I see your schmoopy and raise you an awkward sn1perseyeJuly 14 2011, 01:14:47 UTC
Perceptor would like to think that he is at least marginally more intelligent than the Swarm, and could provide a bit more challenge if he'd put his mind to it. Except... he hadn't really put his mind to it, had he? He may be new to this base, but if he truly had not wished to speak with Drift, he had been fully capable of putting the confrontation off for longer than a few paltry minutes.
He isn't certain which surprises him more, the realization that, ultimately, he really had wanted Drift to find him, or the quiet words that Drift drops into the silence between them.
How can he ignite the proper righteous fury now? It would have been easier if Drift had attempted to act as if this were any other chance meeting, exchanged commonplaces and empty words, rather than acknowledge that the fragile history between them had left its mark equally upon him.
Why does he even want to be angry, anyway? There had never been an explanation, no words to soothe or reason, and yet, Perceptor can see the hints of a new easiness in Drift's carriage, despite the tension of the moment. Purpose. Belonging. Perceptor had yearned for those things, himself, for so very long. He cannot begrudge Drift for having seized the opportunity for them when presented.
The Wreckers, after all, is no place for one who seeks to save lives.
He's let that silence between them stretch out uncomfortably long before he manages to utter, "I missed you as well."
"You assimilated a new alt." ...how stunningly obvious. While never as advanced as his scientific skills, his conversational skills have obviously atrophied significantly, for all that he finds himself able to more readily speak than he had those months after his rebuild. He should resume his more silent habits, before he makes an even bigger fool of himself.
rockin' the awkward \o/roninknightJuly 14 2011, 03:29:41 UTC
Oh you could have run, Perceptor. You'd only have been tired when Drift eventually caught you. There are things Drift has always been good at.
And things he'd never been good at. Such as this.
As Perceptor spoke, the words sank into Drift like stones. He wanted to hear those very words...and didn't deserve them.
If only Perceptor knew: Drift didn't belong here. They hadn't accepted him any more than the other Autobots on Cybertron. He was always pushed to the margins, his silence his only support. They only noticed him for combat.
"Yes," he said, quietly. "New alt so I could fit in better." It's impossible to hide the bitter snort of laughter.
Re: rockin' the awkward \o/sn1perseyeJuly 15 2011, 00:00:16 UTC
Drift, Perceptor muses gratefully to himself, had not seemed to notice the rather obvious nature of Perceptor's observation. Or at least he had not made mention of it.
Perceptor, however, cannot help but notice the edge to Drift's voice, and that laughter, utterly devoid of amusement. He turns fully, taking a step toward Drift with one hand outstretched, as if to comfort. He isn't certain of his right to do so, though, and, fingers clenched, he pulls that hand back to his chest.
It is mere illusion, the ease and comfort he'd thought he'd seen in Drift's pose? For that moment, Perceptor had fancied that Drift now seemed so much more... content in his own chassis. Merely wishful thinking?
Or has Drift merely become resigned to his position amidst the Autobots, a fringe placement, if his tone is any indication.
"You have not found it? Even a fraction?" he asks softly, hating the base part of his nature that is almost grateful for Drift's disquiet and the opportunity for reconnection that it might present. He hates that he can feel even that little knife-edge of hope that balances upon Drift's pain.
brb stabbing firefoxroninknightJuly 15 2011, 01:16:44 UTC
Drift has never learned to think of the obvious as particularly snark worthy. And the other side of that coin is he's...truly awful about feigning anything. Especially under scrutiny. Especially with Perceptor. Too much between them. Perceptor was the first life he saved, his first step toward redemption. That alone made him special.
But not only that.
"I do what I can," he says, shrugging. "They've never done me the disservice of not calling me for a fight." He was a good weapon and they trusted him pointed at an enemy not to suddenly turn against them. But that, he'd learned, was a far cry from true trust.
He forces a bit of a smile. "Doesn't matter. Not here to make friends."
Perceptor frowns. He hates that the expression comes to him as easily as once he smiled, but he has found so very little to smile about for quite some time.
"The disservice. Hn." He could say the same thing, really. "You are more than a weapon, Drift."
He has already made up his mind, though; he is not leaving here without Drift. And if Drift means to remain here, then so shall Perceptor.
Drift hates that frown, too, but at least it's honest. More honest than the deliberately innocuous smile he finds himself wearing time and again, like a shield, like trying to deny he has any right to emotion, to judge.
