Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

<<

The thing is, Dead End knows he’s a coward.

Most of the time, he doesn’t care. Boltheads who brag about laughing in the face of danger and slag like that are the ones most likely to get themselves deactivated doing something stupid and completely avoidable. If Dead End gets labelled as weak because he’s not volunteering to put his life on the line whenever a new and high-risk situation pops up, then so be it. He cares more about his spark staying in one piece inside his chest.

It’s the times when he actually cares—when the risky situation is a personal one, one that has terror mixed with outrage searing through his fuel lines, and every instinct in his frame is screaming at him to get out before his systems lock up and his processor is hurled into an emergency shutdown—that he occasionally wishes he was a little braver. A little less likely to run away at the first opportunity.

Unfortunately, recognizing a problem isn’t the same as fixing it. Being self-aware doesn’t help him solve anything—it only means he hates himself a little more every time he knowingly makes things both easier and worse for himself.

So when Perceptor accuses him of waiting for the inevitable end of their relationship, tension vibrating between them like the rigid tines of a tuning fork, Dead End’s first instinct isn’t to defend himself, protesting that he cares too much about Perceptor to ever do that, or to fight back and argue that Perceptor is the one who’s constantly chipping at the limits of their relationship like it’s a science experiment and he’s testing how far its boundaries will go.

“You’re right,” says Dead End. The glyphs taste like battery acid in his mouth.

“...About?”

Dead End shrugs, half-sparked and deliberately careless. “I knew this was never going to last. Look at us—we’ve been arguing this whole time just because we don’t agree on the upcoming war, ever since you confronted me about going to the Decepticon rallies.” He pauses. “Actually, no. It started before that, when I was hiding stuff from you and you assumed the worst and snooped through my things. You said I don't trust you, but I don’t think you fully trust me either.”

“That didn’t come from me not trusting you,” Perceptor says tightly. “I simply wanted to know where you were really going, and you were unlikely to tell me the truth anytime soon. You even admitted that you didn’t know when you’d reveal everything to me.”

An incredulous sound sputters out of Dead End’s engine. “So you never even thought of letting me tell you on my own terms? You were always planning to turn this into a big fight?”

“It didn’t have to be a fight if you weren’t so confrontational—”

“Oh, it’s my fault now?”

“That’s not what I meant. I’m saying we don’t need to have an inevitable end. We’ve fought before, and we’ve learned from both our mistakes and moved on. That’s a normal part of being in a relationship.”

But Dead End knows better. Perceptor is an idealist, no matter how much he likes to pretend he’s the kind of bot who’s practical in every single situation. Dead End has always known that one day, he’ll get tired of Dead End’s unending negativity, and he’ll leave before he’s further dragged into his pessimistic orbit. Their opposing views of the Decepticons and Autobots might’ve sped it up, but the end would’ve happened eventually, after Dead End inevitably fragged things up and drove Perceptor away.

It's definitely a coward’s way out. Even so, it’ll be less painful in the long run, letting go of Perceptor now instead of selfishly clinging onto him and being forced to watch their relationship slowly crumble in the cycles to come.

“No,” says Dead End, and is horrified when the glyph is laced with a devastating amount of static. He swallows hard and tries again. “No, this is it. We’re done.”

Luckily—not that anything feels lucky to Dead End right now—the two of them hadn’t moved far from the front door throughout the entirety of their fight, so it’s not much effort for Dead End to reach out and hit the exit button. The door slides open, welcoming in sheets of rain pouring down from the dark, oppressive sky. Dead End switches on his headlights, but the twin beams barely cut through the gloom and even squinting doesn’t help his visual feed pick up on any concrete details outside.

“Dead End?” Something cracks in Perceptor's voice, followed by the rattling of metal joints as Perceptor turns to intercept him. “Where are you going?”

Digits brush Dead End's elbow joint. A chill pulses through his sensornet at the touch and Dead End hurriedly yanks his arm out of Perceptor's grasp.

“I can stay with my gestalt.” He swallows again in a useless attempt to clear the ridiculous blockage affecting his vocals. There must be something wrong with his vocalizer. Maybe Drag Strip can recommend him to a specialist, if he forgives Dead End for barging in and disturbing them all in the middle of the night. “They never got rid of my old berth. You don’t have to worry about me having a place to sleep, or about—anything else to do with me from now on.”

“Don’t go. Not like this.” Desperation colours Perceptor’s voice, seeping through his usual calm composure, and Dead End has to bite his lip before he says something he can’t take back. “It’s late and neither of us are functioning at optimal levels right now. Let’s recharge and talk again in the morning.”

Still an idealist at spark. Really, Dead End shouldn’t have been surprised that Perceptor is planning to sign up with the Autobots. He’ll fit right in with Optimus.

If only he hated Perceptor for making his decision. It’d make this so much easier.

“I’m not going to change my mind. And I know you’re not going to change yours, either. No point in wasting our time.” Dead End takes a step into the vicious darkness, grimacing as cold raindrops immediately start pelting his frame and pouring into the seams he’d just cleaned. He thinks longingly of their umbrella stashed in his and Perceptor’s hab, along with all his other belongings.

He can’t go back inside, though. If he does, Perceptor will find a way to convince him to stay the night, and he’s already made his own decision. The thought of waking up tomorrow and the day after that and however many limited days he has left, knowing he’ll need to leave eventually, is unbearable.

One day, Perceptor will understand this is for the best.

“You don’t know that for sure.” Perceptor’s quiet, last-ditch attempt is still clearly audible through the heavy rainstorm. “It doesn’t need to be a waste of time.”

“Well.” Dead End steels himself, then makes the cut. “It would be a waste for me. I just need you to leave me alone.”

Perceptor’s only reply is stunned silence. Maybe he’s surprised by the truth Dead End coated in layers of venom. Maybe Dead End’s finally hurt him beyond repair.

Either way, it’s not Dead End’s problem anymore. He doesn’t need to fill in the silence. He doesn’t owe him a goodbye.

He walks away, further into the rain, and he doesn’t look back.

<<

Dead End watches Perceptor present his lab reports at the science expo, optics and smile bright, and thinks, “I wouldn’t mind spending the rest of my life with you.”

>>

Dead End catches a glimpse of Perceptor on the other side of the battlefield, rifle in hand as he picks off the Decepticons storming towards the Autobots’ line of defenses, and thinks, “I wouldn’t mind never seeing you again for the rest of my life.”

<<

When Perceptor told him he’d be taking him on a surprise date for their decacycle anniversary, Dead End had foolishly expected something classically romantic, despite the fact that he and Perceptor have possibly one romantic strut in both of their frames combined. Something like a picnic in a crystal forest, or an overnight stay at a private inn with luxurious oil baths. Maybe even a trip to the singing lights at the core of Binary City.

Instead, when Perceptor initiates the command to reactivate Dead End’s visual feed, he finds himself at the entrance to a public shooting range.

At least, that's what the dented sign proclaims it to be. The building itself is ramshackle, with rust-brown paint breaking off the siding and blaster holes peppered through grimy windows. It forms an overall unattractive picture that sends Dead End’s expectations plummeting, but he's pleasantly surprised—an extremely rare occurrence—to discover multiple state-of-the-art targeting ranges inside, separated into lanes by energy fields stretching up to the high ceiling. All the lanes feature a console for adjusting the difficulty level, a table piled with both short and long-range firearms, and a mounted high-definition screen displaying the best scores ever recorded.

It's still far from what Dead End expected.

“Do you even know how to shoot?” he asks Perceptor.

Perceptor shrugs. “I’ve learned the basics.”

This turns out to be a massive understatement. Dead End’s optics nearly fizzle out of his head when he sees Perceptor casually heft his rented sniper rifle, align his sight, and hit every bull’s eye with unerring, deadly precision. Each shot echoes in the vast space with a loud crack that continuously draws attention from the wide-eyed bots in other lanes.

The sequence of Perceptor’s shot striking the centre of the target, followed by the target board letting out a cheery jingle to signal his successful hit, repeats over and over until Perceptor’s rifle runs out of charge. When that happens five astrominutes later, Perceptor straightens and frowns down at the rifle, looking way too peeved for someone who just ranked the top score on the range’s most challenging setting.

“Who did you 'learn the basics' from?” Dead End asks incredulously. “The most deadly sniper in the entire universe?”

“I taught myself,” says Perceptor, distracted. “I became interested in the pastime and dedicated some of my free time to watching instructional videos.” He lifts the gun higher, prodding at the trigger mechanism. “This part is sticking. No wonder the response time was 0.1% off. Were it not for that, I could’ve done better.”

Better? Dead End has seen certified champions with far less skill than Perceptor compete in professional marksmechship tournaments. And Perceptor expected to do better?

His ventilation system pings him, requesting permission for his cooling fans to come online. Dead End immediately denies the request.

“Hm. Well, I suppose this is alright for a rental,” says Perceptor. His gaze cuts to Dead End. “Am I correct in assuming you’ve never used a gun before?”

Dead End snorts. “Not unless a nail gun counts.”

“It does not.” Perceptor strides to the range’s console, tapping it to turn on the screen and modify the settings. The target board winks out of existence and a new one pops up, free of scorch marks and much closer than it was during Perceptor’s shooting session.

