wow that's really ...better than canon! roninknightJuly 13 2011, 23:38:49 UTC
It had been too long. And Drift had found himself wanting to contact Perceptor, wanting to explain why he'd chosen Earth instead of staying with the Wreckers. But every time he'd called up the long range comm, every time he was alone in the comm booth...the words had failed him. Everything seemed cheap, easy, a flimsy rationalization.
How could he tell Perceptor the truth when even he wasn't sure what it was?
And watching Perceptor here...he began to wonder how much he knew of the mech. He'd never really seen Perceptor given over to science like this, and, despite the fact that he had no slagging right he felt a stab of envy. For science. A thing.
Perceptor was avoiding him. Probably trying to make it easier: always the sniper's way, move from a distance. But it wasn't easy with this...mass growing between them.
He follows after the taller mech, but not too far. Enough to stand, silhouetted in the doorway. "Perceptor." It's not much of a start.
well, it's Ongoing, so that isn't saying much. ;Psn1perseyeJuly 14 2011, 00:19:40 UTC
Well. So much for that attempt. It was too much to hope that he could have managed to avoid Drift throughout his entire stay, but Perceptor had hoped to forestall this meeting at least a little while longer. Until he could sort himself out, his roles and responsibilities.
Until he could better determine, more readily believe who he even was any longer. Sniper? Scientist? Neither? Both?
He hates himself for the little frission of... of want and relief that flickers through his systems at hearing those three syllables. He doesn't want to want, wishes he could eradicate the weakness of it from himself and ignore the summons. It's a weapon to be used against him, just as Turmoil had used his verbosity against him, and he imagines that this will hurt every bit as much as that near-fatal shot had
( ... )
ohgod he got schmoopy i'm so sorry roninknightJuly 14 2011, 00:29:58 UTC
Avoid Drift? Like that would even be possible. If Drift could fight his way through the Swarm there's no way he'd be outsmarted in the corridors of the Autobot base.
His mouth quirks into a rusty, lopsided grin. "World's longest conversation if we keep it this rate." Even so, the voice was so achingly familiar, the mannerisms known to him. He knew this Perceptor.
And then the cocky grin crumbles, because he has no idea what to say next. "I.... I missed you ."
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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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 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.
How could he tell Perceptor the truth when even he wasn't sure what it was?
And watching Perceptor here...he began to wonder how much he knew of the mech. He'd never really seen Perceptor given over to science like this, and, despite the fact that he had no slagging right he felt a stab of envy. For science. A thing.
Perceptor was avoiding him. Probably trying to make it easier: always the sniper's way, move from a distance. But it wasn't easy with this...mass growing between them.
He follows after the taller mech, but not too far. Enough to stand, silhouetted in the doorway. "Perceptor." It's not much of a start.
Reply
Until he could better determine, more readily believe who he even was any longer. Sniper? Scientist? Neither? Both?
He hates himself for the little frission of... of want and relief that flickers through his systems at hearing those three syllables. He doesn't want to want, wishes he could eradicate the weakness of it from himself and ignore the summons. It's a weapon to be used against him, just as Turmoil had used his verbosity against him, and he imagines that this will hurt every bit as much as that near-fatal shot had ( ... )
Reply
His mouth quirks into a rusty, lopsided grin. "World's longest conversation if we keep it this rate." Even so, the voice was so achingly familiar, the mannerisms known to him. He knew this Perceptor.
And then the cocky grin crumbles, because he has no idea what to say next. "I.... I missed you ."
Reply
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 ( ... )
Reply
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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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.
Reply
"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.
Reply
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?"
Reply
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'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'?
Reply
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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