Ironhide (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
heavyweaponsbot) wrote2012-04-13 12:21 am
heavyweaponsbot) wrote2012-04-13 12:21 am
20 - Commentlog (open) - DREAMS
[His kind do not dream. There are memories, certainly. But never dreams.]
[Not until the Elegante took that hard and fast rule away -- took him, changed him. Made him human. The change must have altered something. Ever since then, his recharge has been plagued with memories, with compounded memories and fantasies, fears and daydreams. He can't stop it. And while it's unsettling... it's something he's adapted to, more or less.]
[When the dream comes, he thinks it's going to be just the same as always. Another vague half-memory.]
[He is wrong.]
[It's the Shore. He's back on the Shore. It isn't how he remembers it -- strewn with confused survivors and massive chunks of ice. No bodies. There is instead, order. Nets and boats for fishing. Even a few sandcastles dot the beach, home to curious, colorful lobsters. He finds himself staring at them. The colors are familiar...]
[But someone approaches before he can really observe them. A familiar figure. One he'd seen back there. Only now... she knows his face. So to speak. Bryn. She puts her hands on his arm. It's as close to an embrace as they ever come -- he doesn't mind. She knows him. She's safe, intact, and she knows him. There are words exchanged, relief evident in her face, in his frame.]
[Then she leads him into the island's interior.]
[To the place they'd found the bodies. It's cleared now, made habitable again out of necessity, their comrades given all the respect they could, given their situation. She explains why, and he understands. Familiar faces lurk around every corner, while the tension he hadn't even realized he was feeling begins to leak from his shoulders, from his spinal column. The redheaded vanishing woman, her partner. The green man, his adopted family. The turle brothers. Bryn's mate -- one of his closest friends.]
[... The children.]
[He doesn't see them come. Suddenly, they're there. All of them. Mikaela is crying. Xanth isn't much better, though he's smiling, doing his best not to show it. Even the boy Zuko can't quite hide the look on his face. He lets them gather, stands among them. They're alive. They're all in one piece. It's all he wanted to know -- all he wanted to see.]
[Except... there's a voice. A low chuckle. Amusement, affection. Relief.]
[And time seems to stop in its tracks.]
[He lifts his head, the children seem to part, knowingly. He meets another's gaze across the little square they stand in.]
[Ratchet.]
[He wants to cry out, he wants to run to him. He wants to shout and scold him for not coming. He wants to take him and examine every panel and seam, to make sure his medic is just as intact, just as well, as he seems to be. But all he can do is stand, fixed and rigid in place, staring. His spark feels like it wants to burst from his chest.]
[And in the end, it's Ratchet who approaches. Who curls a hand over the side of his face. He feels himself sag against familiar framework, arms sliding with almost automatic ease around his medic's waist, pulls him close, until their armor scrapes. He can feel every movement, every subtle twitch and flex of joints. The barest hint of pulsing systems. He leans his forehead against Ratchet's, and the world around them disappears. There is a knowing little sound, a sigh, and Ratchet grips him just as tightly, as if they both may be separated again in a moment. He hears himself apologizing, explaining. He hears Ratchet tell him to be quiet, and he falls silent. They stand there, oblivious to those around them, locked so tightly together they may as well be one unit, one Autobot.]
[For the first time in months, the longest months of his entire life, he feels whole again. It's right.]
[When they finally part, it isn't for long. It's only until Ratchet can lead him to the little building he's claimed for himself. It's far from the privacy they'd had on the boat, but it will do. The smallest bit of seclusion is all they need -- and they come together again, and again, the bond between them strengthening, rekindling, at each touch, each gasping almost desperate moment they spend together once more.]
[The dream passes, slowly, as if granting him this last, small mercy. He wakes as he falls asleep again, arms still wrapped tightly around the neon armor laying atop his chest. The contentment, the sense of right permeating everything.]
[... It's okay. You're stronger than this...]
[The old soldier wakes alone, staring up at the night sky beside the lake. Cold sand presses against his back, where he'd simply dropped in his tracks. Water is lapping at one of his feet, damp and uncomfortable in the joints. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifts a hand, staring at it.]
