Febrile 2

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG-13
IDW
Drift/Wing
Yet moar failed kinkmeme, oh and mach storms gleefully and unrepentantly stolen from Crystal Singer.

 

He still didn’t know how he managed to get Wing back to Wing’s quarters without being stopped. Perhaps they thought Wing was overcharged.  Perhaps they were so used to not suspecting anything that it was impossible to imagine anything malign.  But he’d made it back,  concentrating on one foot in front of the other, the heavy sway of the jet’s dead weight, until he lay Wing down carefully on the berth.  Only then did he let himself survey the damage—the white armor pitted and scored, the servos limp and unresponsive, armor hot to the touch. 

“Wing,” he said, kneeling next to him, prodding at the chassis.  “Come on.”  He was acutely aware of the irony—Wing had been begging him to respond, and now he was doing the same.  “Come on!”

A soft whimper of pain, and the optics onlined, thin, thready gold.  They whirred in and out of focus, as if the programming couldn’t sustain them. One hand reached for Drift’s attempting to squeeze it. “You’re safe,” Wing whispered. “I was so worried.”

Drift growled, at himself.  And at Wing.  He wanted, would have accepted, if the jet were mad at him.  But that soft, febrile concern, he couldn’t handle.   

“I’m fine,” he muttered. Obviously. One of us was up and functional.”What was that?”

A feeble smile. “Mach storm. It’s like the Devastator Winds, but over the crystal hills.”  He seemed wanting to say more, but his head lolled back, exhausted.  Drift could piece together enough. Ions over piezoelectric crystals.  Bad news. 

“Should get you a medic,” he said, knowing there would be hard questions, and very bad answers to them.

“No,” Wing said, floatily, his hot arms wrapping around Drift’s chassis. “Just need to recharge. Be fine.”  He seemed to snuggle against Drift’s frame, heat transferring over the metal.  “Just need rest,” he murmured into Drift’s helm. And Drift let himself be pulled down, lending the coolness of his own frame to Wing’s clinging heat, hoping the jet was right.

[***]

“Need to cool you down,” he muttered.  Wing had not cooled in his recharge, and seemed…almost less responsive, whimpering and moaning.  Drift felt the cool air strike him as he pulled away from the jet’s embrace.  Air cooling wasn’t enough.  He needed to do something more. 

He grabbed for Wing’s datapad. It had to have some sort of first aid manual. 

Wing whimpered, febrile hands clutching around one of Drift’s elbows, trying to coax him back down.  “Drift,” he said, voice high and strained.  “Don’t go.”

Drift twitched.  A little too close to home, that request. “Right here,” he said.  He scrolled through the datapad. Right.  Check levels.  Just like an injury, he told himself.  Calm down. You’ve seen hundreds of injured mechs in your life: never lost your head before.

He rolled over to face Wing on his knees.  “Panel,” he said, hands poised. Where the slag did these mechs keep their access panels?  “Need to check your levels.” 

The helm lolled toward him, vision blocked by the bulk of the nacelle. “Levels? No, don’t go to the upper level, Drift. Stay here.”  His hand moved vaguely for Drift’s arm.

Drift frowned. “I’m right here,” he said, sharply.  “I want to check your fluid levels.” 

No response. Not encouraging.  Drift poked, his fingers skimming over the armor. He thought he knew Wing’s body, knew the points to arouse the mech, but knowing the location of the subsystem access, he was lost.  “Come on,” he whispered, running his hands over the chassis.  “Has to be around here.”  There.  He pressed the catch, and the panel opened. He tapped the code for level readouts.  Frowned.  Coolant was low.  Well, something he could fix at least. 

He levered off the berth, heading for the maintenance facility.  Drift rifled through the cabinets until he found a bag of coolant, fingers clumsy on the foreign catches as he attached it into the panel.  Wing shuddered, the cool fluid hitting his lines, his whimpers turning into soft, small moans.

“Better?” Drift hoped so. As much as he did ‘hope’.

