drift trying to help (drift + magnus)

04 December 2018

It feels, now, that nine times out of ten (here he has to resist computing the actual statistics; whenever he gives a precise number, it makes the face of the person to whom he’s speaking twist up with a resisted smirk, and just because he is not prone to smiling does not mean he cannot recognize one) when someone is in his office they are sitting upon his desk. Then again, nine times out of ten that someone is their captain, who is known for his lax sense of propriety even as he leads a full crew on a potentially endless quest through space. Admittedly he’s taken to sitting on the desk in a way that doesn’t interrupt Ultra Magnus’ workflow or disturb his organization, which is unusual, but the point still stands (sits) that desks are not to be used as chairs, despite the general consensus that this is untrue.

He comes into his office and Drift, oddly, is not sitting on his desk; Magnus stands in the doorway and nearly misses him for the fact that his feet are planted on the ground. He is still at the desk, yes, but standing at it, leaning over it from near Magnus’ chair, and he’s –

Well, Magnus thinks in a fleeting moment in which he is wholly and regretfully influenced by Rodimus, what the hell.

It’s been some time that they’ve been forced in close quarters together, Drift and Ultra Magnus, and while there have been certain difficulties, Magnus has learned to approach Drift less as a potential criminal with a long list of war crimes trailing behind him and more as a colleague. Nonetheless, when he sees Drift with his hands on Ultra Magnus’ things, it’s very tempting to cite every misdeed Drift has committed and arrest him on the spot. At least Drift has the courtesy to look rather like a deer in the headlights, staring at Magnus with wide eyes, frozen through every strut. It does not change the fact that he’s still nudging a data pad with the tips of his fingers.

“Um,” Drift says intelligently, and Magnus feels his scowl edge on painful.

“Precisely what do you think you’re doing,” Magnus says, and with each word he says Drift straightens up a little. He does have very good posture, when he’s in the mood for it, Ultra Magnus will give him that.

Drift gives a wobbling kind of smile. “Organizing?” he offers, as though there’s any chance that what he’s doing was accidental. “It’s just, it was a bit of a mess in here–”

“Excuse me.”

“No, no no!” Now he straightens fully, hands finally flying away from the desk, up into the air in a sign of surrender. It’s rather ineffectual, considering he has at least three swords on his person. He seems to realize it when Magnus glances at each of them in turn, and when he speaks his hands inch further up into the air with every syllable. “I didn’t mean – no, you’ve done an excellent job keeping the place neat, Ultra Magnus, really, it’s very impressive, it really lends your office a sense of tranquility that most of the ship doesn’t–”

“Excuse me.”

Drift winces and his hands go up higher until they’re stretched over his head. In a tragic bout of silliness, Magnus entertains the thought that he might be about to do some kind of apologetic handstand. He frowns and clears that thought right out of his processor, and deletes any similar concepts that might be forming.

“I had to deliver some data pads!” Drift says quickly, the words running into each other with the same speed he might use to drive away from this situation. Which is exactly why Magnus has positioned himself in the doorway. “Just some reports for you to look over, nothing really important – I mean, of course, every report is important in order to keep the ship running smoothly, we all must do our part to be the energon in the body of the – um – I had to deliver reports, and I didn’t want to just leave them on your desk sort of … willy-nilly.”

“Willy-nilly,” Ultra Magnus repeats, and he finally glances down at his desk properly. Near Drift’s hip, and what Drift had been touching, is a fresh pile of data pads. Usually when Magnus receives these they’re barely balanced, or worse, strewn haphazardly across the surface of the desk. What Drift has left is set tidily in an even stack, and even – oh, if Magnus had Rung’s frame his eyebrows would be set high on his forehead – set along the same straight line as the rest of the materials present.

His mouth opens but he has nothing further to say.

“I know you hate it when things are messy,” Drift goes on, arms still outstretched. “Which has to be awful on a ship like this. I mean, Rodimus is wonderful, but he’s still… Rodimus. And I know a lot of people treat it sort of like a joke, or do things on purpose to annoy you with it, so I thought I would just try and make things easier for you, for once? You do a lot of work.”

Drift glances down to the stack of data pads and then up again to Magnus and frowns. “Unless I did it wrong and just made things more difficult –”

“No,” Magnus interrupts. He frowns at himself, feeling out the words on his tongue before he says them, unsure how to proceed. Drift is … not wrong, here; messes are like sudden potholes in roads that are usually smooth, catching Magnus by the wheels and sending him skidding. He’s prepared for that, by now. Messes are everywhere, and certainly numerous on the Lost Light. No one has specifically kept things neat for him without being asked since…

Hm.

“Thank… you,” Magnus says brokenly, frowning deep as he does. He’s not entirely certain what expression to wear for this sort of situation. Drift, though, smiles, relaxing by degrees, shoulders untensing. His hands start to come back down.

“Of course,” he says, tipping his head in the way he does when he’s truly focused on someone. Magnus isn’t certain when he picked up on these little cues. Proximity will do that, he supposes. “Like I said, you do a lot for everyone. Someone ought to do something for you once in a while. You’re a good person, you know. I want to be your friend.”

It all feels disjointed and sudden and unpredictable to Magnus, an unfixable mess in its own right, and he’s distantly aware that his mouth is hanging open again. Drift comes close enough to pat him on the elbow in an affectionate kind of way, then slips out under his arm, turning so he doesn’t so much as brush against Magnus’ plating.

Magnus stands there a while more. He feels his systems racing to try and catch up to all of this, and he has the sense that they never really will.

When he sits at his desk finally, he finds that the reports are organized by date, as well. He picks up his own datapad and opens his list of non-urgent tasks to be completed. Do something nice for Drift, he types carefully, and saves it, even though it doesn’t seem to make any sense.

The Lost Light rarely makes any sense. Perhaps he can accept a tiny bit of that.