Work Text:
It was dark in the warehouse that night.
As the city had dimmed and darkened to reflect the late joor of the artificial cycles, Drift had managed to stumble into the abandoned warehouse that not even the lowest of guttermechs would dare to go. It was known to have been used by the violent gangs that prowled the streets, looking for any bot unaware enough to steal them away and hack them to pieces, and sell them for scrap and spare parts.
It was a dangerous place to be.
And therefore, it was the safest place to be.
Drift collapsed to the floor and groaned loudly as another wave of pain that originated from his abdomen spread across his entire frame. It was the reason he had chosen the warehouse; he could be as loud as he wanted with his agony without anyone hearing him and come to take advantage of his unaware state.
It wasn’t as if he had anything worth stealing, but the Energon in a dying mech’s frame was too tempting to pass up. He would know. He’d done the same thing many times before.
The pain slowly abated and left him feeling weak, but he was still too close to the shattered glass windows and the flimsy door to feel any sort of safety. He vented hard for a few moments, before painstakingly dragging himself to the old heavy machinery that had long since been stripped bare for parts. He tucked himself into the smallest crevice he could find. It was uncomfortable, the unyielding steel pressing down on his frame, but it felt safe.
The pain returned.
Joors upon joors, Drift endured the waves until the pressure was too great. He released his interface panels and felt a gush of something leak out of him and onto the dirty floor. He didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to acknowledge what was happening.
His entire frame went taut at the next wave of pain, so intense that Drift couldn’t stop the way his pede kicked out and hit the body of machinery with a loud bang that echoed through the entire building. Everything within him screamed to push and his vents caught on a sob that threatened to escape.
Drift had ignored the pain when it started a few cycles ago. He had known what it meant, but he didn’t want it to be true. He didn’t want it to happen. He had done everything in his power to ensure the tiny, fragile spark within his frame survived.
It was too early for emergence.
Another cry of pain left him as his frame began to protest against his unwillingness to push. He didn’t want to. Primus, please, he didn’t want to.
The sparkling’s protoform slid out cleanly on the next contraction. Drift barely managed to remember to catch them from the pain that engulfed him. He acted almost automatically as he brought them up to his chassis and close to the vents near his shoulders.
Drift stared ahead at the inside of the scuffed machinery he had pressed himself into, with his optics cycled wide. It took a few long moments before he had the strength to look down at them.
A tiny protoform, no bigger than the palm of his hand. A femme, he noted somewhat distantly. She was… so beautiful. She was the loveliest thing Drift had ever seen, with her tiny, barely formed limbs, and her helm which held two small finials just like his own.
With her offlined optics and greyed frame, and not a hint of life from her spark.
“I’m sorry,” he choked and tried not to jostle her against the sobs that wracked his frame, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry-”
He had tried. Drift swears to Primus he had tried. He’d tried so hard to get all the Energon and extra precious metals his frame demanded for the sparkling. He’d given up taking Syk, had holed himself up somewhere for an entire deca-cycle so that the withdrawal could wear off and he wouldn’t be tempted to seek out another dose.
He’d tried… Why wasn’t it good enough?
Why wasn’t he good enough?
Drift’s optics shuttered and when they had focused back on the limp protoform in his hands, it had changed. She had changed. Her small cheeks which had just been framed by even smaller vents had been replaced with a wide set of ailerons that looked just like-
But she was still dead.
She was still dead and he’d failed again.
She was still dead and he had failed-
“Please-!” Drift awoke suddenly. He was disoriented, the room around him completely unrecognisable in the moment. His spark was spinning far too quickly from the stress, everything seemed to tilt to one side. It was dark. The warehouse was dark. This wasn’t the warehouse. Was this the warehouse? His frame rattled with the echo of pain from the emergence, and-
There was movement beside him.
Without thinking, Drift bared his fangs in a loud snarl and swiped at them. His hand was caught easily in a strong grip that allowed him to move no further. His EM field lashed out in a spike of fear and terror, and every part of his programming demanded that he protect his creation.
“Drift,” the stranger holding onto him spoke with an even and calm tone. Their voice was familiar to him, but he just couldn’t place it with how muddled his processor felt.
“You can’t have her-!” He shouted and quickly shifted to move his other hand. They must not have expected it, and were caught off guard when his claws easily tore through whatever part of them he’d managed to reach.
Drift felt the warmth of the Energon on his servo, he could feel another field blanket his own in a steady river that projected calm and safe. He could…
This… this wasn’t the warehouse, he distantly recognised. This wasn’t the warehouse and he wasn’t holding his dead sparkling that his frame had failed to keep alive. This was… Drift felt himself shudder.
