R
IDW
Drift, Perceptor, Springer, refs Drift/Blurr
ref'd sticky

If Perceptor could have seen, or heard, anything from his suspension in the tank of energon-rich sterile fluid, he would have seen a white mech storm into the repair facility, his armor almost hazy-bright in the darkness, spattered with silver on his abdomen, on his back plating, down his dark thighs.

Drift was glad Perceptor couldn't see or hear, as he tore open the cabinets, searching, snarling, until he found what he was looking for: a decon brush. After propping his Great Sword against the wall, he slammed the cleanser tap on in the room's small, emegency decon stall, and stood, for a long moment, under the spray, brush slack in his hand, letting the warm cleanser rain down over him. He tilted his head up into the spray, trying to let his anger sheet off him along with Blurr's transfluid. Humiliation and anger warred within him.

He hadn't expected much from the whole thing with Blurr. Simple mutual gratification. Physical lust. Nothing more. But he couldn't deal with...Blurr. That attitude. As though he'd left the track behind, but kept all of the entitlement and ego.

And for his part, Drift envied him both. What ego he'd had had been rooted in violence, his ability to kill, and Wing...had made him doubt all that. Even though Wing killed, it had had a different quality to it, and Wing had taken no pride from it.

Drift growled, and seized the brush, beginning to scrape it over his smudged, stained armor. It had been all right at the time; frustrating as the Pit, but he'd understood that want to control, to rile and refuse.

But now...it was a stain, marking him.

The cleanser stung into the rough scraping he made with the brush over his belly. He swiped less effectively at his back, knowing there was no way he could reach it all, tilting forward, palms on the wall to hold his torso at an angle, hoping the cleanser's fall would get rid of the worst of it. At least enough that it told no tales.

Drift was no one's.

He let the cleanser sheet over his sides, down his legs, feeling it warm against his thighs, down his shins. Another time he might have admitted it felt good. Another time, he might have enjoyed it. Not now.

He flicked open his interface hatch, scrubbing furiously with the brush, hissing at the crossing of the boundary of pain as he savaged his equipment. Needed, wanted, to erase all trace of Blurr on him, every shred of pleasure.

He kicked off the tap, standing still, letting the cleanser falling off his frame diminish from a rain of droplets to a few random drips, the cleanser cooling, nearly chilling his armor. His optics caught Perceptor's frame, hanging in the tank.

"Sorry," he said, stepping out of the small stall. "Just...can't take your teammate." He wondered what Perceptor thought of Blurr, if they were friends. Or more. Another stupid Autobot thing.

He gave a wry smile. Like he expected an answer. He grabbed a cleansing rag, swiping it down his armor, pausing, and then, almost shyly, half-turned to dry off his equipment, swabbing down the spike, around the valve.

He sighed, snapping the covers shut, wavering for a moment. Return to his quarters? No. Blurr might look for him there. And it still felt wrong to be surrounded by another mech's things, like he was a ghost animating a corpse he didn't even recognize. Like they were trying to jam him into some box into which he wasn't sure he could fit.

Frag. Drift grabbed his Great Sword, looked around the room with a sigh of frustration, before flopping, on the ground, wedging himself between the regen tank and the bank of monitors. Comfortable pressure on his shoulders, a space that back in the gutters of Iacon he would have found an excellent hideyhole. Strange the comfort we find in our familiar fears.

He cradled the Great Sword, resting his cheek against the cool metal of the blade, the hum of the regen systems filling the room, lulling him like a surf of white noise. Not to recharge, not yet, but soothing the tops of his anger, his discontent less sharp-edged. He snorted at himself, optics drifting up to the tank's contents, Perceptor's body hanging, immobile, infinitely patient.

"Thanks for letting me crash here," he said, feeling ridiculous, but too spun up to sleep. "Just...yeah."

He stroked the sword. "Used to recharge like this all the time." He dropped his gaze. "Grew up in the gutters. Not...one of you shiny pretty Autobots. Think it shows." He sighed. "What was I thinking? This...isn't going to work. Not a team player." He gave a bitter laugh at memory. No. Deadlock had not been much for collaboration. Or foresight.