“I’m fine,” Wing said. “Just…tired.”  He shivered again. “But yes, it feels nice. Thank you.”  Drift could hear the struggle for coherence in the voice. 

Drift narrowed his optics. Tired.  After that much recharge.  “Don’t lie to me,” he said. 

“I’m not. I’m fine,” Wing said, trying to push himself up to one elbow, lurching forward, barely catching himself with a palm to the berth.

Drift pushed him back. “Fine. Right.”  My fault, he thought.  This is my fault. I have to fix this.  “Let it work.” 

Wing managed a wan smile. “Kind of you.”  He raised one hand, trailing the back of the hot knuckles against Drift’s cheek armor.

Drift wanted to flinch away. Wasn’t kind, wasn’t anything like kind. It was his fault to begin with.  “Shouldn’t have gone out there,” he muttered, bending to check the coolant levels. 

“I was worried,” Wing said. 

Drift made a noise in his vocalizer, trying to drown out Wing’s soft concern. “Don’t worry about me.” No one ever had.  Drift didn’t know what to do with it.

Wing gave a fading smile. “You’re so good to me,” he said, optic shutters drooping closed. 

No, Drift thought, I’m not.  But Wing had floated off into a light recharge. Drift lay down next to Wing, feeling the heat rise off the white body, watching the mech’s face with an unfamiliar anxiety.

[***]

He woke before Wing, disturbed by the heat and the soft bleating whimpers.  Drift’s hand hovered over the hot frame, torn between waking him and not.  

No.  Let him rest.  His autorepair’d do better than anything Drift could think up.  He’d filled the coolant reservoir. He just had to be patient.

Right. Just.

Drift rolled over, snatching the datapad from where he’d magnetized it against the berth’s side.  He wasn’t getting any more recharge tonight. Might as well try to amuse himself.

He flicked it on, tapping the screen down to lowlight, staring at it for a long moment, trying to grasp the differences between pads he knew and this one, now that he wasn’t frantically searching for manuals.  This one had tabs.  Huh. And one was labeled ‘Drift’. 

Drift shot a look at the fevered jet.  Taking notes on me, are you?  He tapped the tab, mouth braced. Whatever Wing thought of him, he could take. Good to shatter this illusion while he could.  Should have left while I had the chance.

…what?  “Ten Tricks to Keep Your Lover Interested.” What…the…? 

Drift skimmed the article—or tried to—the effusively perky tone actually kind of hurt his cortex.  ‘One trick,’ it burbled in breathless prose, ‘is to take advantage of ‘innocent’ contact.  He may think you’re simply in recharge, and unable to help your wandering hands…but you know better. And what better way to wake him up?’ 

You…little…sneak.  Drift pinched his mouth shut, glaring at the prone form of the jet.  So, the other morning, the sleek silver thigh sliding over his pelvic frame, hand cupping over his interface hatch?  Fake? 

He frowned, bending his head over the article.  Time to see what else the jet had been up to.

 

Comments

[velvet-infinity.livejournal.com]

Ooooh!! You have me on edge now! Can't wait for the next part! This is so good!

[silaphet.livejournal.com]

now i see why titled Febrile, that was curiously teasing me after first chapter. You come up with such creative unique titles & i appreciate the single word simplicity. the coolant seems analogous to saline drip, evinces sensations of soothing chill.

[mieka-writes.livejournal.com]

gods.. Drift...

and Wing you IDIOT.. Drift might have Killed you

[karanseraph]

I personally favor overheating as a plausible, yet convenient robot ailment.

And I also like the idea of there being robot Cosmo, whether it's beauty or sex tips.

So, yeah, I kinda liked this one.

[gwenithcoy.livejournal.com]

The thought of Wing finding such a Cosmo like article, reading it, keeping it, AND (foolishly) putting it under a tab labled "Drift" just makes me laugh. This just gets better and better! I have a feeling Drift will be paying Wing back in kind. :)