Parallax Part 5
Jun. 19th, 2011 11:37 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_vectorIDW
Perceptor, Drift, Wing
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“Not funny.” Drift tugged at his bound wrists.
“I know.” Perceptor perched on the berth, leaning forward, finishing up the stabilizing knot as Wing rematerialized beside him. “It was necessary.”
“Necessary.” Drift’s voice was quiet, but sharp—a stiletto. He waited, ventilations quick, on the edge of irritation. Perceptor said nothing, finishing the knot. The blue optics narrowed. “How’d you overpower me?” Halfway between a demand and puzzlement.
Ah. That. Perceptor cycled a vent. “Drift, there’s…something I have to tell you.”
Drift stilled, waiting.
And waiting.
“Perceptor,” Wing importuned. “No. You can’t.” He came around to Perceptor’s other side, trying to get between them. “If he knows I’m…,” Wing shrugged, optics wide with despair.
“Kind of a captive audience,” Drift muttered. “Take your time.” He rotated his wrists in the bonds, frowning as they held. “And how’d you learn to tie knots like this?”
Perceptor winced as though in actual pain. “Drift. It’s…,” he shuttered his optics. “Wing.”
Wing gave a cry of despair.
“Wing?” Drift’s mouth flattened. “Not funny,” he repeated.
“No, it’s not,” Perceptor agreed. “He’s here.”
“He’s dead.”
Wing’s optics shuttered at the words, the hard pain, like a cyst, in Drift’s voice.
“He’s here,” Perceptor insisted. “He’s white, with gold optics, red flashing.” He hoped that would be enough—Wing stood, open-mouthed, agonized.
“No,” Drift said, shaking his head. “No. NO. You’re…making it up. Or lying or…maybe you do need that psych diagnostic. He can’t be.” He seemed almost frantic, but less at Perceptor than the idea itself.
Wing’s optics closed, giving a soft helpless mewl of pain at the rejection, his form shimmering, vague. “Drift,” he said, the word a caress, trying to soothe away Drift’s pain and confusion. “I know. I should have died.”
“Wing,” Perceptor said, “no.”
“Wing?” Drift echoed, his voice edged. “He’s not here. He’s dead!” He twisted in his bonds. “You need to let me go, Perceptor.”
“He’s here, Drift.” Perceptor shifted, uneasily. This wasn’t working out.
“Let him go, Perceptor,” Wing said, drooping, defeated. “We don’t keep prisoners.”
“He’s not here. He’s dead.” Drift raised one knee, between them. As if fending Perceptor off, as if he were suddenly dangerous, a barrier between them. It…hurt. “It makes no sense. Why would you be able to see him? Not me?” A plaintive note in his voice. It was unfair; Perceptor would not deny it.
“Let me try,” Wing said, suddenly. “Let me explain. If he…sees it for himself, maybe…?” It was a desperate offer. “At least he wouldn’t think ill of you.”
Perceptor nodded.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Wing murmured, moving closer, hovering just in front of Perceptor. “I promise.”
“It’s all right,” Perceptor replied, softly, reaching a hand out toward Wing, forgetting—or trying to—that Drift was watching.
“I won’t let you down,” Wing whispered, voice like a breeze as he stepped into Perceptor’s space. And the ‘I know,’ Perceptor would have answered with got lost, suspended, as Wing took him over.
[***]
Drift twisted his wrists in his bonds, his cortex queuing up an alarm code. Not sending it, yet—it would be the worst betrayal to summon some security down on Perceptor—especially with whatever Springer had already started. He couldn’t do that—didn’t want to. Unless there was no other choice. Unless Perceptor attempted to hurt him.
Which he hadn’t, merely spilling this…crazy, disturbing talk. Wing was dead. Drift had seen his body, touched his body, felt no glimmer of spark, only the coldness of dead metal. It was some hallucination. Jealousy gone malignant.
“It’s all right,” Perceptor said, voice gentle and…not aimed at Drift. Rather, some spot in the air in front of him. Drift writhed with a sort of inward agony, that he had done this, was somehow complicit in Perceptor’s breakdown. He’d help destroy something good and pure and beautiful. Again.
Perceptor gave a quick, sharp shudder, turning to Drift. The movements seemed…strange, more liquid, smoother than normal. And the optics glimmered, opalescent gold. “Drift,” he said. But it wasn’t Perceptor’s voice, flat, restrained, but warm and musical, filling the solitary syllable with a world of emotion.
Wing’s voice. It resonated across time, and Drift gave a sharp cry of recognition, even while his mind tried to insist this was all some…ruse or trick, that somehow Perceptor had just managed to hit on Wing’s voice, well enough to mimic it.
No. It was too ridiculous, the odds beyond astronomical. And more than that, it was unfair to Perceptor, to even think him capable of such a deception. Whatever this was…it wasn’t Perceptor or his doing. But was it… “Wing?”
Perceptor—or whoever he was—gave a sharp, joyous cry, throwing himself forward, arms wrapping around Drift’s frame, pulling the white armor against him, crushing drift against the flat red chassis. “Oh, Drift,” he murmured, and the words were like a song, bittersweet and beautiful.
Drift was without words. The movements, the voice, the spontaneity—Wing’s. All of them. Even the EM field, nuzzling over his, was Wing’s. And the kiss—as the mouth met his—was Wing’s: not shy and awkward, like Perceptor’s, who still, after all this time, felt he was intruding; but that sweet mix of insistence and gentleness, seeking and giving, glossa teasing against his, mouthplates nipping playfully. It was Wing. It had to be. Impossible, yes, but….
Drift pushed into the kiss, wanting, accepting. “Wing,” he breathed, when the mouth left his.
