Night Waking

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG
IDW
Wing/Drift
for cottoncandy-bingo (on DW) prompt 'beautiful'

It was as though the darkness itself woke him, like calling to like. Drift opened his optics, too new, too blue, into the velvet manufactured night of Wing’s quarters.  He cycled a tentative vent of air, hearing the steady relaxed rise and fall of the jet’s vents, on the berth a small distance from his own.

The room resolved around him, the high ornate vaulted ceiling stretching into inky blackness above, and the sense of mass or emptiness from the rooms furnishings.

He moved, cautiously, rolling to one side, optics lidded in case he was seen, as if he was simply changing position in his own recharge.

Wing didn’t move, flopped onto his back, limbs sprawled, one flightpanel half-unfurled beneath him, one palm splayed on his chassis, as though inviting touch.

The sleep of the innocent, Drift thought, but the sourness of the thought had faded to a bittersweet longing by the time the thought shaped itself. Because he’d never recharged like that, never felt that safe, that innocent. Even now he slept lightly, on guard.

Drift pushed up onto one elbow.  He’s gone, Drift thought, sound asleep. You can leave, be halfway to the surface by the time the city stirs.  He knew its rhythms by now.

He could leave and find the war. Part of him itched to fight, almost driven half mad by the lack of it, by the thought of what he might be missing. The war, raging on without him, the fire that gave him meaning: campaigns and battles, progress.

He missed the war: the reek of scorched energon, the roar of guns, the scream of airframe engines redlining through the sky.  He missed the objectives, the rush of cyberdrenaline. He missed everything about the war.

The war probably didn’t miss him.  No one missed him.

It was a sudden, startling thought, that hit him like a hammerblow on his chassis, with the force of the slaver’s fists. No one missed him. No one wanted him anything but dead.

Except Wing.

“Why?” The word escaped his vocalizer, a paper thin whisper, barely stirring the air. Why had Wing saved him, pledged for him before the Circle?

He hadn’t asked for any of it, didn’t want it.

Didn’t deserve it.

The gold optics opened, spilling amber light over Wing’s cheeks, like little kisses from the sun.   His engines gave a gentle purr, the mouth curling into a gentle smile. “Drift,” he said, turning the word into a musical note.

And he was caught, optics blue and wide.  “Wing,” he said, his voice crackling and ugly, more suited for shouting over combat, and not suited to this.  

The opportunity to escape was lost, wasted, squandered, while he stared at Wing, almost in awe of his beautiful rest. 

Wing sat up, his long legs swinging in one long elegant arc over the edge of the berth, the blades of his shins nearly touching Drift’s small berth. And still Drift couldn’t look away. “Do you have trouble sleeping?”

Drift tried to give a snort, tossing his head.

“Drift?” Wing’s brow furrowed, one hand closing the distance between them, offering a touch. Drift pulled away, even from the elegant gesture, the graceful arc of Wing’s wrist.

“I’m fine,” Drift said, flopping down to his back, tearing his gaze off of Wing. Who was…so damn beautiful, even with his mouth pinched in worry, his gold optics tilted and dimmed. It was obscene, or it should be, to be that beautiful and part of Drift wanted to wreck it, wanted to damage it, mar it, make it match the ugly world he lived in

Wing moved, and the face was over his again, one hip propped on the edge of Drift’s berth, one hand resting over Drift’s hip. His EM field flowed against Drift, like a warm fuzz. He reached his other hand to stroke the side of Drift’s face. Drift flinched his head away. “Don’t touch me.”

“Drift, I won’t hurt you.”  The hand touched down anyway, a light touch that sent little feathers of sensation over his net. It didn’t hurt. It did the opposite of hurt.

“Back off,” Drift snarled, tensing under the touch. Too many bad memories fired at him, pain and shame and torment.

Wing withdrew his hand, but his optics glowed even more concerned. “Tell me, please?”

Drift couldn’t resist that, the voice, the wounded expression.  “Nothing’s wrong. Just don’t want to be touched.” He heard his own voice, petulant in the darkness. A coward, afraid of being touched. A liar, to boot.

A slow, solemn nod. “All right,” Wing said, and Drift could feel the EM field retracting, as though afraid of offending.  “I hope,” he said, gently, as he rose, shifting back to his own berth, gold optics lingering on Drift’s face, “that one day, you let something—anything—touch you.”

Wing lowered himself back onto his side, even that motion somehow graceful, the way the wing panel extended and shifted behind him, refurling snugly against his back strut, one hand cradling his cheek.

…it already has, Drift thought, feeling a sharp almost pulling pang from over his spark, his blue optics unable to leave the sinuous lines of Wing’s frame, glowing, transcendent and beautiful, in the darkness.

Comments

[playswithworms.livejournal.com]

Awww - angsty fluff, maybe, but definitely some fluff there (sleeping!Wing alone qualifies it, I'd say <3). Teetering on the brink of so much massive fluff potential if only Drift would SAY THAT LAST THOUGHT ALOUD!!!
*pushes Drift off the fluff brink face first into Wing cuddles*

[seekernami.livejournal.com]

Your Drift/Wing fics are the best. Angsty, fluff, no matter the mood. They're always great! ;w; Aww Wing~~