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In the tense silence, the pneumatic hiss of the airlock was as loud as a gunshot.
Megatron nearly twitched at the sound, his autonomic defence systems still operating on a hair trigger. But he held himself firm, projecting a solid presence for the crew around him. The danger had passed. They were out of the line of fire now—back on the ship, where they could see to their wounded and drink to the fact that they were still alive.
The door sealed itself behind them with one last, heavy clunk—as final as the swing of a guillotine. As the rest of the crew dispersed, murmuring to one another with an uncharacteristic subduedness, Megatron chanced a glance at his likely executioner.
Perceptor’s profile was stiff—his expression glacial, even for the no-nonsense scientist. His frown was rigidly apparent, as though carved out of stone, and it only settled more deeply as he turned to meet Megatron’s gaze.
“Do you realize,” began Perceptor with all the warmth of a fjord, “how narrowly we escaped today? How close we all came to perishing?”
“I’m aware,” Megatron replied, matching Perceptor’s frown. Of course he was aware, he’d been in the thick of it with the rest of them. But then, Perceptor knew that, just as he knew what role Megatron had played in their near-disaster.
Perceptor was a good deal shorter than him, and yet he managed to angle his helm in such a way that Megatron felt like he was the one being looked down upon. There was no timidity in his gaze; apparently the prospect of lecturing him was not the fearsome thing it once had been. That, or Perceptor held a particular courage when it came to matters of crew safety.
Whatever the case, he lacked—or simply did not care to employ—Soundwave’s subtlety, and it rankled.
“Then you are also aware, I’m sure,” said Perceptor, “that as a mech in command you have a responsibility to your crew.”
The anger was instinctive—the immediate indignation that anyone would dare question his leadership capabilities. He suffered derision from no mech; if not his wily ex-air commander, then certainly not an Au—a science officer.
But Megatron took a slow, deep vent and forced the old habit down. He wasn’t that type of leader anymore. He wasn’t that person. And making amends began with owning up to his mistakes. Perceptor had the right, if not exactly the authority, to hold him accountable.
“My primary responsibility is to lead, not to act as the party’s weapon,” he countered levelly. And though he believed the words, shame itched under his plating at the reminder. He could still taste the laser fire—hear the frustrated swears of the crew as they realized that their weaponry had been confiscated or disabled upon capture, and had not magically materialized post-escape.
Perceptor had made the shot that secured their getaway, but he and Megatron were the only ones that knew they nearly hadn’t made it—that the trigger had stuck, and his alt mode had refused to fire until the third press.
“Be that as it may,” said Perceptor, “you are one. And it’s irresponsible to pretend otherwise when that could be critical to protecting those in your charge”.
And to that, Megatron had no rebuttal.
He was aware that he’d been neglecting his maintenance—that it’d been far too long since he’d bothered to do anything at all about his alt mode. How he wished now that he’d found the time and willpower to change it before being called to this quest.
Of course, if he had done that—traded his alt for a heavy tank or plane, unable to maneuver in the tight corridors of their captors’ labyrinthian architecture—they might not all have made it back. And then he truly would have failed in his duty.
Somewhat reluctantly, Megatron grunted his agreement.
Some of the icy fury abated from Perceptor’s expression. Now, he looked at Megatron with careful consideration—a penetrating blue stare that put him on edge for an entirely different reason. Perceptor’s ideas were always effective. They were not always pleasant.
They stared at one another for a tense moment, and then Perceptor nodded curtly, as though agreeing with his own assessment.
“End of second shift. Your quarters,” he said. And before Megatron could protest, or demand for what?, he was striding away without so much as a dismissal.
Megatron watched Perceptor’s straight back disappear down the corridor with a growing sense of confusion and ire. He couldn’t possibly imagine what Perceptor had to say to him that required the use of his quarters, when he had a fully functional office. But it was too late now; he was due to report to medbay, and then he owed the rest of the command team a full debrief. Whatever it was could wait.
Still, as Megatorn left the scene of their conversation, he couldn’t shake the uneasy anticipation that prickled at the back of his neck.
***
“You almost got us killed,” was the first thing Perceptor said to him, as Megatron opened his door in response to the ping.
Megatron checked his chronometre. Punctual to a tee. He hadn’t expected anything less.
Still, he saw no reason to reiterate this argument—certainly not one that necessitated Perceptor showing up to his private quarters instead of requesting a formal meeting.
