Dazed & Confused, Chapter 2
Title: Dazed & Confused
Rating: For this part, PG at "worst."
Warnings: Nothing, really. References events of previous chapter.
Main Characters: Slag, Swoop
Genre: Angst...the Fluff
Summary: Nightwind thought the story was done after the previous chapter. Slag & Swoop felt a need to talk, though. Yeah.
Chapter Links: 1 | 2
"Hi."
In response to the softly-spoken word, Slag leapt into the air, spun, and landed facing the voice. His gun automatically and unerringly leveled on the intruder, and his finger reflexively half-tightened on the trigger. Then he growled, dismayed not because he was now aiming at Swoop instead of at a target, but simply because Swoop was there at all.
Growling again, this time in frustration, he jabbed his weapon meaningfully at Swoop and ground out around an angrily-clenched jaw, "Don't do that!"
"I made noise!" Swoop protested, but quietly. There was an unhappy trill in his voice as he stared at Slag's weapon for a moment before angling his gaze up to his face. "You didn't hear me."
Which was, Slag allowed, true. He'd been completely absorbed in his task of blowing as many targets to kingdom come as he could manage. Destruction was always a good way to put disturbing things out of his mind, and the target range outside of Autobot Headquarters was a good place to destroy things without having to suffer a sanctimonious lecture about it afterwards. The only problem was that he did become completely absorbed in the destruction that he wrought; if Swoop had been an enemy, Slag would have been caught completely unawares. Thankfully, Swoop was a…a…
…He had no idea what Swoop was, really. Not anymore. Not after what had happened between them three days before. They'd been completely avoiding each other since then. Or rather, Swoop had been avoiding Slag.
When Slag had awoken, three evenings ago, feeling quite mellow and uncharacteristically happy with the universe in general, Swoop had been gone. He'd been disappointed by that, but he'd figured that Swoop had merely had duties to attend to, that he'd see him later, when he went off-shift. That they would talk then. As much as Slag generally hated talking, even he had known that he and Swoop would need to talk about what had happened between them. And he'd been OK with that. He'd almost looked forward to it, even, for reasons that he couldn't quite comprehend.
But then Swoop hadn't come home that night. Or the next night. Slag had seen no trace of Swoop and had had too much pride to go and seek him out, even though he'd come to the conclusion that Swoop was most likely hiding out in the medbay. The other Dinobots had returned to Headquarters the second evening, flush with victory, and Grimlock had all unwittingly asked Slag where Swoop was. He had been taken aback by Slag's deeply surly reply, which had consisted of a scowl that had made even Grimlock take a step away and then a snarled, "How the hell would I know?!" before he had stomped off in a quiet but slowly-building rage.
Slag had become convinced that he'd merely been used and, worse, he did not even know why he'd been used. Somehow, the not knowing made things about twelve times worse. The resulting rage was eating at him, clawing at him, seductively encouraging him to do all sorts of things that would have horrible consequences for Swoop. He'd gotten better at controlling anger over the fifteen years of his life so far, but he most certainly had his limits, and he was definitely pushing those limits at the moment.
And now the object of his rage was suddenly here, standing not ten feet away from him, regarding him…nervously, Slag now realized. For all that Swoop was studiously keeping his face composed, his wings were trembling, and the trembling had nothing to do with the chill of a dismal, rainy, early April morning. Slag lowered his weapon with a contemptuous snort and deliberately turned his back on Swoop.
"Why are you here?" he tossed belligerently over his shoulder after a long moment of giving Swoop the silent treatment.
Swoop flinched deeply at the tone, but remained silent, staring at Slag's back. He could practically see the rage oozing out of Slag, could almost feel the searing heat of it pounding against him in almost tangible waves. Had this been maybe five years ago, Swoop was certain that he'd be dead right about now, reduced to a smoking, gooey pile of, indeed, slag. And the worst part about it was that he would have deserved it, did deserve it. Swoop acknowledged that. He'd behaved horribly. Shamefully.
But he'd been…confused. He really had no idea why he had done what he'd done, why he had…had seduced Slag. There was no other word for it. He'd had a horrible day, it was true, had suffered the first death of a patient that he'd been solely in charge of, a patient that he had tried so hard to save, giving everything to the effort but to no ultimate avail. But why he'd afterwards done…done those things…and to Slag, of all people, he truly did not know. It had just…happened. Perhaps he had needed to connect with something living again, had needed to be reminded that he was still alive and still useful for something, and so he had needed someone.
No, that wasn't right. He had needed Slag, specifically. No one else, he now knew, would have sufficed. Swoop was through with denying it.