An electric thrill buzzes through Dead End’s internal lines. He’s not sure if it’s excitement, fear, or the consequence of not letting his fans cool down his overheated frame.

“Guess it’s my turn now?” he asks, holding out a servo to take Perceptor’s rifle.

Perceptor tilts his helm, appearing confused, before he seems to understand Dead End’s intention. “Oh, no. This rifle is designed for long-distance targets. Considering this is the easiest mode available and the targets are—” he glances at the console screen —“less than ten astrometres away, a handgun will suffice for you.”

He gestures to the weapons table.

“Oh.” There’s over a dozen different firearms spread out on the table. Dead End only knows they’re supposed to be different because each weapon’s name and model is helpfully labelled on tape affixed to its grip.

A handgun. Okay. He knows what a handgun is. Dead End moves further down and finds two smaller, handgun-shaped weapons near the edge of the table. He picks up the one that has less visible components and consequently looks less like he might accidentally shoot himself in the face with it.

Dead End takes over Perceptor’s spot at the marked line. From here, the target board looks a lot further away than ten astrometres. He has no idea how Perceptor effortlessly hit every bull’s eye when the target was on the complete opposite side of the lane.

But he can feel Perceptor’s intent stare at the back of his helm, watching and waiting, and that’s reason enough for him to try his best.

Five astrominutes later, Dead End lowers the smoking gun.

“That,” Perceptor starts. He pauses, clearly rethinking whatever his original choice of words was going to be, and tries again. “That wasn’t bad.”

In Dead End’s opinion, that is a massive understatement. The majority of his shots missed the target board completely. The few that didn’t are scattered across the outer rings of the board. Compared to Perceptor’s flawless shooting, his closest shot to the bull’s eye is nowhere near it.

“You know,” says Dead End, “you don’t have to lie to me.”

He means it, but something in his spark still dies a little when Perceptor doesn’t hesitate to jump on his invitation. “Okay, it could’ve been better—”

“Thanks,” mutters Dead End.

“—but for your first time with a gun, this is remarkable. You’ll be able to outshoot me in no time.”

Dead End directs a skeptical look up at the scoreboard, where Perceptor’s high score is sitting at the top of the leaderboard and surrounded by a ring of mini stylized crowns. “You sure about that?”

“Anyone can become skilled through dedicated study and practice.” Perceptor resets the range from the console, then approaches Dead End. “I’ll help you.”

“You’re gonna teach me how to shoot?”

Perceptor casts a critical look over him. “More accurately, I’m going to teach you how to properly hold a gun. We’ll get to the shooting part after that.”

Before Dead End can come up with a suitable retort, Perceptor’s at his side, nudging Dead End’s legs further apart with a knee between his own.

“Hey, what’re you—” splutters Dead End.

“Proper posture is crucial to good shooting,” says Perceptor, and when did his face get so close to Dead End’s? “Your leg struts should form a triangle. Keep your knees bent and both your pedes pointed outwards.”

Dead End follows his directions, but this has the unfortunate consequence of bringing his helm right up to Perceptor’s face and causing Perceptor’s ventilations to waft over his finials. He can feel them twitch at the constant puffs of warm air against the sensitive metal, and the sensation is so distracting that he almost misses what Perceptor says next.

“Move your right leg back, just a little bit.” When Dead End doesn’t comply right away, Perceptor uses the back of his pede to push said leg into the correct position. “Like this. It'll improve your balance and keep you stable while you’re shooting. Now, raise the gun to your optic level.”

After beating his processor and his system’s second cooling fans request into submission, Dead End obediently raises the gun, only for his train of thought to derail completely when Perceptor slides his servo over his trigger hand. The touch sends bright pinpricks cascading across his sensornet. If it weren’t for Perceptor pretty much holding his hand, Dead End is sure he would’ve dropped the gun.

“Not that high,” says Perceptor, pulling Dead End’s servo down slightly. “You want to have a clear view of your target.”

“Right.” Dead End peers down the barrel of the gun and tries hard to ignore the way his priority trees keep shoving his awareness of Perceptor’s frame being pressed too close to the top of all its trees.

“Excellent. Hold your digit against the blaster’s frame to keep it steady—yes, just like that. Then put your other digit on the trigger and look down the sight to aim. Don’t rush your shot. Wait until you’re ready before firing.”

Dead End in-vents. His focus narrows down to the distant target, the thrumming charge of the handgun between his servos, and the cool metal of Perceptor’s hand and frame against his own.

He squeezes the trigger.

>>

His shot explodes against the room’s entrance, blasting the closed door off its hinges and shaking the facility’s already weakened foundations. Dust and plaster rain down inside both the lab and the corridor where Dead End is standing with his gun still raised. His battle mask protects his intake from the worst of the debris, but his next in-vent still elicits a harsh wheezing noise from his backfiring engine. The sound is concerning enough that he takes a moment to set a reminder to schedule a maintenance check-up soon.

Of course, his engine problems won’t matter if this entire building falls down and crushes him. If Wildrider keeps setting off grenades despite being explicitly told by an irate Shadow Striker to stop, the likelihood of that happening is much higher than he’d like.

Dead End closes the reminder tab on his HUD and steadies his aim at the doorway. “That was your only warning!” he yells out. “We know you’re in there. You’ve got five astroseconds before I come in and start shooting!”

There's no answer. His audials only pick up the rhythmic sound of blasterfire ringing out throughout the other distant corridors, punctuated by the occasional scream. Trust a team led by Shadow Striker to be terrifyingly efficient.

Dead End double-checks that his threat evaluation routines are active, then braces himself and barges into the room.

It’s smaller than all the other rooms he’d checked, barely bigger than the cramped kitchen in the old hab he’d shared with his gestalt. Also unlike the other labs, this one is occupied. A lone figure is leaning against a computer terminal at the other end of the room, and Dead End’s targeting array instantly locks onto the bot’s visible Autobot insignia. He has his blaster up and pointed at the Autobot even before his scan finishes identifying exactly who the other bot is.

He freezes. Without any input from him, his battle mask slides down.

“What are you waiting for?” Perceptor asks coldly. “Shoot me.”

Perceptor and the terminal next to him are bracketed by chunks of fallen ceiling tiles that came perilously close to flattening them both. Crisscrossed steel rebars are visible through the gaping holes peppering the ceiling. A few smashed datapads litter the floor. The wall to Dead End’s left is covered with giant monitors that he assumes connect to the facility’s security camera network, with one bearing a cracked screen and dangling off the wall by a partially-broken mount. All the other monitors are functional, displaying several of the entrances and corridors around the facility. Dead End spots a few Decepticons, their small, grainy forms running along the lengths of the screens before disappearing from the camera’s line of sight.

But the thing that really catches Dead End’s attention is the low-density power cable connected between the terminal and the auxiliary port on Perceptor’s right thigh, with a visible crackle of charge running along the greying wire. He glances at the computer screen and sees hundreds of files flurrying across the monitor as they’re algorithmically sorted into new folders and vanishing as they’re transferred through the cable.

“If you’re not going to shoot,” says Perceptor slowly, as astroseconds go by and Dead End doesn’t move, “can you stop pointing your blaster at me?”

Shadow Striker’s orders were brutal in their simplicity: We don’t have the resources to take any prisoners. Terminate any Autobots you find and get those weapons plans at any cost. Her tone made it clear that defying her wasn’t an option.

Other than the shiny red Autobot badge and a few scuff lines over his helm and frame, Perceptor looks the same as the day Dead End walked out of his life.

Dead End lets out a long ex-vent.

Then he walks forward. Bits of ceiling tile crunch under his pedes as he approaches Perceptor and levels his blaster, unmistakably aimed at his spark.

“Pull out that cable,” he says, carefully modulating his vocals to be as flat as possible, and jerks his helm in the direction of said cable.

Perceptor stares at him. Dead End can practically see his systems running a tactical analysis, calculating the likelihood of Dead End’s willingness to shoot him and whether it’s worth attempting to call his bluff.

“Now, Perceptor,” growls Dead End.

After a beat, Perceptor slowly reaches down and unplugs the cable from his thigh port. On the screen, the file transfers immediately stop. Perceptor keeps the cable in his hand, curling his digits around it.

Making sure his blaster is still trained on Perceptor, Dead End reaches for the computer keyboard and opens up the first file he sees. Weapon schematics pop up on the screen, conveniently labelled as a prototype triple-barrel plasma cannon. Underneath the complicated diagrams are dense, jargon-filled paragraphs that make Dead End’s optics glaze over when he tries to read them, but he doesn’t need to understand the tech to get a read on what’s going on.

Perceptor must’ve been planning to download all the Autobots’ weapons plans onto his own drive, then escape with the information. The files for the plans must be huge, if Perceptor had decided not to speed up the process by wirelessly downloading them all so as not to risk overwhelming his processor. If he had, or if the Autobots had put up a little more resistance to the Decepticons currently storming through their no-longer-secret weapons engineering facility, maybe his idea would’ve worked.

Dead End looks at Perceptor. “Thought you’d know better than to store all the Autobots’ experimental weapons designs in the same place,” he sneers. “Did you manage to finish downloading most of them, or are there still a bunch of confidential plans stored on this thing?”

