Repair

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG
IDW/G1, Drift miniseries
Drift/Wing
no real warnings, some foreshadowing? mostly, um, fluff?
For tf_rare_pairing  weekly request prompt: Wing/Drift do you think I like myself?

 

Drift charged, head down, blind with rage, one fist aiming toward Wing’s midsection. They’d been at this all afternoon, and the afternoon before that, and the one before that, until Drift would eventually exhaust himself.  And he had yet to lay a hand on Wing, yet to so much as scratch the white enamel.

Wing dodged at the last microklik, stepping easily to one side, obviously waiting, goading, building up false hope, and Drift’s momentum carried him forward in a blind run that Wing halted by a quick sweep at his foot as it hit the ground. 

He crashed hard, on his face, one of the cheek panels of his armor cracking, his chin crunching, vid feed blanking.  He gathered himself in a fury, pushing blindly to his feet, slipping in a slick of energon from his cracked armor, nearly crashing again until he was steadied by a pair of solid hands on his chassis. 

“I think we’re done for the day,” Wing said, voice gentle. Pitying, Drift thought. Pity and contempt. 

“I don’t think so,” Drift said, wincing as speech cracked his armor more. 

“You’re injured.” Wing came around to his front, gold optics light with concern.

“So?” Drift challenged, wiping his mouth with one hand, trying to wipe away the humiliating stain of seeping energon. His fingers came up slick and purpled.  “Been hurt worse and kept fighting.”

“This…isn’t that kind of fight,” Wing said. He leaned in, tipping Drift’s chin up to make their gazes meet.

“Only one kind of fight. One wins, one loses.” And he was tired of losing.

Wing shook his head.  “There is no losing here, Drift. There is only you becoming stronger.”

Drift’s optics narrowed. “Sick of your riddles, Wing.”

Wing grinned, tipping his head.  “I know.  But injuring yourself is not the point here. I do not want you to be injured.”

Wing’s notion of fighting was…something else. Something beyond Drift’s comprehension. “Can’t say the same,” Drift spat. 

The smile faded. “I know.  But hate is…a poison, Drift.”  Wing considered him for a long moment debating saying something more, before turning away. “Let’s get that patched.” 

Drift growled, refusing to move to where Wing knelt by the repair kit.  Wing turned, his wingspan shifting in a way that even injured Drift found disturbingly captivating, flattening the fins of his shoulder nacelle to get a clearer view.  He smiled, shaking his head, and rose, carrying the supplies as he returned. “Will you at least hold this?” He held out the spool of patch tape.  Drift snatched it, ill-tempered by Wing’s easy tolerance.  Sometimes it seemed that nothing he could do could irritate the white jet.

Then…why did he want to? 

Wing took a cleansing cloth and began swabbing at the cracked plate.  He leaned in, optics keen and focused on his work. Drift didn’t know where to look.  He studied the intricate spirework of Wing’s helm, letting his optics drift slowly over the alien architecture, the swoops and scrolls and spirals, trying, in the end, simply not to feel. Not to feel pain, not to feel anything, not to notice the sympathy and kindness, nor Wing's delicate touches.

Wing pulled back, tucking the cleansing rag away, his optics moving from the cracked armor to Drift's face. Whatever he read there, he dropped his optics, shyly,  before taking the nanite vial.  “This will sting,” he murmured.

Drift grunted, jutting his chin forward in challenge. He didn't mind pain.  Just defeat. Just weakness. Just humiliation.

Wing gave a soft snort of laughter, cracking open the vial and tipping it into the crack.  He tilted Drift's chin up, letting the fluid nanites trickle into the gap.  Drift hissed at the sudden sear of pain.  Wing's optics flickered. “I am sorry,” he breathed.

“Not your fault,” Drift muttered.  “My stupid fault. My injury.”

“Do you blame yourself for every injury earned in your combats, Drift?”

“Only the ones where I'm stupid and weak.”

“So...never,” Wing teased.  “Because you are neither.”  He traced a finger down the underside of the cheek lamellar, wiping away a trickle of nanite. 

Drift muttered a curse, pulling away.

