Immanence part two

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG-13
IDW
Drift/Wing, Dai Atlas, Axe, a few OCs
angst

Wing knelt, in the posture of submission, before Dai Atlas. The jewels still gleamed in the light, unmoving save for a small tremble, the only betrayal of his emotion, as he bowed his head before the larger mech’s wrath.  

“Shameful,” Dai Atlas spat.  “A desecration of our most holy rite.” 

Wing cycled a shaky breath. He had no excuse to offer, other than that Drift had come to him, ablaze with want, and he’d seen, for the first time, the bitter walls Drift erected between himself and everything start to break down. The gentle, almost apologetic licks along the back of his neck still tingled, a reminder of something newborn and shy. And all he could think about was that he’d lost that.

“It was no desecration,” Axe said, behind Wing.  “It was an act of love.”

“Love?” Dai Atlas’s voice shattered the word. “They were going at it like beasts.” 

“And you’ve never been overcome,” Axe said, pointedly, hinting at some knowledge he had, throwing a dart that struck home.

“It was different,” Dai Atlas said. “Drift is a Decepticon.  You yourself said so, that he had the power to contaminate us with his very presence, his ways.”

“Or we with ours,” Axe said. “How do you know that’s not what’s happened? And wouldn’t that be a blessing of Primus, indeed, to spare one more soul from the ravages of war?”

Wing lifted his head, minutely, tinily hopeful. 

Dai Atlas grunted, turning away. “It doesn’t change that Wing should know better. He flouts our laws.”

Axe had no response to that. He couldn’t: it was true, and they all three knew it.

“I will abide by your judgment,” Wing said, his voice quiet but steady.  “If I have erred in the law, in my spark I was doing right and I will pay the penalty.”

A look, exchanged by the other mechs over him, a silent negotiation, before Dai Atlas said, stiffly, “You will.”

He expected nothing less: Dai Atlas was nothing if not ruthlessly fair. And Axe had done more than he needed to, defending Wing.  The memory was a beautiful ache in Wing’s frame, a moment he held only once and for a short time, like a droplet of sweetest dew. 

[***]

Drift crouched in the darkness inside Wing’s quarters. He’d thought of leaving, his entire system storming with fury and shame at Dai Atlas’s cutting insult, at his own action—interfacing with the enemy, his captor. He wanted to leave. He knew he should, but somehow, his feet had brought him back here, instead. Maybe he’d thought he’d have it out with Wing, berate him for not standing up to Dai Atlas. Maybe he just wanted more, without the intoxicant swirling through his system.

Whatever he’d thought he wanted was irrelevant: Wing wasn’t here. The rooms were dark and echoing, as though the scene from earlier—was it still the same day?—of the bustle of mechs fitting the jeweled wing stalls and drawing on the painted designs and the brightness and Wing’s smile, as though none of that had ever happened. He could still smell the paint, the last whiffs of metal polish, but they seemed stale and thin, now, just enough to remind him of what he hadn’t appreciated at the time.

The night stretched on, the underground city’s false lights darkened, and still he was alone, leaning against the wall in Wing’s room, not the small closet they’d set up for him. He couldn’t be there now: the berth and the small table, conscientiously arranged with snacks and a small datapad and other little luxuries, seemed to mock him.

He didn’t want them. That wasn’t what had brought him back. He didn’t want trinkets or pricy fancy food. He wanted….

…he didn’t know what he wanted.

The door to the main room opened, and he went on alert, audio straining.

It was Wing: his footsteps, but slow, heavy. Drift stayed where he was, optics narrowing to small blue slits in the darkness.

A darker shape, shadow in shadow, in the doorframe: Wing, holding the frame for a moment with a heavy sigh.

Drift waited, low and silent, for Wing to notice him. 

The jet didn’t.  Wing looked over his shoulder, across the narrow hallway to the room that was Drift’s, and gave a heavy sigh.

Drift bristled, feeling the weight of it. Right. So he was a burden.  And he’d come back…just to find that out. Was it closure? Yes. Just not any of the ones he’d thought of.

Wing moved into the room, without turning on the light—a small mercy—and flung himself on the berth, curling into a ball of wings and the projections of his flight stabilizers.  Drift felt a pang at his spark, another pain of another kind, but he forced himself still, forced himself to wait until Wing had slipped into recharge, before he levered himself up, and slipped out of the room, his optics shadowed and unhappy.

[***]

“Do you want another?” Wing asked, pushing to his feet.  It was days after the ceremony, and Wing had dragged Drift, protesting, to a streetside café. From the café, music wafted through the streets, filled with vendors and artisans and mechs bustling around, some to buy, some merely to look.

And there was Drift, arms folded over his chassis, glowering. “I’m fine.” Things had been tense between them since then, even more than usual, both circling each other warily, as though waiting for the other to strike.

Wing gave an uneven smile. “I’ll get you one, then. Maybe a different flavor.”

What made it worse, Drift thought, picking up the white cup, half-full of cooling blue tea, was that Wing was trying so hard. His manners impeccable, his words always courteous and patient.  But there was that distance between them, that grew wider every night, when Wing left him, never telling him where or why, only to return cycles later, wrung out and exhausted.  Drift had confronted him once, the only answer an enigmatic smile and a gentle stroke over his helm.

He scowled, putting the cup back on the table, as though even its sweetness was an affront. Drift let his optics scour the crowd, before glancing back to the door to the café.