“-alright. You’re safe here,” the other bot was talking to him quietly, and Drift latched onto their voice, “You’re on Theophany. Your designation is Drift. We’re in my apartment in the New Crystal City. My designation is-”
“Wing,” he managed to say. His vocaliser hurt.
“That’s right,” Drift heard the smile in Wing’s voice, “Will you vent with me?” His hand that held Drift’s own moved slowly and carefully, until Wing held them over one of the hidden vents near his neck and shoulder.
In. Hold. Two. Three.
Out. Hold. Two. Three.
He wasn’t sure how long they sat there for, how long Wing patiently guided him through something as simple as remembering how to vent. The room around him became clearer, he could see the outline of Wing’s frame half sitting, half lying on the berth. He must have been uncomfortable, but Wing didn’t complain or make any move that suggested he was struggling with the position.
In. Hold. Two. Three.
Drift could feel the dried Energon on his servo. It was itchy, and tacky. The Energon that he drew when-
It was easy to spot the wound. Four deep gouges along the pristine white of Wing’s chassis. His self-healing protocols and repair nanites were clearly working quickly with how sluggish the Energon seemed to fall from the cuts.
To harm the one who had done so much for him…
What a disgusting thing he was. A vile and shameful creature that knew nothing except violence and how to inflict pain on others. Everything he’d done as Deadlock was proof of that. His utter failure as a carrier was proof. The four claw marks along Wing’s chassis was proof.
Drift felt sick. He couldn’t do anything right. Even now, even then, when he had found someone patient enough to peel back his layers and discover who he was, when they had seen every single part of him and loved him despite it all… Even now, Drift tarnished everything he touched.
A gentle hand cupped his cheek, and Drift just couldn’t help the way he melted into the touch. Wing was always like that; gentle and yet firm. He was the immovable object to Drift’s unstoppable force, the anchor that held him in place and tethered him to reality.
He’d never known it was possible to love someone as much as he loved Wing. Had never even considered that he could, or would, ever be loved as Wing loved him.
And here Drift was, ruining it all again.
“Hey,” Wing interrupted his spiralling thoughts, “Come back. Stay here, with me.”
Drift’s derma wobbled at the sheer amount of affection in those words. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve any of it. He didn’t deserve to be here, in the New Crystal City, he didn’t deserve to be accepted into the Circle of Light by Dai Atlas, and he most certainly didn’t deserve the adoration and love that Wing showered him in.
He didn’t deserve this second chance at life. He deserved none of it. Drift deserved to be dumped back somewhere like the Dead End, deserved to live out the rest of his cycles with the same desperation as he started.
“I’m sorry,” Drift whispered and began to move away from the warm touch on his face, began to pull his hand away from where it was still being held by Wing’s chassis. He felt dirty, as if he were so unworthy to be touching a bot as immaculate as the jet in front of him.
He didn’t get far. The grip around his hand tightened and was dragged back to be held over Wing’s vent. Digits dug into the soft protoform beneath his cheek guards and pulled him in close. Like this, all Drift could see was the endless molten gold of Wing’s optics.
“Drift,” the jet’s voice was much harder, “Stop. I’m fine. I’m alright. I’m safe. A Turbofox pup’s scratch would’ve done more damage than you.”
The speedster looked between Wing’s optics, the grip on his face and hand were unrelenting. Wing wanted him to see the sincerity, to feel the truth behind every word and know he wasn’t saying it just to make Drift feel better.
“It shouldn’t have happened in the first place,” he said quietly. It wasn’t the first time he’d attacked Wing straight out of a memory purge, having confused him for an enemy, but it had been a long time since Drift had done such a thing. He’d hoped he was past that.
“No, it shouldn’t have,” Wing agreed and gave no space for Drift to shrink back, “I should have known better than to move so suddenly when you were clearly disoriented. I’m sorry for scaring you.”
It made him feel worse. It made the guilt that much heavier, an invisible weight that slowly crushed him, day after day-
“You’re wandering again.”
“Sorry,” Drift said, “I-… I’m sorry.”
The jet hummed and leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehelm. He wanted to lean into the touch as much as he wanted to move away from it. It was too much. It wasn’t enough. It embarrassed Drift, how much he craved a gentle touch.
There was nothing more humiliating to him than his own desires.