His fingers stroked down the sword, almost reverently. Wing's sword. So heavy with Wing and all the white jet had stood for that sometimes it felt unliftable, but a burden he'd never want to put down. It was what Turmoil had always said—he needed some control, some central force. He'd found one.

He looked up at the blue tank, Perceptor's red lower-leg. "Ever see something you'd always dreamed of? I mean, all your life. From that part of you that's so deep it almost...tears at your spark? Something you'd convinced yourself couldn't really exist? Because it was easier to believe it was impossible than...that it was real and you couldn't have it?"

"And...Wing." Even saying the name hurt, but he forced himself to, to taste the pain of it, make sure it still hurt. It was a pain that should hurt...forever. What he had ruined, thrown away, before he knew better. "Probably going to sound stupid. Don't think he was perfect," it felt like a betrayal. Right now, his death still such a gaping crater in Drift's mind, Wing was perfect. Forever and always. "But he wanted me. Me. Not my rank, or reputation. Me. I'd...," he shivered, suddenly, as if cold, wrapping his arms childishly around the sword, not caring how stupid it looked or he sounded. Perceptor couldn't hear him anyway. Just...talking to himself, really. Out loud. Just to get perspective. Explain what the frag had just happened with Blurr. "Never happened like that before. Me. Wanting me, you know?" Blurr hadn't wanted him. Just...the newness, the foreign. He'd thought at first that's what Wing had wanted but..no. There'd been plenty of time for that polish to wear off, and...nothing like what had happened just now.

Blurr. Frag you, racer.

He leaned into the tank's base, as if to take some mute comfort from the steady vibration. "Don't know what he saw in me. Still don't." Never will. "But he wasn't stupid. He saw...something." A half-hearted shrug. "Who knows," he murmured, resting his helm against the cool humming metal, "maybe one day I'll see it myself."

[***]

The part of leadership Springer really hated was this: onboard, in transit, when all of the boredom built up into petty squabbles. And petty squabbles among the Wreckers tended to involve high caliber weaponry. Or equally atomic emotions. Yeah, Wreckers and 'maturity' were...not synonymous. Kind of like matter and antimatter.

And Blurr? Just made everything happen...faster. Great.

Still, he had to check it out, because, yeah, to be honest? He wasn't so keen on this new guy, himself. Kup had a tendency to pick up strays—like Perceptor—without really seeing them clearly. Anyone who had an interesting story—what a sucker Kup was for stories!

So the new guy, apparently, overnighted in the repair bay. Not cool.

Springer opened the door. It took a moment to find, but sure enough—the white sweep of Drift's ankle armor, the strange, almost pointed, black toe plates,jutting out from behind the tank. What...the...?

"Hey," Springer barked.

A hiss, and a flash of metal, the feet withdrawing into a feral crouch. "What." A surly truculence, the tone Springer knew too well—he used it himself when he'd been caught out at something.

"What the frag you doing back there?" Springer planted his hands on his hips as Drift pulled his way to his feet, stowing his sword, clutching the larger sword's sheath.

"Nothng."

Springer glared.

Drift's optics kept sliding to the floor. Hiding something. "Recharging."

Right. "Something wrong with the quarters we assigned you?" An edge to his voice.

"No. Just...not..." Drift looked down at the large sword in his hands, then slung it, in a smooth, practiced move, between his shoulders.

"Not...what?"

"Never mind." Drift moved to push past Springer.

Springer stopped him with a hand on the red ring of his wrist, twisting until the white mech's optics met his. "Going somewhere, Drift?"

"To my quarters."

Springer's optics narrowed. "You might consider staying there. Where we can find you." He thrust the other's wrist away, turning to examine the nook Drift had been in, checking for damage, sabotage. He felt Drift's hot glare on him. Go ahead, neutral, he thought. Notice we're suspicious. Not all of us are as trusting as Kup.