Meridian ch 7

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG-13
IDW Meridian AU
Deadlock/Wing, Turmoil, Megatron
no warnings

Turmoil raged.  And he could rage quietly, but that…served no point.

“You cannot allow this to stand, Megatron.” His optics blazed behind his visor.

“I can’t.”  Flat challenge in the voice. “You tell me what to do, Turmoil?”

Turmoil bristled. “It diminishes your authority.”

“How.” 

“Think of the message it sends.” Turmoil bristled.  The same height as Megatron, built off a similar class of frame, he straightened, used to using his size to intimidate—a bit off balance that, obviously, it didn’t work against Megatron. 

“The message is that if you’re good you get allowances,” Megatron said.  “It pushes us to achieve.”

“I have achieved,” Turmoil said. “I’m a field commander.”

“And Deadlock is…Deadlock.” Perfectly reasonable tone…for now.  Megatron didn’t like his decisions questioned.  “He’s proven himself to me.”  He tilted back. How far would Turmoil take this? To the point of challenging Megatron’s judgment?

Apparently not. Yet. “He’s changed.” Turmoil said. “You might be wary.”

Your concern for my well-being is flattering, Turmoil.” Powdery sarcasm in the tone. “I assure you. I can handle Deadlock.” A flare of challenge—Turmoil had not.

“His mechs despised him.”

“They feared him, Turmoil,” Megatron said, evenly. “And you might think why that was.”  He smirked. “A mech only needs to fear Deadlock if he’s not pulling his own weight.”

“Foolishness,” Turmoil spat. He jutted his mask. “You’ll see.”

“I assure you,” Megatron said. “I can handle Deadlock.”  He thought back to the previous night. Oh Deadlock might have changed, but so had Megatron. And in all the ways that mattered, Deadlock was his. 

“You’ll see,” Turmoil said, tipping his helm down, optics a line of fire under his helm’s rim.

[***]

“Come on.”  Deadlock tapped Wing’s foot.  The jet still curled on the berth, but the cube on the shelf was empty. He’d noticed that, and taken some consolation in that. 

“What?”  Wing uncurled, optics still dimmed, his voice a soft croak.

“Come.” Deadlock beckoned with one hand.  “Follow me.”  He turned, heading to the door, without checking to see if Wing was following.

Why would he? Wing thought. I am his possession, his owned.  He levered himself off the berth, joints slow and stiff, his first steps shaky. Deadlock waited in the corridor, nodding as Wing crossed the threshold. 

“Anyone bothers you on this ship,” Deadlock said, “you tell me. And defend yourself, got it?”  He turned, blue optics fixed on Wing’s face until Wing nodded assent.  Deadlock gave a grunt, turning back up the corridor. 

Wing wanted to ask where they were going, but he bit down that want. No, Wing, you don’t get to want anything. Your curiosity is insignificant.  He followed Deadlock, aching at the familiarity of the frame in front of him. From the back, it was easier to remember him as Drift, without the hard line of his mouth, without the purple sigil on his chassis. He followed the other mech into a room, Deadlock barking a command to online lights. 

Deadlock turned, one corner of his mouth curling up into a smile. It almost seemed parodic.  He gestured with one palm. “Come on.” 

“Fight you?” Wing shook his head. “I’m not going to fight you, Deadlock.” His mouth threatened to betray him with a quiver until he bit down on it. “You’ve proved your point.”  

“Not about a point. Just…come on.” He feinted a blow.  Wing brought up an arm, almost without thought, to block it, even though they both knew it wouldn’t have landed, wouldn’t have done damage.  “Come on.” Another swing, another block with no retaliation.

Deadlock gave a half-growl, frustrated. His hands dropped by his side. “Fine. What do you want. You win, you get it. Just like before.”

Just like before.  Wing felt his tank heave, as if upending itself in his chassis. Nothing was ever just like before. It would never be that way again. “There’s nothing that I want,” Wing said, his voice flat, optics dropping to his hands. 

Deadlock shifted, giving an irritated chuff. “Stop…being like this.”

“Like what?”  No challenge in the voice. 

“Like…,” Deadlock shrugged, gesturing with his hand, at a loss. 

“Deadlock,” Wing said, gently. “You can’t imagine I’d be happy here.”

A quick, stifled growl.  “No, but…more than this.” 

More than this.  Wing’s shoulders jerked, as though around a sob. “Deadlock,” he said, his voice a cry of thin despair, “isn’t it enough that I am yours?”

The answer hung in the silence between them, raw and bleeding.

Comments

[silaphet.livejournal.com]

subdued sadness, aching for Wing, needing hope, meditative ruminations
"the soft overcomes the hard ...

*sorry, lucidity? be not with the drinkingz*