A/n: Honestly, this is just a product of my random musing after watching The last Knight and realizing that I don't have enough materials to satisfy my Optimus-Drift craving. I seem to be mysteriously drawn to obscure pairing, which is sad honestly. In the end, this is just an outlet for a sudden writing muse. Obviously, there's going to be canon divergence.
Drift could bear standing for hours on end, but at the moment he was sprawled luxuriously on the slope of the hill, optics trained skyward to the vista sprawled above him from horizon-to-horizon.
Venus twinkled seductively on the dusky sky, a little diamond in the warm background of intermingled tangerine, marigold and lavender, left there to linger a while longer than the already-receding sun. Faint crescent of the moon was just visible at this hour, though there was no sign of the planet Cybertron visible to the naked eye. Orbiting Jupiter as one of its moons now, the ruined planet stayed out of the range to avoid irrevocable catastrophe that would result had it remain in Earth's vicinity – again – but close enough that it was not a daunting distance to traverse for any Cybertronian wishing to visit their homeworld. It was an appreciable sentiment, but one that was excruciatingly bittersweet – a sentiment that Drift understood well, given his heritage as an ex-Decepticon searching to fit himself among the Autobots whose badge he had worn steadfastly despite the initial (and justifiable) suspicion that followed his induction into their ranks.
No sacrifice, no victory, a deep bass of a voice rumbled in his processors, mined from pre-recorded data-files of Optimus Prime and altered so that it was as if the Autobot leader himself was speaking to Drift.
Drift allowed himself a sigh. It was true – and despite the ruination that had ravaged the entirety of Cybertron, in exchange Earth was once again a (comparatively) benign place to take refuge, or, as Optimus Prime had admitted, to call their new home. The situations were tense but there were a lot of ways they could have gone worse. For one, the systematic, indiscriminate genocide of Transformers-kind had ceased and was replaced by a relationship that was halfway between a truce and a cooperation. The Cemetery Wind was history; the Transformers Reaction Force was not, though in policy and practice they were much closer to the old NEST operations. Even several of the members were the old, familiar faces of the former organizations, those people who have fought and sacrificed alongside Transformers and valued the lives of their species just as much as their allies.
Drift could discern with some efforts the proof of their painstaking journey towards peace: Barely visible on the surface of the moon were faintly luminescent, concentric circles that were not there a few Earth-years ago, the budding settlements of Cybertronians formed from those who had arrived from the far corners of the galaxy in search of a refuge and led here by the summons of the Optimus Prime. In time, they would become the foundations of a stable colony of the first official Cybertronian city of Earth's modern world in this solar system, tentatively dubbed Autobot City. Construction resources were mostly mined from surrounding asteroids and planetoids, though there were also materials salvaged from Cybertron itself so there was limited conflicts of interest about Earth's resources. The notion was tolerated by most of the human governments and appealed to the majority of the Cybertronians. Many of the latter had decided to move into the lunar colonies to begin rebuilding their potential new home, perhaps the first one they would have after thousands or millions of astro-years of nomadic wanderings. A small number remained on Earth, mostly those who formed the Cemetery Wind-era band: Among them, Bumblebee, Hound, Hot Rod, the Dinobots and surprisingly, Crosshairs, whom Drift thought more than eager to rid himself as far away as possible from human interactions. Drift himself remained planet-side with them, comprising a team that was a sort of Cybertronian parallel to the TRF.
Meanwhile, Optimus Prime who spearheaded the Cybertronian leadership quite single-handedly and who was by far the most effective mediators in the liaisons between the two species, bounced between Earth and the moon almost every other day for some matters or another. In the years since his return from the outer space in search of 'The Creators', Drift was privileged only a handful of times to be in the presence of the Autobot Commander. It would be lying if he said that he was satisfied with the circumstances, but the samurai resigned with what he could have – a limited number of Prime-related interactions was much, much more preferable than the mech's complete absence, after all. Beggars could not afford to be choosers.
It was a sentiment shared by both Cybertronians and humans alike – those who were capable of logical thinking, at least, since there were still those paranoid, irrational voices vouching against the Prime – given how far they could have descended into chaos without his calm, yet stern voice as they sought an equal ground.
