To Reconcile

[heliopauseentertainments]

For megadriftweek 2021 on Tumblr.

Prompt Day 5: Bittersweet / Tender

 

Continuity: IDW1

Rating: Teen

Relationship: Megatron/Drift  | Deadlock

Characters: Megatron, Drift | Deadlock

Summary: In which Megatron interrupts Drift's sparring practice.

Crossposting: Tumblr | AO3

Fic under cut.

This new universe, where death no longer hung over Megatron's head and reminded him of borrowed time at every turn, had been a gift. Now he had all the time he could have ever wanted. However, chasing ghosts of the past for closure was probably not what most mechs would do with this boon.

In their home universe, he imagined that he would simply wait in his cell for the inevitable and take the words with him into whatever oblivion would come next. Now? With a new, more welcome unknown awaiting him, Megatron had a chance to say something he'd kept to himself all these years.

That still meant actually doing it, following through with his intentions.

Megatron tapped the access panel on the door in front of him. The panel flashed green with a cheerful beep as the door to one of the sparring rooms slid open. There was a chance that he had chosen the wrong sparring room. However, given that it was the one records indicated Drift used the most frequently during his downtime, the odds of a mistake were low.

His guess was correct. The noisy static of a practice blade colliding with and passing through a holomatter dummy filled the room. Drift swung high, leaving himself open if the avatar had been instructions beyond standing still. This looked less like practice and more like self-indulgence. Normally, these dummies tended to look like generic medium-sized Cybertronians with indistinct kibble unless programmed otherwise. This one had the misfortune of bearing a strong resemblance to Turmoil, large and broad with dark, heavy plating.

Megatron, willing to be patient this once, waited just inside the doorway. About half a minute of presumably gratifying blows later, Drift froze when his optics finally caught sight of the captain. The speedster’s arm was still in the air, part way through what would have been a decapitating swing had the interruption not broken the arc. Drift’s blue optics went wide with embarrassment.

Blue. For so long, when they belonged to Deadlock, they had been red, a burning scarlet, and now instead… they reminded Megatron of the sky on a clear day.

“Have I interrupted you?” he asked, a mockery of an innocent look on his face. He knew very well that he had, in fact, disrupted Drift’s “training.”

“Looking for Rodimus? I think he’s in the medical bay getting his ankle looked at.” Ah, yes, of course, after that botched somersault earlier that morning. Of course it had taken Rodimus all day to go have it looked at. He hadn’t even let Megatron perform basic first aid on the injury. No matter, that wasn’t what the captain had come here for anyway and his foolish friend was getting assistance.

“No, as a matter of fact, that is not the purpose of my visit.”

Drift went silent, lowering both his guard and the practice blade he’d been using to assault the holomatter dummy. Turning away, he pointedly dropped his cerulean gaze to the floor.

Megatron glanced from Drift’s evasive posture to the homonculus of Turmoil that had been on the receiving end of Drift’s earlier venting. An idea percolated its way through his mind.

Calmly, he walked to the wall panel that controlled the practice dummy. There were options for AI programming for more realistic training, adjusting the appearance of the opponent for practice against different frame-types, how many copies of enemies and where in the room to place them, and so on. These sparring rooms were equipped with all manner of options. However, Megatron only needed one. He pressed the button powering the entire software suite down.

“Turmoil” vanished with a soft buzzing noise. By the time Drift turned to see what happened, Megatron was standing where Turmoil had been. He held his right arm up in a guard with his left pulled back and low, ready. Both palms were open. An unspoken request to be the holomatter dummy’s replacement.

Drift’s optics narrowed at him, suspicious. Megatron had no idea what it was like to be sensitive to electromagentic fields, but he did know when Drift was struggling to interpret someone’s intentions through one. As Deadlock, he had often complained to him, in private, when someone’s field—“aura” he’d called them back then—was opaque, unreadable to him.

“You’re unarmed.”

