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shadow_vector2011-06-26 09:31 am
In the night.
IDW
Jetfire/Sixshot
SAP, like whoa.
for
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tf_speedwriting prompt 6 'at that time of the night' and a prompt wocket gave me 'redemption'.
At that time of the night, he hated the guilt that tried to lap over him, lying on his berth, lower wings scraping the cool metal. He knew he was always careful with his words; he was always on his guard for any sort of betrayal, on either side. He let nothing slip to Sixshot—he was certain of it. And more, he went out of his way to not know things, to tune out briefings for combat missions. He knew nothing worth knowing. He had studied, with trepidation, wanting no Autobot deaths drawn back to him. He knew it was blindness, a willful kind. It didn’t change what Sixshot did, it didn’t make it any more right. Just…separate.
He hated the guilt, but loved the long hours of isolation, away from others, where he could wrap himself in dreams, hide in the memories, giving over frame and cortex to something other than the taut act he had to maintain.
And on the other side, he kept it to himself, hoarding those stolen cycles to himself, the hard, sharp bliss of his…entanglement with the Phase Sixer. Sixshot wasn’t gentle with him; he didn’t want the other mech to be gentle. He’d always wanted to be taken, treated roughly, his sensornet scraped raw with a desire it could hardly contain. It…pulled something from him, something primal and deep, something buried beneath the science, the education, something the opposite of the keen, knowing mind. Something formless, shifting, not in the mind at all, but blazing through the circuits.
Was it love? He…didn’t think so. But it was more than just lust. More than just a…compatibility of current. Sixshot’s violence matched his own gentleness; his flow of words flowed against Sixshot’s silence. There was something that defied words, easy definitions, between them—electricity and something almost like destiny, that made things click into a rightness when they touched.
And the world felt a strange, discordant wrongness when they were apart. He tried to get over it, to tell himself it was the same world he’d known all his life, that there was nothing wrong with it. But he felt…awakened, somehow, and all the ages before like some sort of dream, hazy and indistinct.
Strange, he thought, a wry, bitter smile darting over his mouthplates, that he felt most alive in the arms of a killer.
His wings flicked at the memory of hands stroking, scraping along their panels as he stared up at the blank ceiling over him. He had the comm code ready—always—but savored this elongated moment, knowing he could reach out, knowing that Sixshot would answer, knowing the baritone rumble, even over comm, would send shimmers over his net.
No, not yet. It had become a sweet torture, to ration out those contacts, to tease himself with the possibility, to see how long he could go without, riding the edge of anticipation. And then, the sharp rush, the comm line connecting through foldspace, the gentle fuzzy hiss of distance-static, and then, the beloved voice, so flat, inflectionless and yet…everything.
And he wondered, but never dared ask, if Sixshot thought of him. Jetfire took it as enough that when he did comm, Sixshot would drop everything, talk to him, meet with him, twist around him like a flame of desire. It was all that mattered; it was enough and more than he had ever hoped for. He’d clutched it to him, a distraction from the…dirty science he studied during the day. Kimia was wonderful, a scientist’s dream, so long as the scientist did not mind studying death, weapons, ways to kill.
And maybe that balanced them, he thought. Maybe his own research made them equitable: his work on the stolen Pretender technology was surely no better. It made his hands no less clean.
Maybe not tonight. Maybe he would wait until tomorrow night, suffer another day of exquisite dreams, wake up, wings aching for touch, punish himself with want, torment himself with need until he surrendered. He wormed on the berth. Yes. Tomorrow. He hadn’t earned it yet.
He cycled his optics down, sending the pre-recharge commands that powered down his mobility actuators, hydraulics loosing a long sigh.
A soft click. “Jetfire.”
Jetfire’s vent caught. “Sixshot?”
“Who else.”
Jetfire could have laughed and cried at the flattened question. “I…but why?”
A grunt. “Wanted to hear your voice.”
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