“Are you with me?” The words were whispered in the same space the kiss had been pressed. He could feel Wing’s derma brush against his plating there. He nodded. “Good. How are you feeling?”
Sick, Drift wanted to say, like I’m going to purge.
He had long since learned, however, that when Wing asked him how he felt, he expected Drift to get to the root of what he was feeling and why. He had always been told to take his time, to fully identify what it was before he verbalised it. In the beginning, it had sometimes taken him multiple cycles.
Drift did feel sick, but it wasn’t only the nausea. He was tired from too little recharge and being awoken so suddenly by the nightmare. He was angry, though the anger had become his constant companion.
Go deeper.
Anger. Rage. Confusion. Grief. Resentment. Worthlessness. Exhaustion.
Fear.
“I’m scared,” Drift admitted quietly, but it still didn’t feel quite right. He was scared, he was terrified, he was so scared of making the same mistakes as before. But underneath all of that was- “I feel guilty.”
Wing’s engine rumbled in acknowledgement. “Come here,” he said and pulled Drift closer, arranging them on the berth so the speedster could curl up at his side. He rested his helm on Wing’s chassis and shuttered his optics to focus on the subtle sounds Wing’s frame made, even while stationary.
It felt like safety, something that had since been long unfamiliar to Drift. To be able to simply rest by someone else’s side and know they would protect him. To be able to listen to their frame, to know they were alive and functional, to know he would not be awoken to wandering servos. To have the knowledge and surety that Wing expected nothing in return for such a small favour.
He was safe.
Wing was safe.
It had taken a long, long time for them to get to that point. For a while it had felt like every step Drift could take forward, he had to take two steps back. The Knight seemingly had an endless amount of patience, and took every setback in stride. He’d never gotten angry or frustrated at Drift for suddenly shutting down, for suddenly giving him attitude, for giving Wing so much push back as if he were trying to get him to lash out.
In truth, he was. Drift couldn’t believe, refused to believe, that someone would be kind to him unconditionally. To love him no matter what. He had done everything he could to get Wing to snap. Drift broke his things, he refused to let the jet get close, he started arguments and fought back over every little thing. Nothing. Wing never reacted, never gave Drift any indication that he was annoyed by the behaviour. Instead he was met with endless kindness.
No matter what, the Knight simply held out his hand and offered to help Drift climb out of the pit he had imprisoned himself in millions of vorns ago.
Here is my hand, he seemed to say, here is my hand that will not harm you.
And eventually Drift believed him. Eventually Drift reached out to meet him.
He didn’t deserve it.
“Are you feeling scared because of your guilt?” Wing asked after a while. It was a question to probe how Drift felt, but asked in a way that wouldn’t pry.
“Yes.”
“What is it you feel guilty about?”
He didn’t respond. Wing seemed to know that he didn’t want to answer the question, rather than taking time to think about it.
“What are you scared of?” He asked instead.
Drift opened his intake, but he couldn’t grasp the words. He felt so ashamed. He knew, logically, that Wing wouldn’t react negatively should he tell the truth, but that didn’t stop the niggling fear in the back of his processor that the jet would look at him differently. Perhaps think him incapable. What if, after everything, Wing finally looked upon him as a failure?
“Drift,” his thoughts were interrupted, “my spark, my life, my sun and stars. My beautiful Conjunx Endura, my wonderful bondmate, my-”
“Alright, alright. Sap,” Drift couldn’t help the huff of laughter at his behaviour. It still took him a moment to find the words, “I am scared… that I will make the same mistakes as before. That no matter how hard I try, or what I do, it won’t be enough, and we’ll-” He had to stop himself. An intense wave of grief and loss washed over him. Drift tucked himself further into Wing’s side.
“Hmm,” the jet’s engines rumbled again, a low and quiet sound that vibrated through Drift’s entire frame, “Your past as Deadlock is-”
“It’s not. Deadlock, that is. It’s… I…”
“The Dead End?”
“The Dead End,” he confirmed.
Wing knew… relatively little about Drift’s life in the Dead End. As much as the speedster was ashamed about his past as Deadlock, and the crimes he had committed in the name of the Decepticon cause, he was much more ashamed of his origins. The only forged mech dumped on the streets at the beginning of his function with a completely wiped processor.
A failure right from the start.
He had shared the basics. Drift had told Wing he was on the streets, that he had been addicted to the circuit boosters known as Syk. He’d told the story of a cop dumping him on the doorstep of a free clinic, about how the doctor there had patched him up. He had explained that he worked at the Relinquishment Clinic after, how he’d relapsed and fell back onto his addiction, and how Gasket had picked him up and dragged him back into sobriety for the second time.
