Chapter Text
Brainstorm knows—in theory—that relationships come with certain expectations: trust, affection, intimacy of all kinds. He wasn’t constructed yesterday, and he’s certainly not some blushing virgin—a term he unfortunately picked up from one of Lost Light’s cringe-inducing movie night tapes.
He’s interfaced. A lot, he would emphasize. But it all becomes a bit more confusing when it’s not just about something as simple as physicality.
After he and Perceptor had settled things, he was a happy mech—Pits, he was happy before that, too. If he managed to catch so much as a glimpse of Perceptor’s cold, calculating gaze across the lab, that was already enough to make his day. And yet—for some reason—he cannot resist the urge to crawl under the table and hide the rising energon in his faceplates whenever a certain handsome mech does certain thing again.
Like many mechs, Brainstorm had assumed that Perceptor was the way he was in all areas of life—calm, detached, methodical. That was absolutely fine with him. Great, even. He had plenty of affection to express for both of them, enough for a lifetime. He thought of it like one of those rose-tinted recharge dreams—the kind where everything is perfect and stable, until the moment you wake up. And honestly? He had been comfortable thinking that way. The mech was used to it.
But then—after everything: the trial, the briefcase, the accusations, the raw, messy truth—it was like something switched in Perceptor. In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been unexpected, considering the entire ordeal. Or rather—not switched, but unlocked. Opened. Ignited. Brainstorm had braced himself for animosity. Or, at best, the same cool indifference he was so used to.
Instead, he found himself in an exclusive, proper relationship with a mech who turned out to be the most sweet, caring, and gentle partner imaginable.
And Brainstorm? Brainstorm was not ready for that.
Brainstorm was not ready to be handed a cup of energon—not extra warm, not cold, but perfectly in the middle, exactly how he liked it—every morning. He was not ready to find his research structured, organized without him asking, reviewed with precision—no intrusive remarks, no passive-aggressive corrections, just quiet, thoughtful suggestions in the commentary field. And he was definitely not expecting the constant, unshakable warmth Perceptor gave him, even when they were outside their habsuite—an absent touch to his arm, a quiet murmur of “be careful” before a mission, a hand at the small of his back when they walked through crowded corridors.
Brainstorm was not ready for any of it. Because he had assumed—wrongly, in hindsight—that Perceptor was a private mech, that someone of his stature and dignity would find it embarrassing to be caught coddling someone as unstable as Brainstorm. So scientist was hoping it would wear off - the high of a new relationship, the frequent interfacing, the heightened care—surely, that would all settle over time.
Because that’s how it works, isn’t it? Even the most important things—even love—eventually become just... background noise. Something you get used to. And that was fine with Brainstorm, because as long as he could just be near Perceptor, that was enough.
And yet—time went by, and Perceptor was still like that. Stubbornly, effortlessly gentle. Like this level of consideration for Brainstorm wasn’t something special or temporary, but something as natural to Perceptor as venting excess heat or recharging at night.
And that fact made Brainstorm want to claw at his own frame sometimes. Because what the frag was he supposed to do with that?