[IDW] Lost and Lonely Space 08/12
Dec. 17th, 2018 06:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Commission fic for Cosmicdanger!
Title: Lost and Lonely Space
Universe: IDW, Pre-Death of Optimus Prime
Characters: Ratchet, Deadlock, Alien Original Character(s)
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Canon Divergence
Description: While on a sabbatical from the war, Ratchet runs into a spot of trouble that lands him in close company with a familiar face, the famed Decepticon Deadlock.
chapter eight
Ratchet falls into recharge easily. He’s snoring within moments.
It is not so easy for Deadlock. He lays there, frame fitted to Ratchet’s, and his processor whirling a mile a minute. Drift is ecstatic. He keeps wanting to move closer, to lightly touch and memorize, to greedily inhale the increasingly familiar scent of Ratchet’s frame.
Deadlock flicks that desire down.
This is a terrible, awful, wonderful idea. He can’t imagine it’s going to end well at all. They hate each other, truth be told. Ratchet has expectations Deadlock is not going to fulfill, no matter how loudly Drift scratches at the wall.
There is no universe where Deadlock will emerge from this unscathed.
He should get out of this berth. He should disentangle himself from Ratchet and go elsewhere. He could recharge in the pilot’s chair, on the bench, on the floor. He could go into the washracks and rinse away the evidence of their coupling, so he doesn’t have a reminder of this evening.
Ratchet is not going to wake feeling delighted about the encounter, Deadlock is sure of it. As sure as he is Ratchet was only pretending to be inebriated. Autobots, after all, need excuses to couple with Decepticons. Especially Autobots as high-ranked as this one.
He can’t bring himself to move. Drift’s desires prove stronger. If anything, he curls closer, memorizing the heat of Ratchet’s frame, the scent of him.
This is going to be poorly received in the morning. He might as well indulge while he can now.
Deadlock and Drift both have a history of poor mistakes. He can add this one to the register.
He slips into an uneasy recharge. It’s one rife with memories, purges, few of them light-sparked and memorable, far too many things he’d hoped to forget. He’s back in the underlevels of Slaughter City, defending against an Autobot Special Ops incursion, when he subconsciously feels the berth shift, and the sense of another energy field too close for comfort.
He lashes out before he’s fully online, because one doesn’t live long with Megatron’s favor if he isn’t prepared to defend said favor with his spark. He hears a help, a shouted “Deadlock!” and his vibroblade pings across a sturdy chestplate.
His optics stutter to life as he grapples and rolls, pinning the intruder beneath him, vibroblade to their throat, the other hand flat against a chestplate, over a sparkchamber. He looks down into blue optics, and for a moment he thinks “assassin!” until Drift shouts at him, and recognition pours down his spinal strut.
Ratchet.
Recent memories chase away the past. The reason for the tackiness on his groin and in his seams becomes obvious.
Ratchet’s field pulses against his, and Deadlock is alarmed to find there isn’t a trace of field in it. He’s not sure how to define the emotion Ratchet’s field. It’s a cousin to resignation, except he’s sure Ratchet’s not suicidal.
Maybe it’s because he thinks Deadlock just proved himself to be the murderous Decepticon of prior accusation.
Well.
Maybe he’s right.
“Don’t you know better than to sneak around a sleeping Decepticon?” Deadlock asks with a tilt of his head. The tension leaks out of his frame. He doesn’t, however, withdraw the dagger. “That was a close one, doc. I coulda had your spark before you blinked.”
Ratchet rolls his optics. “Excuse me if I’m not practiced in sleeping with the enemy.” He holds still, like he’s been threatened like this before.
It’s probably not the first time he’s woken to a knife at his intake. Ratchet, as Chief Medical Officer and close friend to the Prime, has always been a prime candidate for assassination. Deadlock knows of at least three attempts, all of them failures. He doesn’t know whatever became of the assassins.
Ricochet’s loss had been especially daunting.
