(Crossposted from Ao3)
A/N: We're gonna have an ADVENTURE! I've been contemplating this one for a while. I don't know how long it will run or how long it will take to write, but this is one I want to see through.
1. I Hate Long Goodbyes
"Wing!" Drift's knees crashed into the dust as he dropped beside Wing. The jet's gold optics were dim, flickering, but online. Through the breach in his chest, his white Spark flickered fitfully, like a tiny flame in a strong wind. Drift cupped a protective hand over it, as though to keep it from blowing out. "Wing. I'm sorry… I should have been faster…"
"Drift." His voice was faint, but still the most beautiful thing Drift had ever heard, because it meant that Wing—righteous, stubborn, infuriating, beautiful Wing—was alive. "Drift."
It seemed to be all he could say. Drift grasped his hand, squeezing out a silent message. I'm here. I'm right here. You're safe.
The others knelt, making as though to lift Wing, but Drift said, "No. I'll do it."
He gathered Wing into his arms.
"You carried me to this city," he said, so quietly that only Wing could hear. Wing's mouth twitched into a little smile. "Now I'll carry you."
After the battle, there were fallen civilians to mourn—none of the Circle had been killed—slavers' corpses to burn, and wounded to repair. Medics and translators worked their way through the creatures locked in the slavers' ship, healing their injuries and learning their origins.
Wing lay in medical stasis, his condition critical. A breached Spark chamber was the most grievous injury any Cybertronian could suffer. It was a miracle that his Spark had survived, and if Drift hadn't come roaring to his rescue in a blind rage, his attacker would have easily finished him off.
Given Drift's protective fury when Wing was injured, Dai Atlas found it strange that Drift hadn't returned since carrying Wing to the medbay. He kept himself busy elsewhere: he had brought Lockdown's small ship back to the City for refits to his specifications. Much like Drift's own frame, the ship's Decepticon origins were rebuilt piece by piece with Crystal City's tech.
He didn't say anything, but everyone knew. Drift had something in mind for this ship.
When Drift put in a cautious request for a large quantity of energon rations, Dai Atlas decided that if nobody else was going to ask, he should. If only for Wing's sake. At least Drift wasn't difficult to find, spending so much time on the ship.
"Are you that eager to be gone?" he asked the white mech's back. Drift was familiarizing himself with the ship's controls, but he stiffened when Dai Atlas spoke. His energy field was pulled close to his armor, difficult to read, but it sang with tension.
"I don't belong here," he said.
Dai Atlas folded his arms. He would never have dreamed, when Drift first came here, that they would one day have this conversation. "You've earned your belonging. You fought for Wing. You fought for the city. You are one of us."
Drift shot him a cutting smile over his shoulder. "That sounded like it hurt." Dai Atlas grimaced, ruffling his plating. It had. But he'd meant it: Drift had earned his right to stay with them.
"You may think I'm one of you, but the Decepticons still think I'm one of them, and they won't release their claim," Drift said, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the controls. "Lockdown was only the beginning. Megatron won't give up on me so easily. You have no idea what's coming. I can't… I can't bring more danger down on this place."
"And Wing?"
Drift twitched, his plating snapping close to his frame.
"Redline says he can be brought out of stasis in a few days. Would you leave without saying goodbye?"
"He was hurt because of me," Drift muttered. "Because of what I brought here. He won't want to talk to me."
"Are we speaking of the same Wing?" Dai Atlas asked, a trace of humor creeping into his normally stern voice. Drift's engine revved softly.
"I know what he'll say. He'll say 'I forgive you' and I don't deserve…" He broke off, shaking his head. "It's better this way."
Dai Atlas vented a slow stream of air. If forgiveness was what Drift sought, he had a long, hard journey ahead.
"You are no longer a prisoner here," he said finally. "You are free to go where you wish." He turned to leave Drift alone with the ship again, with one last admonishment. "But I believe you do Wing a disservice not to see him."