He didn't regret what he'd done with Slag. At all. He had regrets only about how he'd behaved afterwards. But the lack of regret, the rock-solid certainty that he had not made a mistake, had scared him, too. Badly. He'd left Slag's berth in a barely-restrained panic, had stayed in the medbay around the clock, had offered very weak excuses to Ratchet about why he had needed to stay there. He had told lies to Ratchet, and he had never told anyone a lie before. Emotions and lies and something that wasn't regret and many other things that he didn't know how to address much less how to deal with had piled up on top of him with staggering speed, quickly overwhelming and threatening to crush him, to drown him.
And now, on top of everything else, he'd gone and made Slag hate him, which was the very last thing that he'd wanted to do. Swoop had been revealed as a coward, and Slag hated cowards. So Swoop acknowledged that Slag hated him with good reason. For many good reasons, in fact. Swoop had, to borrow a term that he'd heard Sparkplug often use, "screwed up royally." He'd screwed up everything royally, and he had absolutely no idea how to go about fixing it. But Ratchet had spoken to Grimlock, and Grimlock had spoken, in no uncertain terms, to Swoop, and…
"Grimlock told me that I have to fix things," Swoop said to Slag's back in a small, chastened, and very tremulous voice. "But…I don't know how!"
The utter despair in Swoop's voice, the little bird-like wail that his words almost devolved into, had an effect on Slag, an effect he didn't really like or want. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to stay angry. There was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to strangle Swoop, even.
But he'd never been able to stay angry at Swoop for very long. Swoop knew exactly what to do to infuriate Slag, knew all the right buttons to push, and he often did so apparently for fun. But somehow, for some reason, Slag found that Swoop was always easily forgivable. Over the years, Slag had in fact begun to feel curiously neglected if Swoop didn't infuriate him on a regular basis. Just recently, Snarl had informed Slag in his piercingly perceptive yet bland and graceless way that Swoop's button-pushing was in fact flirting, that he'd been flirting with Slag for years now. Slag had scoffed at the notion then, even though Snarl had repeatedly insisted that it was true. But now…given what had happened…
Curiosity that was both wanted and unwanted at the same time began to nudge insistently against Slag's insulating wall of rage, and he found himself half-turning toward Swoop almost against his will, watching Swoop sideways. The smaller Dinobot fidgeted, his face a picture of anguished indecision, of dismay and not a little fear. Had he been anyone else, such an expression would have earned only Slag's scorn, his contempt. But Swoop was the exception. Swoop was the exception to just about everything as far as Slag was concerned. And his expression, his posture, and his obvious remorse all further chipped away at Slag's resolve to be and to remain angry. Still, he was determined that he was not going to be the first to speak.
"I'm sorry," Swoop said in the tiniest of voices then, cringing and staring almost fearfully at Slag. "I'm so sorry, Slag."
Slag growled low in his chest, more out of frustration now than anger, and he stalked toward Swoop, who to his credit held his ground. Slag took to circling Swoop like a vulture homing in on a dying animal.
"Why?" Slag demanded to know. "Why are you sorry, Swoop?"
Swoop blinked; it was neither the reaction nor the question that he'd been expecting, and surprise pushed aside fear for a moment.
"Are you sorry that you slept with me? Is that it?" Slag was continuing, and his disparaging, contemptuous tone cut into Swoop like the biggest, sharpest sword in the universe.
"No!" he cried, not giving the answer any thought because he hadn't needed to give it any thought. He wasn't sorry for that. At all.
But that wasn't the answer that Slag had been expecting. He stopped his pacing practically in mid-stride, directly behind Swoop. He watched Swoop shiver and hug himself for a few moments, and then he watched as the smaller Dinobot turned slowly to face him. His expression was resolute now, and he held his chin high, apparently done with cringing. Slag approved.
"I'm sorry because I ran away afterward," Swoop was growling quietly, his eyes flashing with suddenly urgent sincerity. "Because I stayed away. I was confused, felt so many things and didn't understand any of them. Was afraid. Thought you'd hate me for what I'd done, knew you'd hate me for running away like a coward, but I just couldn't…go… Couldn't face you. Couldn't stand the thought of you hating me. Not when I…I…"
The words just fell out of Swoop's mouth, one after the other in a flood that he couldn't stop once it had started. And when his voice trailed off helplessly, silence fell between them. Swoop stared fixedly at the ground beneath his feet, terrified of what might be showing on Slag's face after his confession. The silence stretched on and on between them, pregnant with tension. It was, surprisingly, Slag who broke it.
"Don't hate you, Swoop," he said quietly. "Can't hate you. I've tried. I thought," he added even more quietly after an uncertain pause, "that you were ashamed of...of me."