Perceptor looks right back at him. Despite being the one at Dead End’s mercy, his expression is as unfazed as ever. “Do you expect me to simply tell you that information?”

“You already know why the Decepticons are attacking this place,” says Dead End. “I’m sure you knew it long before Wildrider set off his first grenade. By now, all the Autobots who haven’t already evacuated are dead. Your chances of getting out of here are close to zero, and it’ll be even less than zero if anyone else finds out you’re storing the plans they’re looking for. So you might as well tell me. It won’t make a difference.”

“If it doesn’t make a difference, then I’d prefer to keep that information to myself.”

Primus. Dead End almost forgot how ridiculously stubborn Perceptor can be. “Is that information worth your life?”

“Yes,” says Perceptor, instantly and without hesitation. “Absolutely.”

Dead End is a bolthead for expecting any other answer. He rolls his optics, ignoring the sludge that’s suddenly churning uneasily in his fuel tank. “What a classic Autobot response. Is that what Optimus told you to say?”

Something flashes across Perceptor’s face. It passes too quickly for Dead End to decipher, but it’s still the first break in his stoic facade since Dead End confronted him, and the sight makes vicious satisfaction twist through his circuits.

“I don’t need Optimus to tell me that any of these weapons in Decepticon hands would result in catastrophic losses,” Perceptor says tersely. His grip on the cable tightens. “Of course, I would prefer to survive and return all these designs to the rest of the Autobots. But I will gladly deactivate here if it means preventing you from stealing them for Megatron.”

“Unfortunately for you,” says Dead End, “I’ve got very specific orders to steal them, and you’re not the one holding the blaster.”

Perceptor arches an optical ridge. “I was under the impression that you hated taking orders from anyone.”

Dead End supposes it was always going to be impossible for the two of them to have an untimely reunion without being haunted by the echoes of their last meeting and all the awful words they’d thrown in each other’s faces. It doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“Really?” Dead End closes the file and steps even closer to Perceptor, until his blaster is a wire’s breadth away from Perceptor’s Autobot insignia. “You wanna bring that up now, when I can shoot out your spark at any astrosecond?”

“You keep threatening to shoot me, and yet you haven’t.” Perceptor’s optics flare. “I’m starting to think you’re not going to follow through on it.”

They’re close enough that Dead End can make out even more faint scratches scoring Perceptor’s facial plating—scratches that weren’t there fifteen million cycles ago. He’s almost tempted to take an image capture, so he can compare it later with the pictures he has saved of his Perceptor from back then.

“Don’t test me, Perceptor,” he warns.

“Then do it.” Perceptor leans forward. Dead End jolts at the motion, blaster spasming in his grip as Perceptor shoves his chest panels against the muzzle. Metal clinks against glass. “I already told you. Shoot me.”

It'd be an easy motion. Dead End’s digit has been hovering over the trigger ever since he first turned his gun on Perceptor. One hard press down, and he'd get a front row view of Perceptor's spark getting blown to bits just like every other Autobot who died at the end of his blaster.

It'd be easy.

And yet. Dead End’s servo feels numb, like he's dunked it in liquid nitrogen. His digit might be physically close to the trigger, but it might as well be as far as Iacon from Protihex for all that he can close that infinitesimal distance.

Before the war, Dead End never wanted to be a killer. He enjoyed street brawls and the occasional bar fight as much as the next bot, but he'd never had the desire to personally deactivate someone over differing opinions. He hates that he's grown used to the mindless violence ingrained in the Decepticon faction. He hates that as time goes on, it gets easier and easier to blast through Autobots without thinking twice about who they were and what kind of life they lived before everything went to slag.

He hates that even so, Perceptor is right.

As much as he really, really hates Perceptor in this moment, as much as he’s both hated him and missed him ever since their breakup, he’d never be able to bring himself to kill him. It doesn’t matter that they’re on opposite sides now. It doesn’t matter that Perceptor himself has personally deactivated countless of Dead End’s allies.

Fifteen million cycles of war, and Dead End is still a coward.

He’s not sure how long he would have stood there, frozen with Perceptor’s fragile glass panels pushed against his gun’s muzzle and Perceptor’s challenging stare drilling into his own optics, if Dead End’s comm didn’t pick this moment to start ringing.

Dead End twitches at the sound, but thankfully manages to stop himself from accidentally discharging his weapon. He keeps his blaster pressed to Perceptor’s chest as he taps the side of his helm to pick up the call.

«Shadow Striker,» he acknowledges, hoping his relief isn’t audible.

«Where are you?» Shadow Striker snaps, not bothering with useless things like greetings or pleasantries. «I sent you to check out those hallways a whole astrocycle ago.»

«I’ve been busy. There's a lot of rooms down this corridor, and I was investigating—»

«I don’t care. We just got word that Autobot reinforcements are on their way, and we don’t have time to pick through every little thing they’re keeping in this place. If you haven’t found anything important, I need you back here to help clear out the last few Autobots so we can try to find the weapons designs before those reinforcements show up.»

Dead End’s gaze drifts to the terminal, where the weapon designs files are still prominently displayed on the screen. «Well, about that…»

On the other end of his blaster, Perceptor stiffens. Dead End half expects him to start pleading with him to not give away their location, or try bargaining with him to keep the plans safe, but he doesn’t say anything. He just watches him, waiting to see what Dead End does.

Is it because he already knows that anything he says won’t change Dead End’s mind? Or is it utterly misplaced faith from what he remembers of Dead End and the relationship they shared so long ago?

Dead End glances between the terminal, the power cable still looped around Perceptor’s servo, and the impassive expression on Perceptor’s face, and his logic functions begin putting together a plan of his own.

«...I found some older weapons plans,» continues Dead End. “From the early cycles of the war, judging by their styles. Should I download them?»

As he expected, Shadow Striker makes a derisive noise. «Don’t bother. Even if we wanted the Autobots’ outdated tech, I’m sure we’ve got all of them already. Leave it and get to my position.»

«Got it. I’ll be there soon.»

Dead End cuts the call.

Keenly aware of Perceptor still watching him, he lifts his blaster away from Perceptor’s chest and steps back. Perceptor doesn’t move from his spot, but Dead End catches the slight loosening of his struts as he relaxes.

“Dead End,” he says quietly. “Thank you. You’re doing the right—”

Dead End activates the command to snap his battle mask back into place. The sharp snick sound makes Perceptor recoil, and in that instant, Dead End changes target and fires.

Crackling erupts from the computer terminal as his shot rips through drives and wires before striking the central processing unit. The screen goes dark, moments before the whole setup catches fire. Sizzling flames quickly engulf the nearby monitors and leap up high enough to singe what’s left of the ceiling.

Perceptor’s mouth drops open as he stares at the fiery wreckage. Dead End savours the view.

“It’s been about ten astrominutes since we invaded this facility.” Dead End checks the charge level on his blaster. Low, but it’ll be enough. “You were using a low-density power cable to transfer those files. I’ve used those cables before, and no way you had enough time to download more than ten percent.” He meets Perceptor’s gaze. “You’re right. I’m not going to kill you. But if you won’t let me take the files, then I can’t let you leave with them either.”

“Rational,” acknowledges Perceptor. The flames begin to lick at the power cable in his grasp, and he finally lets it fall from his servo. “But I don't believe you've changed that much since we last met, so I suspect you were equally motivated by spite.”

Something about the self-assured way Perceptor says that makes the plating on Dead End's hackles rise. “Don't make me change my mind on letting you escape with all your neural circuits intact,” he snarls, raising his blaster and aiming at Perceptor again. “Now you know I can’t take the files myself. There’s nothing stopping you from getting out of here.”

“We’ve already established that you’re not going to kill me,” says Perceptor. Behind him, the fire continues to simmer, consuming the fallen ceiling tiles and the rest of the monitors. The acrid scent of burning, peeling drywall stings Dead End’s olfactory sensors. “So you can stop waving around that—”

Dead End shoots him.

A gasp, more of shock than pain, is torn from Perceptor’s vocalizer as he stumbles back from the impact of the point-blank shot. Wisps of smoke curl out from the fresh hole in his shoulder plating. He brings up a servo on instinct, before he seems to recognize that touching the wound would be a bad idea and drops it.

“You shot me,” he says, half incredulous and half wondering—though the wonder in his voice is slightly ruined by the way he’s hissing the glyphs out from between gritted dentae.

“Glad to know your optics work,” says Dead End. The black smoke filling the room is starting to clog his vents, and the extra energy his frame is using up to keep his systems operating at normal levels is muddling his thoughts. His processor feels like it's working at half its normal speed.

If he focuses on all the problems affecting his systems and how a small, ugly part of him is perversely delighted to prove Perceptor wrong, it’s much easier to ignore the sharp guilt clawing through his emotional subsystem.

“The other Decepticons already cleared the east wing,” he continues. “So if you stick to this side of the facility, you’ll have a decent chance of escaping without running into anyone. But if anyone does see you sneaking out of this section unharmed, they’ll know I just let you go.”

“Ah. A contingency plan.” Perceptor’s voice has evened out again. Dead End wonders if he shut off his pain receptors, before he remembers he’s not supposed to care. “You shot me to cover your own aft. I understand now.”

Dead End shouldn’t ask. He should push Perceptor to leave. But—

“Not what you expected from me?” slips out of his intake.

