![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vector2011-11-22 10:28 pm
Learn to fly again
PG
IDW HalcyonAU
Perceptor, Jetfire, Wing
a combo platter of two different prompts for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif){kind=small}
tf_rare_pairing: Wing/Jetfire - /Take these broken wings, and learn to fly again, learn to live so free/ an Wing/Perceptor: Honesty never felt this painful
FAR less angsty than you'd think.
Perceptor frowned, making a displeased sound.
“What?” Wing asked, craning his head over his shoulder, white audial flares catching the light of the exam chair. His gold optics seemed brassy with distress. “Can you repair it?”
A chuff of air. “Not here. The Axion lacks the facilities.” He knew how to fix it: Wing’s engines were of a unique design, but not un-parsable. Simply…beyond the Axion’s fabricator’s abilities.
“Oh,” Wing said, the corners of his mouth falling, disconsolate. The disappointment stung. “You did your best,” he added, after a moment.
His best. Perceptor almost growled. Not good enough. Again, not good enough. “Not my best,” he said, his voice sharp. “I will fix this.”
“Perceptor, “ Wing turned to face him, optics gentle. “It’s not your fault.”
Fault. Surely there was something he could have done, shot the Decepticon who landed the round straight through the jet’s engine. He could have prevented this pain in the jet’s face, the echoing pain in his spark. “Not done yet,” he said, his voice hoarse. He put the tool down, turning away.
“But…?”
“Not here,” he repeated. “Kimia.”
[***]
Jetfire had agreed before Perceptor had even finished the question, his optics fixed on the schematics of Wing’s engine Perceptor had sent along with his request. Like Perceptor, he felt the pull of the alien design. Perceptor had expected nothing less. And while it felt…odd—a sort of scoured hollowness—to be at Kimia again, he would endure it, easily, to repair Wing.
The white jet looked around him, gold optics wide and curious, barely noticing the odd looks of the station mechs. Perceptor, behind him, frowned them into silence.
“You must be Wing,” Jetfire trotted around the corner, large feet clanking against the deckplates of the hangar bay.
“I am.” The warm smile spread to a sort of awe, taking in Jetfire’s size. “Oh!”
Wing’s surprise was endearing, and even Jetfire flashed a rare, shy smile. The two flightframes stared at each other for a long moment, each studying the other, fascinated.
“I sent you the rest of the schematics over tight burst,” Perceptor said, quietly. A pang of something like envy slipped through his guard.
“Yes,” Jetfire said, tearing his gaze from the jet’s face. “I would like to do an examination of the unaffected engine?”
Wing’s head bobbed. “I appreciate this.”
Another tentative attempt at a smile. “An airframe should fly,” Jetfire said, the trite phrase somehow managing to sound sonorous and sage in his slow, careful voice.
Wing’s pinions—even the injured one—flittered, as Jetfire beckoned for the small jet to follow him. Perceptor frowned, trailing along in a wake that smelled like jealousy.
“Perceptor!” Another voice that seemed to explode from memories. A chunky mech bobbed down the corridor. “I saw your name on the incoming manifest but…it’s really you!” And before Perceptor could stop it, he found himself swept into a hug, Ironfist’s stocky arms around his chassis.
The two flight frames turned, Jetfire with a tolerant grin on his face, Wing surprised, curious, as though seeing a piece of Perceptor’s past, a puzzle-piece of a larger mosaic he was still trying to figure out.
“Ironfist,” Perceptor managed, hands coming, by reflex, around the shoulders. “This is…Wing.” So much contained in that word: a confession, an admission, an introduction.
Ironfist turned his head, optics barely glancing over Wing. “Nice to meet you.” He tugged at Perceptor’s hand. “Come on. We have so much to catch up on. And…I have so many things to show you!” Ironfist dragged Perceptor toward one of the open doors. How very like him, Perceptor thought, eager, swathed in discovery. Almost blind to the here-and-now, not recognizing even the very physical changes of Perceptor’s frame.
He let himself be trundled down the corridor, snared in a net of Ironfist’s enthusiasm, casting only one glance back toward the two white mechs. Who seemed, he realized, lost in conversation. No, they wouldn’t miss him. Wing didn’t need him.
No one did.
[***]
“Was the trip all right?” It was a rote conversation, a safe opening, and Jetfire felt himself hiding behind it, suddenly awkward and alone with the strange jet. Not only his armor, not only his optics, but the very sense of something that seemed to emanate from the small frame. It was…curious. Almost, but not quite, like Ironfist’s ebullient naivete.
“It was. You have to understand, it’s been…millennia since I last experienced spaceflight. Even the Axion is still…new.” A laugh, loose and open, so unlike Jetfire’s own tight chuckle, as though he was a little embarrassed. It was…unique. “I’m still not used to the ground moving.”
