Healing

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG
IDW Halcyon AU
Drift, Wing, Perceptor
for tformers100 table war prompt injury

Drift was inconsolable. Perceptor hadn’t seen this anger in him before, and hoped never to see it again. “Fix him!” he roared. “Frag the others!” He slammed his hands against the wall, the way he might shove another mech away from him, his one concession to his temper—that he was aiming it away from actually hurting anyone.

“Drift,” he said, trying to keep his voice soothing, confident, “Wing will recover. You have my word.”

The mouth tightened, mouthplates almost grating together. “He better.” He filled his optics with malevolence, almost—almost—blind to the fact that it was Perceptor he was talking to.  

“Drift.” Perceptor stopped unsure of what to say, knowing, only, that words would not help.  He gave a brusque nod before turning to the repair bay.

Wing would recover. Perceptor would not lie to Drift, nor to himself.  And part of what hurt was the way he had to smother his own worry.  While another was this knife-sharp evidence that Drift cared so deeply for Wing…and not him.

Selfishness, he thought, frowning. Selfishness and unworthiness. Drift wouldn’t do that. And even if he did, the crumbs he did throw at Perceptor would be enough. Should be enough.

Wasn’t enough.

But, he loved Wing, too, for more than the fact that Wing saved Drift, that Wing made him happy. Wing made Perceptor happy. Or tried to. 

And the ache in his spark as he looked at the jet, suspended in the nutrient fluid, was real, and belied the hardness he tried to put up in front of Drift.  Wing had been shot down and then…brutalized by the Decepticons.  His armor was scorched, bubbled, hoses leaking. He’d managed, barely, to cling to Drift when the mech found him, damaged hands curling pitifully around Drift’s neck. And Drift had stood, carrying the damaged weight, the stripped wings dangling down, broken and useless over his arm, and his face was white with fury.

“They die.” 

Perceptor had nodded, taking the charred-light weight from him.  Agreeing, entirely.  Drift had let his fingers slide through Wing’s damaged ones, as he lifted them off his neck, before his optics turned glacially cold, and he turned away, hand reaching for the heavy hilt of the Great Sword.

And now, Wing hung in the tank, stripped of armor, down to the naked titanium of his underframe. He looked…frail, childlike. Perceptor didn’t want Drift to see him like this. Drift was angry enough, teetering on the edge of control already.  He didn’t want this to tip him over.  He remembered too well being in the tank himself, the helplessness, the naked vulnerability.  He ached for Wing.

He checked the vitals: he hadn’t lied. Despite the fragile looking frame, Wing’s signals were sure, strong. He was made of sturdy materials, the spark that pulsed in him pure.  “You will recover,” he told  the tank, with a firm nod. But if anything would be the same…?

[***]

“I will be there.” Flat hostility, the blue optics hard and lusterless.  Perceptor should know better than to argue.  Drift had a right. He made so few claims for anything, but this one, this would be respected.

The red mech sighed, shoulders releasing.  “He is fine, though he looks…alarming.” He turned, heading to the repair bay. Drift fell into step beside him.

“I can handle it,” Drift said, even as he stopped, rocking back as he crossed the threshold. 

Wing looked much better—the underframe entirely intact, the fluid having soaked off the char, the warped struts straightened. He just looked…naked.  Perceptor tilted his head, indicating that Drift cross behind the tank. “You can pull him out.”

Drift nodded, climbing to the access ledge, some of the hot tension eroding.  He hesitated as the tank’s lid retracted, balling and flattening his hands nervously, before bending over, plunging his hands into the warm fluid.  He caught the frame, light, almost too light to contain all that Wing was, all he meant, and lifted him up. 

Wing hung, limp, dripping energon nutrient fluid, head drooping low between his shoulders.  Drift looked over his frame at Perceptor who gave a reassuring nod.  He straightened further, lifting the legs free, scooping them out of the tank with one arm, the other holding the slight frame across his chassis, the bare struts of the wings pressing against his armor. 

Wing’s frame was slack until Drift had stepped down the access ramp, and lay him on the medical berth.  Perceptor crossed over, bustling around the mech, attaching leads and monitors. Drift hovered, useless, but refusing to leave.

“When…?”

“A moment,” Perceptor said. “The nutrients block electrical charge to prevent shorting. It must evaporate.”