Perceptor looks at him for one long, scrutinizing moment. Smoke wreathes his helm in a misty halo.

“I always knew you were willing to do whatever it takes to achieve what you want,” he says. “I admired that about you. But I thought I was—an exception, I suppose, to the infinite list of things you’re prepared to sacrifice. I won’t make that mistake again.”

The words lodge into Dead End’s spark chamber and burn worse than the stray embers dancing through the air and settling over his frame.

As more charred ceiling chunks and broken rebars plummet around them, Perceptor slowly heads towards the doorway, treading over the cracked tiles and edging past Dead End with a wary glance down at his blaster. Dead End considers telling him not to worry, because he doesn’t plan to shoot him again. He considers apologizing. He considers confessing that sometimes, he still thinks about him, and sometimes, he wonders if the war and its ever-increasing toll was really worth sacrificing Perceptor’s presence in his life.

In the end, he says nothing, and he lets Perceptor slip out of the room and out of his life once again.

>>

Throughout the entire three astrocycles it takes Dead End to lock all of their new secret facility’s doors, make sure there’s enough space in the main area for their weapons testing, unload all their supplies from Astrotrain’s cargo hold, and frantically stop their volatile materials from exploding and blasting him to unspace, Astrotrain doesn’t stop laughing his head off.

“It’s not that funny,” Dead End finally bites out as he's picking up the last box from the cargo hold and carrying it out.

Astrotrain’s deep chuckles reverberating through his corridor make it clear that actually, he finds it very funny.

“Let me get this straight,” Astrotrain says gleefully, his glyphs punctuated with loud snorts of laughter. “You used to date that straight-laced Autobot microscope, until you dumped him. Then you two met again after your big war, and you asked him out again. And then he dumped you.”

“He didn't dump me,” mutters Dead End. “We never got back together, so that didn’t happen.”

“Close enough. Besides, you’re moping as if he dumped you.”

Dead End shouldn’t have spilled any of this Astrotrain, no matter how boring the journey to the middle of the Lithium Flats was and how annoying Astrotrain was while pestering him with increasingly invasive questions about his personal life. At the time, he didn’t think it mattered since Astrotrain only talks to two people in this universe, and Dead End doubted he’d bother blabbing about Dead End’s disastrous love life to Megatron.

He forgot about the sheer joy Astrotrain derives from making fun of him.

“That’s so embarrassing.”

“Shut up.”

“Is that why you left this universe? Because you were too humiliated after he rejected you?”

“Shut up.”

As Dead End drops the box with the rest of the others in the main space, Astrotrain transforms back into his root mode and kneels down so Dead End can have a better view of his giant smirk. “So what’s your plan now that you’re back in this universe? Avoid him for the rest of your functioning? Or sneak over the wall, profess your undying love, and beg him to give you another chance?”

“There’s no plan,” snaps Dead End. “And even if there was, it wouldn’t be any of your business.”

Obviously there’s something wrong with Astrotrain’s audials, because he ignores the latter half of Dead End’s words. “Then you’re a bolthead. Make sure I’m there when you meet him again. I’m going to record you humiliating yourself even more when you freeze up because you don’t know what to say to him.”

Dead End singles out the heaviest object nearby—a large block of iron for the cannon’s exterior mechanisms—and chucks it at Astrotrain’s leg. It barely makes a dent, but the annoyed growl Astrotrain lets out as he inspects his plating is still satisfying.

“You're not going anywhere near Perceptor,” says Dead End. “We’re going to be too busy trying to finish building the unspace cannon before the Other One shows up to kill us all.”

Astrotrain waves a dismissive servo, as if their lives aren't literally depending on them getting the weapon done. “I can make time to fly over and visit your boy toy.”

Dead End chokes on nothing. “He’s not my—don’t call him that!”

“Didn’t you say he’s a big-shot scientist? He’d be a more useful assistant than you.”

“He’s an Autobot.”

“And you’re an idiot. If I got to pick, I’d take the Autobot.”

Dead End starts rummaging through the largest box he’d hauled out, searching for another big chunk of metal to throw at Astrotrain’s dumb face. “Well, too bad. You’re a Decepticon, so he’d never agree to work with you.”

Astrotrain cocks his head to one side. “You never said he doesn’t like Decepticons.”

“Huh?” Dead End pauses and looks up at him. “I told you earlier. Perceptor turned me down because I wouldn’t leave the Decepticons.”

“You didn’t say that. You said he rejected you because you really just wanted to pretend everything’s over and you two could go back to your old life.”

Frag. Dead End really shouldn't have vented about all of his problems to Astrotrain.

“Besides,” adds Astrotrain, “he was a member of your little resistance group running around fighting the Quintessons. If he hates Decepticons, wouldn’t he have refused to work with you back then?”

The thought makes Dead End’s coding stumble over a few lines. That had never crossed his mind, probably because he knows it never would’ve crossed Perceptor’s mind. Perceptor isn’t the kind of bot who’d let something like factions stop him from saving the world. In this case, it’s not even out of duty to some moral Autobot code. As soon as he broke out of the Loop on his own, Perceptor would’ve calculated his best chance of freeing the rest of Cybertron, and promptly set out to enact that exact plan. Simple as that.

Unbidden, Dead End’s memory banks play back their reunion at Maccadam’s, how Perceptor defended him from Hot Rod by describing all of Dead End’s few good qualities, and—

The chances of us succeeding in freeing the rest of Cybertron rise significantly with Dead End here.

Dead End shoves the memory aside and returns his focus to the box of metals, digging through the contents and pretending he doesn’t know Astrotrain is still watching him intently. “No, he’d still have worked with me. Perceptor’s an Autobot through and through. Even if his worst enemy asked for help, he’d put his own life in danger to save theirs.”

Astrotrain snorts. “Doesn’t sound like your type.”

“Wha—” Dead End throws his servos in the air and nearly upends the entire box. A few large pieces of metal spill out. “Why does everyone keep saying that? What does it look like my type is?”

“Someone just as awful and rusted as you,” Astrotrain says promptly.

In hindsight, he should’ve seen that coming. “I hate you,” Dead End informs him, and he grabs a fallen chunk of nickel to fling at Astrotrain.

Unfortunately, Astrotrain seems to be expecting it this time and easily catches it. He looks at the piece of nickel, then back at Dead End as if he’s seriously considering dropping it on Dead End’s head. “I don’t know what your Autobot microscope sees in you.”

“If I ever find out, I’ll tell you,” says Dead End.

“Does that mean I can meet—”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re no fun,” grumbles Astrotrain, tossing the piece of metal aside and standing up. “Well, you should go talk to him and resolve whatever’s wrong between you two. You’re not going to be of any help to me, but you’re going to be even less help if you spend the entire time pining over your ex.”

Dead End scoffs as Astrotrain lumbers away. As if he can just climb over the new border wall, track down Perceptor, and talk to him. Even if all his time wasn’t going to be occupied for the next long while with constructing the unspace weapon, he doesn’t have anything to say to Perceptor. And if Perceptor has anything to say to him, Dead End doubts he wants to hear it. Not after he left their group without a backwards glance to rejoin Megatron, exactly the way Perceptor feared he would.

He can never let Astrotrain know that he’s right—that when he approached Megatron with the idea of stealing the multiverse drive and leaving forever, his main goal was to get as far away from Perceptor as possible. He never made a plan for what to do if he unexpectedly returned. He never thought he’d need to worry about what to say if he met Perceptor again. It’s the first time in a very long while that Dead End hasn’t had a clear road of what he wants ahead of him.

The only bright side to this situation is that if the other Megatron breaks into their universe and slaughters them all before they’ve finished building the unspace cannon, none of this will matter.

Right now, Dead End knows the easiest and right thing to do is to keep his head down and do what Megatron wants. For all that he hates having to work with Astrotrain, he’s fine with building the unspace weapon since it conveniently aligns with his goal of not getting his spark ripped out by the Other One. But after that…

After that, there’s a whole future in this universe to consider, stretching endlessly ahead of him like a vast, empty landscape.

<<

Despite Dead End’s best attempt to move around their habsuite as quietly as possible, Perceptor begins to stir after Dead End bangs his pede against their overly-large drawer and hisses out a quiet, furious stream of curses at the inanimate object.

“Dead End?” murmurs Perceptor, rubbing at his optics. Dead End knows Perceptor would hate it if he ever called him cute to his face, but…sometimes it’s true. “Is that you?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s fine. I don’t need to go to the lab until the afternoon.” The covers shift as Perceptor rolls over to face him. “What time is it?”

“Too early,” mumbles Dead End. “Motormaster roped me into working a double shift. Honestly, it’s a good thing you weren’t awake when I came back. Pretty sure I had mud stuck in every single transformation seam.”

Perceptor’s optics glow a luminous blue in the dark room. “I assume you already cleaned in the washracks and refuelled?”

“Of course.”

In answer, Perceptor lifts up the berth covers and clumsily pats the empty space beside him.

A rush of fondness wells up inside Dead End as he pads over, making sure to avoid the drawer this time, and climbs in next to him. In the winter air, the thick blanket Perceptor drapes over his icy frame feels like a gift from Primus, and Dead End snuggles deeper into the berth with a contented ex-vent.

