Chapter Text
First Aid bites off another sigh as he slowly makes his way down the hall. He's half-tempted to turn back around. To head straight back to his habsuite and call it a night. The only thing keeping him on track is the looming threat of his coworkers' disappointed faces. They don’t want him to simply go to his habsuite. No, they wanted him to have fun .
He needs to, and he quotes from Velocity, "Get out and live a little! Go to Swerve's! Have a drink! Don't be such a recluse!"
What a load of scrap! First Aid isn't a recluse, he interacts with plenty of people! Granted, they're either his coworkers or his patients, but he still talks with them. When he's working.
But here he is—shuffling towards Swerve's like he's heading to his own execution. The faint noise of laughter and chatting leaks into the hall as he draws closer, only heightening his discomfort. He's painfully aware of the echo of his steps on the metal—a single set. Alone. His processor drifts back to a wry smile on patchy paint; an exasperated look beneath a golden chevron as they chat, drinks in hand. Of fumbling servos as they walked hand in hand—
This was stupid.
First Aid shakes his head, dispelling the thoughts. It was no use dwelling, he'd done enough of that already.
He rounds the corner to the entrance, only to stumble back as he nearly avoids a collision with someone's back. Righting himself, he glances up at the mech who had evidently been blocking the hall, a biting remark on proper hallway etiquette on the tip of his glossa.
First Aid dusts himself off, miffed. A ruffled Brainstorm stands before him. "Are you aware of where you were—oh." The remark dies as he examines the look on Brainstorm's face. He seems... almost like a cyberdeer caught in the headlights, with his hackles raised and eyes wide.
Brainstorm recovers quickly, however, shaking off the look. He easily slips into a bright demeanor, wings angling up and eyes brightening. First Aid feels slightly off-kilter at the uncanny switch.
"Oh, hey, First Aid! Wasn't expecting to run into you," he laughs. "Were you heading to Swerve's?"
He jerkily nods, resetting his voice module, "Ah, yes. I was." He pauses for a klik. "Sorry for nearly crashing into you," he adds.
Brainstorm just waves him off. "Nah, don't worry about that. I was the mech standing right around a corner!" He looks him up and down, considering, "A bit unusual for you to be out right now, though. Don't you have work?" he questions.
First Aid rubs the back of his neck.
"Well, yes, but Ratchet and Velocity kicked me out. They said I needed a bit of a break. I disagree, but they threatened to lock my access codes." He does not pout. "They strong-armed me into promising to go out. Apparently not even being the CMO can save you from meddling coworkers," he jokes wryly.
That pulls a snicker out of Brainstorm. "That's funny. Something very similar actually happened to me. Percy kicked me out of the labs and locked the door. Told me not to come back until I did something that wasn't work, the hypocrite," he scoffs.
He leans in conspiringly, eyes twinkling, "Not that I can't get back in if I really wanted to, of course, but I figured I'd humor him."
"Ah, of course," First Aid agrees, amusement filling his voice. He pauses for a klik, searching for his next glyphs. "Well, since we're both in the same boat, would you care to join me? Get both of our coworkers off our backs?" he offers. There’s something about Brainstorm that captivates him, and he wants to see more of it.
Brainstorm brightens, and he knew he made the correct choice.
"Sure!"
The two walk the final distance to the door, continuing to idly chat. It slides open for them with a smooth hiss, the hustle and bustle of the bar no longer muffled. First Aid stalls. "Seems like everyone had the night off," he mutters. Brainstorm lets out a snort.
It was a busy night, and the bar reflected that. Inside, mechs crowd around the tables and bar. Bluestreak weaves between the various groups, dropping off drinks and taking orders. Voices dip in and out of focus as mechs laugh and talk over one another. A rhythmic, human synth-pop song plays over the speakers, so painfully to Swerve's taste.
He takes it all in—the laughter, the music, the cheers and groans—and scans the room for a free booth for the two. He studies the room for a few kliks, before spotting the perfect spot. Off to the side, squished between a table and corner, a booth sat empty. Zeroing in on their destination, he grabs Brainstorm's hand, straightens his shoulders, and steels himself.
"Alright, follow me."