“I have little reason to use my alt mode of late,” said Megatron. It was an explanation, if not a defence of his actions.
In truth, it had been a source of consternation for him for some time. For one, he felt that there was something… hypocritical about fashioning himself a weapon in the face of his newfound pacifism. How could he prove himself committed to change, while still embodying the violence that had become his legacy?
For another, he still hadn’t fully shaken off the experience of being trapped in alt all those years ago, and with transformation sometimes came little flashes of memory—the frustration of being unable to move without assistance, the unending paranoia that someone might take advantage of his vulnerable state.
And then there was the most obvious problem: when he was in gun mode, someone had to wield him. There were few he trusted with that responsibility, and fewer still to be found on this ship.
“That’s no excuse to neglect basic maintenance,” said Perceptor. “For the sake of your own functioning, as well as others’.”
Megatron reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, beyond which he could feel a headache forming.
“Yes, well,” he said. “Thank you for your… input.” Rung had impressed upon him in one of their sessions the importance of acknowledging the crews’ contributions. “I will take it into consideration”.
Preceptor said nothing, but the slant of his mouth was decidedly unimpressed.
“It won’t happen again,” tried Megatron. What else could he say? He had a sneaking suspicion that the approachable, but authoritative leader tactic didn’t work on Perceptor. He would persist until he’d gotten the results he was after.
“No,” agreed Perceptor, “It won’t,” before moving forward with such confidence that Megatron stepped aside to let him in before he’d consciously made the decision. The door slid shut behind him.
Megatron watched as Perceptor marched over to his desk and began clearing the surface to make room for the case that he only now realized he was carrying. He watched as Perceptor laid the case flat on the desk and released the locks to reveal a number of supplies—supplies that were familiar in such a way that Megatron immediately tensed.
“When I pick up a gun,” said Perceptor, as he began to carefully remove cleaning implements from the case and arrange them on the desk, “whether it be a pistol, rifle, or one of Brainstorm’s outlandish creations, I expect to be able to rely on it. Just as this ship’s crew expects to be able to rely on their Captain.”
Megatron crossed his arms, increasingly uncomfortable with the direction that this was going.
“If you can’t be bothered to conduct basic maintenance on your own,” continued Perceptor, “how can we trust you with our larger well-being?” He looked up, and something in his tone—the glint of his targeting reticule—froze Megatron in place. “Do you want the trust of your crew, Megatron?”
Megatron shook off the strange spell, and cleared his throat in irritation before responding.
“I’m not a new-build,” he said, more irately than he’d intended. “I know how to take care of my frame”.
“Do you?” asked Perceptor, with deceptive neutrality. He was holding a cleaning brush, and something about the sight of it—soft bristles, firm grip—made Megatron’s thoughts derail again momentarily. Phantom sensations flitted across his frame, fragments of old memories that left his mouth dry. “Or have you typically enlisted the help of those close to you?”
Megatron fell silent. Perceptor’s guess was correct. He’d only let a few mecha assist him across the years, and there’d been fewer chances to ask as the war dragged on. Soundwave had often been out of reach or unavailable, and then there had been Deadlock—Drift’s—defection. In the end, it had been easier to neglect his maintenance than to allow someone the opportunity to handle him in such a vulnerable state.
Which once again begged the question as to why he hadn’t taken the chance to change his alt. Surely not in the vain hopes that someday, someone might—
Megatron dragged his processor away from that discomfiting train of thought, and realized that Perceptor was still waiting on a response. He 'hmph’d’ noncommittally, but was sure that the creak of his finger joints as they tightened involuntarily on his arm gave him away.
Perceptor raised a brow ridge, but nevertheless seemed to take that as assent.
“We may not be on friendly terms,” he said briskly, “But I am a professional, with extensive weapons handling knowledge. I am more than capable of attending to your needs”.
The words sent an unexpected crackle running up Megatron’s spinal strut, and on its heels, an uncomfortable realisation.
Yes, he thought. That may be the problem.
He could see no way out of this situation that didn’t involve flimsy excuses or unwelcome admissions. He supposed that he could request Ratchet’s assistance instead; he knew that the medic wouldn’t let personal enmity colour his treatment, and Perceptor could hardly muster any complaints about his qualifications. But somehow, that option was even less appealing than the one in front of him.
“Now,” said Perceptor, “transform”.
Megatron was abruptly struck by what a mosaic of contradictions this mech was. Scientist and combatant. Scholar and weapons specialist. He looked at Megatron with the cool assurance that came with expertise and expected to be obeyed.
