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niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vector2011-08-11 08:47 pm
Hold Me Now
IDW
Drift/Wing
no warnings
for tf_rare_pairing August challenge. I picked "Hold Me Now" by the Thompson Twins. Who were, incidentally, the very first band I saw in concert. I'm sure you care. :P
Drift snarled, his head slamming hard into the wall, jarring his optics momentarily offline. Again. Again and again and again. He pounded a fist into the floor, hissing at the sharp slam of pain through his hand, trying to vent some of the pure frustration that spun so hot and red in his visual field that he was nearly dizzy.
“Drift?” Wing’s voice, noxiously soft, gentle, as if he weren’t the mech who had launched Drift into the wall in the first place.
“Fine,” Drift snapped, pure reflex, posting off his other palm, trying to rise to his feet. Pain shocked through his shoulder, dropping him back to the ground, curled around his injured joint.
“I think we’re done for the day,” Wing said. He extended a hand.
Drift’s face contorted into a snarl. “Get away from me.”
Wing dropped to one knee, the red blade of the stabilizer jutting between them. “Are you injured?” His gold optics were alive with concern, the hand brushing against Drift’s shoulder. Drift struck the hand, forcing it away.
“I’m fine,” he snarled, wincing, his blue optics whiting with pain as he forced himself up. His knees struggled with his weight, the processes clotted with alarms from his injured helm and shoulder. “Do not touch me!”
Wing recoiled, gold optics shadowed, hurt. “Drift, what can I do?”
What can he do? Drift’s hand clutched at his injured shoulder, feeling energon trickle down his cheek from his where his helm had jounced against his face. “Can let me go.” He braced his feet, scraping his backplates against the wall as he pushed up.
The beautiful face clouded. “I can’t.”
“Right. You want to talk to me about peace and freedom and what? You keep me prisoner.”
“Drift. You’re not—“
“I’m not?” Drift pushed away from the wall. “Then let me leave, Wing. Let me walk out that door. Let me go back to my war.”
“Drift….” Wide importune in the golden gaze. Drift had fallen prey to that before. He steeled himself against it.
“Don’t,” he snapped. “Just don’t.” He leaned heavily against the wall, and the pain and humiliation and then the black tide of something like despair just struck him, flattened him against the wall, sucking the energy from his joints. He’d never win. He’d made no progress at all. He was here…forever and above him, around him, the war raged and the Autobots were winning. Mechs were dying and he was…here. He gave a cry of pain that had nothing to do with his injuries.
Wing shifted uncertainly, in front of him, not daring to touch. “What can I do to help?” he whispered.
“Let me go,” Drift said. “Or at least call this what it is.”
“What is it?”
“Captivity. Torture.”
“Torture? I’m offering you a fair chance to win your freedom. Which is more than your kind allowed us back on Cybertron.” The light in Wing’s optics changed, that white-yellow glow of idealism, zealotry.
“My kind,” Drift spat.
Wing flinched. “I…I meant those of you determined to war.”
“I still am.” He tucked his chin, truculent.
“Drift,” Wing began, that lecturing tone.
“No.” Drift lurched toward the door. He had no idea where he was going. He just wanted to move, to go. Pretend to be free. Pretend he had even that much autonomy. “I’ve heard it all before and I’m sick of it.”
“Sick of…?”
“All of it.” Drift whirled, red optics blazing, hands balling into fists he knew better than to swing at the white jet. “All these…these lies you wrap yourself in. Talk about freedom while you hide underground. While you keep prisoners. Cling to your little piece of moral high ground because you don’t kill.” He threw one arm wide, ignoring the lance of pain in his shoulder. “Like this is mercy?” His despair was raw, naked, on his face, his trembling limbs.
Wing recoiled, for the first time hurt and uncertainty mingling on his face. “Drift,” he said, quietly. “I…I don’t know what to say.”
Drift could feel the rage, righteous and hot, boil off his frame, mixing with the hurt of his injury, as he stood, his energon pulsing, roaring through his lines.
“For once,” he snarled.
[***]
The rest of the day was…excruciating. Neither dared speak, neither wanted to risk damaging the very few undamaged strands between them, moving gingerly around each other, optics gliding off each other, as if a too hard gaze would shatter them.
Darkness, blessed and deep, wrapped them in a blanket of darkness, that felt like safety, and they both yearned, as they stretched along Wing’s berth, back to back, that the day would end, and tomorrow, they could pretend the words had been unsaid, the raw wounds unexposed.
Drift curled tighter, arms folded over his chassis, knees drawing closer, the tight ball he remembered all too well from the gutters, but no matter how tight he curled there still seemed a cold emptiness.
He shifted his hips back, restless, as though comfort eluded him. And the back of one skirting panel bumped against the folded point of Wing’s wing panels. “Sorry,” he muttered, jerking forward, aware too late he was breaking the fragile, brittle wall of silence between them. His hip seemed to prickle from the contact, wanting touch, missing it.
Wing moved behind him, and at first Drift thought he was scooting farther away, until he felt an arm fall over his shoulder, the warm gust of a breath against his neck. “I’m sorry, too,” Wing breathed.
Drift stiffened, knowing he should worm away, lift the hand that snaked over his chassis, under his arm, seeking out his hand. “For what?”
A long, shaky sigh from the jet, vents gusting over Drift’s body like the lightest caress. “Everything that comes between us.”
The fingers found his, and he let his own twine through them, tipping his head to open his neck to the mouth that sought the gap below his helm, nuzzling gently. “Me too.”
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It's so cool to see and get the feel from this bit that Wing... isn't as right as he thinks he is. Nicely done!
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