[And for the first time since his arrival, he notices the barest hint of neon paint transfer, caught in the scars and grooves of his palm.]
[... you're stronger than this.]
Hmn.
Old fool...
[Not until the Elegante took that hard and fast rule away -- took him, changed him. Made him human. The change must have altered something. Ever since then, his recharge has been plagued with memories, with compounded memories and fantasies, fears and daydreams. He can't stop it. And while it's unsettling... it's something he's adapted to, more or less.]
[When the dream comes, he thinks it's going to be just the same as always. Another vague half-memory.]
[He is wrong.]
[It's the Shore. He's back on the Shore. It isn't how he remembers it -- strewn with confused survivors and massive chunks of ice. No bodies. There is instead, order. Nets and boats for fishing. Even a few sandcastles dot the beach, home to curious, colorful lobsters. He finds himself staring at them. The colors are familiar...]
[But someone approaches before he can really observe them. A familiar figure. One he'd seen back there. Only now... she knows his face. So to speak. Bryn. She puts her hands on his arm. It's as close to an embrace as they ever come -- he doesn't mind. She knows him. She's safe, intact, and she knows him. There are words exchanged, relief evident in her face, in his frame.]
[Then she leads him into the island's interior.]
[To the place they'd found the bodies. It's cleared now, made habitable again out of necessity, their comrades given all the respect they could, given their situation. She explains why, and he understands. Familiar faces lurk around every corner, while the tension he hadn't even realized he was feeling begins to leak from his shoulders, from his spinal column. The redheaded vanishing woman, her partner. The green man, his adopted family. The turle brothers. Bryn's mate -- one of his closest friends.]
[... The children.]
[He doesn't see them come. Suddenly, they're there. All of them. Mikaela is crying. Xanth isn't much better, though he's smiling, doing his best not to show it. Even the boy Zuko can't quite hide the look on his face. He lets them gather, stands among them. They're alive. They're all in one piece. It's all he wanted to know -- all he wanted to see.]
[Except... there's a voice. A low chuckle. Amusement, affection. Relief.]
[And time seems to stop in its tracks.]
[He lifts his head, the children seem to part, knowingly. He meets another's gaze across the little square they stand in.]
[Ratchet.]
[He wants to cry out, he wants to run to him. He wants to shout and scold him for not coming. He wants to take him and examine every panel and seam, to make sure his medic is just as intact, just as well, as he seems to be. But all he can do is stand, fixed and rigid in place, staring. His spark feels like it wants to burst from his chest.]
[And in the end, it's Ratchet who approaches. Who curls a hand over the side of his face. He feels himself sag against familiar framework, arms sliding with almost automatic ease around his medic's waist, pulls him close, until their armor scrapes. He can feel every movement, every subtle twitch and flex of joints. The barest hint of pulsing systems. He leans his forehead against Ratchet's, and the world around them disappears. There is a knowing little sound, a sigh, and Ratchet grips him just as tightly, as if they both may be separated again in a moment. He hears himself apologizing, explaining. He hears Ratchet tell him to be quiet, and he falls silent. They stand there, oblivious to those around them, locked so tightly together they may as well be one unit, one Autobot.]
[For the first time in months, the longest months of his entire life, he feels whole again. It's right.]
[When they finally part, it isn't for long. It's only until Ratchet can lead him to the little building he's claimed for himself. It's far from the privacy they'd had on the boat, but it will do. The smallest bit of seclusion is all they need -- and they come together again, and again, the bond between them strengthening, rekindling, at each touch, each gasping almost desperate moment they spend together once more.]
[The dream passes, slowly, as if granting him this last, small mercy. He wakes as he falls asleep again, arms still wrapped tightly around the neon armor laying atop his chest. The contentment, the sense of right permeating everything.]
[... It's okay. You're stronger than this...]
[The old soldier wakes alone, staring up at the night sky beside the lake. Cold sand presses against his back, where he'd simply dropped in his tracks. Water is lapping at one of his feet, damp and uncomfortable in the joints. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifts a hand, staring at it.]