He didn’t have to concede of course; ranks aside, Megatron’s autonomy hadn’t been so stripped from him that he couldn’t refuse to be manhandled like some inanimate piece of machinery. But Perceptor’s assessment wasn’t entirely incorrect, and he was offering a convenient solution to his problem.
As far as Megatron could tell, Perceptor’s primary concerns were crew safety and furthering various fields of science—not necessarily in that order. The chances of him having ulterior motives, or attempting to take advantage of his vulnerability to rid the ship of him, were slim to none. He was intelligent, and not above manipulation—obviously—but he wasn’t malicious.
And on a ship full of gossip-mongers, many of whom harboured an understandable grudge against him, he was a rare source of discretion.
Perceptor’s mouth quirked impatiently, as though Megatron were failing to meet another set of his asinine expectations, and that was the thing that finally broke the stalemate.
“Fine,” Megatron snarled, to cover up the way his spark quickened.
His neglected state was apparent even in his transformation sequence. Instead of sliding easily into place his parts twisted and came together with rusty precision, and more than a few embarrassing clicks. There was always something odd about the sensation of mass-displacement, some airy feeling that settled in his core every time he found himself reduced and in someone’s hands.
Perceptor caught him at the end of his transformation, and his grip was a warm counterpoint to the cool professionalism he exhuded as he began to turn Megatron around for inspection. His fingers were firm, but precise, never lingering in one spot for too long. After a few moments, he emitted an almost-pleased hum, and Megatron ignored the brief spark of sensation the noise ignited.
He couldn’t see like this—at least, not the same way he did while using his optics. It had the unfortunate side effect of heightening his other senses, and left him particularly receptive to tactile sensations, like that of Perceptor running his thumb along his barrel.
Megatron was so preoccupied with adjusting to his heightened perception that he didn’t notice Perceptor retrieving the charge inhibitor until he had magnetized it to his chassis. It left Megatron with the distinct impression of being collared, and indignation fought with some other, more elusive emotion as he debated whether to protest.
“It’s not that I question your self-control,” said Perceptor, as impassively as ever. “As I’m sure you’re aware, it’s critical that one adhere to certain safety procedures when dealing with high-powered energy weapons such as yourself.”
Megatron had doubts regarding the sincerity of his explanation. Before he could voice those doubts, however, Perceptor began stripping him down, and the inhibitor quickly became the least of his concerns.
Megatron wasn’t a stock-standard weapon, manufactured for easy disassembly and repair. Unlike factory-grade guns, his various pieces and components didn’t detach entirely from his chassis. But they did slide back and fold out for ease of access, and Perceptor had him open and exposed in record time. If he had thought letting Perceptor fire him earlier an act of uncomfortable vulnerability, it was nothing compared to this—his internals on display in the cool air and subject to the marksman’s laser focus.
“I’ll explain what I’m doing as I go along,” Perceptor told him, which was somewhat of a relief, as it allowed Megatron to brace himself before the bore brush slid down the length of his barrel.
What it didn’t do was dull the feeling of the brush’s firm bristles as they rasped back and forth along the sensitive metal, loosening the superficial deposits that had been burnt into the inner walls. As the buildup eroded and fell away, more of the underlying plating was exposed to the methodical torment, and it was all Megatron could do to keep himself from shuddering in Perceptor’s hands.
He was granted a short opportunity to regain his composure as Perceptor relented with the brush and turned to uncap one of the bottles on the desk. But the brief reprieve quickly revealed itself to be a curse in disguise, as moments later a solvent-covered rag was pushed through his barrel using the same brush, and he was forced to endure the shock of sensation anew.
Perceptor sighed, as he recovered the saturated, and no doubt freshly blackened rag.
“Filthy,” he noted. “It’s a wonder you didn’t misfire”.
Ordinarily, Megatron would have bristled at the reproachful tone. Caught off guard—too focused on managing his frame’s involuntary responses—it made something in him tighten instead.
“I’m going to clean out your chassis now,” Perceptor informed him. “I’ll use a brush for that as well”. Unfortunately, this time the warning had the opposite effect—prompting Megatron to tense with anticipation before the touch of the bristles.
Perceptor targeted his internals with a keen optic, erasing any evidence of old laser fire. The rhythmic motions of the brush were almost possible to ignore, almost soothing, once his sensors had adjusted—until Perceptor changed angles to target some hidden grime and Megatron had to build a tolerance to the pattern all over again. He locked down his vocaliser to keep from making any unseemly noises, but couldn’t stop the involuntary tremble that seized him intermittently.