Deadlock chuckles. He has to admit, he appreciates Ratchet’s bravado. “That must make me a special case then.” He leans closer and curls his glossa over the curve of Ratchet’s jaw, intaking the scent of the medic – still hot-bright with last night’s pleasure. “Was that a one time deal, Autobot? Because you know we have a lot of time to burn.”
Now is when Ratchet squirms, not enough to cause a nick, but he definitely shifts beneath Deadlock. “That depends on how much engex you have.”
“As if it effected your decision last night.” Deadlock leans back and taps the end of the dagger against Ratchet’s intake. “I know you weren’t as inebriated as you looked. I know a little something about medics.”
“Do you now?”
Deadlock spins the dagger around his fingers and tucks it back away. “Enough to know that I’d be insulted, except you were clearly lying out your aft.”
Ratchet’s optics slant away. “Let me up,” he says, gruff. “I need to wash.”
Ah. Evasion. Such a typical Autobot reaction.
Deadlock slides back, away from Ratchet, giving him more than enough room before the medic decides to start crying a false accusation.
Ratchet scrambles off the berth, and Deadlock gives the mess between his thighs a pointed look. He swallows down the urge to offer to lick him clean – no need to let Ratchet know just how depraved he is. He’s already managed to evade the question about his spike. He doesn’t want to push his luck.
Still…
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
“You know, that washrack will fit two, if we squeeze,” Deadlock says as he tracks Ratchet’s rapid exit. “Just like the berth.”
“No thanks,” Ratchet calls over his shoulder as he vanishes out the door, escaping like the little Autobot coward he is.
Deadlock rolls his optics and stares at the dirty berth. They don’t really have much options for cleaning it. Seems like they’ll just have to recharge in a berth that smells of both of them.
Fantastic.
He leaves the room, the sound of the solvent spattering in the washrack dulled by the thin door separating it from the main cabin. The broken comms array is still on the floor. The half-empty bottle of engex remains on the table.
Deadlock snatches it up and looks for a new hiding place. He’d rather they not drink it all at once. Or give Ratchet an excuse. If he wants to frag, he needs to come right out and say it, rather than pretend he needs the engex to give him courage.
He stashes the engex in the storage panel under the bench in the workspace. He doubts Ratchet even knows that cupboard is there which makes it the perfect spot. He’s easing out from behind the table when the door to the washrack opens and Ratchet steps out, his expression far too grumpy for someone who’d been involved in fantastic interfacing last night.
“Did you save me any solvent?” Deadlock asks.
Ratchet’s orbital ridges draw down. “It’s all the same solvent.”
“Yes, but it still takes time to run through the recycler.” Deadlock grins and cocks a hip against the edge of the table. “So. We going to talk about last night or are you going to pretend it didn’t happen. Blame it on the… fog of engex?” He arches an orbital ridge.
Ratchet sighs and leans against the wall, keeping as much distance between them as possible. “What is there to talk about? We fragged. I’m sure we’ll do it again. Aren’t there more important things?”
“I’m amused you think it’s a given we’re going to end up in the berth again,” Deadlock drawls, though he’s not sure amusement is the emotion rushing through his spark.
Ratchet rolls his shoulders. “What else is there to do?” His gaze is distant, focused elsewhere, like he can’t bear to look at Deadlock.
“Ah, well that’s a relief,” Deadlock says with an exaggerated hiss of his vents. “I’m your only choice so it’s a guarantee we’re going to frag again. And here I was thinking you actually liked me or something. My mistake.”
He pushes off the edge of the table and drops his hands to hips, bouncing on the heels of his feet. “Well, that console’s not going to fix itself. Might as well keep poking at it and see if there’s anyway to get out of here faster.”
Peripherally, he catches Ratchet’s scowl. “Why are you twisting my words?”
Deadlock cocks his head. “Am I?” He looks up at the ceiling. “Nowhere did you say, hey Deadlock, I had fun last time and I think you did too. Want to give it another try? Instead, you spoke of inevitability with about as much enthusiasm as a wet meshtowel.”