"Not really." He shrugs. "It's the only thing I've ever done; the only thing that's gotten me anywhere." He tilts his head back to the room they'd just left. "You can do two things, at least. When peace comes...you'll have a place."
Drift needs to be where he can do some good. He can't follow if you leave for Kimia, Perceptor. That place would destroy him faster and more ruthlessly than any invention to come from it.
It's an old argument between them, and Perceptor's frown deepens. "No," he refutes firmly, adding a single, sharp shake of his head. "Mere weapons do not save."
Deny that, Drift. Deny that you have saved at least one life, and Perceptor will shove the proof of his vitality right down your stubborn intake. He closes the distance between them, jaw set in that frown that is every bit as stubborn as Drift can be as he tilts his head down to stare, optic to optic, with Drift.
"Combat is what you do, not what you are. You are more than that."
There is a tension humming through his frame, and it takes him a moment to put a name to it. Hate. He hates what the Autobots have become, what they have done to one who would give so much of himself to expiate his past, who could offer so much more than these parochial, myopic commanders allow.
"This base," he asks suddenly, trigger hand clenching at his side. "You have quarters?"
This is and old argument, and Drift knows what will happen if he tries to pursue it. And the last thing he'd do, even sunk in his own fugue, is anything that would disrespect or devalue Perceptor.
Drift shakes his head, gently. "It's all I am. All I've ever done. Even back on Cybertron, fighting--killing--is...me." He was a no one until Gasket had died and he had killed that Security Patrol. The 'wanted' broadcasts were the first time he'd ever seen his name written.
He forces a laugh, because Perceptor's tension is...painful to watch. He didn't want Perceptor unhappy. Especially to be a contributing factor. "I'll be fine. Long as we have enemies to fight."
"Yes." That twitch doesn't go unnoticed, and Drift's own hand moves forward, hesitant, stopping halfway between grasping that hand. "They're...not much."
If you did not want Perceptor to be unhappy, then why did you leave, Drift? Perceptor is not yet brave enough to ask that question, though. He is afraid of what the answer could be.
He is also getting more frustrated with Drift's continued adherence to the same tired argument. Perhaps it had been Perceptor's unwillingness to allow Drift to think so poorly of himself that had driven the swordsmech away. Long, lonely hours amidst the Wreckers had lent themselves perfectly to such rumination.
It is not Drift that Perceptor finds himself most angry with at the moment, though. It's the rest of the Autobots in the base. The ones who have done nothing to alleviate the exclusion, who have fostered the shunning.
He wants privacy. The armor of solid walls and a secured door around him, to shut out the prying optics and nosy audios of other Autobots.
some headcanon lemme know if it's not okroninknightJuly 16 2011, 14:58:30 UTC
Drift can't answer that. He would if he could, he'd do anything to try to alleviate the pain he can see so clearly on Perceptor's face. Oh, the mech wore his mask, but Drift had learned to read a thousand tiny variations of mouthplate and sound.
He feels the weight of Perceptor dropping that tired point, like a worthless, dud round, on the ground between them. Perceptor never did let him get away with much. Least of all dishonesty to himself.
And he wants to be in his quarters, too. Away from everyone, like usual, hidden away, easier to ignore; easier to ignore the fact you're being ignored. He nods. "Can be."
Re: some headcanon lemme know if it's not oksn1perseyeJuly 16 2011, 19:35:07 UTC
Drift is the only one who reads what the scientist has become; Perceptor prefers it that way. The dozens of tiny signals that his mannerisms had been muted to, a new language. Easy enough to master... for one who cared to take the effort.
Drift, the only mech who has. Verity, small, fragile little organic that she is, knows more than even Ratchet or Wheeljack, his once-friends. He has become an enigma to them, the palpable silences and restrained expression, become bricks in the wall he still erects around his spark. He'd been weak once. Open and wanting and weak. Never again.
Except for Drift. The one who had returned when even his closest comrades had long since abandoned hope.
He hates this weakness he still possesses. Wanting to be... wanted. Not merely needed, but wanted. Not for his skills, not for his abilities, but for himself. He hates that he has not yet managed to purge that part of his former self, hates that he cannot be as cold as the others see him to be.
But at least it is Drift who sees that fractured shard of the old scientist. Drift and no others. He trusts Drift, who has seen him at his weakest and not flinched away. Not... left him to rot in the darkness.
He wishes that he could somehow return that gift, but he has no light by which to lead Drift out of his own self-imposed exile. Has nothing worthwhile to share but his own damaged self.
