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“Oh no,” Windswept muttered, optics narrowing. A sudden silence cut through the boisterous bustle of the public house like a knife.
“Oh no?” Wing turned, curious, gold optics gleaming over his shoulder, curious to see the newcomers.
“Decepticons.” Windswept’s mouth quirked downward, as though the word soured the energon in his mouth.
“Oh?” Wing sat up straighter. “I’ve never seen one. Well, other than the holovids.” His gaze was openly curious, studying the trio of mechs who paused in the doorway, as though undecided if they were going to have a drink or try to break the place. It was interesting, the energy that seemed to swirl around them, like a draft from the world outside and things unknown.
“Esssssssh!” Windswept’s hand closed over his arm. “Stop staring!”
“Why?” Wing’s gaze flicked back to his friend. “I was merely looking.”
“They’ve killed for less than that,” Windswept said, with a note of authority. Windswept kept up with the holovids far better than Wing did.
“What is less than looking?” Wing asked, puzzled. “I’ve just never seen one before, up close.”
“Close enough?” A harsh voice, over his shoulder, and the bump of an EM field against his flightpanels.
Wing turned again, his optics traveling up the dark chassis to meet a pair of orange-red optics, lambent as flames. He smiled. “I suppose I couldn’t ask for much closer.”
“That a joke?” The mouth set into a flat scowl.
“It was an attempt at one, yes,” Wing said, a smile splitting his own mouthplates, though underneath he felt a skirl of tension. A Decepticon, practically shimmering with foreignness and violence.
“It’s late,” Windswept said, rising. It was a hint: he was leaving, and he was trying to take Wing with him.
Wing nodded. “I’ll catch up with you later, then.”
Windswept shot him a pleading, worried look.
“I’ll be fine,” Wing assured him, even as his spark quivered again. He turned back to the Decepticon, gesturing him to sit. “Can I buy you a drink?”
The red optics raked over him, as though trying to spot some trick. And then the mech snorted. “It’s your money.”
“It is.” He scooted over on the bench, making room for the other mech. “May I ask your name?”
“Why.” The voice was flat, suspicious, hands curling over his hip panels. He must, Wing thought, have weapons on him. Right now. In the middle of a peaceful city. It seemed surreal and out of place. It was fascinating, in a way.
“Because I’d like to know? It seems more companionable, that way.”
A snort. “Right. What’s your name.”
Wing tipped his helm, curious. “My name is Strikewing. My friends call me Wing.”
The mech dropped into the seat beside him, optics scanning over him. “Deadlock.”
“It’s good to meet you, Deadlock,” Wing said, smoothly.
“Is it?” Another suspicious glare.
“I think so,” Wing said, smiling. It seemed that this Deadlock hadn’t been much around manners: he seemed almost confused by them.
He turned, raising one hand to call the server, signaling for a round. He froze, abruptly, feeling a cold circle against his lower rib struts. “…Deadlock?” A gun. Real and cold and deadly, like a mouth waiting to bite.
The mech leaned in and he could feel the other’s EM field harsh against him. “Could kill you if I wanted.”
Wing felt his spark pulse hard, hammering against his chassis. Maybe he should have left with Windswept, he thought, wildly. Maybe his curiosity was going to get him killed, however innocuous his intent. “Yes,” he said, trying to hide the tremble in his flightpanels. “You could.”
And then, just as quickly, the gun’s bore was gone, whisked away someplace unseen. Deadlock’s face was bland and impassive when Wing turned toward him, optics curious and searching.
“Thank you for not,” Wing said, because it seemed like a thing worth saying, expressing gratitude for what he know could easily have happened.
Deadlock shrugged, optics flicking up to the server, who placed the glass in front of him, neatly whisking away Windswept’s empty one, his optics steady and hard on the purple insignia on Deadlock’s chassis. Deadlock glared back and the moment stretched, even as the server turned away.
“Deadlock?” Wing said gently.
A hard blink. “What.” The mouth pinched, as Deadlock seemed to come back to himself, hand closing over his cube.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Another suspicious flick of the optics. “What.”
Wing took that as permission, his pinions spreading to bleed off the excess tension. “Why did you choose to be a Decepticon?”