Drift had never shared the details. He’d never told Wing how he survived for so long, why he would hoard Energon and hide cubes around the apartment. Never shared how he had made the Shanix to buy the Syk in the first place.
He felt the jet move slightly, the hand that was curled around his shoulders slowly traced invisible patterns down Drift’s arm, over the curve of his waist and came to rest over the swollen bump of his abdomen. Drift’s vents shuddered and rattled audibly as he pulled in a sudden intake of air.
It was as if he had suddenly been made aware of his own frame again, as if he’d been disconnected from it before. His forge instantly felt so full and heavy, the flexible armour of his abdomen stretched and strained. Wing’s touch was light, the palm of his hand flattened over the curve. Drift wanted to tell him to let go. He wanted the touch to continue. He wanted to be alone to ruminate over his thoughts. He didn’t want Wing to leave.
Drift hated it. He hated how much he craved touch and affection and love, as much as it repulsed him and made him want to flee. He wanted to be left alone just as much as he always wanted to be by Wing’s side. It confused him, it made him irritable. He couldn’t understand why.
There was movement in his abdomen. The sparkling reacted to the touch and presence of their sire, already unsettled from their carrier’s stress and fear, kicking and moving around in the safety of their forge. Drift was hit with a wave of nausea so sudden that he thought he might purge right there and then. He wasn’t sure if it was from the way the sparkling was playing with his internals, or from the reminder of what his frame was carrying.
“I’ve been sparked before,” Drift finally blurted out. He tensed as he realised what he had admitted and waited for the inevitable reaction.
But there was none. Wing’s frame remained relaxed, his hand stayed exactly where it was pressed over Drift’s abdomen. The jet’s EM field reflected no negative emotion, it simply continued its steady stream of love and affection and calm and safety. He didn’t ask, he didn’t pry. Wing simply allowed Drift to share what he wanted to.
“In… in the Dead End. Before, uh… everything else. I- It-” Why was it so difficult? “The… the Syk. I worked…”
Just tell him, a voice in the back of his processor hissed, get over it and tell him.
I’m scared, he thought. What if this was it? What if this was the one thing that made Wing look at him differently? What if he was finally deemed as unworthy, and his sparkling was taken from him? Drift didn’t think he could survive that. Not again.
What if, what if, what if.
There’s no use lingering on what has been or what might be, Wing had said once after he’d beaten Drift yet again in a spar, focus on the now, on the what will be. Have faith in others, and in yourself. You do me, and everyone else, a disservice to assume what we may think about you.
He drew another shaky vent.
“I worked as a buy-mech near the DE908 sector. It’s where clients would go to… anyway. The Relinquishment Clinics demanded sobriety, and I… I just wanted the Shanix for Syk. It’s all I could think about. My next client meant my next fix, and sometimes I was just so desperate that I’d let them do what they wanted,” Drift waited a moment to see if Wing would do anything.
Still nothing. No movement. No anger. No disgust. No judgement.
“There was… a returning client. I was a favourite of his. He always sought me out first over the others. One cycle, when he visited, he offered a lump sum of Shanix that anyone would have been stupid to turn down. He paid half upfront and escorted me to one of the more reputable clinics. They had my baffles removed. They reinstalled my seals.
“He didn’t… want me sparked. Not really. It was just the idea of it; breaking some innocent thing’s seals and breeding them. And I was… stupid enough to think that nothing would come of it. That I wouldn’t face the consequences. But I did. I was even more stupid to think that he’d be happy about it… that he might…” that secret hope was somehow even more shameful to admit. Somehow more humiliating to reveal he had truly thought that bot would have taken him off the streets, that he’d truly felt any affection for Drift.
“I tried,” the speedster whispered, a confession he’d never disclosed to anyone other than himself. He wanted Wing to believe him so badly, “I tried so hard. It was so selfish of me, so naive, but I thought I could- I could keep her. I dropped the Syk. I only took on trusted clients. I-… I used to siphon the Energon from those that couldn’t fight back.
“Please believe me. Please. I did everything I could. I loved her. I wanted her so badly-” Drift choked on his words, and it was only then that he realised he was crying. He gasped into Wing’s chassis, his vents desperately cycling for air. His spark hurt. It felt like it was going to shatter in his chamber.
He was only vaguely aware of Wing moving, the arms wrapping around his frame to hold him tightly. A hand gently stroked up and down Drift’s spinal strut, quiet words of affirmation whispered into the crest of his helm. He heard none of them.