[And for the first time since his arrival, he notices the barest hint of neon paint transfer, caught in the scars and grooves of his palm.]
[... you're stronger than this.]
Hmn.
Old fool...
no subject
G--Good.
[Xanth reaches up and rubs his eyes, letting out a sigh.]
That... th-that... that's g--good.
[And it means that they were probably just dreams.]
no subject
What is it? Something happen?
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N-No, n-nothing, j-- just-- r-really... really b-bad dreams.
[Then he dropped his hand and looked into Ironhide's good optic. He tries for a smile, but it's mostly hidden behind his scarf.
What little of his face that isn't hidden, though, is covered in the spiraling patterns of black ink.]
no subject
[He stares. He looks at his charge for a long moment -- past the point a stare becomes uncomfortable.]
[Then reaches over, holding out one finger, to try and nudge down the scarf over Xanth's face.]
What did you do to yourself?
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The tattoo on his face has... spread. Curlicues and foreign letters fan out up his forehead and down his cheeks, past his hairline and down his neck. His hands are similarly decorated. None of it smudges, none of it smears.]
It's... th-the-- the i-ink thing, [he says, after a moment's hesitation.] I-- I-I think. I-I didn't-- do, i-it just... s-sort, sort of... h--happened.
no subject
...
You have not been writing.
[It's more of an accusation than a statement. It isn't that Ironhide particularly cares for orders, but more that he has no desire to see what happens when the ink takes over the boy's skin entirely.]
no subject
I-I didn't-- I-I didn't m-mean to, i-it just, I-- I-I don't know, I-I stopped, a-and then it-- i-it started-- y-you know, and, a-and nobody r-really knows wh-- what happens i-if you don't, so I-I thought...
no subject
[He is, surprisingly enough, doing his best to reign in his temper. Yelling at Xanth won't do any good. If anything, it'll just make the boy shut down.]
[But he can't understand how doing this is at all constructive. As hypocritical as it may be.]
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[Xanth cuts himself off, and then he sighs.]
Y--Yeah.
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Go write something, boy. Even something simple.
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I-It... i-it's already gone s-so far. We-- w-we sh-- we should know, w-what we-- we're r-risking.
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And what good is it going to do? How does this help anything!
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[But even Xanth's not sure about his arguments, and it shows in his posture.]
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[... from potentially losing Xanth to something.]
[Not that he'll say that part, but the thought is clear in his head.]
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[It's an idea. No one really knows what the ink does, why they're told to write, or exactly what happens if they don't. It might be the break of his life, but it might break his life entirely.]
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It doesn't hurt because Ironhide is scolding him, and it doesn't hurt because Ironhide doesn't have faith in Xanth's idea. It hurts because Ironhide is right. They can't be careless like this. Even if it's something important, they've come a damn long way. To even risk throwing it away now...
Xanth drops his head,]
I-- I-I'm... s-sorry.
no subject
[Instead, he stares out over the lake, studying it in the long silence that follows.]
...
Just do something.
Please.
no subject
[Xanth doesn't want to make a promise he can't keep. What if it's already too late, and even if he writes now, something still happens? He'd still be hurt, or dead, or whatever else letting the tattoos take over entails.
He still wants to know. He thinks they should find out. But... before all of that, he can't leave Ironhide alone. They are nearly all that's left of the M.S. Elegante, and Xanth can't do that. Not after everything they've been through.
Not after the dreams he had tonight.
With a lump in his throat, Xanth nods and reaches up to tiredly rub his eyes.]
I-I will. I-I, I-- I will.
no subject
[And it's not about to start now. Though he realizes Xanth really has come a long way, transitions... are hard.]
Good.
[He looks over to him for a longer moment, and nods his head. Before he reaches out, and curls a hand around the boy -- a familiar, affectionate gesture.]
no subject
His eyes prick and he keeps rubbing them. When he speaks again, his voice is thick.]
D-Don't... don't-- g-go anywhere, p-- please? If... i-if you can... h-- h-help it?
no subject
[He doesn't respond right away. But he nods.]
If I can help it.