Drift nodded, edging into what he hoped would be the line of sight.  The optic shutters flicked, fluttered, the optics warming, light slowly filling the reflector, shining out under the drooped lids.  “Wing.” He twitched forward, caught himself, aware, instinctively, of the fragile frame.

A whine of servos, the slim, stripped hands reaching for him. He closed the distance, taking one hand in his, fingers cupping around it as though it were too delicate to bear his touch. The vocalizer croaked, but Drift shook his head. “Don’t talk. Yet.”

The gold optics softened, the head tipping almost imperceptibly with mute gratitude. 

“You’re fine. You’ll be fine.  You’re safe.” Drift cut himself off, aware that he was babbling, nervous, just so relieved to see the familiar light in the optics, the facial plates animated—subtly—by life, by Wing.

The hand moved in his, light and small, the silver mechanisms sliding over his armored fingers. 

“I’ll…leave you,” Perceptor said, gathering the tools, and moving away, stiff with unresolved tension.

Drift turned, optics acute, but the red mech shook his head, accepting.  Drift subsided.

Silence fell over them, a blanket of non-noise, even dulling the hums and clicks of the monitoring equipment. Drift’s optics flicked to the readout, as though comforting himself in the strong, steady tempo of the signals.  He waited, patient now that he had Wing here, their hands linked. It was silly, it was foolish, but he tried to imagine pushing his own energy into the hand held in his. 

The room began to darken, the shipboard daycycle lights dimming to night. The gold optics glowed brighter, embers of hope. 

“Drift.” The voice was a thread croak.  A long pause, Drift twitching frozen, as if too afraid to move, as though fearing that the release of a piston would drown out the feeble voice.  “You don’t have to be here.”

Drift frowned. “Want to. Wasn’t there when you needed me.”

The mouthplates twitched. “Nothing you could have done.”

The frown deepened. Wing was right, but…. “Don’t like you hurt.”

“Drift. I take the same risks as any of us.”

“I know.”

The hand turned in his again, stroking the small fingerpads down the palm of his hand.  Comforting him, as he lay stripped to his frame. 

“Just…,” Drift began and shrugged, helpless.

“I understand. I would feel the same.”  Another glimmered smile. “I hope I am as brave as you are when the situation reverses.”

Drift leaned forward, abruptly, his mouth finding Wing’s, feeling his mass, and Wing’s smallness, and even so humbled by the magnitude of Wing’s presence, seemingly glowing from the slight frame. Their lip plates touched, gentle and electric, the air between them humming, fuzzing with electrons. “Oh,” Wing breathed, optics dimming.

Drift pulled away, nervous, sudden. “Didn’t hurt.” Half a question, half a confession.

“No,” Wing’s voice, gentle, the hand coaxing him back. “Sensitive.”

Oh. The bare systems, the proximity of Drift’s field, EM, vibration, eddies and ripples of heated air.  “Sorry.”

“Come back,” Wing whispered. “Lie with me.”

He thought of what Perceptor might say, of the delicate leads threading from Wing to the monitors, but the soft plea in the gold optics overrode both of those and he found himself levering onto the berth, layig himself along the bare frame.  Wing softened, sighing, a soothed smile crossing his face.  “You saved me, this time,” Wing murmured. “We’re even.”

“No,” Drift said, letting his hand fall, light as a leaf, over the unarmored chassis, feeling the arousing tingle of the spark chamber under his palm. He  pressed his mouth against the bare audial flare, feeling the last of the trembling heat of his anger cooling, ebbing, as he clung to the jet like a lifeline, “never.”

Comments

[silaphet.livejournal.com]

<3

[dvana.livejournal.com]

Poor Perceptor. It's moments like this that the tension shows around the edges of what's otherwise a beautiful thing. Nicely done.

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

they're so beautiful together, but my heart aches for perceptor. it hurts, being outside, looking in.

[totso.livejournal.com]

I never know how to tell you how amazing your writing is to read. I end up deleting everything and letting the others express my feelings. I'm happy I stumbled here a year(ish) ago.

[yukiko-angel.livejournal.com]

I love the relationship you are presenting between these three. I just aches for Peceptor in those story and his low self-esteem here.

[mmouse15.livejournal.com]

Oh, Perceptor.

As happy as I am for Drift and Wing, my heart aches for Perceptor and his unspoken desires. This is gorgeously written.

[tainry.livejournal.com]

<333

[dryadic.livejournal.com]

This is my favorite AU you have, but my heart breaks for Perceptor every time. Sad thing is, he does it to himself. :/