He turns to face Perceptor and finds him staring right back at him, close enough that he can see the little stressed wrinkles near the corners of Perceptor’s mouth that even an interrupted recharge couldn’t get rid of.

“Had a long day too?” Dead End asks quietly.

Perceptor nods. The motion shapes new indents against his pillow. “We were set to present the prototype of our updated hydrocarbon-based fuel engine today, but there was a problem with the ignition coils, and it caused the corrosion of—” He breaks off as his jaw splits in a wide yawn. “Excuse me. Ah, perhaps this will be easier if I…”

There’s a rustling sound, and Dead End's gaze flicks down as Perceptor unspools his data transfer cable and proffers it to him. The black plug is barely visible, even with the dim moonlight reflecting off its glossy prongs.

Dead End doesn’t hesitate to take the cable and open a port on his chassis to plug it in. The connection clicks in and he accepts the request for permission, lowering his mainframe firewalls and sinking back into the berth as Perceptor's memories start to fold into his mind. Perceptor is careful to control the tidal wave of information, only allowing his memory of yesterday's shift at the lab to trickle into Dead End's processor.

As Dead End watches the replay of Perceptor’s duty shift, Perceptor’s thoughts and emotions during the memory bleed into his own processor. He feels Perceptor’s frustration when he locates the corroded spark plugs, his intense concentration as he eventually swaps in new electrodes to regenerate functioning sparks, his satisfaction and pride when he succeeds and the engine finally works as planned just in time for his team’s presentation.

Even though most of the technical jargon running through Perceptor’s mind during his problem-solving moments doesn’t mean anything to Dead End, it’s interesting to watch. Throughout the entire memory playback, though, he’s distracted by his awareness of the present Perceptor’s current feelings as he observes Dead End: mostly sleepiness, but it’s overlaid with a fuzzy, contented warmth that floods through Dead End’s lines and soothes his own tired actuators.

Dead End jolts as the memory ends, his optics cycling as they re-adjust to the gloom of their silent habsuite.

“What do you think?” asks Perceptor.

“I love you,” answers Dead End.

Perceptor’s mouth falls open. Suddenly, he looks and feels a little more awake, and it takes a few astroseconds for the realization to kick in.

“Oh. You mean about the prototype engine,” says Dead End, feeling like the biggest bolthead on the planet. “Uhhh. It’s great. I didn’t understand most of the science stuff, but it’s—”

“Do you mean that?” Perceptor asks quietly.

Dead End’s first instinct is to deny it. But they’re still connected through Perceptor’s cable, and he can feel the mixture of cautious hope and blooming happiness and Perceptor’s own sincere adoration for him—for Dead End—pulsing over their shared link. He can also feel—

“If you already know the answer,” grumbles Dead End, “why bother asking?”

Amusement streams over their shared link, even as Perceptor’s expression visibly softens. “I do know the answer, but it’s still nice to hear it out loud.”

Part of Dead End is grateful no one else can see what must be the world’s most embarrassingly sappy look on his face. The other part of him wishes his gestalt could see this, if only so Dead End can rub the domestic life he’s built with the person he cares for most in their faces. They thought it was impossible—he thought it was impossible—but now it’s his reality. Now it’s the life he gets to live every day.

If anyone asked him, right at this instant, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

“I’m not saying it again,” Dead End tells him, just before powering off his optics and slipping his hand into Perceptor’s. “But…I’ll remember to say it out loud another day.”

The incandescent happiness that flows from Perceptor as he drifts off to sleep could power the entire universe.

>>

The street outside Maccadam’s is completely deserted.

Dead End frowns, glancing up and down the empty road as metal tumbleweeds drift past. The only sound his audials can pick up is the whistling of the faint breeze billowing down the street, rising and falling in time with the flickering, half-repaired neon sign of Maccadam’s face set above the bar’s front doors.

Even after Iaconus finally woke up, only to die a couple thousand astrometres away, it didn't take long for both Decepticons and Autobots to hunt down Maccadam's new location and honour Soundwave’s sacrifice by making a sizable dent in the Titan’s seemingly endless stash of fuel. With the new Maccadam’s address now public information, it’s become the same popular gathering spot it was before the war. Perceptor, as the new owner, had supposedly made it clear he’d be strictly enforcing Maccadam’s old ‘no fighting’ rule, and insisted on welcoming everyone as customers regardless of what faction badge they wear.

It’s sparkwarming, Dead End supposes, to have such an indisputable sign that the war is really over this time.

It also doesn’t explain why the bar looks completely abandoned on what should be a typical busy night. Sure, plenty of areas on Cybertron are still shut down after going through an apocalyptic alien invasion and then a dimension-hopping evil army invasion, but Dead End has heard about Maccadam’s staying lively from dawn to dusk every night despite being surrounded by the decaying ruins of the rest of Iacon. As far as he knows, there’s no reason for the entire area to be as quiet as it used to be when the Quintessons had taken over.

He crosses the street, eyeing the shuttered neighbouring buildings in case this is some big prank and there are people waiting to ambush him. A part of Dead End wishes he had his blaster on him just in case, but he’s heard that Perceptor had taken the rules a step further than Maccadam and outright banned weapons to dissuade any more fights or rampant destruction from happening in the bar. Dead End has no idea how Perceptor manages to keep all his rowdy customers in line when everyone knows he isn’t carrying so much as a force shield blaster, but he trusts Perceptor’s intelligence—no doubt he’s found a way to make it work.

The familiar front doors glide open as Dead End approaches it, dispelling his growing fear that Maccadam’s was shut down and no one told him. Despite the open doors, though, the only bot inside the bar is Clobber, sitting on the floor and humming along to the newly-fixed jukebox’s cheerful melody as she attempts to stack a tower of metal playing cards.

At the sound of his entrance, Clobber looks up and grins, offering him a wave. “Dead End! Hey!”

“Hey,” says Dead End. At first glance, the bar looks normal, but it doesn’t take long for his visual feed to detect a small oil spill under a nearby table, plus a few discarded menus hidden in the room’s dark corners as if someone had hastily kicked them out of sight. “Why are you the only one here?”

Clobber gingerly lowers her servo, careful not to accidentally knock over her card tower. “I’m supposed to tell you that it’s because the bar was closed today to celebrate a holiday Hot Rod told me to make up. But I’ve been trying to think of a name for a holiday, and…” She makes a frustrated sound. “I just can't come up with a good one. Oh, and I’m supposed to mention that because of the holiday that doesn’t exist, Percy took the night off and wanted me to guard Maccadam’s. Since he’s definitely not here right now.”

“Oookay,” Dead End says slowly. His gaze snags on her new Autobot badge, shining bright red in the centre of her chest, and he quickly looks away to meet her optic instead. “And what’s the real reason?”

“Ummm,” says Clobber, fidgeting, “what real reason?”

Dead End gives her his best judgemental stare.

She endures it for five astroseconds before crumbling like siltstone. “Okay, the real reason is that Whirl was flying over the city, and he saw you crossing the old border and heading in this direction. So he commed Percy to tell him you were coming, because Percy had asked us to let him know if we ever saw you. And then Percy told everyone in the bar that he was closing for a personal emergency and kicked them all out. Except me.” She looks very proud of this fact. “He needed to get more energon from the depot, so he asked me to guard the bar. That part’s true.”

Well, frag.

Dead End had been counting on sneaking into Maccadam’s unannounced so he could down a few mugs of engex before speaking with Perceptor. Knowing that Perceptor is already aware he's here and that he'd gone to such dramatic lengths to prepare for his arrival makes his fuel tank twist, and he double-checks that the list of talking points he'd hastily scribbled on the way is still stored in his planning queue.

“He should be back soon,” adds Clobber. Dead End isn’t sure if that’s supposed to be reassuring or if she knows it’s a warning. “He’s been down there for a pretty long time, actually—oh, that must be him!”

The chime of the elevator in the back room rings throughout the bar. Every strut in Dead End’s frame tenses.

Perceptor strolls into the bar, the top of his helm barely visible over the giant crate of engex he’s carrying, and easily navigates to the bartender’s side of the counter. He drops the crate on the floor and stretches out his arms, rubbing out the strain on his wrists, before he catches sight of Dead End standing in the middle of the bar and freezes.

The two of them stare at each other in equally stunned silence. Dead End’s visual input takes in the new black lens covers patched over Perceptor’s damaged optics—Ratchet’s handiwork, probably. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the lens covers, or if it’s because this is the first time he and Perceptor have met since Dead End ditched this universe with Megatron, but he can’t read Perceptor’s expression at all.

“You don’t look very surprised to see me,” Perceptor says finally.

Dead End crosses his arms over his chest. “Clobber told me you knew I was coming, so…no, I’m not.”

Perceptor rounds on Clobber. “Clobber,” he says sharply.

“He asked what really happened!” she protests. “I didn’t want to lie to him!”

Despite himself, Dead End is touched, and he makes a mental note to invite her out for a drink the next time he sees her.

Perceptor pinches the metal between his optics. “Fine. Thank you for watching the bar for me, Clobber. You can go now.”

Clobber looks between the two of them with undisguised fascination. “Do I have to? Hot Rod said if I record whatever happens between you two and share it with him, he’ll—”

“If you record our conversation, I will be banning both you and Hot Rod from Maccadam’s for the next ten million astrocycles,” says Perceptor.