He strides with purpose, mechs taking one look before scrambling aside as he tugs Brainstorm behind him. In moments, they've crossed the room to the booth. Satisfaction fills First Aid as he turns to his companion, presenting the seats to him. "Here we go!"
Brainstorm simply stares at him, eyes wide, arm limp in First Aid's grip. First Aid drops his optics to their still-connected servos, and drops it sheepishly.
This was enough to snap Brainstorm out of his stupor.
"How'd you do that?!" he asks, bouncing in place.
First Aid tilts his head, a bit confused. "What do you mean?"
"That!" Brainstorm gestures back behind them, "You just turned, and BAM! Everyone got out of your way!"
Understanding dawns on him. "Oh! How I got through the crowd?" He slides into the booth, Brainstorm following on the opposite side, still vibrating in curiosity. He laughs, "It's quite simple! Just an old medic trick, really. All you have to do is straighten up, look at your destination, and walk with purpose. It's for busy medbays, but it comes in handy in any crowded area, really!"
"Fascinating!"
More small talk passes as they slip into a steady rhythm of back and forth. First Aid was in the middle of telling a particularly amusing encounter regarding Rodimus and an unfortunately placed 'wet floor' sign in the Medbay when Bluestreak finally approached them.
"Alright, my mechs, what will we be having tonight? We have a special on the Petrihex Moonrise this evening, as well as half-off baskets of rust sticks," he rattles off, pulling out a pad and tablet pen.
"Oh, I wouldn't be opposed to a basket, would you?" First Aid asks, glancing at Brainstorm.
"Go right ahead," he nods. "I think I'll take a Topsy-turvy."
"And I'll have an Iacon Cider."
Bluestreak jots down their order, doorwings swaying to the more cinematic rock-synth now playing. "Alright, a basket of rust sticks, a Topsy-turvy, and an Iacon Cider, coming right up!"
With their order now taken, they turn back to each other.
"An Iacon Cider?"
First Aid shrugs. "They're good! They're basic, but don't knock it. Besides, like you're one to talk, Mr. 'Topsy-turvy.' I think the Golden Age is calling, they want their fancy drink back."
Brainstorm holds up his servos in surrender, "Alright, alright, you got me there." He smiles, setting his arms back down. He props up his chin and leans in. "Now, what was it you were saying about Rodimus?"
First Aid perks up, "Right, where was I? Yes, he and Drift had just walked in, and Rodimus had his eyes closed. He immediately started bragging to Drift about how he clearly didn't need optics to navigate the ship. What he didn't realize however, was that Riptide had just come in before him, dripping oil everywhere. We had finished mopping only kliks before, and—" He dives into the story with gusto, Brainstorm's rapt attention pushing him forward.
He hardly notices when their drinks and food arrive, offhandedly taking off his mask and waving a distracted 'thanks' to Bluestreak, not noticing the amused look in his optics, nor the wink as he told them to enjoy.
It was so easy to talk with Brainstorm, he realizes with a sip to his cider, minutes later. They slotted together, a comfortable and easy banter filling their conversation. First Aid hasn't had a conversation like this, with someone who wasn't in a medbay, in... a while. Nothing this simple and natural since he and Ambulon went out. It makes his spark ping, remembering, but the way Brainstorm lights up as he explains one of his latest exploits soothes him in a way he does not expect.
They slowly make their way through one basket of rust sticks, and then another. Drinks are replaced by a smirking Bluestreak nearly as soon as they are finished.
Before he knows it, he's giggling as Brainstorm mimes an explosion, warmth filling his lines from not only the high grade.
"This reminds me of something I read, actually," he says, twirling a rust stick in his drink before popping it in his mouth. "Experimental medical procedures are a bit of a fascination of mine. Particularly regarding sparks, actually."
Brainstorm tilts his head, curious. "Oh?"
"Yeah! There's just something so fascinating about them, you know? Anyway, I was reading this paper by this mech called Upkeep, and it was detailing his experiments with reverse spark transfusions, but the mech couldn't figure out why his simulation sparks kept blowing up." He snorts dismissively, "He kept trying to use polar opposites. I'm not surprised it happened. He should've used adjacent ones."
Brainstorm laughs. "Polar opposites? You have to be careful with those, I've blown myself up too many times to count!" He gives First Aid a look of consideration. "Speaking of polar opposites, while not with sparks, I do have something in my lab that utilizes a... unique property they possess. I can show you, as long as you promise not to tell Percy," he says with a wink.
