re_alignment_logs | [Semi-Closed] Shine Your Light On Me

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[Semi-Closed] Shine Your Light On Me

WHO: Wing, possibly others: see notes below
WHERE: The Brave Police Headquarters
WHEN: A 1-2 week period, starting near the end of the pages event. Following this which follows this.
WHAT: After stalking Vandal and Drift in the Junk Pile, Wing wrests control back from his evil self and insists on being confined. He's been holed up in a holding cell in the Brave Police headquarters ever since. Even after returning to normal he insists on staying, and is there at least a week, refusing visitors (with only a few exceptions) and limiting Link activity.
WARNINGS: Dark, depressing things? Very mild references to implied/potential mental and physical abuse, dubcon/noncon, murder and other violence.
NOTES: This is mostly a narrative since Wing states he's accepting no visitors except Drift, though he can be convinced to see Ratchet and Blurr, and any of the Brave Police members can attempt to converse since it's their headquarters, (someone needs to make sure he refuels. D:). ;) If you want to find a way to tag into this though, just ask.

Feel free to tag on a specific day or anywhere in between, but give me an idea which since his mental state varies. ;)

Soundtrack: 1 (all mood, less lyric), 2, 3.

Day 1

He huddles, shed of weapons, in a cell of his own choosing. Tall flood lights stand outside the metal bars, creating endless artificial day. The light is harsh, but he welcomes it, because he feels undeserving of gentle things right now. He's curled in the corner, his helm in his hands, shaking with uncontrolled horror and revulsion at the storm of memories that swirl through his mind.

When it's late and the building is quiet, and he assumes--hopes--that there's no one around to be bothered, that's when he keens his distress. High and dissonant, it sounds like suffering, a sound he'd wish upon no one. But he must, it's a purging, because if he does not it'll only sour and poison him.

It's not that he hasn't seen darkness before. But now, it feels like it's in him. And though he's always known that all individuals have a little bit of darkness in them--are potentially capable of immoral things--being faced with his own living persona of that very thing in all its extremity...is beyond disturbing. It shook him to the core and he felt toppled, his grip loosed and his center lost.

Remorse? He has plenty over what he'd done. But beyond that, horror over what he knew he'd been capable of. What he wanted to do. Each time he came back to himself after an episode he remembered more and more. And the thoughts, the memories, wormed around within his mind close enough that they felt like they were his own.

The gleeful fantasies of Prism's murder... Fraternization with Overlord... Eagerly corrupting Kagerou... Taking advantage of and taming Blurr... The easy way he labeled Vandal expendable in the face of his torrid obsession with Drift, and the very things that obsession would have led him to do had Drift been himself...

Each is like a demon he has to face, not only because they haunt him, but because he knows it's the only way to be free.

Day 3

He sits near the window, staring through the bars at the falling snow, his communicator nearby. Wing's never seen snow before. He wishes he could be out in it, but right now, that would be a hollow, temporary joy. It's happenstance, running across Alpha Trion's message, given how little he'd used the Link in the last few days.

So now he knows the how of it all, which even for its frustratingly simple source, was still a comfort. McCrane had been good enough to field Wing's request to fetch his page and return it to the First Forged. (Wing was beyond being embarrassed by its contents now, all things considered.) The page returned, he's physically himself again at least, but the pall of darkness remains, like a shroud that's just been temporarily pulled aside.

Much later he feels the oppressive gloom finally lift, and when he asks for his Great Sword, he then knows it's true. The weapon's resonance feels pure and clean now, not laced with agitation and foreboding.

He's been told he can go, yet he stays. Wing needs his center, his Self, to be stable and ready, before he can put any kind of true strength behind an apology. And so he sits curled around his Great Sword, the gem warm in one palm as it presses against his cheek, his other thumb tracing the glyphs in the blade's fuller. This alone is some comfort, knowing the blade hasn't rejected him. This, at least, he hasn't broken or frightened away.