Swoop's head jerked up, and he met Slag's gaze disbelievingly.
"What?" he responded. "No! No, I was ashamed of me. For…for doing that. For…forcing you."
At that, Slag barked out a humorless laugh, and Swoop's entire body jerked at the unexpected reaction. He could have sworn that he saw amusement dancing across Slag's split visor.
"You seriously think," Slag asked, "that you could force me to do something that I don't want to do?"
Yep, definitely amusement.
"But…" Swoop protested weakly.
"Was surprised, Swoop," Slag replied, talking over Swoop's attempted protest. "Not unwilling."
He folded his arms over his chest then, his expression almost expectant. Swoop just gaped at him, awestruck and dumbfounded, his jaw dropping as he realized that he'd been afraid for nothing, concerned for nothing. He'd stayed away for three days for nothing. Absolutely nothing.
"Oh," was all that Swoop could think of to actually say, however, once his thoughts had stopped reeling and as he began to feel a million-ton weight lifting from his shoulders.
"Wouldn't mind doing it again," Slag added, shrugging nonchalantly, staring down at Swoop's face challengingly.
And Swoop's mouth fell open again. Smirking, Slag reached across the short distance between them and pushed up against Swoop's chin with one finger, closing his mouth for him.
"Might want to keep that closed," Slag teased. "Unless you're going to put it to good use."
Swoop just gaped at him. And Slag laughed. With actual humor this time.
"C'mon, Swoop," he said, stowing his gun, finally. "Think we need to have a talk."
He turned from the dumbfounded Swoop then, and he'd walked maybe five paces away before he realized that Swoop wasn't following him. He turned around to find Swoop staring at him instead of following him, still rooted to the same spot as if he'd been welded there. And, sure enough, his mouth was agape again. He was looking at Slag as if he'd just turned pink and started dancing ballet. Slag sighed, but there was a distinct note of affection in the sigh.
"What?" he wanted to know, calling back to Swoop.
Swoop blinked at him. Slowly. Once. Twice. Three times. Then he shook himself visibly, and his face split into a sly smile.
"You want to talk," Swoop explained. "I…don't know what to do with that."
Slag snorted.
"Oh, shut up," he growled. And then, saying nothing else, he turned around again and started to stalk back toward Autobot Headquarters, confident that this time Swoop would follow in his wake. Because he always did.
Rating: For this part, PG at "worst."
Warnings: Nothing, really. References events of previous chapter.
Main Characters: Slag, Swoop
Genre: Angst...the Fluff
Summary: Nightwind thought the story was done after the previous chapter. Slag & Swoop felt a need to talk, though. Yeah.
Chapter Links: 1 | 2
"Hi."
In response to the softly-spoken word, Slag leapt into the air, spun, and landed facing the voice. His gun automatically and unerringly leveled on the intruder, and his finger reflexively half-tightened on the trigger. Then he growled, dismayed not because he was now aiming at Swoop instead of at a target, but simply because Swoop was there at all.
Growling again, this time in frustration, he jabbed his weapon meaningfully at Swoop and ground out around an angrily-clenched jaw, "Don't do that!"
"I made noise!" Swoop protested, but quietly. There was an unhappy trill in his voice as he stared at Slag's weapon for a moment before angling his gaze up to his face. "You didn't hear me."
Which was, Slag allowed, true. He'd been completely absorbed in his task of blowing as many targets to kingdom come as he could manage. Destruction was always a good way to put disturbing things out of his mind, and the target range outside of Autobot Headquarters was a good place to destroy things without having to suffer a sanctimonious lecture about it afterwards. The only problem was that he did become completely absorbed in the destruction that he wrought; if Swoop had been an enemy, Slag would have been caught completely unawares. Thankfully, Swoop was a…a…
…He had no idea what Swoop was, really. Not anymore. Not after what had happened between them three days before. They'd been completely avoiding each other since then. Or rather, Swoop had been avoiding Slag.
When Slag had awoken, three evenings ago, feeling quite mellow and uncharacteristically happy with the universe in general, Swoop had been gone. He'd been disappointed by that, but he'd figured that Swoop had merely had duties to attend to, that he'd see him later, when he went off-shift. That they would talk then. As much as Slag generally hated talking, even he had known that he and Swoop would need to talk about what had happened between them. And he'd been OK with that. He'd almost looked forward to it, even, for reasons that he couldn't quite comprehend.