“Yes.” As far as carrying a separate weapon was concerned anyway. That didn’t mean he was divested of his skills. Besides, besting Drift in combat was not his goal, so much as the match would be a vehicle for communication. “I’m ready.”

“I know.”

That was all the consent either of them needed to begin.

The blunt sword whipped up and across Megatron’s front in a tight arc, the air whistling as it just missed his plating. A warning that Drift had not gone soft in his time with the Autobots, even if he had changed his preferred tool from blaster to blade. Winning would not be easy, but, luckily, for once Megatron didn’t want to “win.”

They separated briefly before Drift continued his assault, seemingly determined to be on the offensive.

That was fine. That was what he wanted. All according to plan. Drift spun and slashed while Megatron stepped away or leaned out of reach. If the “blade” made contact with a vital location, he would lose.

This “match” wouldn’t take long. There was no malice in it, unlike Drift’s “practice” against “Turmoil.” All he needed was the right opening. If Megatron remained on defense, if he edged inside the blade’s reach, the opportunity would present itself. Normally, one wanted to stay outside of a weapon’s blood circle, but if he got inside, the weapon would become difficult to wield effectively.

That opportunity came when the blade swung upward and Megatron sidestepped outside of the arc. The swing of the blunted practice blade was turned aside with a nudge from his forearm, breaking the illusion of danger.

“I thought about you every day.”

Every day since Deadlock became Drift once more, Megatron’s thoughts had lingered on the mech that had steadfastly stood by his side through the war until one day it was too much. The thoughts only grew in power since he was placed on the Lost Light, finding out that not only had Drift been on this ship but that he’d purchased it. The entire ship was a memento of his presence, even if he’d disappeared before Megatron had ever stepped foot on board.

It had been hard to suppress his anger at Rodimus for banishing Drift. Rodimus wouldn’t have understood nor would it have solved anything, a lesson he’d finally learned. Worse, if he’d spoken up, Megatron would have revealed a number of things that clearly Drift had meant to conceal. In a rare move, he had opted to respect that decision. It had been instrumental in letting that anger go, especially in conjunction with Rodimus’ obvious regret about what had happened.

“Every single day, Drift.” He slid his palm down the flat of the blade to the hilt, carefully closing his fingers over Drift’s hand.

Optics meeting, they both froze. An uncomfortable, heavy silence stretched out between them for several, seemingly endless seconds before Drift finally spoke.

“Did you?”

His spark sunk in his chest. Megatron hadn’t expected a positive response. He didn’t deserve one, but he still wanted to at least address it before—The sword fell away, Drift having decided to drop it. The blunt instrument clattered to the floor, forgotten and unnecessary.

The guard was no longer in the way of a comfortable grip on the smaller mech’s hand. He brought up his other hand to join the first, enveloping Drift’s fingers between his palms.

“Incessantly.”

Even when he’d been in the midst of battle against Autobots. Even in his nonconscious, fragmented coma dreams. Even stalking the halls of a base full of unfortunate, desperate mechs so starved they had turned to cannibalism. Even when he’d been trapped, frozen in place in Wheeljack’s machine.

Megatron had wondered about Drift. Where he was. How he was. If he was alive. If they would ever meet again. If he was lost to Megatron forever. He had remembered the sound of the assassin’s voice in quiet moments. He had remembered the works of written art they’d created together. He had remembered the touch of a familiar frame, warm and close.

All to the point of distraction.

He had started making mistakes and doubting. Everything had gone downhill in a blaze of failure.

“And,” he started, taking a moment to ventilate deeply before he forced a heavy phrase from his vocalizer. It was his fault that Drift had become Deadlock, that Deadlock had all-too-readily committed atrocities in his name, that they’d flouted the chain of command, that Deadlock broke apart to rebuilt into Drift again. “I’m sor—“

Drift’s hand escaped his grasp before reappearing around his back, joined by its twin as Drift embraced him.

“When you stopped believing in me, I stopped believing in myself and—“

“You’re ruining the moment. This isn’t a poetry reading.”

“So it isn’t….”

“Save it for later.”

Oh.