He lowers his gaze and grins, baring his denta on purpose. “Thanks but no thanks, Autobot. I don’t do pity-frags, and I’m no one’s only choice.”
“So what? You want a confession from me?” Ratchet’s scowl deepens, and his stance shifts, though if Deadlock had to put a finger on it, he’d say with guilt.
Good. That means he’s scored.
Deadlock draws in a deep vent. “Ratchet, in all honesty, I don’t want fragging anything from you,” he says with a blunt honesty that has done him zero favors with the Decepticons. “You’re the one who sees me as some failure on your part. You’re the one who thinks I need to be saved. And you’re the one who keeps hoping to nag me into changing, so I can better fit what you want from me.”
Ratchet reels back, his aft hitting the wall behind him. “That’s not-- I’m not--” He splutters, and his field flares, a sharp, incisive thing with regret and self-flagellation and shame and ugh, it’s nauseating.
Deadlock pinches the bridge of his nose and waves off the gibberish. “I don’t want an apology. I don’t want you to be defensive. I just want you to stop pretending and focus on the damn broken ship, okay?”
“We can’t fix the ship,” Ratchet grinds out, and his tone is soft, meek almost.
“And you can’t fix me.” Deadlock spreads his hands, ignores the wailing of Drift deep down inside. “We’re at an impasse.”
Silence.
Ratchet’s field is wild, uncontrolled, full of so much emotion it makes Deadlock nauseous. He wants to back out of the reach of it, but he can’t, because there’s nowhere to go in this small ship. All he can do is pull into himself and stand his ground.
Ratchet cycles a ventilation, ragged though it is, his optics bright, and not with any positive emotion. “We’re stuck together,” he says, and pauses to cycle his vocalizer, probably to clear the static from it. “Probably forever at this point. We should get along.”
Deadlock stares at him.
Ratchet scowls. “What?”
“Oh, I’m just waiting,” Deadlock says with a shrug. He pushes past Ratchet and drops into the pilot’s chair, glaring hard at the broken console.
“For?”
“An apology.”
Ratchet huffs a vent behind him. “Excuse me?”
Deadlock props a foot against the console and leans back, staring through the windscreen at the silt painting the thick transteel. “If there’s anyone here who’s being unfriendly, it’s you.”
The chair beside him creaks as Ratchet lowers down into it, face set in a scowl. “So I’m supposed to apologize for being wary of a Decepticon?”
Deadlock sighs and scrubs a hand down his face, feeling an ache growing behind his optics. “You do realize that I’m not just a Decepticon? Like, it’s not my only definition? I exist outside of this brand.”
“I’m aware of that,” Ratchet grouches and sits back, folding his hands over his chestplate.
“Yeah. Not sure you are.” Deadlock raps his fingers on his thigh. “You see me, this badge on my chest, and you make assumptions. You decide I’m awful and terrible because I’m something you hate.”
Ratchet scowls, his expression darkening. “You’re awful because you’ve killed a lot of Autobots,” he says, his tone flat and his field equally so.
Deadlock rolls his optics so hard it almost hurts. “Right. Yes. And no Autobot has ever killed a Decepticon. Do you even hear yourself when you start pontificating or do you just automatically tune out the hypocrisy?”
Blue optics widen. Ratchet sucks in a startled ventilation, and he opens his mouth to retort, but Deadlock lifts a hand, cuts him off.
“Don’t bother,” he says. “The truth is, the universe, the fragging war, it’s not black and white. It doesn’t fit into boxes of either or.” He pushes to his feet, a vibration in his armor he can’t seem to escape. “I’m not an Autobot because you all don’t understand shades of grey. The Decepticons aren’t perfect, but at least they don’t pretend to be.”
He snaps past Ratchet, stalking between the two chairs. There’s nowhere to go in this tin can but the berth room that reeks of their interfacing the night before, and the washrack, which probably still reeks of Ratchet.
Deadlock storms to the rear hatch, digging his fingers into the sides of the door to yank it open enough for him to escape.
