Weakness in Strength.

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG
IDW
Drift, Wing
no warnings
for tformers100 table war prompt victory

 

 

Drift snarled in frustration as he slammed into the ground. He had to win. He had to get out of here.  The war needed him, even if Turmoil didn’t. Turmoil was too cautious, too careful.

Two things no one had ever said about Deadlock.

He rolled to a crouch, optics blazing at Wing, who stood, calm, relaxed, serene. Not even in a combat stance. Just…standing, patiently. Like an insult. Like Drift wasn’t even a threat. He roared, launching himself at Wing, bull-headed toward the chassis.  A wild, reckless attack, but nothing else had worked. 

His shoulder connected—briefly—before Wing dropped his weight, scooping under Drift’s mass, coming up with one of the blades of his knee stabilizers into Drift’s midsection, in a small gap between the New Crystal City repairs and the frame they’d been able to salvage.

Drift gave a choked cry, falling off to the side, barely catching himself on one elbow.  The other hand clutched at his abdominal plating, feeling the new gouge, feeling the deeper pain inside his chassis, as though his spark chamber had been struck.  The room seemed to lurch around him, his stabilizing gyros spinning wildly, arm shaking to support him. 

“Drift?”  Wing’s voice, the hard tone he normally used in these sessions evaporating. 

Drift growled, determined to rise.  He pushed one hand into the floor, sweeping one foot forward, trying to lean his weight into it. He wobbled, head turning to spot Wing, expecting a face full of mockery or condescension, before he fell over, clattering to the ground, his vid feed dissolving in smears of color. 

“Drift!” The word seemed chopped into micro-kliks of sound. Drift felt weight on top of him, the solid pressure of a hand.  “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Drift muttered, swatting at the hands on his chassis.  Wing pinned one hand down, almost thoughtlessly, bowing over Drift’s torso, peering at the damage.  He wiggled something.  Drift gasped, his tanks churning, a sudden lance of vertigo spiking across his visual feed.

“Almost got it,” Wing said. “Sorry, hit a weak spot in your armor.”    

Drift tried to growl. Weak. He was not weak.  But he was unable to shift his hand from under Wing’s, unable to do anything but lie there, gasping for stability.  Wing paused, leaned over, dropping a quick, soft kiss on Drift’s mouth. “You’re not weak.  Faulty repairs.” He smiled, optics lighting warm and gold over Drift’s cheeks. “And a bit of bad luck.”

“Don’t believe in luck.” Drift turned his head.  Wing's hand pressed his against his chassis.

“You should,” Wing murmured.  “Luck decides when skill is equally matched.” He tilted his head. “Surely you had some luck in your escape?”

“No. I knew what I was doing.” Sort of.  It had been the usual blinding straightforward rush that combat was for him, paths just opening up in front of him, discovering what to do, step by step.  That wasn't luck. That was survival, instincts honed by the very fight to exist.

Wing nodded, indulgently. “Then, me?”

“Not luck. Weakness.”  He frowned.  The room seemed to be moving around him, pulsing in and out.

“Oh, Drift,” Wing murmured, almost sadly.  He bent back to the task, using both hands this time to pry up a dented plate. “You are not weak. You’ve never been weak.”

Drift groaned, feeling the metal give under Wing’s hands, popping out, releasing the pressure on the core powerline.  The vertigo faded, his gyroscopic stabilizers returning to a calmer whirl. Never been weak. Right. Shivering in the gutters, helpless to even find a meal. Not weak at all.  “Can’t defeat you.”

“That’s not a matter of strength or weakness, Drift,” Wing said. He settled down on the floor next to Drift, reaching to help him sit up. 

Drift swatted the hands away, pushing up to sit, rubbing at the damage on his chassis. “Really.”

Wing smiled. “Really.”

“What else is there?” He craned his head, trying to see the damage.

“It’s a matter of skill—which you’re learning—and luck. Which you don’t believe in.” The smile softened. “You see? Not everything is sheer, brute force and aggression.”  Wing leaned forward, running an almost playful finger down Drift’s arm, tapping one of his worn, battered knuckles. “Otherwise you’d have won by now.”

Drift’s gaze followed the hand, then looked up, studying Wing's face for a sign of mockery, insult.

Wing laughed, his optics lighting with a teasing affection. “If it were will and force, you’d have won the war singlehandedly.”   

“Beat you eventually,” Drift muttered, but the hostility was blunted.  Force had gotten him nowhere. And will, determination? It had pulled him from the gutters, and somehow, Wing seeing that, Wing recognizing that, mattered. 

“You will,” Wing nodded, confidently.

“Seem awfully happy about the idea of losing.”

“Sometimes one wins by losing,” Wing said, his smile turning warm, enigmatic.

“Cheap platitudes.”  Drift grunted, rolling, gingerly, to get his feet underneath him to rise. “Next you’ll tell me I can lose by winning.  Sleep while being awake. Starve by eating. Speak by making no sound.” He shook his head. “Weakness through strength.”

“Strength can be weakness,” Wing said, “If it’s all you ever rely on.”  He rose, taking Drift’s shoulder, helping him stand.  Drift wobbled against him, wishing he could jerk himself away. 

“Ridiculous.”

Wing bent in, planting another gentle kiss on Drift’s frowning mouth. “You’ll see, one day.”  The gold optics shone like the sun far above them.  “And then you’ll understand.” 

"Not likely." Drift, nonetheless, allowed the kiss, letting one hand curl around the jet's torso.  

"You'd be surprised," Wing replied, flaring his wings out for Drift's touch.  "And oh, won't you be magnificent."  He gave a happy chirr.

Probably not, Drift thought, but his mind was filled with other thoughts, other sensations: Wing's body, full of force and skill...and luck...yielding against him. He couldn't defeat Wing in combat, but in this, Wing simply surrendered.  Strength in weakness, probably, Drift thought, with a wry snort, giving himself in to the embrace.

Comments

[abarai-san.livejournal.com]

Awww! :3 *melts* so sweet! I like this very much. Slots right into canon. ;)