He still quakes with emotion sometimes, but it's no longer crippling. Each of the demons he faces, he pulls their ugliness into the light, and though he then knows them fully for what they are, they are diminished in the face of their own truths. He slowly takes each, recognizes it for what it is, tries to accept and then puts it its place. Because it's all a part of him now--that can never change--but to let these things flow freely through him, unmanaged, could corrupt in time, seeping into his foundations.

Day 6 - ??

He kneels, the Great Sword standing against the wall before him. His spinal struts are straight and tall, shoulders back, his helm bowed. Not even his pinions move as his cooling system passes slow, steady breathes through his vents.

The flood lights are now off, for he shall remain here, like this, until he fears the dark no more. Because despite all that we fail to be, all the mistakes we make and the regrets we have, in the end what matters is how we exercise the good in ourselves to make things right.

Wing is not certain he feels worthy to be with people yet, but he knows that when put in perspective what he feels and what is true are two different things. And that in itself leads to a revelation on many other levels, but especially when it comes to a very special person in his life. Now that he's climbed from the pit and stands at the edge, in a way he's thankful for this, the experience, because it brings him perspective he did not have before. He's not certain what to do with all these various other bits of new insight, but time will hopefully tell. And as horrible as Drift's experience as a human girl had likely been, Wing is thankful for that too, being well aware that it spared the one he cares for most from some of his dark counterpart's more dreadful and depraved intentions.

Healing is something that requires time, more so for the mind and spirit than the body. And though Wing still has much of it to do, and many amends to make, the stregnth to do so is gathering in him now. It's illuminated by hope and love and the simple desire to do better.

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He's seated in the corner, huddled around the sword as his only source of comfort, shivering silently. Familiar footsteps break through his reverie and for a moment he thinks he's imagining it. It's not until the light beyond the bars shifts and he hears Drift's voice that he understands it's real.

Wing looks up, his optics pale, though if it's from lack of recharge, fuel or something else is hard to tell. But when they alight on Drift the jet's face transforms, the flutterings of weak winged joy spreading over his face, weary from struggle but not less there. In that bright moment he wants nothing more than to leap up, wrap his arms around Drift and sob into the other mech's shoulder. His body twitches impulsively, ready to do so--but... no, he's not certain if such a thing is welcome. How could it be, after all he'd done?

He tries to compose himself, and though Wing is not capable of his usual poise he manages a calm sort of deference with quiet words to match.

"I...wasn't sure you'd come. If--if you'd want to see me." His head bows. As much as he yearns to it's difficult to meet Drift's eyes, to see signs of the weight and pain he carries, knowing the source. "...but I wanted you to know where I was. At least. Now that it's...over."

Or just beginning, as it is.

Wing. Behind bars. It was something he couldn't believe, even as he was seeing it. And it hurt more than he could imagine, also. Wing, behind bars, because of Blurr's....stupid idea. The blue mech had meant no harm, and of course he hadn't made it happen, but still. It was one of the big 'if onlies' that would have prevented this whole thing.

He wasn't angry at Blurr. But he was angry. And standing here, he couldn't be angry at Wing. After all, who was he to hold anything against anyone else, with his past?

"_{You knew I'd come}." It's almost a rebuke. That part of Drift, at least, hasn't changed, won't change, that he could refuse Wing. And that's the danger, because even after watching Wing on the link, seeing him slick with innuendo and hostile in turns, he still couldn't.

He cycles a sigh. "You don't belong here."

Wing closes his eyes at those quiet words, because as much as he knows there are plenty of reasons for the other mech to be repulsed, Wing can't refute Drift's point because he realizes now how true it is. His darker self had known, counted on that very thing in fact. It makes him shudder now to think of it. All he'd ever wanted was to make Drift realize he had a choice. The idea of taking that from him...

"I..." He never wanted power over another. And as much as it's a power he'd like to give up, he knows it's not his choice. But it is his responsibility. "You don't have to stay--if you don't want to." He almost blurts it out, before he loses the courage to say the words.