“And she was- she was so small. She fit into the palm of my hand. She was the most perfect little thing I’d ever seen. I loved her so much,” Drift couldn’t stop himself from talking, “She- she had finials like mine. I think. She- it was too early.”
Wing held him tighter. It was too much. It wasn’t enough. He wanted… he wanted-
“I want her back,” he wailed. Millions upon millions of vorns had passed, and it still felt as if it had only just happened. Somehow her loss was still so fresh, an open wound that had just been left to fester and rot over time. “I don’t know what I did wrong. I don’t know why I failed. I did everything, and I still-… I still kil-”
“Stop,” the jet said harshly. His own voice was raw, feeling Drift’s grief as if it were his own, “It wasn’t you. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Why does it feel like it?” Drift demanded, “It must be! It must be me! No one ever stays! Even she- even she left me! Even something as tiny and innocent as her knew that I wasn’t good enough. Tell me what it is! Tell me! Tell me what’s wrong with me!”
The silence after his outburst was heavy. Thick of tension and desperation.
“Please,” he begged, “please tell me what’s wrong with me.”
“Drift.”
Just that one word. Just his designation. Full of so much love and admiration, so much warmth and care. Drift sagged into Wing’s embrace, all of the fight and anger immediately drained from him.
“Tell me,” he said again.
“I can’t.”
“Tell me why she left me.”
“My spark,” Wing whispered into his helm, “I can’t.”
Slowly, hesitantly, Drift wrapped his arms around the jet. He dug the tips of his digits into the armour over Wing’s back, careful to not use his claws.
“I’m terrible.”
“You’re not-”
“I am. I… I didn’t even bury her,” he felt sick just thinking about it, “I just left her there. I left her on the cold floor in that dark warehouse where she emerged. I didn’t even have anything to wrap her in. She must have been so scared.”
She wasn’t even alive, he had to remind himself. It didn’t help.
“You’re not terrible,” Wing said, “You did what you could. You tried. You told me you tried, and I believe you. It’s not your fault. It’s not.”
“What if it happens again?” He asked, “What if it is me? What if we lose-?” He couldn’t say the words. Didn’t want to bring them to life. Didn’t want to make it into reality.
“It won’t.”
“But what if-”
“It. Won’t.”
Drift buried his helm further into the jet’s neck. He wanted to hide. He wanted to crawl into a hole and never leave.
“Everyone leaves me.”
He said the words quietly. They were not meant for Wing to hear, not meant to be spoken aloud. Drift had meant them as a reminder to himself of how it always went with those he loved.
Wing heard the words anyway.
Drift felt a hand wrap around one of his finials and tug his helm back. Further and further, until he was torn away from the safety of the jet’s chassis and neck and forced to look him in the optics instead. His gaze was intense, molten gold darkened into something akin to righteous fury. Drift had seen this look before when another Knight had accidentally implied something about Wing. When they had mistakenly brought his character and morals into question. He was offended by what Drift had just uttered.
“I stayed,” he said, “I have stayed. No matter how difficult you were. No matter how angry. No matter how much you pushed me away. I. Have. Stayed.”
The Knight was not being unkind. His tone was not harsh, his grip on the finial was not tight enough to be painful. It was simply a reminder. Stated facts to anchor Drift back into reality.
Drift still found it difficult to believe. Even after all the time they’d been together.
“You are mine,” Wing continued, making sure that the speedster both heard and understood every word, “as much as I am yours. I will not leave you. Ever. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
“I will tie our fates together, should you will it. If you so command me, I will tether our lives, our very sparks and beings, with one another. I will bind us so tightly that should either of us ever be called back to the Well, Primus, Himself, would look at our bond and hesitate to separate us. Do you understand?” He asked again, but all Drift could do was stare at him. The hand holding his finial shook him slightly, carefully, “Do you?”
He nodded a second time.
“Tell me.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes. I understand.”
Wing’s hand left his finial, and Drift immediately found himself missing it. The jet was never harsh. He was never cruel, or unkind, or mean. But he knew when the speedster needed a firmer touch, when he needed a harder tone.
Drift’s hands moved slowly, the tips of his digits gently brushed over pristine white kibble and armour, and came to rest around the ailerons on Wing’s face. He simply stared for a while, taking in every detail and burned it into his memory banks. The jet observed him, his expression kept carefully blank but it belied the fondness beneath. Drift knew with complete certainty that he could have done anything in that moment and Wing would have let him. It felt almost intoxicating to know he had that kind of power over someone. It was a scary feeling.