It's all he has. But he will offer it, nonetheless. "Show me?"
Drift knows he's one of the few who can see through Perceptor's mask, and he views it as an honor. Perceptor could shut him out if he wanted--back then, even now. And he didn't. In fact, Drift saw more of the Perceptor he knew, here, in these few minutes, than he had back there, in the briefing.
Drift's buried his own weakness so deep he hopes it's unfindable, but this...is a chink, a crack down into it. He did want Perceptor, for who he was as much as what he represented, but...the war had needed him more.
And he knew there was no way to explain that--not with his lack of skill with words.
He nods, turning back to the doorway. "Follow me." He leads the way down the corridor, feeling the strange relief at the familiarity--like walking through the citadel on Cybertron, trusting, knowing Perceptor had his back.
He shrugs at the doorway to the small room. "Kind of bare. It just seemed...a waste." Why 'decorate' a place that wasn't, would never be 'home'?
Falling into those old habits again, Perceptor follows, close enough to be obvious that he is with Drift - he's never been ashamed of partnering the swordsmech, ever - but far enough back to watch Drift's back. And he is not attempting to conceal that fact from anyone. Let any of the other Autobots see him and know that he questions their security, their treatment of Drift. He doesn't care. Let them ask.
They might be surprised at just how much of Perceptor's new habitual silence he is willing to break to answer them.
But no one crosses their path, no one happens upon their progress and he finally draws up beside Drift at the door to the spartan room. It's not much different from the quarters he'd just left before being summoned here. Small, the bare necessities, nothing personal, no trinkets or mementos. He nods, striding past Drift through the door, unslinging his rifle and propping it up in the nearest corner.
"It doesn't need anything else." After all, it has Drift, and privacy.
Drift's shoulders relaxed as he felt Perceptor fall into step behind him. It felt...nice. He had forgotten--or forced himself to forget--even this small intimacy.
And the gun, inside the door. Drift thought his spark would burst at the familiarity. Strange how the weapon, the corner--the first time this place had seemed like home.
Well. Here they are. In private. Alone. And everything neither of them could say filling the air between them.
"I'm sorry. For hurting you." Drift's thumbs worried the hilts of his short blades.
It's curious how familiar this room feels to Perceptor, despite never having set foot in it before. More comfortable than any number of berthrooms he's had over the years. Kimia, with the Wreckers, on any number of disreputable little bases and stops. They've all blurred together into a homogeneous mass of bland... discomfort.
When had it been since he'd last felt himself at home? Since he'd last felt comfortable? Not just... going through the motions of life, marching from one deployment to the next, completing the assignments as quickly and efficiently as possible, never seeking anything more than that. Just speed, efficiency, and as much detachment as he could maintain.
Since before the weight of all those unspoken words between them had built into such a crushing mass.
"I'm not going back to Kimia." Xaaron won't be happy, but Perceptor has done enough to earn his choice of assignment. He's not going back there. Not now.
He turns, not even aware that he is stalking forward, his feet closing the distance to Drift, until he realizes that he's pressed himself close enough to feel the edges of Drift's EM field. The tiny servos that control the aperture of his targeting optic whirring as it dials down in tight focus on Drift's face. The flares of his helm. His optics. His cheeks. The heavy nasal ridge. His lip components.
"I'm sorry that I have not been here to guard your back," he murmurs, his hand lifting, fingers outstretched to brush against Drift's cheek. If Drift allows it.
It's possible that the room has picked up some of Drift's electromagnetic resonance. He certainly spends enough time here.
"You can. You can be of use there." He has to push Perceptor away. He doesn't want to. He wants to pull Perceptor against him, letting their EM fields flow and run together. He wants to let that speak the words he can't speak...shouldn't speak.
His optic shutters droop, feeling the keen scrutiny like a kind of caress, tipping his face upward to the taller mech.
"You've had other obligations," Drift whispers. "You should have faith that I'd can wait." He tips his face toward the black hand, that used to smell like blaster discharge, now, strangely, like chemicals.
He isn't certain which surprises him more, the realization that, ultimately, he really had wanted Drift to find him, or the quiet words that Drift drops into the silence between them.
How can he ignite the proper righteous fury now? It would have been easier if Drift had attempted to act as if this were any other chance meeting, exchanged commonplaces and empty words, rather than acknowledge that the fragile history between them had left its mark equally upon him.
