shadow_vector | Parallax Part 6 (end)

NC-17
IDW
Drift, Wing, Perceptor, Kup
sticky, spoiler for Spotlight: Drift?

The 'Skyfall incident' refers to a subplot of "Boots"--Skyfall more or less hands the formula for Gideon's Glue (one of Ironfist's inventions) over to the 'cons. They use it once, and decide that it's...too horrific even for them. Ironfist waits until his death to reveal news of Skyfall's betrayal.

Kup frowned at the results of the test that Perceptor handed him, wordlessly. Partly at himself—he’d expected to see, well, something off. Nearly dying, whatever it took to do…whatever Perceptor had done to himself, something. But no, Perceptor’s stability was well within functional tolerances. Better than Kup’s own, in fact, he thought, remembering too easily that time when the situation had been reversed, at Kimia, when Perceptor had been monitoring his reconstruction. Probably had the same furrowed brow ridge as Kup was sporting now, Kup thought, squinting at the datapad, sourly.

And by the look of it, Perceptor remembered, too. “You’ll probably want to run the Stage Two diagnostics, anyway,” he said, offering before Kup had to make up some slick lie. Yeah. He wanted as much to throw at Springer’s head as he could. Maybe something’d penetrate that pointy green helm. At least dent it.

“Yeah,” Kup said. “Might as well.” He jerked his chin at one chair. Not inviting, but not—quite—an order.

He watched Perceptor as he sat, trying to read something in the posture. Nope. No tells there: Perceptor was taut, tense, but…he was just about always like that. Since the ship, that mission. No, before that, even. Kup could remember those shadowy looks as far back as Kimia.

Dredging up the diagnostic protocols was like reaching into a sludgy mass. Sometimes, an old mech’s memory wasn’t as sharp as it used to be. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” No sullenness, no attitude, like he might have expected from Jazz or Hot Rod. Just…flat.

“Figured as much.” Perceptor, holding out on him. What he’d expect of any other mech. But, well, Perceptor had changed. Question was: how much? He scrolled the results. “You had a psych done for Kimia, right?”

Perceptor nodded. “After the Skyfall incident, it was mandated.” Skyfall. The Gideon’s Glue. Kup frowned at the memory. He waited, then, “You need the results of those as well.” Not a question. He pulled the input rod from his storage, handing it over wordlessly, waiting, almost preternaturally still, while Kup slotted the rod, calling up the results.

Huh. Empathy’d gone up, but also aggressive emotional response. Might be kinda hard to deal with. “Why don’t we start with the basics then. You overworked? We can shift your schedule.” As in, give him a schedule and actually enforce it. Which would probably, Kup knew, involve welding the damn workroom’s door shut.

“No.”

Kup waited. Nothing came. This was going…just dandy. Time to turn a few screws. “So plenty of talkin’ to the empty air; nothin’ for ol’ Kup.”

The lip plates thinned, pressed together. “What would you like to know?”

“Who are you talkin’ to?”

A shift of the optics. “Myself.”

Lying. It actually kinda hurt. Perceptor, lying to Kup. “And the holovids? You put them on for yourself, too?”

A momentary blink, wobble, and then recovery. “Background noise.”

“From three rooms away.” Yeah? Pull another filter over my optics.

Perceptor stared him down. “You have the psych results.”

“Yeah. And I know enough that they ain’t the whole story.” Kup sighed. “Look, Perceptor. We’ve been through a lot.” Perceptor’s good optic seemed to twitch. “Just tryin’ to look out for you.”

The kind of silence as a stone falls a long way down an empty well, that sensation of the air thickening, deepening around them. Perceptor leaned forward, abruptly, the reticle optic flashing white. “Like you did on Turmoil’s ship,” he said, his voice a sharp hiss, like a blade through paper.

The accusation was so sharp, so unexpected that even Kup was floored for a klik. The room seemed to spin, as if gravity had just gone haywire.