Ratchet, of course, gives chase. Because just like an Autobot, he can’t leave well enough alone. He has to pick and pick and pick until he’s gotten the answer he wants, rather than the only one he’s going to get.
“If you’re trying to get me to believe the Decepticons are on the side of good, you’re failing,” Ratchet snarls, and his field pulses, heavy with anger and shame and too many other emotions to name. “You’re not poor, misunderstood victims who never had a chance!”
Deadlock growls over his shoulder, the rear hatch grinding and scraping, not moving fast enough for his liking, atmosphere whistling out of the cabin and into the vacuum of the atmosphere, taking his words with it.
He abruptly shifts to comm. “I don’t want you to believe anything,” Deadlock shouts, an unnecessary volume because it’s a comm, but it has the effect of making Ratchet wince, cringing back as though that’ll help him ease the volume. “I don’t want anything from you!”
The door slams open abruptly, and Deadlock staggers from the suddenness of it. He kicks the crate out of the way and storms outside, the crunch of the stone and silt tangible through his feet.
He waits, tense and angry, for Ratchet to appear behind him. The comm crackles with static, dead silence, as Deadlock waits for Ratchet’s rebuttal.
Nothing.
Deadlock snorts and trudges around the side of the ship, where he’s dug a furrow in a vain attempt to free the crashed shuttle. He kicks at the mound of rock and sand he’s made, smaller stones pinging against the side of the dented and much struck hull.
Struck enough that there are holes, point of fact.
Good.
Deadlock leaps over the mound, jabs his fingers into the holes, and scales up the side of the ship. It rocks a little, but otherwise holds steady.
The empty dock where the comms array should have been mocks him with the stub of the connecting port. Deadlock kicks it for good measure, then drops down to sit at the stern of the ship, feet dangling over, heels drumming the cracked transteel of the windshield.
He wants to destroy something right now. He wants to scream and shout and rage. He can’t do any of those things.
All he can do is perch on this broken ship, stare out at an endless landscape of desolation, or stare up at an obstacle course of floating asteroids, all of which are preventing his escape.
~
a/n: Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated!
Title: Lost and Lonely Space
Universe: IDW, Pre-Death of Optimus Prime
Characters: Ratchet, Deadlock, Alien Original Character(s)
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Canon Divergence
Description: While on a sabbatical from the war, Ratchet runs into a spot of trouble that lands him in close company with a familiar face, the famed Decepticon Deadlock.
Ratchet falls into recharge easily. He’s snoring within moments.
It is not so easy for Deadlock. He lays there, frame fitted to Ratchet’s, and his processor whirling a mile a minute. Drift is ecstatic. He keeps wanting to move closer, to lightly touch and memorize, to greedily inhale the increasingly familiar scent of Ratchet’s frame.
Deadlock flicks that desire down.
This is a terrible, awful, wonderful idea. He can’t imagine it’s going to end well at all. They hate each other, truth be told. Ratchet has expectations Deadlock is not going to fulfill, no matter how loudly Drift scratches at the wall.
There is no universe where Deadlock will emerge from this unscathed.
He should get out of this berth. He should disentangle himself from Ratchet and go elsewhere. He could recharge in the pilot’s chair, on the bench, on the floor. He could go into the washracks and rinse away the evidence of their coupling, so he doesn’t have a reminder of this evening.
Ratchet is not going to wake feeling delighted about the encounter, Deadlock is sure of it. As sure as he is Ratchet was only pretending to be inebriated. Autobots, after all, need excuses to couple with Decepticons. Especially Autobots as high-ranked as this one.
He can’t bring himself to move. Drift’s desires prove stronger. If anything, he curls closer, memorizing the heat of Ratchet’s frame, the scent of him.
This is going to be poorly received in the morning. He might as well indulge while he can now.
Deadlock and Drift both have a history of poor mistakes. He can add this one to the register.