But then Swoop hadn't come home that night. Or the next night. Slag had seen no trace of Swoop and had had too much pride to go and seek him out, even though he'd come to the conclusion that Swoop was most likely hiding out in the medbay. The other Dinobots had returned to Headquarters the second evening, flush with victory, and Grimlock had all unwittingly asked Slag where Swoop was. He had been taken aback by Slag's deeply surly reply, which had consisted of a scowl that had made even Grimlock take a step away and then a snarled, "How the hell would I know?!" before he had stomped off in a quiet but slowly-building rage.
Slag had become convinced that he'd merely been used and, worse, he did not even know why he'd been used. Somehow, the not knowing made things about twelve times worse. The resulting rage was eating at him, clawing at him, seductively encouraging him to do all sorts of things that would have horrible consequences for Swoop. He'd gotten better at controlling anger over the fifteen years of his life so far, but he most certainly had his limits, and he was definitely pushing those limits at the moment.
And now the object of his rage was suddenly here, standing not ten feet away from him, regarding him…nervously, Slag now realized. For all that Swoop was studiously keeping his face composed, his wings were trembling, and the trembling had nothing to do with the chill of a dismal, rainy, early April morning. Slag lowered his weapon with a contemptuous snort and deliberately turned his back on Swoop.
"Why are you here?" he tossed belligerently over his shoulder after a long moment of giving Swoop the silent treatment.
Swoop flinched deeply at the tone, but remained silent, staring at Slag's back. He could practically see the rage oozing out of Slag, could almost feel the searing heat of it pounding against him in almost tangible waves. Had this been maybe five years ago, Swoop was certain that he'd be dead right about now, reduced to a smoking, gooey pile of, indeed, slag. And the worst part about it was that he would have deserved it, did deserve it. Swoop acknowledged that. He'd behaved horribly. Shamefully.
But he'd been…confused. He really had no idea why he had done what he'd done, why he had…had seduced Slag. There was no other word for it. He'd had a horrible day, it was true, had suffered the first death of a patient that he'd been solely in charge of, a patient that he had tried so hard to save, giving everything to the effort but to no ultimate avail. But why he'd afterwards done…done those things…and to Slag, of all people, he truly did not know. It had just…happened. Perhaps he had needed to connect with something living again, had needed to be reminded that he was still alive and still useful for something, and so he had needed someone.
No, that wasn't right. He had needed Slag, specifically. No one else, he now knew, would have sufficed. Swoop was through with denying it.
He didn't regret what he'd done with Slag. At all. He had regrets only about how he'd behaved afterwards. But the lack of regret, the rock-solid certainty that he had not made a mistake, had scared him, too. Badly. He'd left Slag's berth in a barely-restrained panic, had stayed in the medbay around the clock, had offered very weak excuses to Ratchet about why he had needed to stay there. He had told lies to Ratchet, and he had never told anyone a lie before. Emotions and lies and something that wasn't regret and many other things that he didn't know how to address much less how to deal with had piled up on top of him with staggering speed, quickly overwhelming and threatening to crush him, to drown him.
And now, on top of everything else, he'd gone and made Slag hate him, which was the very last thing that he'd wanted to do. Swoop had been revealed as a coward, and Slag hated cowards. So Swoop acknowledged that Slag hated him with good reason. For many good reasons, in fact. Swoop had, to borrow a term that he'd heard Sparkplug often use, "screwed up royally." He'd screwed up everything royally, and he had absolutely no idea how to go about fixing it. But Ratchet had spoken to Grimlock, and Grimlock had spoken, in no uncertain terms, to Swoop, and…
"Grimlock told me that I have to fix things," Swoop said to Slag's back in a small, chastened, and very tremulous voice. "But…I don't know how!"
The utter despair in Swoop's voice, the little bird-like wail that his words almost devolved into, had an effect on Slag, an effect he didn't really like or want. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to stay angry. There was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to strangle Swoop, even.
But he'd never been able to stay angry at Swoop for very long. Swoop knew exactly what to do to infuriate Slag, knew all the right buttons to push, and he often did so apparently for fun. But somehow, for some reason, Slag found that Swoop was always easily forgivable. Over the years, Slag had in fact begun to feel curiously neglected if Swoop didn't infuriate him on a regular basis. Just recently, Snarl had informed Slag in his piercingly perceptive yet bland and graceless way that Swoop's button-pushing was in fact flirting, that he'd been flirting with Slag for years now. Slag had scoffed at the notion then, even though Snarl had repeatedly insisted that it was true. But now…given what had happened…
Curiosity that was both wanted and unwanted at the same time began to nudge insistently against Slag's insulating wall of rage, and he found himself half-turning toward Swoop almost against his will, watching Swoop sideways. The smaller Dinobot fidgeted, his face a picture of anguished indecision, of dismay and not a little fear. Had he been anyone else, such an expression would have earned only Slag's scorn, his contempt. But Swoop was the exception. Swoop was the exception to just about everything as far as Slag was concerned. And his expression, his posture, and his obvious remorse all further chipped away at Slag's resolve to be and to remain angry. Still, he was determined that he was not going to be the first to speak.
