Shadowsong

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PGI
IDW Parallax AU
Wing
none.
Pre-Parallax, a small piece fortf_speedwriting

Wing hung in the safety of the sword until Drift fell into a tense, uncomfortable recharge, feet settling into the sun-warmed sand, shoulders pushed back against the jagged stone, some magmal flow frozen in time. He had mastered the way of it, by now, of materializing outside the blade, manifesting himself into space.  He could see images of his own limbs, shimmering like moonlight on fog, misty and insubstantial in the darkness.

He didn’t miss having a body.  Not…entirely. He didn’t miss flying, though he’d thought he would.  It was enough and more than enough to ride over the world on Drift’s shoulders, or, snugged against his underside in his alt. Intimate, close. It was better than all the wild soaring he had ached for in Crystal City.

But he missed his body terribly, those long nights like tonight when Drift tipped his head back against a wall or crop of stone, mouth in a tight rictus, a silent, swallowed cry of pain.  He missed that he could not stroke away the pain, caress the white armor until it loosened the tension, until the tight pain on Drift’s face softened.  He missed having a smile that Drift could see, a body Drift could touch, a mouth to kiss away the pain,  hands that could stroke and cling and make the bond between them real.

But the rest of the time, no. A body was merely a thing, without a spark to inhabit it, a spirit to light it up. Just metal and wire and cables.  Just weight.  The spark, the spirit, was light and freedom, unencumbered, pure.

And he’d seen Drift’s spark glow, slowly, ever brighter. An unsure, flickering flame at first, that grew bolder, more sure. 

Except in nights like these. And even now, it wasn’t Drift’s faith that was guttering low so much as his faith in himself.  And that Wing had—to spare.  If only….

If only. 

If only he could do more than this:  materialize like a fog of pearl, to curl around the tense frame, his body like a memory against the solid armor.  His phantom frame phased into Drift’s, overlapping, sliding in, the electronic fuzz of his being , melding through Drift’s systems.  He drained the tension, activating long-unneeded sequence codes, drawing the energy from the too-tight joints. He could feel Drift relaxing around him.  

And he whispered, quietly, his voice the dream of sound, floating words against that tight knot of hard white metal. At first, a crooning flow, almost without words, just solace in sound.  Then half-phrases, soft praise, of pride and trust and love. Words he’d somehow never managed to say when he was alive. Cowardice? Or merely lack of time? But even more ardent, urgent, now, for all that.  And then a river of sound, as though a stream, undammed, cascading from him: longing, and want and lamenting for all they could have had and been and done. Beautiful pain, like looking too long into the light of the sun.  It was pure self-indulgence, his systems linked with Drift’s, to imagine, to pretend, to let himself feel again. 

He couldn’t touch the lip plates, or caress the crease of pain from around the optics, or stroke his hands down the sleek white armor of the chassis.  He couldn’t touch Drift in any of the ways he wanted to.

But this wasn’t about him. From the moment he’d agreed to face the Slavers alongside Drift, it had never been about Wing.  It was about Drift, and what he needed.

Wing soothing his systems from the inside wasn’t much, and the words, perhaps, weren’t much, but the feeling of Drift softening around him, a breezy sigh of comfort humming through the vocalizer, a counterpoint to his longing melody, were worth everything, were Wing’s whole world.  He could do this much for Drift, keep him company in these longest, darkest stretches of night, when even the desert seemed to hold itself, half-stifled, under the sharp-shadowed edges of the moon.

The sand had long cooled, shedding the last of the day’s heat, the nadir of coolness and silence, without even a breeze to stir it against Drift’s armor. It stretched around Drift, like a roiling, silent sea, broken with rough crops of stone that cast jagged and menacing shadows, one holding Drift, a shadow wrapped in shadow, like some metaphor that only made sense in the deepest hours of the night.

Wing sighed, an insubstantial soundless sound, swallowed in the yawning night, sensing keenly, stretching his awareness as far as it could over the moon-raked sand, keeping watch, guarding Drift with every fragment of his awareness.

It was a sacred duty, an aching honor.  He didn’t know what future stretched before Drift, but he knew that he would be there for it, watching over Drift, murmuring what solace he could, cupping the wavering flame of Drift’s faith.

And the white armor—not his, yet achingly familiar—held him like the most intimate embrace.

Comments

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

So achingly beautiful. *wibbles*

[toyzintheattik.livejournal.com]

T.T. This was so good. Especially this: "a shadow wrapped in shadow, like some metaphor that only made sense in the deepest hours of the night."

[darkeyes-17.livejournal.com]

Melancholy, but beautiful. Really enjoyed seeing it from Wing's point of view, you characterise him so well.

[kamiraptor.livejournal.com]

I-I just...

D'awwwww

*meltyflail*

That was beautiful.

[ladyofdragons.livejournal.com]

Beautiful. I especially love how you ended it. I have "Forever" by Fireflight on my Drift and Wing playlist, and this fic really matches that same sentiment.