He slips into an uneasy recharge. It’s one rife with memories, purges, few of them light-sparked and memorable, far too many things he’d hoped to forget. He’s back in the underlevels of Slaughter City, defending against an Autobot Special Ops incursion, when he subconsciously feels the berth shift, and the sense of another energy field too close for comfort.
He lashes out before he’s fully online, because one doesn’t live long with Megatron’s favor if he isn’t prepared to defend said favor with his spark. He hears a help, a shouted “Deadlock!” and his vibroblade pings across a sturdy chestplate.
His optics stutter to life as he grapples and rolls, pinning the intruder beneath him, vibroblade to their throat, the other hand flat against a chestplate, over a sparkchamber. He looks down into blue optics, and for a moment he thinks “assassin!” until Drift shouts at him, and recognition pours down his spinal strut.
Ratchet.
Recent memories chase away the past. The reason for the tackiness on his groin and in his seams becomes obvious.
Ratchet’s field pulses against his, and Deadlock is alarmed to find there isn’t a trace of field in it. He’s not sure how to define the emotion Ratchet’s field. It’s a cousin to resignation, except he’s sure Ratchet’s not suicidal.
Maybe it’s because he thinks Deadlock just proved himself to be the murderous Decepticon of prior accusation.
Well.
Maybe he’s right.
“Don’t you know better than to sneak around a sleeping Decepticon?” Deadlock asks with a tilt of his head. The tension leaks out of his frame. He doesn’t, however, withdraw the dagger. “That was a close one, doc. I coulda had your spark before you blinked.”
Ratchet rolls his optics. “Excuse me if I’m not practiced in sleeping with the enemy.” He holds still, like he’s been threatened like this before.
It’s probably not the first time he’s woken to a knife at his intake. Ratchet, as Chief Medical Officer and close friend to the Prime, has always been a prime candidate for assassination. Deadlock knows of at least three attempts, all of them failures. He doesn’t know whatever became of the assassins.
Ricochet’s loss had been especially daunting.
Deadlock chuckles. He has to admit, he appreciates Ratchet’s bravado. “That must make me a special case then.” He leans closer and curls his glossa over the curve of Ratchet’s jaw, intaking the scent of the medic – still hot-bright with last night’s pleasure. “Was that a one time deal, Autobot? Because you know we have a lot of time to burn.”
Now is when Ratchet squirms, not enough to cause a nick, but he definitely shifts beneath Deadlock. “That depends on how much engex you have.”
“As if it effected your decision last night.” Deadlock leans back and taps the end of the dagger against Ratchet’s intake. “I know you weren’t as inebriated as you looked. I know a little something about medics.”
“Do you now?”
Deadlock spins the dagger around his fingers and tucks it back away. “Enough to know that I’d be insulted, except you were clearly lying out your aft.”
Ratchet’s optics slant away. “Let me up,” he says, gruff. “I need to wash.”
Ah. Evasion. Such a typical Autobot reaction.
Deadlock slides back, away from Ratchet, giving him more than enough room before the medic decides to start crying a false accusation.
Ratchet scrambles off the berth, and Deadlock gives the mess between his thighs a pointed look. He swallows down the urge to offer to lick him clean – no need to let Ratchet know just how depraved he is. He’s already managed to evade the question about his spike. He doesn’t want to push his luck.
Still…
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
“You know, that washrack will fit two, if we squeeze,” Deadlock says as he tracks Ratchet’s rapid exit. “Just like the berth.”
“No thanks,” Ratchet calls over his shoulder as he vanishes out the door, escaping like the little Autobot coward he is.
Deadlock rolls his optics and stares at the dirty berth. They don’t really have much options for cleaning it. Seems like they’ll just have to recharge in a berth that smells of both of them.
Fantastic.
He leaves the room, the sound of the solvent spattering in the washrack dulled by the thin door separating it from the main cabin. The broken comms array is still on the floor. The half-empty bottle of engex remains on the table.
Deadlock snatches it up and looks for a new hiding place. He’d rather they not drink it all at once. Or give Ratchet an excuse. If he wants to frag, he needs to come right out and say it, rather than pretend he needs the engex to give him courage.