Although… if Drift was to be completely honest, part of his reason wanting the Prime around was also shamefully selfish. It had little to do with preserving intraspecies order, and all to do with his Spark's outrageous pining for the legendary figure. Still, Drift knew his limits and allowed himself only a secret longing – the rest he hid behind a subordinate's undying devotion towards the last of the Primes as skilfully as he had hidden his intention of defecting to the Autobots from the rest of his Decepticon comrades. That he made no pretence to conceal, showing open admiration that would have bordered on worship to the other Autobots. Not only Drift could not care less about the talks behind his back, he was proud to flaunt his service to Optimus Prime. That he was given a chance at all to serve the Autobot's cause rather than cut down by the Prime the moment Drift surrendered himself to the other's authority.
Speaking of service, the lingering tension in certain parts of hic chassis reminded him that he was not as well-rested as he would have liked after the latest skirmish with a mob of Rogues – originally KSI drones, these mechanical beings came to life over time while they roamed Earth due to the influence of The Staff. However, more often than not their old programming persisted, resulting in chaotic, barbaric creatures that were threats to both Cybertronians and humans alike. There were exceptions, of course, but for most of them they would have done everyone a favour by dropping dead without a fuss at the deepest, darkest corner of the Earth. Drift stretched himself languidly, loosening strained joints and motors as he weighed his options to pass the time. He could meditate, of course, but Drift felt himself more inclined for something more… casual. Which meant that sword-training was equally unappealing to his current mood. A recharge sounded just right, given that there seemed to be no imminent threat of exploding tension.
He made his mind: recharge it is, then.
Drift propped himself up on one elbow-strut; reached back and pulled free one of the twin swords stowed in the back scabbard with his other hand. He laid that down beside him gently, reverently, treating it like a precious lover before finally satisfying himself and repeated the process with the other sword, laying them close together that their blades overlap. Only after that did he reclined himself the swords, rested his hand gently on the hilts and stroked them as though comforting a friend, the blades glinting cold on the scant lighting of the new moon. He held those weapons in higher regards than he did most mechanisms – they were steadfast allies, he and the swords, having brought him through the difficult times of war that had spanned too long a time and which had ravaged worlds beyond their own. With them, he relearned the value of humility, to be forced to start from the bottom again as he taught himself the sword-arts in place of the firearms he had renounced.
Entering recharge was an extension of how he normally operated: Efficient and quick, and as soon as he allowed his chassis to relax and his processors to calm down, it came over him like the silent pedesteps of a hunting cougaraider.
xxxxx
His recharge cycles were usually the refuges of nightmares from his bloodstained history and battle-born tension which did not ease enough for most of the time to allow himself some mental respite, and carried well into his power-downs. Usually they were deleted from his memory files as soon as he broke the recharge session, which Drift was mostly thankful for. However, for tonight the routine was subtly different, though the moment it began Drift could not for the life of him tell why exactly this was unique – enough that the memories would not be discarded, as it had been numerous of times before though whether it was a boon or a testament to his weak composure remained unclear to the triple-changer. It started nonsensically, to his absolute non-surprise. Somehow, he was back on Cybertron and, of all things, seated in a group of young Autobot recruits who were apparently learning about… haiku. As it was with dream-logic, Drift was completely unsurprised that the mech who occupied the teacher's podium was Hound.
Hound was saying something, something that Drift knew to be aesthetically incorrect and pointed out how haiku should have been arranged. For his trouble, Hound had retorted by flicking his cy-gar in Drift's direction (which he evaded with ease) and sending him out of the classroom (which he obeyed grudgingly). He had hauled his swords out without a word, bearing the stares of the other students without once flinching in his stride…
…and found himself out in the open field on the planet Earth once he put a pede out of the drab classroom.