Drift waited until the middle of Theophany's night cycle, when the streets were quiet and the medbay was technically closed to visitors—as if it was hard for Turmoil's ex-SIC to break into a medbay—to visit Wing.
The Great Sword, leaned carefully against the CR chamber, was looking at him. Considering him.
A shiver ran through Drift's plating as he remembered how it had felt in his hand. There was something—something alive about it, something he had felt in that moment when his Spark had sung in tune with the nexus on the hilt. Something impossibly ancient, incomprehensible, with a comforting tinge of Wing's presence. Something that had looked inside him, and judged him. In the moment they had worked in perfect tandem—one single avenging stroke against the creature that had felled Wing—but afterward, Drift had felt strangely violated. Even afraid.
A sword could not reach inside him and control him. It was a piece of metal. Nothing more. Certainly nothing to fear.
But it was staring at him.
Drift tore his gaze away, gave the readouts a cursory glance, and turned his attention instead to Wing. Although the CR chamber's green glow cast a sickly pall across his face, he looked serene as ever, his optics dimmed in stasis. Most of his superficial injuries from the battle had healed already, leaving only scuffs in his plating. It was the wound in his chest that drew Drift's closest attention. There was no longer a gaping hole in his Spark chamber, but the white glow of his Spark still pushed through hairline fractures in the casing.
Drift moved closer without thinking, reaching out to rest a hand on the glass. He could still remember the fragile warmth of the guttering Spark when he had covered that tear with this same hand. The same warmth he felt when he pressed his forehead to Wing's chest when they interfaced. And to think it had almost gone out of the world—
Drift wrenched his hand away, staggering back a step.
Because of him. Because of him, this city had been made vulnerable. Because of him, Wing had nearly died.
And this… this hurting, when Wing was the one in the CR chamber. Too much like Gasket. Drift was better off alone. Nobody holding him back, nobody finding their way into what little softness was left in his soldier's Spark.
"It's better this way," he said into the silence. He preferred that to choking on goodbye.
There was a moment, when he was hovering somewhere between stasis and waking, that Wing understood the tales of those who claimed they saw their entire life pass in one pulse of their Spark when they were on the verge of offlining. One moment when he relived the battle, saw the gleam of yellow organic eyes, felt the spear smash through his plating. All of that pain condensed into one single instant, from his chest to his fingertips to his wings, searing through his systems like acid.
In that instant he knew he was dying, and he wanted to scream, to fight back against the unfairness of it all. The Circle were trained to prepare for death, to accept it, to go into darkness with quiet dignity, and Wing knew that, he had received the same training. Yet in that instant he was more terrified than he had ever been, all of his consciousness condensing to one imperative.
I don't want to die. Plaintive, like a sparkling: fear and need and, for once, selfishness. Please, I don't want to die!
And then a voice broke through that fear, that pain, calling his name. A face in his flickering, staticky vision: a clean-lined Cybertronian face, not the scaly horror-show of the slaver. Blue optics that echoed Wing's own fear. He felt the warmth of a hand shielding his guttering Spark, another twining their fingers together. His circuits tingled as the hand pressed a message into them. I'm here. I'm right here. You're safe.
Caught between present and past, Wing reached out a hand, casting blindly about for the touch he needed, selfishly. His vocalizer crackled.
"Drift…?"
"Easy, Wing. Take it slow. You're still hurt."
That… that wasn't Drift's voice. And this…
Wing's processor finished booting up, breaking free of the memory purge, and piece by piece sorted out what was real, and what was a memory. The medbay. He was in the medbay on a recharge slab. There was no spear in his chest. The plating was white, unmarred, fresh. Still integrating with his systems. Redline was there, his hands gentle but firm on Wing's shoulders—he must have been thrashing. Drift… was not.
"You can sit up, but slowly," Redline warned. Wing pushed up onto his elbows, wincing at the pang in his chest. "How do you feel?"
"Sensitive," Wing said, reaching up to touch the new plating.
"That will last a week or so. I don't want you transforming for a few days, to be safe."