"I'm sorry," Swoop said in the tiniest of voices then, cringing and staring almost fearfully at Slag. "I'm so sorry, Slag."
Slag growled low in his chest, more out of frustration now than anger, and he stalked toward Swoop, who to his credit held his ground. Slag took to circling Swoop like a vulture homing in on a dying animal.
"Why?" Slag demanded to know. "Why are you sorry, Swoop?"
Swoop blinked; it was neither the reaction nor the question that he'd been expecting, and surprise pushed aside fear for a moment.
"Are you sorry that you slept with me? Is that it?" Slag was continuing, and his disparaging, contemptuous tone cut into Swoop like the biggest, sharpest sword in the universe.
"No!" he cried, not giving the answer any thought because he hadn't needed to give it any thought. He wasn't sorry for that. At all.
But that wasn't the answer that Slag had been expecting. He stopped his pacing practically in mid-stride, directly behind Swoop. He watched Swoop shiver and hug himself for a few moments, and then he watched as the smaller Dinobot turned slowly to face him. His expression was resolute now, and he held his chin high, apparently done with cringing. Slag approved.
"I'm sorry because I ran away afterward," Swoop was growling quietly, his eyes flashing with suddenly urgent sincerity. "Because I stayed away. I was confused, felt so many things and didn't understand any of them. Was afraid. Thought you'd hate me for what I'd done, knew you'd hate me for running away like a coward, but I just couldn't…go… Couldn't face you. Couldn't stand the thought of you hating me. Not when I…I…"
The words just fell out of Swoop's mouth, one after the other in a flood that he couldn't stop once it had started. And when his voice trailed off helplessly, silence fell between them. Swoop stared fixedly at the ground beneath his feet, terrified of what might be showing on Slag's face after his confession. The silence stretched on and on between them, pregnant with tension. It was, surprisingly, Slag who broke it.
"Don't hate you, Swoop," he said quietly. "Can't hate you. I've tried. I thought," he added even more quietly after an uncertain pause, "that you were ashamed of...of me."
Swoop's head jerked up, and he met Slag's gaze disbelievingly.
"What?" he responded. "No! No, I was ashamed of me. For…for doing that. For…forcing you."
At that, Slag barked out a humorless laugh, and Swoop's entire body jerked at the unexpected reaction. He could have sworn that he saw amusement dancing across Slag's split visor.
"You seriously think," Slag asked, "that you could force me to do something that I don't want to do?"
Yep, definitely amusement.
"But…" Swoop protested weakly.
"Was surprised, Swoop," Slag replied, talking over Swoop's attempted protest. "Not unwilling."
He folded his arms over his chest then, his expression almost expectant. Swoop just gaped at him, awestruck and dumbfounded, his jaw dropping as he realized that he'd been afraid for nothing, concerned for nothing. He'd stayed away for three days for nothing. Absolutely nothing.
"Oh," was all that Swoop could think of to actually say, however, once his thoughts had stopped reeling and as he began to feel a million-ton weight lifting from his shoulders.
"Wouldn't mind doing it again," Slag added, shrugging nonchalantly, staring down at Swoop's face challengingly.
And Swoop's mouth fell open again. Smirking, Slag reached across the short distance between them and pushed up against Swoop's chin with one finger, closing his mouth for him.
"Might want to keep that closed," Slag teased. "Unless you're going to put it to good use."
Swoop just gaped at him. And Slag laughed. With actual humor this time.
"C'mon, Swoop," he said, stowing his gun, finally. "Think we need to have a talk."
He turned from the dumbfounded Swoop then, and he'd walked maybe five paces away before he realized that Swoop wasn't following him. He turned around to find Swoop staring at him instead of following him, still rooted to the same spot as if he'd been welded there. And, sure enough, his mouth was agape again. He was looking at Slag as if he'd just turned pink and started dancing ballet. Slag sighed, but there was a distinct note of affection in the sigh.
"What?" he wanted to know, calling back to Swoop.
Swoop blinked at him. Slowly. Once. Twice. Three times. Then he shook himself visibly, and his face split into a sly smile.
"You want to talk," Swoop explained. "I…don't know what to do with that."
Slag snorted.
"Oh, shut up," he growled. And then, saying nothing else, he turned around again and started to stalk back toward Autobot Headquarters, confident that this time Swoop would follow in his wake. Because he always did.