"It's not locked..." It's a response with a hidden invitation, because Wing doesn't want to force Drift past the safety of the bars. He looks down again, "I...can't face them yet."

Drift cycles a long, slow vent of air, the sigh rattling through him, as he reaches one hand around one of the bars. "I'm not leaving."

Part of him wants to, because the sight of Wing in so much pain is something he doesn't want to see. But that's cowardice, to want to turn away from suffering and it doesn't make it not happen. He knows better.

"Wing." It's a plea and a prayer that he could do more than just talk to take the hurt away. He drops to the floor, hand still curled around the prison bar. "I know. Believe me. Every day I see some Autobot who remembers me, from before. Every day I've been doubted, questioned, either silently or out loud. Sometimes to my face. Because of what I did, who I was."

He stares at his hand, curled around the metal bar for a moment as though it was a symbol, but he had no idea what it was a symbol of.

"It's not easy. But the longer you wait, the worse it gets. Like a weld, building up and hardening."

There's gratitude in Wing at the thought the Drift would stay, and it shows on his face. He feels fragile, held together by skeins of hope and faith, to the point that one too shaky breath could make it all tumble loose. But knowing that he hasn't driven off this mech who is so important to him is a huge blessing, and he holds it to him like a blanket of security.

Wing listens, his cheek pressed against one knee stabilizer, dark fingers wrapped around his shinguards. He'd imagined that it'd been difficult for Drift. But really he couldn't even know the extent of it, wouldn't have, if not for this.

"I've always had great respect for you for that, you know. I just...never truly realized what it might be like." And in a way his own week's worth of amorality seemed to pale when placed next to the centuries worth that weighed down Drift's past.

And then it strikes him as a profound irony, that what Drift describes is the very thing Wing wanted to change with his page. A chuff of air escapes him and he shakes his helm slightly in disbelief.

"No..._{it's definately not.} But. What do I have to offer them right now? Except regret so profound it's crippling?"

"Wing, whatever you did, I've done worse." He hates that he's so certain of it, but he knows it as truth. "Before I found you," not the best turn of phrase at the time, but in retrospect, it had been a finding, "I shot a mech in the head because he disagreed with me."

He's pretty sure you can't top that.

"You don't do anyone any good living in regret, Wing. But maybe, for a moment, just forget about them. What do you need. For yourself?"

He thinks about the night of Wing's death, his first alone, wandering through Theophany, and the burning need he had to fulfill the halfhearted promise he'd made Wing when they'd met: to free the slaves. It had given him purpose and something to do. It had helped others, yes, but it had filled the burning emptiness within him.

He knows it's true but it's hard not to grimace at the details.

"You're right. I'm--surprised I managed not to seriously hurt anyone. _{Though not for lack of trying.}" He cycles a deep breath. "What bothers me almost as much is...all the things I thought about doing. Terrible things I was capable of, would have done if given the chance..." He squirms uncomfortably, looking vaguely ill. It's a small wonder he'd skipped refueling of late.

He scoots closer to the door, out of the shelter of his corner.

What does Wing need? You.

But he doesn't feel right in asking, nor worthy of it. And perhaps worse is not the fear of rejection, but of acquiescence out of obligation.

"I...want to make it right. To repair the damage done. To repay what's been lost." His eyes close for a moment, "I want to look people in the eye again, especially people I care about, and not have horrible thoughts of what I might have done to them."

"I'm not." A faint echo of a smile. "I think you were fighting it, somehow, at least the worst of it."

His shoulders shift. "They weren't your thoughts, though, Wing. They were something else's, things you wouldn't normally think." There's a slight furrow to his brow, wanting reassurance.

It probably looks childish, but he scoots forward on the floor, the bars hard against knee. He hesitates, and then reaches through the bars, extending his hand. He's willing for the hand to go untouched; he just wants Wing to know the offer was there.