He caught two mechs, seated at another table, staring at him. The hard kind of stare he remembered from the gutters. The kind that didn’t drop when it was caught.

“What.” He bristled, sitting upright.

One turned away, showily dismissive. “Nothing.”

The other continued staring, a green and gold ground frame.  Drift bristled. “What,” he repeated, moving to the edge of the seat. All of his frustration began to seethe from its low simmer. 

“Decepticon,” the green one said.

“Yes,” Drift said.

“I was from Vos.”

Vos. Drift shrugged. Early in the war, one of the first real triumphs. What did the mech expect? An apology? 

“Is that all you have to say?” the mech said, hand curling into a fist.  “An entire city destroyed and you can’t even say you’re sorry?”

“I’m not.”

“Recoil.” The other mech who had been staring laid a hand on the green and gold banded wrist. “That was a long time ago.”

“It doesn’t change anything.” Recoil’s frown turned into a snarl.

Drift shrugged again. “I’m a soldier. I do my job.”

“And raping Wing. Was that your job, too?”

Drift leapt to his feet, the chair screeching against the ground, his hands already in fists as he lunged toward the other mech.

Silence swallowed the entire street as Drift hauled the other mech up by his collar armor, thrusting the other out of his way with a flat palm.  “What did you say?” Drift snarled,  his face inches from Recoil’s. 

“You,” the gold face was flat with hostility. “raped Wing. During the ceremony.”

Drift felt his vents come too fast, heaving and deep.  That…wasn’t what had happened. Wing hadn’t given any sign he hadn’t wanted it. He’d said yes. He’d said yes. The world seemed to spin under his feet, as if he'd drunk more of that intoxicant.

“We all know it,” the other mech said. “Everyone.  We just don’t know why Wing still puts up with you.”

Drift roared, feeling the resentment, fueled by rage, boil over in him. He swung, one fist contacting the taller mech’s face, his other hand still hanging onto Recoil’s collar armor.  He swung the green mech forward, to drive his head into his friend’s. 

A retaliation—a fist against him, a foot driving into his chassis. But these were mechs, not knights, and Drift was a warrior with millions of years of combat. It wasn’t even close. He didn’t even remember what he did, giving into the haze of red that always welcomed him at the battlefield, until he felt arms lock around his body, hauling him off. Even then, he thrashed, even when the arms holding him lifted him bodily off the ground. 

“Easy, Drift,” a voice rumbled in his ear.  “Don’t make it worse.”

“Worse!” he managed, struggling. “Worse?  I didn’t start this.”

“That’ll be settled. Now, are you going to behave?”

Drift’s face flattened, but he knew the offer. “Yeah. Fine.” He sucked in a vent of air, relaxing, until Axe lowered him to his feet.  The grip loosened around his chassis, but didn’t entirely let him go.  Probably wise, Drift admitted.  He forced himself to look around.

Recoil lay immobile on the ground, his armor dented, and splattered with the purple of energon. And the other mech, one he heard a medic crouching over him call ‘Wave’, was nursing a broken hip joint. Drift gave a shrug, grinning ferally. Not bad. And justified.

Until he saw Wing, standing, open-mouthed with horror.

His grin wavered.

“Wing,” he said.

Wing looked at him, then away, his optics back on Recoil and Wave. As if Drift didn't matter. As if they were right. The rejection hit him like a blow, the first one to really land.

Axe seemed to sense the rise of something between them, tense and awful and raw. “Are you injured, lad? Hurt anywhere?”

Drift shook his head, numb. “No,” he said, his optics still vainly trying to get Wing’s attention. “Not injured.”  But he did hurt, inward, where he didn’t think any medic could reach.

Comments

[wind-on-wave.livejournal.com]

*sob*
Da-amn, Drift :/ Wing... :/ i hope... i hope, Wing didn't thought those things, like Drift thought :/ i mean - that he didn't blame Drift ._." Wing, you are clever and strong Spark, please, don't.
(and i love your Axe...)

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

;_;

this series tears at my heart... you are such an incredible wordsmith. thank you.

[halkrath.livejournal.com]

Here i was, all heated up with some fluffy feeling butterflies in my lower half and then slag hits the fan. This was quite a cold shower.

Dai you fragging exhaust pipe! How can one be so blind and not see what is going on between Wing and Drift. And then those harsh words. Drift thawing a little only to be practically send back with a kick in the aft. And as if that wasn't enough the accusation of rape and to top it all Wing gets punished for it. I'm bursting with curiousity what Drifts reaction will be when he gets that little bit of info. Beside I have a feeling I know what his punishment is or at least in which direction it goes.

From fragging hot to epic disaster in two chaps. I love it! Hope you will continue soon.

[wicked3659.livejournal.com]

Awwww! I really want to see what happens between these two now. If only Wing would speak up, discount the lies the others are spreading :s poor Drift, his reaction was well founded in my view *hugs him* I do hope you continue this story.

[tainry.livejournal.com]

Young bots. Can't live with 'em, can't melt 'em down for scrap. Some people you just want to shake sense into. But they have to figure it out themselves or it won't stick. ::hugs everyone::
Well played.
<3

[ida lindelöf (from livejournal.com)]

Holy.... Slag hit the fan indeedO_o Please tell me you are going to continue with this! It´s just, it hurts, like all over. So much going the wrong way and I really feel for Drift in this. Someone really needs a hug...