Wing swallowed down the question he really wanted to ask. "How long have I been out?"
"You were in stasis for eight days, in critical condition for three." Redline's optics narrowed. "And he isn't here."
Wing's ailerons twitched.
"I told everyone I preferred to bring you out of stasis in privacy," Redline said. Wing's ruffled plating soothed slightly. That… that might explain it. "I knew the memory purge could be traumatic. But, as you can see, you've been missed."
He gestured towards the table cluttered with tiny vials of innermost energon. Without counting, Wing knew there were enough for the entire Circle and a few civilians. And maybe…
He didn't ask if one was Drift's.
"Was anyone else…?"
"None of the Circle, but some of the civilians."
"Civilians?!" His wings half-unfolded in his shock. "Did they find the city? What happened?"
Redline calmly explained about Dai Atlas's decision to lead the civilians into battle, bringing the city to the surface in the process. Wing could scarcely believe it. He'd been arguing with Dai Atlas for centuries to take a more active role, to spread the Circle's ideals instead of hiding under the ground.
And all it took was a critical injury, he thought wryly.
"I never thought he would change his mind."
"Anyone can change," Redline said. "Your Drift showed us that."
(Wing's Spark gave a warm flutter at that. "My" Drift. But he pushed those feelings aside—Drift wasn't his. Drift belonged to no one but Drift.)
Finally Wing couldn't stand dancing around it any longer. "Where is he?"
"Drift?" Redline, for the first time, looked uncomfortable. "Probably out by the ships."
"Which ships?"
"The slavers' ship, and the bounty hunter's. He's been overseeing some refits."
About to ask why, Wing realized he didn't have to. He knew. It was a pale echo of the spear impaling his Spark casing.
"I… I see," he said. "When is the launch?"
"Tomorrow morning," Redline said, not meeting Wing's gaze.
"I see," Wing repeated. Then he gingerly swung his legs off the recharge berth.
"Careful," Redline said.
"I know. I—" Wing winced, pressing a hand to the new chest armor. "I… I need to meditate."
Redline let the weak excuse pass with no more than a pitying glance. "Of course. Go easy on your repairs."
He actually did intend to meditate. He had plenty to think about.
With Redline's reservations in mind, Wing sat alone in a locked sparring room, optics offlined. Calm. Serenity. Peace.
So Dai Atlas had finally decided to bring the city to the surface. Wing should be pleased. Wasn't he the one who had urged Dai Atlas, for so long, so spread their message of peace? Wasn't he the one who crept out to the surface for a glimpse of the stars, to feel open air on his wings? He should be delighted. It was everything he'd ever wanted, and yet—
Wing could not sit still. He growled in uncharacteristic frustration and pushed himself up. There was more than one way to meditate, and not all of them involved stillness. Despite the twinge in his chest, he chose two practice blades and returned to the center of the room. A slow practice form, or six, wouldn't aggravate his injuries too much, would it?
The swords were meant to be extensions of his arms. This was meant to be a slow, steady flow of movement. Wing caught himself making beginner mistakes—his footwork was sloppy, his grip was wrong. If he were training a student who made such errors, he would send him off to cool down. He tried to rein in his frustration.
What was wrong with him? No wonder he'd been defeated in battle, if his swordplay was so woefully—no. No, he couldn't think that way. He had been at his best. His best simply… hadn't been enough.
He wasn't half the knight he should be.
The thought stung a harsh cry from his vocalizer as his thoughts finally pierced the knot that had grown in his Spark since the memory purge. Afraid to die. Afraid to die! A knight should lay down his life willingly. He had stepped forward to sacrifice himself for his city, but in that instant when the blade touched his Spark, he had been a terrified sparkling. Not a knight.
Shame burned in his Spark as his swords hummed angrily through the air. A knight was calm. A knight was unafraid. A knight was detached. A knight did not let his emotions control him. A knight…
Wing bit down a scream and flung one of the swords. It crashed against the wall and onto the ground, and Wing took a moment's vicious pleasure in causing a mess for once, even as he proved Dai Atlas right. Wing's greatest flaw: he allowed his emotions to lead him.