He was astonished, more so than when he had discovered haiku-teaching Hound, to be awash in warm golden sunlight, a stark difference to the gloom of Cybertronian world. His home-planet had long decayed, drifted out of stable orbit until dark and light cycles were no longer predictable and desperately scarce of inhabitants, scarred by eons of unending, brutal war. Here, on Earth, organic lives instead of mechanical thrived under the invigorating gifts of their middling sun. Greens and blues predominated its surface as the steel-greys of metal on Cybertron.
Here was now home to the star-scattered Cybertronians who cared to settle down.
However, Drift had come here not for its promise of home. No, he had come because he was following a known transmission that he had missed for so long that it sparked fire in his core.
And the one who called them here – the one mech who had broadcasted invitation to the nomadic Autobots – was here as well.
"Sensei," he cycled in wonder, recognizing the Prime even in the non-Cybertronian vehicle he had adopted for himself. His Spark signature was unmistakable anywhere in the universe.
The truck came up from the dirt road to within a few Cybertronian yards in front of him, then transformed; metals sliding against metals in fascinatingly complex patterns until the wheeled vehicle was no more. In its place was the Autobot Commander, the Optimus Prime, a towering figure whose form cast Drift completely into his shadow as he stood before him, majesty condensed into a living being.
Drift fell upon his knee-joint, head bowed.
"Rise up – and welcome to Earth, Drift," the deep familiar voice rumbled, as warm and reassuring as he had remembered.
He remembered other things as well. This had been the first time he had arrived on Earth, anxious for reconnection with fellow Transformers after the long journey and the uncertainty of this new planet. This was a recharge-vision, simply a recollection of what was in his memory banks, but for that moment in that recharge session, the emotions, the sensations, everything about his experience therein, felt real.
Well, it was a recollection – but with a few tweaks here and there.
For one, he did not remember having only Prime to receive him at his first arrival on Earth. The Autobot Commander had been flanked by Ratchet and Ironhide, two of his most trusted friends, and trailed by a rumbling squad of native vehicles. He had been assured as an ally to the watchful natives – humans – by simple words from the Prime; had been introduced to them as skilled tactician and swordsman, and was in turn guaranteed protection and a place among the human-Autobot alliance by their field commander, one William Lennox, an offer that had been extended to other Autobots. He had accepted the offers there and then.
That was how it should have been.
In his recharge though, the only individuals on the wide grassy plain were the Prime and himself. His commander's servo was upon his shoulder-guard, gently grasping the thick metals in a silent encouragement to stand up. He did so but kept his optics down in respect, afraid of staring into the brilliant azure optics, of being drawn into their calming depths and inevitably made a fool out of himself.
A touch to his chin-guard, hidden behind the trailing wires of his 'beard' made Drift jerked his face up in surprise.
The cool blue optics captured him the instant he looked into them. In that astrosecond, his fear was rendered moot – and Drift allowed himself to be a fool.
"I've missed you, sensei."
He said it calmly but the widening of lenses in the Prime's optics made him fearful again. He tried to step away but quickly found that Prime's digits had tightened their hold on his chin so that he was kept in that position, made to look into Prime's optics, into forever.
The mouth-plates moved. Drift cringed, fearing harsh rebuke, but the words that came to him were, "Beloved of my students."
Hearing that, Drift broke his recharge session.
In noisy clangs of metals and mechanical hisses, Drift fumbled with his reflexive transformation into robot mode, made clumsy in his overwhelming panic. He cycled feverishly, his servos shooting up to his face to feel for digits that were not his own. His ventilations would not slow down even when he found that there were no Prime's digits on any part of his chassis, and no Prime anywhere in the vicinity.
"Beloved…?" He said it without processing and clasped his lip-components together so hard that he was numbed, perturbed at his uncalled-for boldness.
What is wrong with me? He wondered and quickly started a self-scan. That the results came back clean worried him more than if it did registered some form of glitches. At least it would explain his waywardness.
Without it, there was only himself to lay the blame upon.
"Calm down, relax, focus," Drift muttered the words over and over again under his ventilations, at the same time betraying the mantra by walking back and forth without being really conscious of his unbecoming pacing.
A small voice in his logic circuits whispered treacherously: It is completely normal to miss him.