"You don't have to tell me," he says, softly. "But if you want to...."

"I think Vandal mostly wants to hear from you, that you're all right. If you want to repair that." It's not much, but it's a start.

A thread of reassurance weaves through Wing at the notion of Drift's faith in him. "I think...I had some influence, because of the sword. But it was like being in a dream I couldn't control."

He vents hard, rubbing both hands over his face as if he could wipe it all away, his distress clear. "I know, I... It was like it--he--took everything I cared about and...corrupted it." He shakes his head, his pinions slicked flat as he seems to draw into himself. "I would never--not...like that."

Childish or not, Wing doesn't care. The extension of that open hand is far more than he could ask for now, and he moves forward to grasp it with both of his own, bowing his helm to press his lips against the dark gray fingers. His eyes squint shut and he takes in a breath that comes out a sob. After several more long cycles of air Wing looks up, his mouth twitching in a sheepish almost-smile.

He shakes his head at Drift's offer: it's a kneejerk reaction. But... Would telling someone actually help? Get these thoughts out of his head if he could confess them? He lets out a sigh and his body goes slack. "I don't know Drift. I...wouldn't wish this knowledge on anyone..."

He cringes slightly at the mention of Vandal. "I do. Solomus I do! Vandal doesn't need that kind of treatment. Nor you or anyone else. I just..._{I just hope I can fix it all.}"

Part of Drift wants to be angry, still shaken, at least, by what he'd seen of Wing. But he can't. Because Wing is being polite and apologetic over things that he hadn't wanted to even do.

It was frustrating: Drift had fought anger before, and normally, it had a channel; somewhere to go, someone to direct it against. But he couldn't here.

"_{it wasn't you}," he whispered to Wing's bent helm, reaching with his other hand to stroke over the elegant scallops of the audial flares.

"I've thought worse." A simple statement of fact. He's not one to judge, really. "Worse, I didn't regret any of it." Not until far, far too late.

"Wing." He gives a wry sort of snort. In a way, it's almost silly, how Wing's wondering how he can make up for a week, when Drift is under the burden of millenia. But then again, maybe Wing's right, and a week's enough to ruin anything. In which case....there really is no hope for Drift. He shoves that aside, almost with force, his mouth pressing into a resistant line before softening.

"I know she wouldn't want to see you punishing yourself."

Sometimes the unintentional hurts are the worst, because they come with the most remorse. Wing needs to start somewhere, and he knows this is where it should be. His voice grows even softer. "Drift, I'm sorry for what...he put you through. I would never treat you like that. I've only ever wanted you to have choice, a better life, but on your terms. He...treated you like a possession, wanted to control you. I could never do that." It troubles him, because his dark counterpart hadn't hated Drift, he'd instead had some strange twisted and malign version of Wing's love.

His pinions are slicked low, the jet's posture submissive. Wing lets out a small muffled noise at the touches to his helm, drawing some comfort from them. And even though the words are repetitive they still provide support, a shield against the thoughts in his head. He passes a thumb over Drifts knuckles, giving the hand a squeeze before releasing it.

Wing isn't certain that Drift's thought worse, but then his perspective on what's worse is skewed, given that he's led a relatively sheltered life by comparison. But comparisons aren't something he wants to draw. He just wants them to both focus on the future being better, instead of how the past was worse.

Still, knowing there's some understanding instead of condemnation is a comfort.

"I hope, no--I know, you're right. She wouldn't. ....I'm sorry, I should be stronger. And I will be. It's just, all of this. It's ruined my center. I'm trying to find it again but..." he cycles a heavy sigh. "Losing complete control of oneself like that... I still wonder if there are things I--he--did that I don't even remember."

Edited 2012-09-25 14:48 (UTC)

Drift gives a wry smile, almost glad that his face is hidden from Wing's. Because Wing is trying, but he still--for all his goodness--doesn't understand. At least what it looks like from his side. Because it was a possession, an ownership. And Drift knows that if he'd not been changed, he would have gone to Wing, willingly, and let...whatever Wing wanted happen.