A snort, Deadlock taking a long swallow of his drink. “Not much else to choose, was there?”
“Was there?” An innocent question.
The mouth twitched. It was captivating, in a way, how mobile the other mech’s mouth was, as though he had an entire vocabulary of emotion, a grammar of scowls and frowns. “Not for me.”
“You don’t need to. You have choice.”
A bitter laugh. “No, I don’t. And I don’t want it.” He shrugged. “Not ashamed of it.”
“What were you before?”
“Why are you so fraggin’ curious, huh?”
The profanity shocked Wing and the shock seemed to gratify the Decepticon, one corner of his mouth pulling up into something almost like a smile.
“Because I want to understand,” Wing said, simply.
“Right.” Deadlock turned away, taking another long swallow from his cube.
Wing said nothing, taking a sip from his own drink. He felt a strange shiver of excitement, like he was doing a dangerous thing, something so out of the narrow circle of his student life. A real gun! That had been a real gun against him, he was sure of it. And Deadlock had probably killed with that gun. The thought should horrify him; instead it drew him, Deadlock as a well of such entirely different experiences from his own, like a dark window into another world.
A sort of grunt from Deadlock, as he laid the glass down, watching it in the circle of his hands. “Never saw the sky till three decacycles ago.” He shrugged. “Saw so many die down in the gutters. Died for no reason. Just starved, gave up. Not worth it.” He snorted, and his hand moved idly, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Guess I just decided I didn’t want to die for no reason.” Another quirk of that mobile mouth, the optics not leaving the swirling liquid.
“Oh,” Wing said. Nothing he could think to say could match that. “I can’t imagine.” He couldn’t imagine any of it, starving, giving up, watching friends die.
“Yeah,” Deadlock said, shrugging. The orange optics studied Wing’s chassis, blank and white, and then the cube, nearly untouched. “You’re not drinking.”
Wing picked up his glass, taking a second, delicate sip.
Deadlock gave a sort of smirking grin. “Drink like that, you’ll never feel it.”
“Is that why you drink? To feel it?”
“To feel anything.” The optics studied him, clouded and strange.
Wing couldn’t help it: the fear he’d felt had fallen away and suddenly he wanted, more than anything, to reach into this mech, and scoop that hollow hard heart of pain away from him, replace it with something warm and real. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice soft as velvet. He didn't know what he was apologizing for, other than...everything that he couldn't imagine, everything Deadlock must have suffered to make him so numb and hard.
A grudging shrug. “Not your fault.” He turned back to his drink.
A strained silence, and then the raucous, too-harsh laughter of the other Decepticons behind them, as they burst into a loud song. Wing recognized it from the newsvids, as a Decepticon drinking song.
“I…I should let you get back to your friends,” Wing murmured, for the first time feeling awkward, and as though he were the one out of place.
An irritated look over his shoulder. “They’re not my friends.”
Wing fell soundless again, his pinions drooping on his shoulders, at a loss. Deadlock tossed the rest of his drink back. Wing caught himself staring, almost surprised by the starkly elegant line of Deadlock’s uptilted throat as he swallowed.
Deadlock slapped the glass back on the table, his optics catching Wing’s, catching himself being looked at. The mouth quirked strangely, and then, before Wing could register the movement, Deadlock’s hand was behind his helm, pulling his mouth onto Deadlock’s for a kiss. His hands came up, like startled birds, only to get trapped against the bronze plate of Deadlock’s chassis. The kiss was tart-sweet like engex, the Decepticon’s mouth pushing into his, red optics half-lidding as his glossa flirted with the edge of Wing’s mouth. Wing shivered, flightpanels shivering, not with fear this time, but a strangely ignited desire.
Deadlock pulled away, slowly, the kiss turning into a gentle bite on Wing’s lower lip plate, the corners of his own mouth quirked in a smile.
“Wh-what was that for?” The gold optics blinked, bright and confused.
“So I can feel something,” Deadlock said, and his optics seemed almost liquid for a klik, before he turned away, the kiss still tingling on Wing’s mouthplates. And Wing's spark fluttered again, in his chassis, the moment bright and clear around them, and the fearsome enemy lost his terror and became a kernel of a tremulous bond.