He leaned in close and gently brushed their dermas together. Wing did nothing, aside from how he tightened his hold around Drift’s frame. Both of their optics were half open, dimmed from the proximity.
“I love you,” Wing mumbled against his derma.
Drift shivered at the feeling and stayed where he was, “I love you, too.”
“I’ll never leave you.”
“You can’t prom-”
“I can. I would do anything for you. I would collect all the stars in the known universe if you said you wanted them. I would cut off my own wings if I thought it would bring you joy. I would traverse the Well to bring you back to me. I would give up my sword for you. I would lay it at your pedes, and accept your judgement.
Anything you ask of me, I will do for you without question. I would sooner face down Unicron alone at the end of the universe, than us ever be apart. I’ll find my way back to you, no matter what. Through every life we live, through every universe we travel. No matter who we are, or what path we take, I will find you. I will not leave you, just as you will not leave me. I swear this to you. I swear it.”
He felt as if he would start to cry again. How was it that he - a bot with some unseen deficiency that would have his processor wiped and frame dumped in the Dead End, a bot who would later become Megatron’s personal assassin for nearly four million vorns and end countless lives during that time - deserved this?
“She loved you, too,” Wing suddenly said and Drift pulled back slightly in both hurt and confusion, “I know she did.”
His optics started to burn again, “How can you be so sure?”
“She came to find you again, didn’t she?”
And for a moment he didn’t quite understand what the jet was saying, what it meant. But when a warm hand came to press against Drift’s swollen abdomen again, the insinuation clear. He swallowed down another sob, and moved one of his own hands over Wing’s to hold it tightly.
“She wanted you to be her carrier so badly-”
“Stop.”
“That she did what I would have done. She found her way back to you.”
Drift slammed their dermas together again, wanting him to just shut up. The words didn’t hurt, they weren’t mocking him. In fact, Wing said them so confidently with such conviction, that Drift could almost believe them. He wanted to believe them.
Wing pushed back against him, his other hand coming to hold the back of the speedster’s helm to hold him in place. They spent a while like that; leisurely kissing, glossas tasting each other and remapping territory they’d long since been familiar with. At some point, Drift rolled them over to press the jet flat on his back and straddle his wide frame.
As encumbered as Drift was, heavy with their sparkling, Wing gave no reaction to indicate that his weight was too much. Instead his hands roamed Drift’s frame hungrily; digits slipping into transformation seams, tugging at exposed wires, squeezing and groping every centihic of Drift’s frame that he could reach.
The speedster pulled back first, his core temperature rising embarrassingly quickly, and his cooling fans clicked on audibly. He couldn’t even find it in himself to playfully glare at Wing when he laughed.
He took a moment to calm himself down, and glanced at the jet to see him staring up at Drift with a silly smile. He looked so in love. His gaze was full of words that didn’t need to be said. When he realised Drift’s attention was back on him, Wing’s optics darkened somewhat, the heat of lust returning to them. His hands, which had simply been resting on the speedster’s thighs, moved up and up, grazing over the sensitive plating of Drift’s array. A wicked grin appeared as Drift tensed at the touch, resisting the urge to push himself further into the jet’s hands. He was almost disappointed when Wing brought them to rest around his large bump.
Almost.
“I wonder…”
Drift tilted his helm, “What?”
“I wonder if she’ll be jealous that she’ll have to share your attention this time around.”
The words should have brought a sting of pain. They should have had Drift shrinking away, or telling him to shut up again. He should have been hurt, it should have brought him out of the moment.
But for some reason, it didn’t.
Drift laughed, instead. He laughed and laughed and laughed, and he couldn’t stop himself. The sadness was still there, of course it was, and it would never truly leave, but more than that…
He felt joy. Relief.
Someone else knew about her. Someone else knew her story. Someone else grieved for her, and loved her as much as he did, and she wouldn’t be forgotten.
And Wing was just… always so endearing and earnest in everything he said. How lucky he was, to crash on Theophany by chance.
Drift leaned down to kiss him again, ignoring the stupid grin across his jet’s face. His fears were still there, but they were much quieter. They didn’t linger on the edges of his vision, didn’t whisper their paranoia into his audials. He tucked them neatly away and allowed himself, once again, to believe Wing’s words.
Here is my hand, he said.
She had found her way back to Drift.
What had happened wasn’t his fault.
Wing would never leave him.
This time around, everything would work out.
He was sure of it.
Here is my hand that will not harm you.