He stashes the engex in the storage panel under the bench in the workspace. He doubts Ratchet even knows that cupboard is there which makes it the perfect spot. He’s easing out from behind the table when the door to the washrack opens and Ratchet steps out, his expression far too grumpy for someone who’d been involved in fantastic interfacing last night.
“Did you save me any solvent?” Deadlock asks.
Ratchet’s orbital ridges draw down. “It’s all the same solvent.”
“Yes, but it still takes time to run through the recycler.” Deadlock grins and cocks a hip against the edge of the table. “So. We going to talk about last night or are you going to pretend it didn’t happen. Blame it on the… fog of engex?” He arches an orbital ridge.
Ratchet sighs and leans against the wall, keeping as much distance between them as possible. “What is there to talk about? We fragged. I’m sure we’ll do it again. Aren’t there more important things?”
“I’m amused you think it’s a given we’re going to end up in the berth again,” Deadlock drawls, though he’s not sure amusement is the emotion rushing through his spark.
Ratchet rolls his shoulders. “What else is there to do?” His gaze is distant, focused elsewhere, like he can’t bear to look at Deadlock.
“Ah, well that’s a relief,” Deadlock says with an exaggerated hiss of his vents. “I’m your only choice so it’s a guarantee we’re going to frag again. And here I was thinking you actually liked me or something. My mistake.”
He pushes off the edge of the table and drops his hands to hips, bouncing on the heels of his feet. “Well, that console’s not going to fix itself. Might as well keep poking at it and see if there’s anyway to get out of here faster.”
Peripherally, he catches Ratchet’s scowl. “Why are you twisting my words?”
Deadlock cocks his head. “Am I?” He looks up at the ceiling. “Nowhere did you say, hey Deadlock, I had fun last time and I think you did too. Want to give it another try? Instead, you spoke of inevitability with about as much enthusiasm as a wet meshtowel.”
He lowers his gaze and grins, baring his denta on purpose. “Thanks but no thanks, Autobot. I don’t do pity-frags, and I’m no one’s only choice.”
“So what? You want a confession from me?” Ratchet’s scowl deepens, and his stance shifts, though if Deadlock had to put a finger on it, he’d say with guilt.
Good. That means he’s scored.
Deadlock draws in a deep vent. “Ratchet, in all honesty, I don’t want fragging anything from you,” he says with a blunt honesty that has done him zero favors with the Decepticons. “You’re the one who sees me as some failure on your part. You’re the one who thinks I need to be saved. And you’re the one who keeps hoping to nag me into changing, so I can better fit what you want from me.”
Ratchet reels back, his aft hitting the wall behind him. “That’s not-- I’m not--” He splutters, and his field flares, a sharp, incisive thing with regret and self-flagellation and shame and ugh, it’s nauseating.
Deadlock pinches the bridge of his nose and waves off the gibberish. “I don’t want an apology. I don’t want you to be defensive. I just want you to stop pretending and focus on the damn broken ship, okay?”
“We can’t fix the ship,” Ratchet grinds out, and his tone is soft, meek almost.
“And you can’t fix me.” Deadlock spreads his hands, ignores the wailing of Drift deep down inside. “We’re at an impasse.”
Silence.
Ratchet’s field is wild, uncontrolled, full of so much emotion it makes Deadlock nauseous. He wants to back out of the reach of it, but he can’t, because there’s nowhere to go in this small ship. All he can do is pull into himself and stand his ground.
Ratchet cycles a ventilation, ragged though it is, his optics bright, and not with any positive emotion. “We’re stuck together,” he says, and pauses to cycle his vocalizer, probably to clear the static from it. “Probably forever at this point. We should get along.”
Deadlock stares at him.
Ratchet scowls. “What?”
“Oh, I’m just waiting,” Deadlock says with a shrug. He pushes past Ratchet and drops into the pilot’s chair, glaring hard at the broken console.
“For?”
“An apology.”
Ratchet huffs a vent behind him. “Excuse me?”