The black palms slapped on the table, expressing a violence Kup had never seen before in Perceptor, as the larger pushed up to his feet. “Anything else?” Perceptor asked, coldly. He waited for a handful of kliks before turning on his heel and leaving, Kup holding the datapad in numb fingers.

[***]

It wasn’t violence Kup thought he saw. Perceptor knew it for what it was: fear, panic, the prickling of an animal shoved against a wall. His hands were shaking by the time the door closed behind him, and he paused, leaning against the wall, head tilted back, for a long moment.

He hadn’t meant to get that upset. He hadn’t thought he was that upset. His logical mind told him that Drift had saved him and he was alive and that should be enough. It should be.

But it wasn’t.

It had created the best gift he’d ever been given—that strange series of ties between he and Drift, that gentle, mutual obligation and want. And he would not trade that for anything, even the peace of mind he’d had earlier, before his…incident.

But it had also broken something and the parts of that still rattled around, still got caught in other gears. And one of those bits was Kup.

No. Things with Kup had been broken long before Turmoil had blown Perceptor’s chassis open. Perceptor ran a hand over his chestplate, even the memory-echo of that moment enough to double him over. And that’s why it hurt, on a different level: Kup’s abandonment, leaving him there, writhing, agonized, not coming back for him, showed that secretly, Kup knew it, too.

He cycled a deep vent, forcing himself steady. It was over and done. Kup had the results, and Perceptor knew they were stable enough. Because he wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t seeing things. Wing was real.

Perceptor pushed off the wall, managing a nod at Topspin, who shot him a curious look. Yes. Time to move. Drift—and Wing—were waiting.

[***]

Drift jumped to his feet, already standing by the time the door had opened, discarded datapad clattering to the desk. He studied Perceptor for any sign, warily. “So,” he said. “How’d it go?”

Wing slipped from the sword, brushing one hand down Drift’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

This. He’d never had this before—anyone caring about him. It was always what he could do—specifically what he could do for them—others cared about. “Fine. It’s over.” He knew—they knew—that didn’t say half of what had happened. And also, that he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

“Was Wing with you?” Drift asked.

Wing brushed the edge of Drift’s arm again, and this time, Drift’s hand floated up, as if stroking the touch. Wing gave a giddy click before shaking his head. “I didn’t want to be with you, in case I distracted you,” Wing said. “I didn’t think you’d want me there.”

Perceptor nodded. It was a good thought. “No,” he answered Drift. “He stayed here.” A slight intonation as a question. Wing nodded.

Drift, for some reason, relaxed. “Good.” Well, Perceptor thought, he’d seen the danger—more than once he’d caught Perceptor answering Wing. And even after he knew, he still sometimes startled at it. A quiet smile, and a nod. “And now?”

Now? Perceptor shrugged. He’d blocked out more time for the interview. He hadn’t thought of it. “I have…those target locks to recalibrate for Topspin,” he said, slowly. He wasn’t ready to get back to it. Not just yet. Then again, maybe the work—mindless, tedious as it was—would settle him.

“Must you?” Wing asked. “Already?” The words overlapped with Drift’s softer, “Look tired, Perceptor.”

He was tired, and no, he didn’t really have to do those fixes. Not just yet. “Yes, well,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, letting his optics float shut. “No point putting it off, I guess.”

“None at all?” Wing’s voice, but it was strange, deeper, warmer than Perceptor remembered. It sounded like that…once.

Perceptor’s optics snapped open, and only Drift stood before him. But it wasn’t Drift—he stood like Wing, the subtle difference in the carriage of the chassis, and it was Wing’s smile, crinkling the gold-sheened optics.

“Have you…does Drift…?”

“It was his suggestion. He guessed I was here.” The smile turned fond. “And hoped that if he was talking to an empty room no one would think he was crazy.” He shrugged. “I tried to tell him it was a bad joke, but…he couldn’t hear me.”