First Aid pretends to consider it deeply, tapping a finger upon his half-empty glass. "Well, I suppose I could take a peak. Just as long as it isn't a gun, of course."
Brainstorm shakes his head, "No, no, nothing like that! For this project, at least. Trust me, I think you'll enjoy it."
With that, they wrap up, polishing off the last few bites and sips, leaving some credit chips upon the table. It was only now that First Aid realized how late it had gotten. The crowd had died down, and Bluestreak had started to wipe down tables. He spots them, and gives a wave. "Goodnight! Don't have too much fun," he teases.
First Aid turns away, thankful for his now-reapplied mask to cover his flush. Whatever. It doesn't matter what Bluestreak thinks they're going to do, he knows what they're actually doing. Looking to Brainstorm, he gestures for him to lead the way, tactfully ignoring the way the mech resets his voice module.
They make their way out of the bar and into the quiet hall, muffled music fading out the further they went.
"Well. I think we finally escaped Swerve's taste in music," he cracks. "Maybe next time we'll get Bluestreak's. Hopefully with a bit less of… whatever that was. It got weird near the end, I have to admit."
Brainstorm, honest-to-Primus, giggles. An adorable giggle that spills right over into delighted laughter. First Aid watches him for a second, gob-smacked, before he follows him, the laughter infectious. It wasn't even a good joke, yet here they both are, practically falling over each other. Brainstorm clings to First Aid's arm, supporting himself as he manages to gasp out a response.
"I'm glad, snk , that it wasn't just me! Ha ha !"
"Oh, Primus, I know right?! " First Aid says, leaning into Brainstorm as the two continue to stumble their way to the lab.
"What did 'I want it that way' even mean? In what way did he not want? They never say !"
Maybe his coworkers were onto something. He hasn't felt this loose in ages. Although maybe it's the high grade talking. Or Brainstorm. Actually, it's definitely Brainstorm. He wouldn't have had nearly as good of a time if not for him. He probably would've walked in, gotten a drink, made awkward small talk with Swerve at the bar, then retreated to the safety of his room.
He's glad it didn't end up that way.
He leans his head on Brainstorm’s shoulder, fondness welling inside him. Brainstorm gives a small in-vent, but doesn't dissuade him. He merely continues to ramble, letting First Aid chime in with his quips.
The moment can't last forever however. They make it to the lab door, a large shuttered thing with caution labels slapped haphazardly all over it—presumably Perceptor's idea with Brainstorm's execution. They untangle themselves reluctantly, and he misses the closeness.
Before he can think too hard about it, however, Brainstorm springs to the door, fiddling with an access panel. After a handful of clicks and whirls, the light flashes, and the door slides open.
"Told you I could get in if I really wanted to," he says, smug.
He steps in, with First Aid at his heels. A large room, nearly comparable in size to the Medbay, greets them. Multiple tables fill the room, with cabinets and benches lining the edges. Numerous machines are dotted in-between—what look to be a fume hood, a large centrifuge, an ever-so familiar autoclave, and more. Immediately, the difference between Brainstorm and Perceptor's main areas of the lab are apparent. One side stands impeccably organized, nary a tablet pen out of place, and uncluttered.
The other, in contrast, was full . Projects littered tables, nearly every surface stacked with something. Brainstorm leads him through the mess, wings hiking in excitement the farther they go. As they walk, First Aid examines passing tables. To his surprise, to what an unobservant optic may look like a jumbled mess was actually... not that messy. Just cluttered. Projects seemed relegated to dedicated tables, indecipherable shorthand labels stuck to nearly everything.
He feels almost a little silly for making the initial mistake of assuming it was just a mess. He’d let previous biases color his opinion. Of course it wasn't an unorganized mess. The mech had invented time travel, for Primus' sake! Just like his lab, there was more to Brainstorm than what was on the surface.
Twirling around, Brainstorm presents with a flourish a table with a large machine. It was cube-shaped, with glass panels and a curious metal sphere on top, like a pedestal. "Ta-da!"
First Aid looks on in vague confusion. "Ah, a cube. What does it, uh, do, exactly? You mentioned using polar opposites in this?"