Deadlock props a foot against the console and leans back, staring through the windscreen at the silt painting the thick transteel. “If there’s anyone here who’s being unfriendly, it’s you.”
The chair beside him creaks as Ratchet lowers down into it, face set in a scowl. “So I’m supposed to apologize for being wary of a Decepticon?”
Deadlock sighs and scrubs a hand down his face, feeling an ache growing behind his optics. “You do realize that I’m not just a Decepticon? Like, it’s not my only definition? I exist outside of this brand.”
“I’m aware of that,” Ratchet grouches and sits back, folding his hands over his chestplate.
“Yeah. Not sure you are.” Deadlock raps his fingers on his thigh. “You see me, this badge on my chest, and you make assumptions. You decide I’m awful and terrible because I’m something you hate.”
Ratchet scowls, his expression darkening. “You’re awful because you’ve killed a lot of Autobots,” he says, his tone flat and his field equally so.
Deadlock rolls his optics so hard it almost hurts. “Right. Yes. And no Autobot has ever killed a Decepticon. Do you even hear yourself when you start pontificating or do you just automatically tune out the hypocrisy?”
Blue optics widen. Ratchet sucks in a startled ventilation, and he opens his mouth to retort, but Deadlock lifts a hand, cuts him off.
“Don’t bother,” he says. “The truth is, the universe, the fragging war, it’s not black and white. It doesn’t fit into boxes of either or.” He pushes to his feet, a vibration in his armor he can’t seem to escape. “I’m not an Autobot because you all don’t understand shades of grey. The Decepticons aren’t perfect, but at least they don’t pretend to be.”
He snaps past Ratchet, stalking between the two chairs. There’s nowhere to go in this tin can but the berth room that reeks of their interfacing the night before, and the washrack, which probably still reeks of Ratchet.
Deadlock storms to the rear hatch, digging his fingers into the sides of the door to yank it open enough for him to escape.
Ratchet, of course, gives chase. Because just like an Autobot, he can’t leave well enough alone. He has to pick and pick and pick until he’s gotten the answer he wants, rather than the only one he’s going to get.
“If you’re trying to get me to believe the Decepticons are on the side of good, you’re failing,” Ratchet snarls, and his field pulses, heavy with anger and shame and too many other emotions to name. “You’re not poor, misunderstood victims who never had a chance!”
Deadlock growls over his shoulder, the rear hatch grinding and scraping, not moving fast enough for his liking, atmosphere whistling out of the cabin and into the vacuum of the atmosphere, taking his words with it.
He abruptly shifts to comm. “I don’t want you to believe anything,” Deadlock shouts, an unnecessary volume because it’s a comm, but it has the effect of making Ratchet wince, cringing back as though that’ll help him ease the volume. “I don’t want anything from you!”
The door slams open abruptly, and Deadlock staggers from the suddenness of it. He kicks the crate out of the way and storms outside, the crunch of the stone and silt tangible through his feet.
He waits, tense and angry, for Ratchet to appear behind him. The comm crackles with static, dead silence, as Deadlock waits for Ratchet’s rebuttal.
Nothing.
Deadlock snorts and trudges around the side of the ship, where he’s dug a furrow in a vain attempt to free the crashed shuttle. He kicks at the mound of rock and sand he’s made, smaller stones pinging against the side of the dented and much struck hull.
Struck enough that there are holes, point of fact.
Good.
Deadlock leaps over the mound, jabs his fingers into the holes, and scales up the side of the ship. It rocks a little, but otherwise holds steady.
The empty dock where the comms array should have been mocks him with the stub of the connecting port. Deadlock kicks it for good measure, then drops down to sit at the stern of the ship, feet dangling over, heels drumming the cracked transteel of the windshield.
He wants to destroy something right now. He wants to scream and shout and rage. He can’t do any of those things.
All he can do is perch on this broken ship, stare out at an endless landscape of desolation, or stare up at an obstacle course of floating asteroids, all of which are preventing his escape.
a/n: Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated!