"Is that so wrong?" he demanded of the empty room. "I know what's right! I feel it! Should it be against our laws to do what I know I must?!"
Peerless warmed on his back. He reached for it, as he had in battle, but this time uninterrupted by an alien spear. The Great Sword seemed to hum in his grasp, as it always had, since the day it chose him. The blue gem flared with his unquiet Spark. It seemed more active than he remembered, the shadow of a new presence. New, but not entirely unfamiliar. He knew that fire, that fury…
He nearly dropped the sword. Instead he slung it onto his back again, the gem quieting as it left his hands.
His folded wings twitched. He needed air.
Despite Redline's warning, Wing transformed and took to the night sky the minute he was outside. It was a new view, Crystal City's towers under the stars instead of stalactites. It looked even more beautiful.
How, he thought with a pang, could anyone want to leave this? How could he?!
How… Dai Atlas, forgive me… how could I?
With his engines howling and the wind whispering over his wings, he finally faced the crux of the problem.
Drift had always planned to leave the city, to win his war. Wing had thought that might have changed, when Drift decided to fight alongside them, but it seemed Drift could hardly wait to go. He had always been restless, it was his way: Drift needed to move, to take an active part. He wasn't made to stay in one place, even a place as beautiful as Crystal City.
The night they'd first interfaced, Wing had whispered something so quietly that Drift hadn't even heard him. I'd go with you. It had been a momentary impulse, one he had thought about often since, but always with a vague "someday." Not "tomorrow." Now… now…
Wing flew until his engines whined, until his fuel tank burned and his plating shivered and the new plating over his Spark ached; until the stars began to fade one by one and the first light of Theophany's dawn touched the sky. He returned to the city, flying one last long circle around the perimeter.
At least he would see the sun rise over Crystal City once.
He transmitted an automatic response to Redline's frantic pings as he alighted at the Citadel. This early, scarcely anyone was around, but he knew he would find who he was looking for as he moved quietly through the meditation chambers one by one.
Dai Atlas did not even look up. "I've heard your friend Drift is making his preparations to leave."
"Yes," Wing said, coming to a halt at a close, but respectful distance. Dai Atlas shuffled his plating in the silence.
"I've never known you to ask my permission, Wing," he said wearily. When he turned to face the smaller mech, he looked resigned.
"Your blessing, then," Wing said.
Dai Atlas muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Oh, Winglet." Wing's Spark twinged—how long had it been since he had heard that endearment? Not since he became a full member of the Circle, at least. Longer. When Dai Atlas's hand settled on his shoulder, he could hear the unasked questions. Are you sure? and Are you doing this for the right reasons? He would not ask, because they both knew that Wing never did anything unless he was sure, and they had never seen eye-to-eye on the reasons.
Instead, Dai Atlas said, "I always knew this day would come. I knew that, out of all of us, it would be you. Always looking beyond this place."
"To where I am needed more," Wing said gently.
Atlas's hand squeezed his shoulder. "You are the best of us, Wing."
"No—!"
"You have my permission," Dai Atlas said gravely. "And my blessing." He leaned his towering form down far enough to press his mouth lightly to the top of Wing's helm. "Go well," he said. "And, when you can, return safely to us."
"I will," Wing said, voice thick with emotion.
He was ready to leave. And still Drift lingered.
He made excuses: pre-flight checks, one last inspection, reviewing his plans one more time. But everything was ready. The freed slaves were settled on board the slavers' liberated ship, which even had a name, agreed upon by its new passengers and translated into all of their various languages. In Cybertronian it was Storm's End, but in all translations it meant more or less the same thing: an end to hardship, the beginning of peace.
Optimistic, Drift thought. The storm was over for them, but his journey was only beginning.
