Another kink meme request: Wing, after his death, ends up inhabiting the Great Sword. Eventual sticky.
Prologue
"Good job out there." Springer looked…vaguely disturbed by the words coming out of his own vocalizer. But he wouldn't deny it: Drift had been good out there, every bit as good as Kup had talked him up to be. Nothing against Kup but he had been known—occasionally—to embellish from time to time.
"Thanks," Drift said, his optics meeting Springer's only briefly, before dropping down, almost shyly, to his hands.
"Did real damn good," Topspin chimed in. "Didn't think you'd stand a chance, you know, swords and stuff."
Drift gave a shrug. He didn't really deal with praise. "Did all right."
"All right?" Twin Twist leaned around Topspin's bulk. "Didn't think some of that stuff was physically possible. Like, how'd you do that thing…?" He made some flailing gesture with his hands. "You know, when they had you all cornered and stuff and you were like shoop shoop, slice!" He shook his head. "Thought you were down for sure."
Drift blinked. "Don't know." He didn't know. He had no memory of what Twin Twist was even talking about. The whole battle only came to him in fits and starts—lulls, pauses, bits of slow motion. Nothing big, nothing dangerous, nothing important.
A long, odd moment, before Kup cut in. "Just keep it up, kid. Told you you'll fit right in." He gave Springer a measuring glance.
"I'll try." He would; he had no other options. He needed to help win the war, make things right.
[***]
Sometimes, he wept, or tried to, his insubstantial nonbody aching with the memory of tears. Drift was safe, Drift was alive and he was here to see it, share in it.
…only not really. He could only watch, silent, unseen, unheard, unnoticed, the Great Sword's gem a blue chrysalis protecting him, holding him. Through the decacycles after his death, he had watched Drift, as he left the planet, as his path crossed with the Autobots. Through the decacycles he had done his best to counsel, comfort, sustain Drift, through the long, agonizing nights, the fugues of doubt, the storms of worry that his everything would still never be enough to atone for his wrong. And through the decacycles he had seen Drift make a new home, new friends and…a new lover.
It hurt, though he knew he had no right to be hurt. And Drift was happy with his new lover—a way he had never been happy with Wing. Which also hurt, driving Wing to a sort of mindless distraction. He wanted to hate Drift's other one, but he couldn't, because he could read loss and tragedy in this one, too, and any comfort the living might give to each other was more important than a shattered soul, bound to an ancient crystal.
He was there, feeling like an interloper, a spy, as they shyly circled one another with words, as they dared a first, shy kiss, as they learned each other's bodies. He had been there, in an agonized joy, wanting, and aching with loss. Not for him. No more, no longer. Not for him.
It felt like a curse, or divine punishment, to be condemned to this, to see one's beloved happy without one. He felt selfish, abandoned, left behind.
And most of all…lonely.
Wing had never been lonely, not for aeons ; Crystal City was bustling with life and friends at all hours. He'd always had someone he could talk to, something to do.
This was…torture, undeserved, and he wracked his cortex for a logic why he should be condemned to this. There was no logic other than a fluke—Drift touching the sword moments after Wing had, the energy of his exploding spark still crackling down the blade. It had bonded him, bonded them and he would do anything to keep that bond. But this…he feared he could not endure.
And he tried to mitigate it, feeling his sanity begin to unknit itself, by leaving the stone. He couldn't go far, or for long, but he could do it. So he explored the Axion, got to know its inhabitants, their patterns, their personalities, their secrets: Kup's nightmares, Springer's unspoken worries logged, every night, in a private file. He watched holovids from a corner of the rec room, fascinated by the world they showed—something long gone to him. He wondered what their fuel tasted like, ran ghostly fingers over the weapons in their armory, talked…to himself.
And then there was Drift's one. Perceptor. The one he wanted to hate.
Wing glided into the lab, its night darkness cut by one single lamp crooked over a workbench, while the red mech's broad shoulders bent over, hands, face, intent on some small mechanism. Who was he? What did he know?