"'Normal?'" Drift forced his leg-hydraulics to stop and made himself sit down, venting more frequently than he preferred. Yes, he did miss the Autobot Commander, as did every living Autobot on and off the Earth even after his return from the cold and long journey to Cybertron. He was their leader, their Prime, the beacon of their hope… thankfully returned into their midst when they needed him the most. There was something to be said that when Prime's voice was unheeded, the situations unfailingly spiralled out of control for humans and Transformers alike. When he was gone, everything descended into anarchic chaos that was hitherto thought impossible after their fearful days during the reign of the Cemetery Wind.
If his presence was sorely longed for, it was not only Drift who felt that way.
His dream merely spun what was already there to tailor reality with his fantasy, in the process creating an exaggeration that Drift longed to do but would not dare consider in real world. The raw honesty was uncouth but the sentiment behind it was not a sin.
At the very least, he should forgive himself the leniency in the privacy of recharge. Although, it was still disturbing that his wishful thinking extended so far that his dream reflected it back with the Prime impossibly returning his affection…
"This is not helping me," he hissed, voice barely audible and was soon stolen into silence by the gentle breeze. Drift bit his denta on the lower lip-components, relishing the ache it created. It was not a proper punishment for the audacity but at least it kept his senses grounded to the present.
An intake tube twitched with an unexpected urge to whimper. Deadlock did not whimper, as neither did Drift… but here and now the want was strong.
Drift conceded defeat when the whimper came eventually, lost and afraid of his own feelings. He envied the other Autobots for having known Prime for a lot longer than he. Most of all, he envied Ratchet and Ironhide and Bumblebee for the bonds they had forged among themselves, bonds that were beyond words, mutual trust and affection that carried to the Well of Sparks.
And Drift?
In the grand scheme of things, Drift was merely a twinkle in the sea of innumerable stars, with no uniqueness to speak of or the brightness to enthral. What he could offer to Prime – his blades, his body, his Spark, his existence – were the same as that had already been presented to the Autobot Commander by those before him. A cold dread radiated in his neural networks at the thoughts of his own audaciousness, for daring to love the last of the Primes. At the same time, the thought made his Spark brightened; wanting, yearning for one who was well beyond reach. At times, Drift could not help the irrational and completely moronic annoyance at the Autobot Commander for being so easy to love despite all the knowledge and self-conviction of the impossibility.
Optimus Prime, like those honourable Primes of legends before him, was a mech to be admired from afar, just never touched.
And he did – oh, how Drift truly did admire!
From the very first time he laid his optics on the powerful warrior, Drift ached with the realization that he could not name; has passed it over as mere admiration for an opponent worthy of the battle-hardened Megatron. However, after years of unending war, fatigue settled in his Spark and made him realized that he had abandoned the Decepticon's causes before he knew it happened. He killed on orders but there was no motivation in his part. In the yawning emptiness carved out by Megatron's increasingly deranged motives, Drift found the strangest of comforts in seeing Prime's prowess and the gentleness for which Megatron had hated so deeply; had respected him with the utmost regard, if secretly, until Drift could no longer bear the thought of fighting either the Prime or his goals. The admiration Prime had so effortlessly sowed into him grew until even his fear for the Decepticons' vicious punishments no longer mattered.
Stellar cycles' worth of hesitation, gone with the eventual conviction that this was a 'bot he would gladly offline for and his pledge to Optimus Prime sealed it.
When exactly the admiration became something a little more forbidden was beyond him. Before his defection? After? Drift was neither foolish nor oblivious to the matters of the Spark; had acknowledged the delicate feelings that was coiled in the deepest core of his Spark but kept it firmly contained by sheer willpower and discipline until the others could see little past the subordinate-superior veneration he held for the Autobot Commander.
His Spark throbbed, futilely demanding. His best efforts to console himself had never found any purchase from preventing his foolish wistfulness. There was no reason for it to work now, which made the ache all the worse.
The sliver of moon in the sky glowed brighter than before, a silent witness to Drift's equally silent presence on the slope of the hill. There was no company with him but his faithful blades and his own treacherous thoughts.