Brainstorm nods enthusiastically. "Yes! You see, I was working on something else that used polarities, and I kept having this problem where everything's gravity kept getting all weird, right? Well, I decided to use it to my advantage, and that's how this thing came to be! My Anti-Gravity Field Generator!" He pats the machine fondly. "Would you like a demonstration?"
Would First Aid like a demonstration? Of course he would! Frankly, he's surprised that something like this hadn't ever occurred to him. With barely contained excitement, he steps closer. "Yes!"
Brainstorm begins to fiddle with some dials, moving them precisely, before flipping a switch and hitting a button. The machine rattles to life, letting out a long beep. This seemed to be good, as he let out a delighted hum.
First Aid watches in fascination as inside the glass slowly began to fill with little bursts of color. The sphere itself begins to rise.
Reaching for a tablet pen, Brainstorm turns to First Aid, optics alight. They make eye contact, and First Aid can feel their growing excitement sparking in the air between them. Reassured that Aid was paying attention, Brainstorm speaks, "Now, watch this!"
He drops the pen above the machine. It falls a few inches, before stopping and gently twirling in place, to First Aid's amazement.
"This is amazing!" If his mask wasn't on, he'd be gasping.
"Go on, you can touch it," Brainstorm encourages.
With a careful servo, he reaches out, tapping the pen. A faint, static-like feeling ripples upon his plating as it enters the field.
"That's... Wow!"
Brainstorm wiggles, clearly pleased with First Aid's reactions. "If you think that's all, then just wait! This is just the lowest setting," he says, twisting another knob.
"Get ready," he says, nudging him to step over, before pushing the button yet again.
First Aid obliges, and steps over. The faint static feeling starts to prickle again, this time enveloping him completely. He gasps in wonderment, wobbling as he begins to float.
"Brainstorm!" He half laughs, half chastises, "Way to warn me!"
Brainstorm only laughs, eyes crinkling. "I did say 'get ready'!"
"That you did," he admits with a smile. Brainstorm reaches out to him, offering a guiding hand, and First Aid gladly accepts, folding his servo into his own. He lets him gently steer, floating Aid higher.
"And here I was thinking that you were the flight frame," he teases.
"I don't know, you seem to be catching on pretty quick. You sure you've always been an ambulance?"
They dissolve into another bout of giggles. First Aid looks down at Brainstorm, and his vents catch. Brainstorm's optics were scrunched in joy, and he was absolutely breathtaking in his mirth. Noticing that Aid had suddenly stopped laughing, he opens his optics, face questioning.
Before he could think about it, First Aid twists, dragging him into the antigravity bubble. Surprise flashes upon Brainstorm's face, before more laughter pours out. "If you were getting lonely up here, you could've said something!"
"Well I can't be having all the fun, now can I? Thought I'd get you up here before you started getting jealous," he says, pulling Brainstorm closer as they twirl in the air— only to be caught off guard by how it increases their speed. He yelps, images of them crashing into a workbench and sending projects flying flooding his processor.
Before they can spin too wildly, however, Brainstorm fires a thruster, slowing them back down to a gentle rotation.
"I have a couple tricks up my sleeve as an air frame, you know." He winks, holding First Aid close.
"Feel free to share," First Aid replies blithely, trying his best to not stare. Brainstorm's servos are gentle in his as he guides them, pulling one of First Aid's onto his shoulder before resting his own on First Aid's waist.
Brainstorm's response is lost to him. His focus is on how warm his plating is beneath his fingertips. He feels the gentle whirl of gears hidden underneath, moving as he shifts. First Aid wonders if he could even feel his spark through the plating—his medic hands are sensitive, he could check so easily. Just trail his fingers down a scant few inches, until they rest upon Brainstorm's chest. Would his spark be spinning as fast as his own, he wonders?
Yet his fingers stay put. He's not sure if he wants to know.
They fall into a comfortable silence as Brainstorm leads them into a sort of dance, letting them twirl as he subtly shifts his wings, occasionally firing a booster. The minutes melt by as they float. As they go, growing more comfortable in each other's movements, they begin to pick up pace, Brainstorm growing more daring in his routine as First Aid enthusiastically follows.