Wing slipped closer, studying the bench—a datapad held some bright schematics, that matched the capacitor and actuators connected on the table. As he watched, Perceptor tugged a line from his wrist, to feed live current to the device. It snapped, almost as fast as Wing's gaze could follow. Wing jumped back, startled, an 'oh' of surprise jarring from him.
And then he was fixed by a blue optic, large, reticled, pinning him to the wall like a lance. "Who-?" Perceptor didn't bother to finish the question, one hand flashing to draw a gun, its black eye somehow less intimidating than that cold blue stare.
Wing found motion, running—or as a ghost runs, drifting fast, with the memory of legs, the memory of pistons driving—from the lab. He could hear the hard thuds of Perceptor in pursuit. The red mech was not particularly fast, but fast enough, and he knew the ship better than Wing did. Wing barely managed to make the door to Drift's quarters before him, in his haste pushing through the cold metal, feeling the prickling of the circuitry through him as he passed, diving toward the jewel and its safety. He couldn't process what had just happened. Not yet, not now. All he could do was pull himself into the blue stone, curling around himself, dulled and prickling with fear.
[***]
A flash of white. At first Perceptor had thought it was Drift, come to chide him to get some rest, but the face was unfamiliar, the optics gold instead of Drift's quiet blue, and the armor wasn't…armor at all. Not hard and sleek with straight lines, but fuzzy, insubstantial, like a mist, almost. Some cloaking device, Perceptor thought, as he swore he could see wall straight through the intruder.
And no one was on the Axion for any good purpose. His pistol found his hand, like an instinct, as he charged after the shape which seemed to dart ahead of him, sharp, uneven movements, like some wild animal fleeing from a predator.
Drift's door. Perceptor felt his spark chamber give a cold throb. Another agent of Turmoil's, or worse, Megatron's, come to dispatch Drift. Infiltrated, compromised. And yet security hadn't even bleeped. This was something beyond Perceptor's worst nightmares—if he allowed that he had any dreams at all.
He blurted the unlock codes and authorization overrides as he charged the door. Somehow the intruder had gotten into the room. He couldn't have passed through the door itself—no technology could do that.
…Could it? He was long gone from Kimia: perhaps such things were possible now.
The door seemed to take ages to open, before he could stumble through the opening, gun whipping around, seeking the target.
Drift jolted at the sound, drawing one of his blades, sitting up on the berth, optics bleary but ready. "What?"
Perceptor looked around. Nothing out of place: his spare pistols charging on the wall, below where Drift's Great Sword hung, the blue gem seeming to glitter in the darkness. Nothing out of place, nothing unusual. But then…what had he seen? What had he chased in here?
"You're alone."
Drift cocked his head. "Of course I'm alone, Perceptor." He gestured around the room. "Was recharging. He let his gaze drop to the gun, pointedly.
Perceptor dropped the gun's barrel, clicking it against his hip until the magnets engaged. He kept circling the room with his optics, trying to sense the intruder. Nothing. His lips thinned, frustrated.
Drift's face broke into a gentle grin. "Told you you've been working too hard."
"No. It's not that. I just…saw something."
"Saw something." Drift waited.
"Something white. It led here." He frowned. "I know I saw it." Hadn't he?
Drift pushed to his feet, letting his hand close over Perceptor's wrist. "It's a sign you need more rest. There's nothing here." He pulled Perceptor closer, tipping his head up to cover the frown with a gentle kiss. "Come rest." He took a step back, drawing Perceptor toward the berth.
Perceptor muttered a protest, but let himself be led to the berth, let himself be drawn down into the circle of Drift's arms, rejoining the kiss. "I just-," he murmured, feeling Drift purr against him.
"Everything's fine," Drift returned. And Perceptor had no reason not to believe him, no reason to doubt, as he lifted his head, letting Drift's mouth move to his throat. He sighed against Drift, letting his own arms wrap around the white shoulders.
And in the darkness, a blue gem glittered.