“Oh, Drift.” Too much that couldn’t be said in those words, that the EM field, licking between his joints, spoke better. “I’m so sorry.”
The apology was absurd to Drift. Sorry…for what? Giving Drift back himself, clearing his cortex from that red cloud of violence, cooling his fury? “No,” he whispered. “No apology. Please.” He twisted in the bonds, more desperate now, because he wanted to touch, to make this real to his hands, to clutch the mech in Perceptor’s body to him. He owed Wing everything. “But…how?”
“The Sword,” Wing’s voice said. He read Drift’s thought—so very like Wing—reaching up, silently, and releasing the knot.
Drift’s hands found the body, the familiar squared frame of his current lover, the sweet voice, and shivering responses of his former. “The Sword,” he echoed, and the rest fell into place. All those nights he’d clung to it, feeling comforted just by its weight, all the times he’d leaned against it, trusting it as a swordsmech must trust his weapon, and more—it had been Wing. Hearing, understanding. He’d thought it was the childish, desperate impulse of a desolate mech, lonely, burning for guidance. He’d never guessed, never dared imagine. “All this time.”
“Yes,” Wing said, simply. “All this time.” Seeing, knowing everything.
Drift’s arms wrapped around the frame, as if he could embrace away, somehow, the pain between them—longing, separation. “I’ve probably disappointed you,” he whispered, voice breaking with static.
“No,” Wing said, pulling away just far enough, optics coruscating blue and gold, intense. “Never.” The expression of sadness, on Perceptor’s lean, melancholic face, nearly broke Drift, before it crested into a smile. “You never could.” He dipped down for a kiss. “You’ve been true to your spark and…what more could I ask?”
Drift felt a sound—sorrow, joy, longing intermingled—fill him. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured, to release, slowly, some of that pressure.
“I know,” Wing said, bending over to kiss the pain away, remove the need to speak. Words hurt too much, but their bodies—even Wing’s borrowed one—spoke better, with less confusion, their EM fields twining around each other, hands, mouths, seeking and knowing—reknowing—each other. Drift writhed at the knowing touches—after all this time, Wing remembered the secret spots on his body, gaps in his armor, with just the right pressure, just the right touches—firm scrapes and gentle glides, playing Drift’s desires like a melody. “May I?” Wing murmured, burying his face in Drift’s throat. “It’s been so long.”
“Yes,” Drift gasped, squirming under desire, his hands clamping over the hips. Too long, and something he’d never thought he’d have again: he was torn by the impossibilities. He closed his optics, knowing it was a kind of cheat, letting his body sink into all that was Wing—the tantalizing touches, sweet voice, coy, teasing flares of his EM field.
Hands explored his body, relearning him swiftly, driven by an urgency, a need beyond physical desire, like the blue core of fire’s flame. And Drift cried out, Wing lancing a spike into him, fitting and right like a sword in a sheath, Drift’s valve shuddering, clinging, around the sudden presence. Wing rocked against him, the spike’s movement surging and gentle, measured and yet insistent, inexorable like a moon-pulled tide. Drift lay, overcome, hands gliding over the rocking frame above him, head tilted to expose his throat to that mouth that knew just how to kiss, how hard to bite to get him to shudder in sharp anticipation, in an elegant counterpoint to the slow, steady build of charge from the spike’s silky movement in his valve.
This was more than just charge, current, between them; this was a re-joining of something long sundered, their fields knitting together, pleasure becoming ties between them, solid and tangible and real.
“Drift!” Wing’s voice keened his name, cresting into overload, hands clutching at the white spaulders, and Drift’s optics flew open, feeling the body arch against him. And…he saw. In that fragment of time, he saw the gold optics flaring in desire, the white audial flares, the wings, spread, flared open, current dancing over them.
And then it melted, dissipating like a mist, even as Drift tried to focus his optics on it more clearly, and it was Perceptor’s body, sagging down upon him, the optics clearing and blue, shivering in the fading edge of the overload. And it was Perceptor’s voice, and the shy, awkward shifting of weight off Drift of the larger mech. Drift was…lost in a sea of confusion. Wing, here, all this time. His anger, even the most diaphanous edge, was gone, evaporated in the heat of his desire. He pulled his arms around Perceptor, for the depth of what he had offered Wing, offered Drift. “Thank you,” Drift murmured, into Perceptor’s throat, before tilting the chin toward his with one hand, planting a soft kiss on the flat, severe mouth, all of Wing’s sensual softness gone from the mouth, the voice.
“You understand?” Perceptor asked, optics dimming, the fading desire from Wing’s overload surging up again, driven by his own want, the spike stirring again in Drift.
Drift gave a crooked smile. “As much, I think, as anyone can.”
Perceptor accepted the answer, his mouth joining with Drift’s, feeling Drift’s thighs wrap around his, in open invitation, offering parity—what he shared with Wing, he would share with Perceptor.
And Perceptor accepted that, too, feeling the jet’s silent presence, curled, snug and satisfied, in the glittering hilt of the sword that lay beside them on the berth.
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Date: 2011-06-19 05:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-20 12:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-19 07:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-20 12:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-19 08:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-20 12:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-19 09:34 pm (UTC)And this part... I just want to gather all three of them up and cuddle them senseless.
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Date: 2011-06-20 12:49 am (UTC):D
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Date: 2011-06-20 02:37 am (UTC)awcrap.
Why don't I feel better for having slept that long, then??? ;_;
Seriously, though, this was like my own little mini christmas. >_>
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Date: 2011-06-20 02:12 am (UTC)I love the image of Wing all curled up snugged in the sword ^^
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Date: 2011-06-20 03:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-20 04:49 am (UTC)I am a puddle of happy.