And he wouldn't have had the excuse for a page.

But that's his problem, his burden, and Wing doesn't need that weight on him right now, as fragile as he seemed.

"Don't worry about it." It's the closest he can ride that line between comfort and truth.

He cycles a long, rattling vent of air. This isn't helping. He's not doing enough. He pulls his hands back from Wing, the touches lingering and slow, before pushing to his feet. "You said it's unlocked." He's asking for verification, not about the lock, but that Wing would let him come in. He doesn't think he can do much better in there than out here, but he can try.

It's something Wing will try and put out of his mind, the what-ifs of that time, but the subject itself is one that he'll always have more awareness of now. It's a blessing, a way to grow a little in the midst of all this.

Wing's spark tightens as Drift pulls away and stands, his face falling in momentary fear that the other mech is making ready to leave... but he recovers in a flash when Drift asks about the door. "I--Yes!" He brightens, scrambling a bit to stand and push the door unlatched, then moving back, wavering slightly on stiff joints.

Wing can't help but remember Drift's words on the Link; the finality of them carries an ache, one that he hopes he can soothe. And he takes this as some hope, that Drift is willing to be here, with him.

He slips in the door, for a reason he can't even figure, he turns and pushes the door to. Maybe to buy himself another moment of time as he steps in, feeling the ragged, erratic brush of Wing's EM field against him.

He turns, looking Wing for one long, awkward moment, and then steps forward, wrapping his arms around the jet. All that mattered now was getting Wing to forgive himself. He can't think of words to say so he hopes his embrace is enough.

Wing shifts awkwardly under Drift's gaze, holding himself back for all that he wants to reach out. Because it's like a symbol, Drift coming to him, a small but powerful thing.

And then he folds gratefully into Drift's embrace, and it's like a dam breaking open. Uncertainty, anxiety and regret loosening and breaking free. He shudders as he ex-vents, his limbs and spinal struts slackening as tension bleeds out of him. And even though it's not possible to erase what's happened, all of it suddenly feels lighter and easier to manage. Because if this could be forgiven, couldn't the rest?

Drift is so bad at this. That's all he can think, how he knows there has to be some right word to say, something that can take the pain away. He's seen what words can do: he remembers Megatron's speeches, and how they swayed the sparks of thousands. He's seen Rodimus take the words he wrote for him, half-cobbled from those old memories, and ignite hope and confidence. Words are powerful, more powerful than weapons.

And he has none right now. He can only stand, holding the trembling jet against him, all too aware of how unsuited he is for this.

Drift strokes a hand over the folded wingpanels, crooning softly. "Please stop hurting." It's childish, stupid and it probably makes no sense. But it's what his spark is saying, slow and ponderous and clumsy. Please. Don't hurt anymore.

Wing stands in the circle of Drift's arms, suddenly realizing how much he'd wanted something as simple as this over the last two weeks. All of the stress, the worry and concern over the strange events, his odd nightmares and then getting lost in them...

Air catches in his vents at the Drift's plee, raw and boldfaced but beautifully honest, just like the mech who spoke them. The jet's arms curl around Drift's chassis to press his palms flat to the back plating, hugging him tighter. _{"I will..."}

Wing's field softens, smoothing against Drift's. His quivering slows to a stop and he simply stands, enveloped, his face tucked against Drift's neck. Long moments pass while Wing is content to just breath him in, fingers idly tracing over the lines of plating that make up Drift's back. Each moment solidifying the Drift is real, familiar and expected, normal even, for which Wing is thankful.

"This. This is what I need." He'd not said it before, he'd wanted it given freely, he wanted to feel worthy of it. "I was...afraid. That I'd lose you over this."

It's one of those moments when Drift would be content with the world ending: Wing in his arms, soft and comforted. Like he's finally, finally done something good and right.

