He really should have been more specific. And not changed his flight plan at the last minute. But well... he'd been out there and then...
Then he'd learned his lesson the hard way. Doing such things alone on Theophany was different. He knew the terrain and the inhabitants. This place was a different story.
Wing often preaches compromise, so when Drift finds a way to keep the embrace and still tend to his flight panels it's pure perfection. He leans idly against the swordmech's chestplate, his helm tucked in the space between shoulder pauldron and neck. His engines hum gently, content, and thankfully sounding in better condition than his joints. He spreads the wing span slowly, opening the joints, letting Drift work the oil in.
"I don't like to think they wouldn't know of such things..." His voice is soft, spoken against Drift's collar plate. "But I like them withholding it even less."
Wing's gained and lost so much in the past...year, nearly, this is one thing he cannot stand to be without. Drift is his rock, his foundation here. The tether that keeps him from blowing too far off course. The home port that allows him to extend out, explore and take on so many new challenges because he always has this support to come back to. Drift is his safe haven. Not this place, with its temples and buildings and people. Drift is the one thing he can't be without.
The horrifically real--and recently very prevalent--fact that Wing could turn around one day and simply find Drift gone, it leaves him cold and fearful. It's hard for him not to cling to tightly, but he tries. "Will you stay with me, tonight? ...and the next night? And the next?" And just, never, ever leave?
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Then he'd learned his lesson the hard way. Doing such things alone on Theophany was different. He knew the terrain and the inhabitants. This place was a different story.
Wing often preaches compromise, so when Drift finds a way to keep the embrace and still tend to his flight panels it's pure perfection. He leans idly against the swordmech's chestplate, his helm tucked in the space between shoulder pauldron and neck. His engines hum gently, content, and thankfully sounding in better condition than his joints. He spreads the wing span slowly, opening the joints, letting Drift work the oil in.
"I don't like to think they wouldn't know of such things..." His voice is soft, spoken against Drift's collar plate. "But I like them withholding it even less."
Wing's gained and lost so much in the past...year, nearly, this is one thing he cannot stand to be without. Drift is his rock, his foundation here. The tether that keeps him from blowing too far off course. The home port that allows him to extend out, explore and take on so many new challenges because he always has this support to come back to. Drift is his safe haven. Not this place, with its temples and buildings and people. Drift is the one thing he can't be without.
The horrifically real--and recently very prevalent--fact that Wing could turn around one day and simply find Drift gone, it leaves him cold and fearful. It's hard for him not to cling to tightly, but he tries. "Will you stay with me, tonight? ...and the next night? And the next?" And just, never, ever leave?