“Stop fidgeting,” said Perceptor, and that answered the question as to whether he’d noticed. Shame lanced through him, brighter and hotter than the low buzzing in his circuitry. It was an involuntary, physical reaction—surely Perceptor knew that. “Or is it too much to ask you to exercise a modicum of self-control?”
“You—” Megatron rasped angrily, and then stopped as he realized how hoarse he sounded.
Fuming, he used every remaining scrap of willpower to force his frame to stillness. He braced himself against the texture of the brush, pushing it stubbornly to the background. He tuned out the prickle of solvent in his barrel—ignored the way it trickled down his chassis in tingling trails, and the humiliating chorus of droplets hitting the pan below.
“Good,” said Perceptor, and almost undid his hard work on the spot.
Megatron repressed his shivers as Perceptor swept a sinfully soft cloth along his internals. He endured the swabs, as Perceptor used them to delve into hard-to-reach places—all the hidden nooks and crannies unaccustomed to touch. He lasted, iron-willed and almost-shaking, until Perceptor broke out the steel wool.
“A minimal amount of corrosion is to be expected, over time,” said Perceptor, “but this is unacceptable”.
Megatron’s armour was substantially harder than the abrasive material. It didn’t hurt when Perceptor bore down, using a combination of oil and friction to clear away the build-up. The plating he uncovered was even more sensitive somehow—raw and exposed—and something about the scratch of the wool, the way it was soothed by the smooth slide of the oil, activated all of Megatron’s newfound sensors.
“You were a gladiator even before you were a soldier,” noted Perceptor. “Surely you know better than this; that keeping one’s weapon honed is often a matter of life and death”. He huffed disdainfully, as he used a small tool to scrape away what remained of the corrosion. “Would you wield a firearm that had been so neglected?”
Perceptor’s audacity was profoundly irritating, but it also stoked whatever inexplicable fire had taken up at the centre of him. This mech knew nothing about the life of a gladiator. He presumed far too much. And yet that didn’t stop the flicker of charge from racing across Megatron’s plating.
An involuntary physical reaction, he reminded himself, as arousal and mortification warred within him. Nothing more.
“I’m almost finished,” said Perceptor, as though he hadn’t noticed the tingle of electricity across his fingertips.
Megatron could only assume that he had chosen to ignore it—though whether from mercy or disdain, there was no telling. And he found that he was grateful and frustrated in equal measure.
There was no fighting the flush of heat this time, as Perceptor returned to the bore brush. There was something obscene about the back and forth slide, the way he could feel each individual strand trailing along the inside of his barrel. And as Megatron’s charge spun higher and higher—as Perceptor continued to ignore the telltale signs of his approaching overload—he realized finally why the other mech seemed so unconcerned.
The inhibitor. Perceptor had implied that it was to keep him from accidentally firing, but it was doing more than that now—sapping his charge just as it peaked, keeping him from tipping over the edge of total embarrassment.
That— That was…
In the end, Megatron couldn’t gather the processor power to decide just what it was. He shuddered again, from end to end, and this time Perceptor didn’t scold him. Pleasure licked at his circuits, and the entirety of his existence narrowed to the movement of Perceptor’s fingers—the texture of the soft cloth as he began to wipe him dry. He barely noticed the systems check, caught in the ebb and swell of tactile sensation. He had missed this.
The smell of polish—picked up by his rerouted olfactory sensors—eventually pulled him from his haze.
“That’s… unnecessary,” he managed, but his voice sounded far away, like it was emerging from the end of a long tunnel.
“I believe that’s at my discretion,” replied Perceptor, and Megatron didn’t have the wherewithal to argue.
He gave way beneath the soft pressure, relented to the rhythmic motion of Perceptor’s warm hands until he burned so hot at his core that he thought his plating would surely begin to melt.
“You really are an exemplary piece of equipment,” said Perceptor, the way that one might talk about the weather. It was so different from his previous criticisms that it took Megatron a second to realize that Perceptor was talking about him. When he did, a jolt of electricity struck him, tingling all the way to the end of his barrel.
Confused arousal tempered Megatron’s ire at being treated as a tool. He was more than his capacity for destruction. His purpose was infinitely greater than his function. He knew this. But Perceptor’s admiration was a far cry from the persecution he’d risen up against; it plucked at something small and shameful at the centre of his spark, some waifish spectre that craned into the recognition.