They spin like a whirlwind, swinging out and in, with Brainstorm even giving a ridiculous, if impressive, flip. He can't help but give a delighted laugh, which only goads Brainstorm into doing another, eager to please.
This only makes First Aid laugh harder, and yet again, they dissolve into giggles together. He's getting a sense that this is going to be a common occurrence, the laughter. He finds himself surprisingly okay with this.
After a few kliks, they begin to die down, the long evening catching up with them both. Brainstorm tilts his head down towards the ground, and Aid nods in reply.
"You were right, Brainstorm. I really like this machine of yours," he says as they float back down.
He preens at the praise. "I knew it! My genius strikes yet again. Hold your applause. Or don't."
First Aid snorts, before humoring him with a little clap. The wiggle of delight Brainstorm gives makes it immediately worth it, and he resolves to cause it as often as possible.
They drift to the machine, where Brainstorm immediately begins to fiddle with dials. The colors inside the machine are captivating as ever, patterns blooming and fading.
He watches the swirls, waiting for the pull of gravity to return its hold.
And waits.
And waits some more.
"Do you need a hand?" He asks.
Brainstorm laughs nervously. "No, no, I have it. The machine is just being a bit stubborn…"
"Uh-huh." Brainstorm absolutely forgot how to turn his own machine off. First Aid wiggles closer, glancing down at where Brainstorm is working. He gives it a critical optic, eyeing each switch and dial. He quickly spots the culprit, a small switch under the box's rim, easily overlooked.
He reaches an arm over Brainstorm's shoulder. "Here, let me, there's a switch," he points, "It's a bit hard to see." He flicks it, and the colors begin to slow.
"You're a genius! How'd you even spot that?" Brainstorm gushes, head swiveling to look at him, "I should invite you here more often, with optics like— Oh!"
Their masks bonk into each other, the small clink deafening.
He didn't think he’d gotten that close—and Brainstorm evidently didn't either.
They both float stunned, neither sure of how to broach their unintended welder's kiss, the tension thick. First Aid was sure Brainstorm could hear his fans whirling in embarrassment. He resets his vocalizer with a click.
"I—"
"You—"
They overlap each other, both stopping to let the other speak. First Aid opens his mouth, ready to speak.
Before another glyph could escape, however, the antigravity bubble pops. They tumble to the ground, limbs flailing, landing with a loud clang.
"Well," First Aid says, staring at the ceiling as Brainstorm groans underneath him, "At least the machine is off?"
He peels himself off, settling on the ground next to Brainstorm, wincing at the scrapes he left from their ungracefully landing. Some of those will definitely need a buff. He rubs an arm connector, checking it for any malfunctions as he turns his attention to Brainstorm, who sits up with a grunt.
"Anything hurting?" he asks, scanning over him. He pays close attention, searching for any problems.
"I'm alright, don't worry," Brainstorm waves, giving a reassuring nod as he straightens out his ailerons.
First Aid instantly clocks this as bullshit. He wasn't constructed yesterday . He narrows his optics, spying the hidden wince Brainstorm gives as he lowers his hand. Without waiting for Brainstorm to finish, he grabs his wrist, pulling it over.
"Oh—ow, hey!" Brainstorm pouts, surrendering his arm.
First Aid continues to prod at it, transforming a finger to help him reach the more fiddly bits and bolts. "That's what you get for lying to your doctor." He spies a loose nut—it must've gotten knocked out of place from their fall—and leans in closer. "Now stop wiggling, I almost have it."
He puts all of his focus on repairing Brainstorm's wrist, trying desperately to ignore how warm the other is under his ministrations. How Brainstorm's vents seem to catch the further he wiggles his finger in. How his own spark thunders inside his chassis. Delicately, he twists the nut in place, before ever-so gently withdrawing. He lets out a small vent, staring at Brainstorm's white arm still held in his servos—striking against his own red and white—and finally glances up.
Brainstorm stares intently, his golden optics blown wide.
"You're amazing," he breathes.
First Aid's vocalizer hitches. "You're not too bad yourself," he replies.
Drawn together like magnets, they lean in. Their masks tap together, a soft clink that First Aid feels in his struts. A gesture of affection he's missed for so long, returned. Brainstorm's optics are lovely and warm.
Yellow has always been his favorite color.