“Tape, please?”  Drift held out the tape, wordlessly. Wing nodded, his smile regaining strength as he tore off a strip. “I thought we'd use the clear patch, even though this will be able to come off by evening.” 

Drift twitched. As though he'd care if anyone saw him with patch tape. “Doesn't matter.”

Wing tilted his head. “But it does.  No sense marring your looks.” 

Drift's nasal wrinkled in a bitter snort. “My looks.”

Wing tilted your head. “Your looks, yes. Do you think you're unattractive?” Something searching in his optics.

Drift rocked back on his feet.  He'd...never thought of it before. He'd caught Turmoil's eye, but...that could have been a number of factors. And compared to Wing?  “Doesn't matter,” he said, finally, churlishly. 

The gold optics dimmed with concern. “But...I think it does matter.”  A pause while he leaned forward, quick black fingers applying the patch tape to keep the armor panels locked together while the nanites did their work.  “And,” Wing murmured, his optics solidly on the patch he was making, “I find you attractive.” 

Drift grabbed at one of Wing's wrists, squeezing hard enough to feel lines compress under his fingers.  He glared at Wing, but then...his optics softened, at a loss, as Wing's shy optics broke from his hard blue gaze to skate over Drift's face.  Drift had never been looked at like this before, never been admired, like he was some exhibit, something worth looking at.  He'd been studied for weaknesses, he'd been gloated over.  But nothing like Wing's warm, appreciative gaze, memorizing the lines of his face, the pattern of his armor, seeming to trace the snarl of his mouth like light fingers.  “I think,” Wing repeated, “you're beautiful. It's not just the exterior.”  His smile quirked. “But it's a place to start.”

Drift pushed him away, roughly, the confused mass of emotions colliding in his cortex. So he reacted the only way he knew how.  “Done with patching,” he snapped.

Even caught off guard, Wing merely danced back easily under Drift's rough shove, though his optics hooded, confused.

“I'm not a 'beautiful' anything,” Drift snapped.  “You don't know.” 

“I do know,” Wing said, his tenor voice sad.  “I wish you did.”

“Your blind optimism is going to get you killed one day,” Drift retorted. 

“Possibly,” Wing said, with an easy shrug. “But it is not worse, I think, than dying embittered and empty.” 

“Is that what you think I am?”  Drift's fists balled, despite the days of evidence he'd had that he could not so much as lay a hand on Wing, could not go his usual route of shutting others up, or down, with force.

“Of course not!” Wing looked hurt.  “How could you even think that?” 

Drift glowered. 

Wing reached forward, slowly, smoothing the patch tape with one finger, his smile lopsided. “I do not know you, Drift, and I do not wholly understand you, but I brought you here.  Because I trust you. And because there's something in you that is good and worthy.  I just...wish you could see it.” 

Drift caught at the hand again, but this time, he held it, and forced Wing's gaze to his for a long moment, before jerking it in, pulling Wing's chassis against his. Wing was a naïve fool, throwing his trust away on someone like Drift, who had betrayed him before.  But those golden optics were irresistible, lit with that rich, warm fire, and that beautiful face, the gentle curve of the mouth plates were temptations of their own, and Drift found he could not resist.  Things...he had never had before, had never dreamed of having—someone like Wing wanting him, admiring him, something beautiful laid before him, someone trusting him, desiring him. 

His mouth covered Wing's fiercely, as though finding home.

 

 

 

Comments

[sasuke-emosauce.livejournal.com]

Oh Drift...you're so fucked up. But it says a lot for Wing that he's able to get through to him (not yet, I mean, but eventually).

if it's still cool to throw prompts...how does this work for more angst? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XAYXhc3oJf8

[chibirisuchan.livejournal.com]

I don't know if they're officially related or not, but this one makes an awesome 'predecessor' to the one where Drift won't let Percy beat himself up because Percy's more valuable than he realizes and Drift's so been there.

[tainry.livejournal.com]

Gorgeous. <3333333333333

[anavidbookworm.livejournal.com]

Drift's optics narrowed. “Sick of your riddles, Wing.” He actually said it; way to go Drift. :) I can't believe he actually said the words. So much of Drift is internalized that it is a bit of a shock when he does come out and plainly say something. I love the interactions between these two. Nice job.