“Right, I’ll be off then.” Clobber hops up and takes off with one last “Have fun!” yelled over her shoulder.

The moment the doors slide closed behind her, the atmosphere turns heavy and stifling. Dead End can't quite meet Perceptor’s gaze, and he settles for examining the tower of cards Clobber left on the bar floor. It’s currently standing upright, but he can tell she'd stacked too much weight on the left side—one hard ex-vent in its direction would probably knock the tower over. It’ll be a miracle if the entire thing doesn’t come toppling down before he leaves.

Perceptor still isn't saying anything, and the silence drags on long enough that Dead End eventually gives up and shatters it.

“Already abusing your authority as the new owner, huh?” he asks, looking back at him.

There's a faint twitch in Perceptor's faceplates. “There are several perks to owning Maccadam’s,” he acknowledges, “and I intend to make use of them.”

“Is free engex one of those perks?”

“It is for me.” Perceptor’s scope tilts up. “Not for you.”

“Wow,” says Dead End. “You mean I don’t get free fuel for being your…”

He trails off. What is he to Perceptor? A tentative ally? An enemy? Just his ex?

If Dead End knew the answer to that question, he wouldn’t be here right now.

Perceptor heaves an ex-vent. “Take a seat, Dead End,” he says, sounding both tired and apprehensive at the same time. “I’ll get you some energon. Then we’ll talk.”

“... Can I have engex instead?”

“No.”

Dead End pulls out the nearest bar stool and sits down, watching as Perceptor takes out a large fuel can from the crate he’d brought up. He moves like he’s worked here for thousands of cycles, smoothly pulling mugs from cupboards and fuel additives from drawers, then shaking and stirring the drinks with practiced, confident motions. Either Maccadam left very detailed instructions for running his bar or Perceptor is just naturally good at this bartending gig.

Probably the latter. There aren’t many things that Perceptor isn’t good at.

Perceptor pours the energon into two separate mugs and slides one in front of Dead End.

“So,” says Perceptor.

Dead End picks up his mug and takes a slow sip. It tastes almost exactly like the way Maccadam made it, except it’s topped with zinc shavings—Dead End’s preferred energon topping—and chilled to the exact temperature Dead End likes his energon. He carefully doesn’t let his reaction show on his face.

“So,” echoes Dead End.

Perceptor drums his digits against the counter. The rhythmic tapping of metal on metal should be annoying, but instead the sound jolts memories loose from Dead End’s long-term storage modules: too many late evenings to count spent with Perceptor as he sorted through his latest problems from work, mumbling incomprehensible science terminology and mathematical formulas to himself. Although Dead End never minded staying with Perceptor during those times, he never thought his presence did anything to help until Perceptor once admitted his processor felt clearer and more efficient when Dead End was around.

A pang shoots through Dead End's spark, deep and aching.

The notes he’d written in his planning queue contain all the things he wants to say to Perceptor. All the things he’s been contemplating ever since he returned to this universe and had too much time to think while building the unspace cannon with Astrotrain. Everything he needs to tell him, in case this is the last conversation they ever have.

But as he watches Perceptor take a long draught from his own mug of energon, all of the words he'd written down are spontaneously overruled and deleted by his neural net.

“I'm not going to apologize,” says Dead End.

Without pause, Perceptor lowers his mug and raises an optical ridge. “For what?”

“For leaving—” you— “everyone behind in this universe.” He thinks about it and then adds, “and for shooting Wheeljack.”

To his surprise, Perceptor lets out an amused huff. “I never expected you to apologize for that, and neither does Wheeljack. He said, and I quote, ‘I’ll consider it a fair exchange for the free entertainment Dead End provided when he showed up at the lab badly overcharged and started yelling about how much he—’”

“I get it, you don’t need to say the rest,” Dead End says hurriedly. That’s a memory he’s more than happy to keep buried in his storage modules forever.

Perceptor smiles slightly. “Wheeljack is fine. It’s not the worst injury he’s experienced since the war started.” Just as quickly as it appeared, his smile vanishes. “In fact, I daresay the time you shot me left a more severe wound.”

Dead End stares at him. “Are you still holding a grudge over that? It happened over fifty million cycles ago.”

“Does it matter how long ago it was? You shot me.”

“Just a little bit! Obviously it didn’t kill you!”

“It still hurt!”

At that, Dead End stops. He vents out slowly, forcing his ruffled plating to smooth back down.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says.

“You shot me,” Perceptor reminds him.

“I know that!” snaps Dead End. “I mean. I didn’t mean to, uh. Hurt you in a non-physical way.”

“Ah.”

Perceptor’s scope jerks into motion, making Dead End startle, but it swivels in the direction of the pantry underneath the counter where Perceptor is standing. Perceptor backs up to open the door and pull out a stack of large microfibre cloths. He sets the pile of cloths down on the counter, nudging the pantry door shut with his hip.

“I won’t deny that I was more hurt by the fact that you would shoot me, rather than the shot itself,” Perceptor says quietly.

Dead End puts his mug down with a sharp clunk that resounds around the room. “I did what I needed to do. Maybe there was a better way, but I’m not a genius like you. That was the only option I could think of that wouldn’t risk both of us getting deactivated.”

“And leaving this universe?” says Perceptor, a hint of a challenge creeping into his voice. “Is that also ‘what you needed to do?’ I may not expect an apology from you, but I’d still like an explanation.”

Dead End looks away. The bar’s soft lighting reflects off the cards of Clobber’s tower, their metal surfaces casting dappled shards of gold on the floor. As he watches, the two topmost cards slip off the top and tumble to the floor, landing on top of each other over one of the golden patches.

“I didn’t want to think,” he says. The confession comes out easier when he doesn’t have to say it right to Perceptor’s face. “About you, or the Quintessons, or an alliance with the Autobots when that would’ve been unthinkable a decacycle ago, or—anything. Going off with Megatron and leaving everything behind seemed like a good opportunity to stop thinking about all of that.” It’s still weird to remember that Megatron is dead. It’s equally weird to remember that Astrotrain is also dead. Even now, Dead End occasionally catches himself opening up his comm to ask a question or hurl the perfect insult, only for remembrance to sink in a moment later.

He cuts a sideways glance at Perceptor. “I know you're going to say I was running away or whatever, so you don’t need to waste your ventilations telling me again.”

Perceptor picks up an unwashed energon mug out of a pile of other dirty mugs from the side of the counter, so well hidden in the cupboards’ shadows that Dead End didn’t even notice it. “I won’t say it,” says Perceptor as he begins to wipe the mug clean with a cloth. “But it’s good to know you’ve reached that level of self-awareness.”

Dead End snorts. “‘You say that like I didn’t already know that about myself. I did. You never needed to tell me.” His joints creak as he shifts on the bar stool. “It’s just easier if I act like no one knows that about me. Especially you. I know it’s not exactly one of those shining positive traits you lo—like about me.”

“It’s not,” Perceptor says bluntly. “But no one’s personality matrix only consists of positive components, and I certainly never expected you to be the exception.” He inspects the mug for any remaining traces of dried fuel before nodding to himself and setting it aside. “Besides, me accusing you of running away is, admittedly, rather hypocritical since I do the same thing.”

“Huh?” Dead End cycles his optics. “You? When?”

Perceptor’s mouth curves up in a small, self-deprecating smile. “I could have run after you, the night you walked away from me. I could have stayed in that security control room, instead of following your orders to leave. I could have used the Autobots’ resources to track you down in all the cycles that followed, but I never did. There was always a better option, but I was—afraid, of finding out that you really were over me and had moved on from our previous relationship. And it was easier, in those moments, to pretend I'd fully gotten over you too. Even if it meant letting you leave.”

“You…Perceptor, most of those weren’t even your fault,” Dead End points out. “I’m the one who broke up with you, so it’s not like I expected you to stay back and have a nice, friendly chat with me after I blew up the Autobots’ weapons plans and shot you.”

“A relationship isn’t built by blaming the other person whenever something goes wrong.” Perceptor grabs another stained mug and starts scrubbing furiously at the glass. “It’s true that I resented you quite a bit for giving up on me—on us—so easily.” Dead End flinches, but Perceptor keeps going. “But eventually, I thought about everything you said to me that night, and while I still didn’t agree with most of what you said, you brought up a considerable number of points that I was forced to acknowledge. How I treated you, for one.”

This conversation is diverging so far from what Dead End expected that his processor is spinning uselessly like a racecar with its tires stuck in a mud pit. “Hey. That’s not—listen, I was really mad, and deliberately lashing out to provoke you—”

“That doesn’t make it any less true. I never meant to make you feel like you were my subordinate, or in any way lesser than me, but I did.” A faint cracking sound splits the air as Perceptor squeezes the glass in his servo too tightly. Dead End shoots it an alarmed look, but Perceptor doesn’t even seem to notice. “I started taking your presence for granted. And for that, Dead End, I can never apologize enough.”

“...Is this to make me feel bad?” Dead End says weakly, trying to keep his tone light so that Perceptor knows he’s joking. Mostly. “Because I already said that I’m not going to apologize?”