Storm's End was stocked with all the supplies the representatives of dozens of alien species would need for their journey. The refugees had taken over the crewing of the ship, moving their families into the slavers' empty quarters. The shuttle bay was full of the dropships that would bring them home as Storm's End passed their planets, moons, and asteroids. There was space for Lockdown's little ship, now Drift's, but for the launch he preferred to fly himself. Some symbolism there, Wing would say.
In the middle of checking the flight controls one more time, Drift shuttered his optics. Don't think of him.
Better that they launch as soon as possible. Storm's End was prepped, they had sent their confirmation a few minutes ago. There was no sense in lingering. Better to get this over with quickly, like yanking a knife from a wound.
Footsteps tapped softly towards the cockpit. Too light for Dai Atlas or Axe. One of the Circle coming to bid him farewell, or ask him to stay, or tell him good riddance, probably.
"Were you not even going to say goodbye?"
Drift's Spark pulsed bright and sharp, a stinging hurt. "Wing."
He turned, but couldn't look at his face for more than a moment before guilt chewed at the corners of his fuel tank. His optics flicked down to Wing's chest instead. The plating was fresh and clean, with no sign that he'd been injured at all. The Great Sword was in its accustomed place on his back, and he felt that it was watching him again.
"Were you going to fly away and never look back?" Wing asked, quiet, with a hint of accusation.
"It's not… it's not like that." Slag Redline to the Pit! Couldn't he have kept Wing in stasis for another day? "I already explained this to Dai Atlas."
"Explain it to me, Drift," Wing said, and Drift's name became a weapon good as any fusion cannon.
There were many things he could have said, but in the end, Drift opted for honesty. "You were hurt because of me."
"That was my choice."
"And this is mine."
He pushed past Wing—with more care than he would have taken normally, given Wing's injuries—towards the rest of the ship. Wing dogged his heels.
"You said this was what you wanted!" Wing cried. "I thought this meant something to you! I thought we meant something!"
"It isn't…" Drift winced. "It isn't us that's the problem. When we first met I promised to take these slaves home, remember? That's what I'm going to do, and then… I have to find my own path."
He reached the energon store and looked inside. His optics narrowed in confusion. He'd asked for enough for a long voyage, but this…?!
"This is too much," he said out loud.
"No," Wing said softly. "It isn't."
Drift whirled on him. Wing had his arms folded over his chest. Not confrontational, but resolute, with that particular stubborn set of his mouth that Drift had come to recognize.
"Wing… I can't ask you to do this." His processor seemed to be having trouble getting words out of his vocalizer. Probably something to do with the way his Spark had just kicked into overdrive. "This is your home. It means everything to you."
"Everything?" Wing echoed, his expression softening. One of his hands brushed Drift's wrist. "Drift, you asked me why I snuck out… why I flouted the Circle's laws. To do what's right. To be where I am needed."
His hand moved up to rest delicately on Drift's chest, just over his Spark, as he took a step closer.
"I have always respected your wishes," he whispered. "Now respect mine. It was my choice to stand beside you in battle. It is my choice to come with you now."
Drift seized Wing's helm by the audial flares and dragged him into a kiss. Wing moaned into it, clinging to Drift like he was the only solid thing in the universe.
"Let me come with you," Wing gasped. "Let me be by your side. Let us find our path together."
"Yes," Drift hissed. "Yes, yes."
"Storm's End is set for launch," Wing said from the copilot's station. He hummed thoughtfully. "I'm rewriting the registry now. What should we call her?"
His smile was infectious. Drift shrugged and looked away before he caught it. He wasn't good at this stuff. Naming things, giving them meaning. He's have been happy to just call it "the ship" or something. But if it was important to Wing… "I don't know. You decide."
Even when he wasn't looking he could feel that smile brighten.
"Hmm." Wing's fingers clicked on the controls for a minute.
"We're set anytime," Drift reminded him. He hated long goodbyes.
Wing leaned into the comm console. "This is Wayward Light, requesting clearance to leave."
"Acknowledged, Wayward Light." The big bot himself, Dai Atlas's voice coming over the comm. "You have your clearance. Good luck."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Drift said, taking the controls. "Let's get started."