“That’s why I find it especially distasteful for you to neglect yourself,” continued Perceptor. “If you took more care, I’d be more than amenable to collaborating on the field—or perhaps the shooting range, if that’s more to your taste these days”. He ran a thumb slowly along Megatron’s plating—admiring his work, or perhaps him?—and released a satisfied hum.
Megatron, tormented by the charge dancing along his circuits, couldn’t muster a response. But clinging desperately to the edge as he was, he was almost inclined to agree.
“Think about it,” suggested Perceptor, and then he placed Megatron down on the chair.
What?
“I’m finished,” Perceptor informed him, before turning to the desk and beginning to pack up his case. “You may return to root mode”.
For a moment, Megatron was almost bowled over by the current of emotions that coursed through him—desperate arousal, sharp anger, a brief moment of dismay—before finally settling on frustrated resignation. He had no right to… expect anything of Perceptor. He’d done Megatron a badly needed service, nothing more.
“Unless there was something else?”
And though Megatron couldn’t meet Perceptor’s keen gaze, he felt it cut through him like a hot knife—and in that moment he knew that Perceptor knew.
In the end, Megatron couldn’t bring himself to ask. The words dangled on the tip of his tongue, danced at the edge of his lips, but refused to tumble out. Please.
“No,” he rasped instead, and transformed.
Perceptor’s work was immediately evident in the smooth sequence—years of neglect sanded away and leaving him a well-oiled machine. Nothing caught or stuck, and when he stood before Perceptor in root mode again he realized that the aches he’d barely parsed before—so accustomed to working through them—had entirely vanished.
Perceptor didn’t say anything, just looked at him expectantly. Megatron was sure that his current state was obvious in the way his armour cracked to dispel the excess heat, in his overbright optics, and he crossed his arms as though it might cover up the evidence.
Still, Perceptor didn’t look away. What was he waiting for—an expression of gratitude?
“Thank you,” Megatron gritted out, his pride worn thin by the tactile assault.
Perceptor simply raised an eyebrow.
“While it’s appreciated, that wasn’t quite what I was looking for,” he said, and then nodded at Megatron’s wrist.
What—ah. The inhibitor was still attached to him.
With some trepidation, Megatron plucked the offending device from his frame. He was right to be wary; he almost swayed in place as the charge surged through him—free to course even higher now that it wasn’t being artificially stifled. He was forced to grab the arm of the chair behind him to steady himself, and it was only through sheer force of will that he didn’t overload on the spot.
The rebound hurt, but Megatron pushed through it, holding the inhibitor stiffly out in front of him, and dropping it into Perceptor’s waiting hand.
“Thank you,” said Perceptor, and Megatron was almost sure that he was smiling, just the barest lift at the corner of his mouth.
Perceptor turned back and finished gathering his tools. He made efficient work of it—ignoring Megatron’s optics on him—and when he was finished, he left without another word.
As soon as the room was clear, Megatron released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in one long, shaky ventilation. He began to lower himself to the chair, and his struts gave out halfway there. Still wracked by a combination of disbelief and slowly fading arousal, he stared at the wall in front of him and let out a short laugh.
Once the fog had begun to clear from his mind, Megatron considered the day’s events and came to one crystal-clear conclusion: he wouldn’t be underestimating Perceptor again.
He was discomfited by how much he had enjoyed that, and unsure where to go from here. Perceptor was notoriously hard to read, and harder still for him to understand. For an Autobot, this had been an impressively duplicitous thing to do. Had he anticipated Megatron’s reactions? Had he encouraged them? Did he—would he do it again?
And perhaps more importantly, did Megatron want him to?
Megatron groaned, propped his elbows on the desk, and buried his face in his hands. He had half a mind to help the lingering charge in his frame to its natural conclusion, and half a mind to ignore it so that he could still call this a draw, rather than a defeat.
His deliberations were interrupted by a ping—a notification from Perceptor. With some trepidation, Megatron pulled up his calendar. Upon seeing the appointment details, his fans stuttered to a brief halt.
Maintenance, scheduled for a month from now.
[Accept invitation Y/N?]
Megatron stared at the invite, blinking innocuously at the edge of his HUD. As he did, he felt phantom hands run along his plating and dip into the seams of his armour. A reluctant shiver trailed up his spine.
Surrender, he thought, had never seemed so tempting.
…
…
…
[Invitation accepted.]