Perceptor shakes his head. “No. Back then and now, I never intended to make you feel worse about yourself. I simply didn’t want you to hide the less likable sides of yourself from me. I was hoping that one day, you’d trust me enough to share everything.”

Dead End's spinning processor grinds to a halt.

He'd been so convinced that Perceptor would be the one eventually walking away from him that he’d never thought—or maybe he'd never dared to think—that Perceptor might want to stay. That he'd still like Dead End even after realizing that Dead End is, deep down, not a very likable person.

Like Perceptor said, it was easier to protect himself by leaving first and pretending he wasn't ripping out his own spark by doing so, before Perceptor could do it first.

Maybe they're more alike than he ever thought.

As Dead End tries to remember how to string glyphs together after experiencing a small processor reboot, the determination in Perceptor's expression begins to melt into uncertainty. “I suppose this is a lot to dump on you at once—”

“It’s not that!” Dead End says quickly, before Perceptor can start regretting his words. “You just surprised me. You’re not usually this…honest.”

Perceptor’s death grip on the mug finally slackens. He puts it down, wincing as his scope runs over it and he notices the new crack splintering along its side. It gleams moon-white under the bar’s lighting. “Well, trust goes both ways. I can't expect you to be honest with me if I never bare my own spark.”

Trust goes both ways.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Dead End blurts out, “I always thought you deserved better than me.”

Perceptor stills.

“I mean, you’re incredible,” continues Dead End. “Not just because you’re an insanely perceptive genius. You’re good at everything you do because you work your aft off to get good at everything, and it inspires the bots around you to work hard too. You judge other people, but you still do your best to help anyone who asks. You once said you admired me for being a realist, but I’ve always thought it takes way more strength to know everything that can go wrong and still believe things can get better.” His vocalizer feels like it’s on the verge of shorting out, but he presses on. “More than anyone, I really didn’t want the war to change who you are. I wanted to shield you from everything I knew was coming. Even if I knew it was impossible in the long run.”

Dead End curls his servos into fists. “So even when I tried to convince myself I never wanted to see you again—all those times I really, really tried to hate the bot you’d become—I didn’t. Because you were still cold and rude and full of yourself, and I couldn’t believe you called me ‘stubborn to a fault’ when you’re still most fragging stubborn bot on all of Cybertron, and I was relieved you were still the same Perceptor I fell in love with. The same person who somehow liked me back, and I never understood why because all your flaws are nothing compared to everything that’s wrong with me and all the times I’ve messed things up. Even after all this time…I still don’t know what you see in me.”

An uneasy quiet falls over the room after he finishes his impromptu speech. Belatedly, Dead End realizes the jukebox had run through its entire playlist and shut itself off at some point after his arrival.

Perceptor’s scope is tilted directly at Dead End’s face like he can’t quite believe the words that came out of his mouth. Understandable, since Dead End is having trouble believing it too. He’d never planned to reveal that much to Perceptor. His spark is spinning furiously behind his chest panels, even faster than the time he’d had to sprint away from the other cannon-wielding Megatron across a dark, war-torn field in an unknown universe.

Now he knows why the expression is ‘baring one’s spark.’ He feels like he’s served himself up on a silver platter. Perceptor could easily transform his own words into a knife and turn it back on him to slice through every single wire coiled protectively around Dead End’s spark chamber.

But. Despite the terrifying vulnerability, Dead End wants to trust Perceptor, the same way Perceptor foolishly, wonderfully trusts him.

“Do you remember our very first meeting?” Perceptor asks suddenly.

The question comes out of nowhere, and it takes a Dead End a few astroseconds to process it. Then another few astroseconds to dig up the relevant memory file from millions of cycles ago. “Uhhh. Yeah. I happened to see you on the street and asked you out.” He cringes. Now he remembers why he’d locked that memory away in the deepest, darkest parts of his encrypted archives.

Perceptor nods. “Do you know why I said yes?”

Dead End’s engine stalls. Come to think of it, no. After their surprisingly successful first date, he’d figured maybe Perceptor was bored, or playing a prank on him, or just glitched in the processor. All those reasons were tossed out once he really got to know Perceptor, but by then he hadn’t thought to ask him for the real reason.

“Because it was obvious you expected me to say no,” says Perceptor.

“I—huh?” The world seems to slant sideways as Dead End’s reality matrix struggles to recalibrate Perceptor’s answer against the context of their entire shared history. “If you knew I thought you’d say no, then why…?”

“You expected me to shoot you down and possibly humiliate you in public. I could see it in your optics and your frame language.” It might be a trick of the light, but Dead End swears he sees a glint in the reflection of Perceptor’s dark lens covers. He shivers. Even after millions of cycles, having Perceptor’s full attention on him still draws in Dead End like a cybermoth to a flame. “Despite that, you still came up to me and asked me out. That told me something about you.”

“That I was the biggest bolthead on Cybertron?”

“That you have a strong resolve. That even if you’re expecting the worst outcome, you’re still determined to follow things through and face whatever happens next.” Perceptor laces his digits together. “I was fascinated. You were unlike anyone I’d ever met, and that intrigued me enough to accept your invitation. Then, well. You know how the rest goes.”

“Yeah.” They’d been ridiculously compatible, up until they weren’t. “But me asking you out on the spur of the moment—that was a one-time event. Like, a once-in-a-billion-cycles kind of thing. Even I don’t know how I got the bearings to talk to you that day.”

Perceptor looks remarkably pleased for someone who’s just been told that their previous relationship was founded on a miracle. “I know. I came to that realization once I started getting to know you better.”

“Then why—”

“Because you’re too hard on yourself, and you can’t see yourself the way I do,” says Perceptor, and if his goal was to shock Dead End enough to shut him up, then he’s successful. “Yes, you have the unfortunate tendency to run from me and anything important when it starts to really matter to you, but that trait doesn’t define you. It doesn’t make you a bad person who’s undeserving of happiness. Besides, while the iron resolve I saw that day isn’t visible all the time, it’s never vanished completely.” His helm tips to the side, and he regards Dead End with something akin to fondness. “If it had, you wouldn’t be here right now, talking to me. Isn’t that right?”

Once upon a time, Dead End wanted nothing more than to erase the self-satisfaction off of Perceptor’s face. Now that he knows it’s not mocking him, he thinks it’s not such a bad look on Perceptor. The opposite, actually.

He really wishes he could kiss him.

“Sure. I guess you’re not wrong.” Dead End grabs his mug and swallows another mouthful of energon. “Still think you’re giving me too much credit, but. Whatever. I’ll take the compliment.”

“You should,” says Perceptor lightly. “I don’t hand out compliments often. Hot Rod and most other Autobots would vouch for that.”

The mention of factions abruptly reminds Dead End of the real reason he’s here and what he’d originally wanted to say to Perceptor, and it’s a douse of ice-cold coolant poured straight into his fuel tank. “Not that I don’t appreciate all the unusually nice things you’re saying about me,” he says, straining to keep his vocalizer even and free of static, “but I need to tell you something.”

Something must leak into his tone anyway, because Perceptor’s blithe expression disappears. “Alright.”

“When I said I wasn’t going to apologize, I wasn’t done.” Dead End sets down his mug but keeps his digits curled around the handle, taking a moment to properly order his thoughts in his processor. He needs to say this right the first time. He doesn’t want to have to say it all again. “I’ve had a lot of time to think lately, and I realized…I’m not sorry about being a Decepticon.”

Perceptor nods slowly. “I surmised as much when you told me you wouldn’t leave the Decepticons.”

“Right.” With his free servo, Dead End traces a crooked line etched into the counter. “So. You know how with the wall getting torn down soon, some Decepticons and Autobots are taking off their badges?”

“Yes, I’ve noticed a few people have removed them. Now that the war is over, there’s no practical need to keep them on.”

“Yeah. It makes sense.” Dead End takes a deep in-vent. “But I’m not taking mine off. Sure, the war’s over, and maybe I didn’t agree with everything we did as a faction, but I still think of myself as a Decepticon.” He taps at his panel, where his own chipped Decepticon badge is still emblazoned. Permanently, if Dead End has his way. “I chose to put this on because it meant something, and it’s a choice I’d make again. I don’t want to be neutral.” He darts a quick glance at the Autobot badge still sitting on Perceptor’s chest. “And I definitely don’t want to be an Autobot. I’m a Decepticon in every way that still matters.”

Understanding dawns on Perceptor’s face. “Is this about my ultimatum? The one I issued after we captured the Bailiff?”

“Well, yeah.” Perceptor’s words from that day have clung to the top of Dead End’s priority trees ever since, constantly weighing on the scale against everything else Dead End wants in his future. He tries for a smile, but gives up halfway through. “That's why…I came here to say goodbye. For good this time.”

Outside Maccadam’s, the wind continues to roll through the empty street. Dead End can hear the jangling of the metal tumbleweeds as they bounce along the road, occasionally hitting the front doors with a loud clink before getting blown back on course.

“Is that what you want?” asks Perceptor, voice unreadable. “To say goodbye?”

Dead End looks down at his energon, watching the lazy blue swirls circling inside his mug. “Of course not. I never wanted to. But I’ve thought about it, and it’s the right option. For both of us.”

