doorway.  The plan he and Wing had concocted fell away from him; the careful words, gentle approach.  “I have a psych stability diagnostic in the morning,” he blurted. 

“What?”  The hands found the hilt of the Great Sword faultlessly, optics flaring with rage and concern.  

Wing whirled, openmouthed. “This isn’t what we--!”   

Perceptor froze, lost, wishing he could take the words back, do it again. He’d blurted to try to claim Drift’s attention, where he thought he’d been losing it to Wing. No, not to Wing—to the Sword. Wing had been with him the whole time. He was jealous of a ghost of a ghost. Now he had Drift’s attention, and all he could do was squirm.  “I’ll take care of it,” he said, his voice barely reaching beyond himself.   

“Springer,” Drift snarled, pushing to his feet, the Sword’s gem blazing.  Wing gave a cry that seemed merely an echo of a sound, almost a tone matching the flaring of the glyphs along the blade.  Drift strode to the door.   

Perceptor moved to block him. “Drift,” he said, thrusting an arm between the mech and the door. “No.” 

“Stand aside,” Drift said, staring at the door, refusing to meet Perceptor’s gaze, his body rigid with fury. 

Wing moved beside Drift, optics importunate. “Drift,” he said, his form fuzzing and bluing, pulsing with the sword.  “Please.  There’s no need. It’s my fault.”   

“Not a big deal,” Perceptor murmured, trying the same tactic that had worked with Wing.   

Drift said nothing, merely growling, feral.  “Move.”   

“Drift,” Perceptor’s voice lacked the rich, honeyed timbre of Wing’s, but at least Drift could hear it.  For all the good it did.   

Drift’s head twitched, marginally, the finials shifting, a sharp glare from the corner of his optics.  “This needs to be settled,” he said, voice dangerous, dark.   

Behind Drift, Perceptor saw Wing twitch, quiver…and disappear.   

And Drift’s posture straightened, the blade’s gem guttering down, like a fire banking itself. He turned away from the door, moving smoothly, sword finding its sheath as he met Perceptor’s gaze. And Perceptor could see the golden sheen on the blue optics, the tentative, apologetic smile, so alien to Drift’s face.  And when he spoke, it was Wing’s gentle voice. “I’m sorry.”

Comments

[eerian_sadow]

and that is what it looks like when someone manages to turn off the fan, just as the shit hits it. Springer is unlikely to know just how close he came to getting a very real reminder of the fact that Drift used to be a Decepticon. (i don't think anyone would have ever found all his pieces.)

[gwenithcoy.livejournal.com]

GUH! More more!!

LOL, I love that Wing is just as touchie feelie as ever! And Perceptor is still going to have to explain away things...and so very soon explain everything to Drift. Ohhh, can't wait!! :)

[ithilgwath.livejournal.com]

now see... Wing and Perceptor made one fatal error in their plan on how to talk to Drift.

They made a plan. And plans only last until first contact. Then they fall apart. As Perceptor demonstrated so quickly.

But aww, Drift was hugging the sword... I wonder... can he somehow sense when Wing is and isn't in the sword, at all? *ponder*ponder*

ooh boy, things are gonna get interesting between now and that psych eval.