"No one got hurt by you, Wing. No one." Except Drift, but that hurt wasn't what he meant and that didn't matter.

Wing slowly cycles a sigh, one that for the first time this week is heavier with relief and contentment than anything else. He still had the others to face, but that hurdle did not seem so high anymore. But that's not what he wants to think about now, because this moment is near perfect. It's missing but one thing.

"Drift... I remember what you said before, on the Link." There's a thread of regret in Wing's voice but hope in his smile as he lifts his head to look Drift searchingly in the face. "I hope I can make it up to you. It's important to me," he reaches up to touch Drift's face, the shine in his golden optics growing stronger, "Because I love you."

"I... didn't say if before because I was afraid you wouldn't accept it. It used to frustrate me a little, because I only wanted to show you how worthy you truly are. But I understand now. And I need you to know it, that I do love you, and that love is yours to do with as you please."

"You remember that." Oh... Oh. "You, uh, don't have to make up for anything. It's always been me, my problem."

One of those problems being his inability to speak articulately in emotionally intense situations. And Wing saying that pretty much was about a million on the emotional situation richter scale.

So his arms tighten around Wing, this time almost grabbing for balance, because everything seems oh...just slightly unreal. "Wing...^I..." you know what? Frag words. He pulls Wing into a kiss, not a nice shy, sweet one, but one that's insistent and sure.

A startled sound is muffled and lost between the meeting of their lips, Wing's surprise swiftly turning to joy.

And so they stand, supported by each other in the waning day's light as it stretches in through cell's only window. Wing's arm is thrown around Drift's neck while the other cradles his chassis, the jet's mouth soft and loving but with insistence to match. A gift given, received and given in kind.

It's both affirmation and celebration, because even without the words there's a message in Drift's motions and the warm fuzz of his field. Another sound escapes Wing, this time a gusting note of happiness so pure it can't be captured in speech.

Drift lets himself fall into the moment, not worrying about the future, or the past. Just here, now, with Wing, and feeling the jet's relief palpable against him.

He hates to break the kiss, or the embrace, so he strokes his hands down over the wings, hoping the gesture tells Wing what he wants: That Wing should be happy.

If he could choose singular happy moments to collect and keep forever, he'd be hard pressed to leave this one out. It's a keen contrast to the angst from earlier, but that's what makes it so precious. That and the ardent pulse of Wing's spark in his chest, making gradual waves through his field. The flight panels shift against Drift's hands: it's encouragement and a thank you all in one, as is the soft sigh that eases from his vents.

Wing flirts with deepening the kiss and with letting his hands travel more freely over Drift's frame. It feels both the most and the least appropriate thing to be doing here and now. On one side it's the least likely time and place for an intimate encounter, but with warmth welling so freely from his spark, time and place seem to be entirely secondary to the moment. It's not that he feels the need to prove his love, only that now it's been released, into the open, it wants to take its new found freedom and run wild with it.

Drift isn't thinking any lascivious thoughts. For once. Not that he's against the idea, but everything feels too fragile and new right now, and the wingpanels rustling under his hands are just comforting contact that it's Wing, real and whole and here. Anything else just feels like selfishness.

"_{I was so afraid I'd lost you,}" he murmurs against one of Wing's shoulder nacelles.

Wing hears the truth in it and it tugs at his spark. "_{...I felt lost.}" It's impossible not to pull Drift a little tighter into the embrace, to let his fingers grasp a little harder, as if tiny actions such as these could be warding talismans against anything that would tear them apart.

The plating over his cheek slides against Drift's, his mouth pressing against the side of the white helm. "_{But in the end you found me.}"

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sword_redemption - 2012-10-08 01:59 (UTC) - Expand

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winged_knight - 2012-10-09 05:09 (UTC) - Expand

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[Semi-Closed] Shine Your Light On Me

Okay!

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i'm sorry for the delay last few days have been rough ;-;

I know, no worries hon! ~<3

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