Because as much as it hurts, as much as the idea makes something even more fundamental to Dead End than his own spark crack into imperfect crystalline fragments, this time he can say with full transparency that it really is for the best. Both for Perceptor, so he doesn’t have to worry about the ethical implications of associating with a Decepticon, and for himself, so he can relearn who he used to be without Perceptor in his life.

It’ll hurt, but Dead End did it once before, and he survived. He’ll get through it this time too.

“It doesn’t have to be the only right option,” Perceptor says softly.

Dead End jerks his head back up. “What do you mean?” he asks, barely daring to hope.

“At that time, I told you I wouldn’t get back together with you because there were too many other factors.” Perceptor untangles the microfibre cloth from his digits and lets it drop onto the counter. “I knew it was extremely likely that you’d rejoin Megatron after he escaped from the Loop, and then we’d be right back where we started. If we’d rekindled our relationship, only for you to stab me in the back a couple days later, I would’ve shot you.”

Dead End forces a chuckle. Perceptor doesn’t.

“Uh, that’s a joke, right?”

A little concerningly, Perceptor doesn’t answer his query. “But the war is over now. You may still consider yourself a Decepticon, but there are no sides anymore. There’s no longer a reason for us to keep hurting each other.” He reaches across the counter and gently pries Dead End’s digits from the mug, taking his hand in his. “While I still don’t think it’s a good idea for us to jump right back into a relationship, I’m willing to…start over, so to speak. And if you don’t change your mind about me in the future, then we can try again.”

Just in case, Dead End runs a diagnostic scan of his internal chronometric system. The scan spits out the correct date, time, and universe, so that rules out the possibility he’d accidentally stumbled into a different world and spilled all his long-held secrets to the wrong Perceptor.

This is his Perceptor. Offering Dead End everything he wants.

“Even after everything I’ve done?” Dead End says cautiously. “I know you must’ve read all the reports about everything the Decepticons did, and I’m not gonna deny I participated in a lot of it.” He hates having to admit this to Perceptor’s face, but he’s done with lying to him. He’s not building the foundation of their potential new relationship on a bedrock of uncertainties and half-truths. “Sure, there’s no sides now, but there were sides for a really long time, and you’re the one who said we can’t run away from the past or whatever.” He hesitates, then adds, “Also, you’re the one who keeps bringing up how I shot you.”

Perceptor ex-vents. “I know,” he says. “And I still don’t think we should forget about everything that’s happened. However, I also realized we can’t move forward if we obsess over every offense we’ve committed since things went wrong between us.” His gaze is fixed on Dead End like there’s nothing else in the entire multiverse. “I’m not saying I’m forgiving you for everything you’ve done. But no matter how terrible your crimes were, or how much you hurt me, it was never enough to change my feelings for you, so…I’ve determined that not restarting our relationship just because my own strict ideals would be hurting us both for no reason.”

“...You realize that makes you sound like a masochist, right?”

Perceptor cracks a grin, the first one Dead End has seen on him in a very long time. “I did willingly choose to date you for a long time.”

“Wow. Rude.”

“And despite everything, I don’t regret any of the time we spent together,” confesses Perceptor. “I’ve also been missing you for over sixty-five million cycles. Trust me, Dead End. I want this as much as you do.”

Dead End looks down at their joined servos. The familiar bumps and scratches on Perceptor’s digits are slotted neatly against Dead End’s own scars, almost as if they’ve never stopped belonging there.

After all that’s happened, this doesn’t feel real. Dead End came here today expecting that he and Perceptor would conclude their differences are too big, and sever their last remaining ties. It would’ve been the hardest thing Dead End has ever had to do, but he’d been starting to believe that the right choices were never the easy ones.

Mutually agreeing to start over instead, with the promise of beginning a new relationship one day if things work out…he supposes that’s not an easy choice either, not with all the problems he and Perceptor still need to work through, but just imagining this much brighter future makes Dead End’s entire frame feel as light as fibreglass. The stupid, starry-sparked part of him that’s been infected by Perceptor—that hasn't been completely crushed by the war—wants to believe that good things can still happen, even to someone like him.

“What does starting over even mean?” he asks Perceptor. “How would that work?”

Perceptor hums in thought. “Well, I own Maccadam’s now.”

“I heard,” says Dead End dryly.

“Unexpected as it was, I'm enjoying this job. I needed a break from anything related to science, and I don’t regret quitting my position on the Autobots’ engineering team.” Dead End actually hadn’t heard about that, but Perceptor moves on before he can demand more information. “However, running a bar requires a lot of work, and that’s without even factoring in the hundreds of customers that Maccadam’s attracts every day and night. I could use someone’s help with the day-to-day operations. Mixing different energon blends, helping to keep the place clean, monitoring the bar’s finances, and the like. This person would have plenty of important responsibilities, so it’d need to be someone I can fully trust to be my partner.”

“Huh.” Dead End tries and fails to suppress the smirk creeping across his face. “It almost sounds like you’ve got a specific bot in mind.”

Perceptor squeezes his hand. “As a matter of fact, I do.” He pauses. “It’s Hot Rod, of course.”

A horrible snort coughs out from Dead End’s engine, and after astrocycles of stress and overthinking and sinking resignation, something inside his logic unit finally snaps.

He’d be mortified, laughing like his pistons are misfiring in front of Perceptor, if it weren’t for Perceptor breaking down into his own chuckling fit across from him. The sound is sweeter than the best energon jellies in any universe, and Dead End briefly considers recording it for future playback before deciding he doesn’t need to. He'll just ensure he keeps finding ways to make Perceptor laugh in the future.

Eventually, their hysterics die down and Perceptor sobers.

“Dead End, I hope you know I’m not pressuring you into accepting my offer,” he says, back to his usual serious self. “I’m not ordering you to do it, and I certainly don't wish to presume I already know your answer.”

“I know.” Dead End grimaces. “Perceptor, that’s not—I know I’m the one who brought it up, but I don’t always mind when you tell me what to do. I know it’s just how you like to talk.”

“That doesn’t make it right. Especially if it makes you feel like you’re lesser than me.”

Dead End huffs. He can tell Perceptor isn’t going to drop this. How on Cybertron he still believes Dead End is the stubborn one is a bigger mystery than why Maccadam entrusted his bar to Perceptor.

“How about this?” he offers. “If you ever tell me to do something and I genuinely don’t want to do it, I’ll complain. Loudly. Until you agree with me and I don’t need to do it anymore.”

“I have a strong feeling that I’m going to regret this,” muses Perceptor, “but very well, I’ll agree to those terms as long as you agree to mine.”

“...Which are?”

“When we disagree on things—and we will have disagreements—you’ll come to me and we’ll talk them out. I don’t want you assuming you know what’s best for me, then fleeing to the other side of the planet or to another universe.” Perceptor’s firm voice softens. “I want to protect you just as much as you’ve always tried to protect me. I want you to ask me for help when you need it, and I’ll do the same. If we’re going to be partners, and equals, then we need to solve our problems together.”

A hot flush swamps through Dead End’s fuel lines, but he tamps down his strong urge to hide. Really, that’s the least Perceptor deserves, and. Well. Dead End was planning to do all that even before Perceptor laid out his terms in straightforward, unyielding words.

It’s not a compromise. At this point, Dead End is aware it’s what they both want and need from each other. In spite of his lingering fear of not being enough for Perceptor, the rest of him is revelling in the chance to let Perceptor see all of him, even the most horrible parts of himself, and not have to worry about Perceptor leaving him over it because he already knows Dead End as well as Dead End knows him.

“Yeah,” says Dead End thickly. He clears his vocalizer. “That’s fine with me.”

“Good.” There’s a beat. “Does that mean you’re accepting—”

“Yes.” Dead End rolls his optics. “Of course it’s a yes. What, you think I’m going to run away now, after I’ve fried all my circuits in embarrassment and you now know exactly how much I still love you? As if there’s anywhere else on this scrapheap planet I’d rather be than with you.”

As if he’d ever choose anything or anyone other than Perceptor. Now that he knows, with strut-deep certainty, that Perceptor’s never stopped wanting him too, there’s no way he’s giving that up. There’s no way he’s ever going to lose that again.

“Charming,” murmurs Perceptor.

Dead End snorts. “You know better than to keep me around for my charm.” He glances around the bar and offhandedly notes with surprise that Clobber’s tower of cards is holding steady, surrounded by rings of golden light. “So, is there a formal employment contract I need to sign to become your official work partner or whatever?”

Perceptor’s scope sweeps back up and clicks off. “No formal contract,” he says, “but there is an informal way we can seal our new partnership.”

“What—” starts Dead End, before cutting himself off as Perceptor’s free servo comes up to cradle the side of his face, gently lifting Dead End’s face. His digits press against Dead End’s faceplates, holding on tight like he needs the anchor. There’s an unspoken question in the slight tilt of Perceptor’s head.

“I thought you didn’t want to jump right back into a relationship?” Dead End manages to say.

Perceptor’s shoulders rise with his mirth, and his glossy red plating catches the bar’s bright lighting. Dead End kind of hates that over sixty-five million cycles hasn’t diminished how attractive he is. “Think of this as motivation. A sample of what we can have in the future, if we both put in the effort.”

A ventless laugh escapes Dead End. “You still have the best ideas,” he says, before leaning across the bar counter and meeting Perceptor halfway.

It tastes like coming home. It feels like a hello.