It was a bad joke, but exactly the kind Drift would try. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him down, mouth meeting his still opened in surprise. The kiss was…not Drift’s, gentle and seeking, inviting, teasing, where Drift’s were demanding and taking.

“Let me?” Wing’s voice was husky and rich in the air between them, hands stroking over Perceptor’s shoulders, the touch just slightly clumsy, curious, touching an unfamiliar frame for the first time.

“If you want,” Perceptor murmured.

“If.” Wing laughed, the sound like music, as though the word were slightly ridiculous. “Yes,” he breathed, hands tweaking over the sharp rises on Perceptor’s shoulder armor, fingertips searching under the seams, “I want.”

Perceptor let himself be pulled down, over, toward the berth, Wing gliding gracefully backwards, mouth and hands goading, inviting him to follow. The touches, light, teasing, new, sent sparkles of sensation over his sensornet, little brightly colored stars of feeling, swirling and floating like glittering dust. Wing, getting to know him after all this time, touching him for real, no longer ghostly brushes, but hard edge on hard edge, texture and heat, for the first time, with a sense of reverence, of cherishing every new memory of touch he was making.

Wing pulled Perceptor down on top of him, catching the black hips between his silver thighs, arms wrapping around the red frame, one ankle twining behind a thigh. “The question is,” Wing said, his fingers skittering over Perceptor’s back, teasing along the coolant hoses, rubbing one of his helm’s—Drift’s helm’s—finials along Perceptor’s mouth, “what do you want?”

The words, the offer, as much as the tantalizing touches on his back, his chassis, the sleek slide of thighs over his hips, made Perceptor shudder. Drift’s body, used in ways Drift never had, never did: exquisite torment.

“I want to thank you,” Wing whispered, his EM field flickering out, soft and warm like sunlight, unlike the welcome hard buzz of Drift’s. It astonished Perceptor that so much changed with Wing’s control. And even more that his body responded and it felt nothing like betrayal. Part of him thought he should resist this—it wasn’t Drift—but it was Drift’s body, and Drift’s former lover inside it, with Drift’s permission. He didn’t want to resist, didn’t want to do anything other than let this unfold, let it take him over.

He found himself kissing the finial, nipping at its sharp angle, tracing up to the sharp tip, feeling Wing shiver beneath him, curling his pelvic frame against Perceptor’s, hot and wanting. “Want you,” Perceptor murmured, the words less spoken than vibrated between them, his whole body echoing the words, arms enveloping the white frame.

Wing squirmed beneath him, slipping his interface hatch open. “Yours,” he moaned, gold-blue optics swirling wells of desire beneath Perceptor.

Perceptor sank into the white body, spike sliding home in the valve. He shuddered, Wing keening around him, calipers rippling down against his turgid spike. And he found a tempo—fast, insistent, Wing crying out and clawing against him, wanton and open the way Drift never was, mouth parted in a blissful shape. His own voice joined in, a rhythmic soft baritone, punctuating his thrusts. His own hands were knowing and familiar on Drift’s body, Wing’s container; Wing’s hands light and learning. Both rose together, arching, metal hard on metal as the overload broke over them both, a white bright wave of sound and ecstasy.

He collapsed against the white frame, both of them shuddering, current dancing across their joined bodies, and Perceptor could sense three of them—he and Wing and Drift—spun together in some intricate, delicate and yet solid web.

The moment faded, the sensation faded, and he was slumped over the white frame, black helm against the white finial. He pushed back, slowly, palms by the shoulders. “Probably crushing you,” he croaked, even as his hips gave one last aftershock.

“No,” Wing said, hands clinging against the red frame. “I like the weight. It makes me feel…real.” His optics rippled, on the verge of emotion. Perceptor bent to kiss away the sorrow, knowing that in some cases, words were empty, useless to console. And when he lifted his head, it was Drift’s optics he looked into, wide and blue, and Drift’s smile that quirked against his mouth, the blue gem of the Great Sword glowing behind Drift’s head like a brilliant, joyous sun.

END

Parallax Part 6 (end)

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