“We’re all too used to it,” Jetfire said. “And being confined.”
“We make planetfalls, though,” Wing said, cheerily. “That helps. But you?”
Jetfire gave a shrug. “The outside of Kimia needs maintenance.” He tapped his armor, fingertips thunking over his heavy armor.
“Vacuum capable,” Wing said, a little breathless, a little awed. One hand reached out, stroking the white forearm. Jetfire twitched from the touch, startled. “I-I’m sorry,” the small jet said, pulling back. “I forget my place, sometimes.”
“Perhaps,” Jetfire said, helm tilting, as he turned back down the hallway, “That is not such a bad thing, sometimes.”
[***]
“Let me know if this hurts,” Jetfire said, bending closer over the splayed-open engine.
“It’s fine,” Wing said.
A curious look, before the white shuttle returned his attention to the engine. “Perceptor did an excellent job sealing the lines.”
“Yes,” Wing nodded, happily. “He is very calm under fire, as well.” The gold optics searched for Perceptor, who had propped himself against the exam room wall, arms folded. The praise pattered off him like warm rain.
A low hum, that Perceptor recognized like a hand stretched across time: the sound Jetfire made while deep in thought. It was his contented sound, a frame-vibrating rumble. Where Perceptor himself might have begun a running commentary, Jetfire kept a soft, tuneless tone, as though the sound was a net to catch inspiration.
“It appears,” he said, slowly, “to have damaged the extension struts as well.”
A nod from the small jet. Perceptor tensed: Wing hadn’t told that to him.
Jetfire nodded. “I’d like a better look.”
Wing took the hint, flipping over on the exam table, spreading his wings. The left one only extended halfway, the gears grinding, stuttering before stalling out with a sharp tang of smoke. Jetfire’s hands moved, white and gentle and large, over the silver panels. Wing whimpered. Perceptor could see the heat differential from the damaged wing through his reticle.
Another hum, and Wing squirmed, suddenly, as the shuttle’s EM field contacted his own. Perceptor couldn’t see the fields, but he could see the shivering of both their frames, the sudden surprise. He didn’t know why he was surprised: how anyone could be near Wing and not be entirely captivated by him? He was surprised how much it hurt.
“Sorry,” Jetfire whispered, and his voice was hesitant, uncertain, as though this were new ground to him, or, more likely, air currents he didn’t know how to navigate.
“Don’t apologize,” Wing said, and Perceptor felt his mouth shape the words even as the jet spoke them. Wing didn’t believe in apologies, thought they were needless, thought that the regret, remorse, was more than enough. Wing was either very innocent, or far, far wiser than Perceptor ever could be.
And even as he echoed the words, even as Wing pushed up, half turning, the wing folding behind his back in a gesture so familiar, a movement Perceptor had seen a hundred times, even as he felt these familiar bonds, he felt the jet slipping away. He could trace the arm coming up around the shoulder, pulling the shuttle into a kiss.
“Maybe we can go flying together,” Wing offered, optics glowing gold and wide, like pools of honey, sweet and luring.
“That would be nice,” Jetfire said, suddenly awkward, fumbling with the tools. Another surge, another phantom kiss.
It didn’t happen, Wing simply smiled up at Jetfire, but Perceptor could feel the wash of heat between them, almost as if it had. As if it was—and it was—only a matter of time.
He turned on his heel, the metal grating against the decking as he headed for the door. He wasn’t needed here, and he didn’t want to see.
“Perceptor?” Wing’s voice, then Jetfire’s almost in unison. As though they had already synchronized.
“Should see about Kup’s cy-gars,” he muttered, without turning his head. He didn’t want to see them, white against white, Wing splayed beneath Jetfire, their EM fields nearly knitting together. “You’ll complete the repairs?”
A curious silence, and he almost—almost—turned his head.
“Yes, everything will be repaired by the time you’re finished,” Jetfire said, almost sheepish, caught out.
Not everything.
no subject
*glomps* Thank you for writing my prompt! *glees*
no subject
no subject
XD
Great prompt. Poor Percy. He needs a confidence boost -_-
Or Ratchet to whack some sense into him.
no subject
So, what this leaves me with is a strong desire for a Wing/Jetfire sandwich with Perceptor as the filling :D
no subject
Poor jealous mech. I wanna hug him. I think he needs some Wing-hugs though :3
And Jetfire-hugs.
And Ironfist-hugs.
And Drift-hugs, whenever he shows up. :)
no subject
But please, can you write one piece where Drift and Wing realize how Perceptor views himself in their relationship ... expendable.
no subject
(<3 the emotional suspense, like a Korean drama, communication? y4?)
no subject
no subject
But ah, flyer communication. How I adore it.