Why does he even want to be angry, anyway? There had never been an explanation, no words to soothe or reason, and yet, Perceptor can see the hints of a new easiness in Drift's carriage, despite the tension of the moment. Purpose. Belonging. Perceptor had yearned for those things, himself, for so very long. He cannot begrudge Drift for having seized the opportunity for them when presented.
The Wreckers, after all, is no place for one who seeks to save lives.
He's let that silence between them stretch out uncomfortably long before he manages to utter, "I missed you as well."
"You assimilated a new alt." ...how stunningly obvious. While never as advanced as his scientific skills, his conversational skills have obviously atrophied significantly, for all that he finds himself able to more readily speak than he had those months after his rebuild. He should resume his more silent habits, before he makes an even bigger fool of himself.
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And things he'd never been good at. Such as this.
As Perceptor spoke, the words sank into Drift like stones. He wanted to hear those very words...and didn't deserve them.
If only Perceptor knew: Drift didn't belong here. They hadn't accepted him any more than the other Autobots on Cybertron. He was always pushed to the margins, his silence his only support. They only noticed him for combat.
"Yes," he said, quietly. "New alt so I could fit in better." It's impossible to hide the bitter snort of laughter.
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Perceptor, however, cannot help but notice the edge to Drift's voice, and that laughter, utterly devoid of amusement. He turns fully, taking a step toward Drift with one hand outstretched, as if to comfort. He isn't certain of his right to do so, though, and, fingers clenched, he pulls that hand back to his chest.
It is mere illusion, the ease and comfort he'd thought he'd seen in Drift's pose? For that moment, Perceptor had fancied that Drift now seemed so much more... content in his own chassis. Merely wishful thinking?
Or has Drift merely become resigned to his position amidst the Autobots, a fringe placement, if his tone is any indication.
"You have not found it? Even a fraction?" he asks softly, hating the base part of his nature that is almost grateful for Drift's disquiet and the opportunity for reconnection that it might present. He hates that he can feel even that little knife-edge of hope that balances upon Drift's pain.
Drift deserves better than that.
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But not only that.
"I do what I can," he says, shrugging. "They've never done me the disservice of not calling me for a fight." He was a good weapon and they trusted him pointed at an enemy not to suddenly turn against them. But that, he'd learned, was a far cry from true trust.
He forces a bit of a smile. "Doesn't matter. Not here to make friends."
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"The disservice. Hn." He could say the same thing, really. "You are more than a weapon, Drift."
He has already made up his mind, though; he is not leaving here without Drift. And if Drift means to remain here, then so shall Perceptor.
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"Not really." He shrugs. "It's the only thing I've ever done; the only thing that's gotten me anywhere." He tilts his head back to the room they'd just left. "You can do two things, at least. When peace comes...you'll have a place."
Drift needs to be where he can do some good. He can't follow if you leave for Kimia, Perceptor. That place would destroy him faster and more ruthlessly than any invention to come from it.
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Deny that, Drift. Deny that you have saved at least one life, and Perceptor will shove the proof of his vitality right down your stubborn intake. He closes the distance between them, jaw set in that frown that is every bit as stubborn as Drift can be as he tilts his head down to stare, optic to optic, with Drift.
"Combat is what you do, not what you are. You are more than that."
There is a tension humming through his frame, and it takes him a moment to put a name to it. Hate. He hates what the Autobots have become, what they have done to one who would give so much of himself to expiate his past, who could offer so much more than these parochial, myopic commanders allow.
"This base," he asks suddenly, trigger hand clenching at his side. "You have quarters?"
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Drift shakes his head, gently. "It's all I am. All I've ever done. Even back on Cybertron, fighting--killing--is...me." He was a no one until Gasket had died and he had killed that Security Patrol. The 'wanted' broadcasts were the first time he'd ever seen his name written.
He forces a laugh, because Perceptor's tension is...painful to watch. He didn't want Perceptor unhappy. Especially to be a contributing factor. "I'll be fine. Long as we have enemies to fight."
"Yes." That twitch doesn't go unnoticed, and Drift's own hand moves forward, hesitant, stopping halfway between grasping that hand. "They're...not much."
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He is also getting more frustrated with Drift's continued adherence to the same tired argument. Perhaps it had been Perceptor's unwillingness to allow Drift to think so poorly of himself that had driven the swordsmech away. Long, lonely hours amidst the Wreckers had lent themselves perfectly to such rumination.
It is not Drift that Perceptor finds himself most angry with at the moment, though. It's the rest of the Autobots in the base. The ones who have done nothing to alleviate the exclusion, who have fostered the shunning.
He wants privacy. The armor of solid walls and a secured door around him, to shut out the prying optics and nosy audios of other Autobots.
"Large enough for two?"
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He feels the weight of Perceptor dropping that tired point, like a worthless, dud round, on the ground between them. Perceptor never did let him get away with much. Least of all dishonesty to himself.
And he wants to be in his quarters, too. Away from everyone, like usual, hidden away, easier to ignore; easier to ignore the fact you're being ignored. He nods. "Can be."
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Drift, the only mech who has. Verity, small, fragile little organic that she is, knows more than even Ratchet or Wheeljack, his once-friends. He has become an enigma to them, the palpable silences and restrained expression, become bricks in the wall he still erects around his spark. He'd been weak once. Open and wanting and weak. Never again.
Except for Drift. The one who had returned when even his closest comrades had long since abandoned hope.
He hates this weakness he still possesses. Wanting to be... wanted. Not merely needed, but wanted. Not for his skills, not for his abilities, but for himself. He hates that he has not yet managed to purge that part of his former self, hates that he cannot be as cold as the others see him to be.
But at least it is Drift who sees that fractured shard of the old scientist. Drift and no others. He trusts Drift, who has seen him at his weakest and not flinched away. Not... left him to rot in the darkness.
He wishes that he could somehow return that gift, but he has no light by which to lead Drift out of his own self-imposed exile. Has nothing worthwhile to share but his own damaged self.
It's all he has. But he will offer it, nonetheless. "Show me?"
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Drift's buried his own weakness so deep he hopes it's unfindable, but this...is a chink, a crack down into it. He did want Perceptor, for who he was as much as what he represented, but...the war had needed him more.
And he knew there was no way to explain that--not with his lack of skill with words.
He nods, turning back to the doorway. "Follow me." He leads the way down the corridor, feeling the strange relief at the familiarity--like walking through the citadel on Cybertron, trusting, knowing Perceptor had his back.
He shrugs at the doorway to the small room. "Kind of bare. It just seemed...a waste." Why 'decorate' a place that wasn't, would never be 'home'?
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They might be surprised at just how much of Perceptor's new habitual silence he is willing to break to answer them.
But no one crosses their path, no one happens upon their progress and he finally draws up beside Drift at the door to the spartan room. It's not much different from the quarters he'd just left before being summoned here. Small, the bare necessities, nothing personal, no trinkets or mementos. He nods, striding past Drift through the door, unslinging his rifle and propping it up in the nearest corner.
"It doesn't need anything else." After all, it has Drift, and privacy.
He waits.
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And the gun, inside the door. Drift thought his spark would burst at the familiarity. Strange how the weapon, the corner--the first time this place had seemed like home.
Well. Here they are. In private. Alone. And everything neither of them could say filling the air between them.
"I'm sorry. For hurting you." Drift's thumbs worried the hilts of his short blades.
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When had it been since he'd last felt himself at home? Since he'd last felt comfortable? Not just... going through the motions of life, marching from one deployment to the next, completing the assignments as quickly and efficiently as possible, never seeking anything more than that. Just speed, efficiency, and as much detachment as he could maintain.
Since before the weight of all those unspoken words between them had built into such a crushing mass.
"I'm not going back to Kimia." Xaaron won't be happy, but Perceptor has done enough to earn his choice of assignment. He's not going back there. Not now.
He turns, not even aware that he is stalking forward, his feet closing the distance to Drift, until he realizes that he's pressed himself close enough to feel the edges of Drift's EM field. The tiny servos that control the aperture of his targeting optic whirring as it dials down in tight focus on Drift's face. The flares of his helm. His optics. His cheeks. The heavy nasal ridge. His lip components.
"I'm sorry that I have not been here to guard your back," he murmurs, his hand lifting, fingers outstretched to brush against Drift's cheek. If Drift allows it.
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"You can. You can be of use there." He has to push Perceptor away. He doesn't want to. He wants to pull Perceptor against him, letting their EM fields flow and run together. He wants to let that speak the words he can't speak...shouldn't speak.
His optic shutters droop, feeling the keen scrutiny like a kind of caress, tipping his face upward to the taller mech.
"You've had other obligations," Drift whispers. "You should have faith that I'd can wait." He tips his face toward the black hand, that used to smell like blaster discharge, now, strangely, like chemicals.
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