Summary: There were many instances during the events in Chicago where Bumblebee could have died and Sam had merely watched. Sam feels utterly guilty and begins to suffer from nightmares. Can he cope without Bee by his side?Bee/Sam. Slash.
Tweekerz: Another Bee/Sam fic. God dammit, this pairing is my OTP for TF. MY OTP FOREVER.
He was exhausted. He had never felt so exhausted before in his life. Not even the events in Mission City and Egypt had made him feel this completely zapped of energy- taking death defying tumbles and falls in a collapsing skyscraper could do that to you apparently. Sam relentlessly picked at the hem of his shirt, his fingers gouging into the fabric as he scratched at the skin on his hip. For some reason, that place seemed to be incredibly itchy. He roved his fingers underneath his shirt and continued to scratch directly at his skin, wincing when he felt a sharp pinch. His fingers came back red.
Confused, and more or less a bit panicked, Sam picked at his skin again and almost yelped when his fingers caught hold of something small and sharp. He bunched his shirt up and looked down at his stomach, grimacing. There was a small piece of silver shrapnel embedded in the skin along his hip. Wincing, Sam closed his eyes shut and quickly tore the metal from his skin, his blood, warm and sticky, trickled down his side. He brought his hand to his face; fingertips dyed dark red, and flung the piece of metal away. He sighed and closed his eyes, swiping the pads of his fingers along his jeans. He hadn't had a chance to shower properly since Chicago.
It'd only been a couple of hours since their plane flight had touched down at LAX. He still couldn't believe that their planet had been in peril from a complete Decepticon invasion only two days ago. Chicago was utterly destroyed and the death toll was steadily rising; a historic disaster quoted by Obama, and the people who had survived were later evacuated to surrounding cities around Chicago, which had received the brunt of the damage. The state of Illinois later issued an intensive rebuilding project that would cost the state billions of dollars.
It had taken a lot of persuasion on his part to get Mearing to produce a private jet out of Chicago to California. When she refused and said she had more important things to do than to procure a VIP plane ride for a kid and his family, he only had to mention that he managed to help save the world again, and for the third time at that. She had quickly clammed up, at a loss for words, and reluctantly acquiesced to his wishes, which is how he acquired four Presidential plane tickets stamped with an embossed seal from the Director of US National Intelligence: a ticket for him, two for his parents, and another one for Carly, who would be staying at a friend's house in California. There was no way he was going back to their fancy mansion-loft. He needed rest, he needed to be alone, he needed his family, and most importantly, he needed to have his best friend by his side again. He wanted to be in a place that he felt most comfortable, and that was his home, the home he had grown up in for 18 years of his life.
Once they had finally made it home, Sam immediately went to the garage, even though he knew he wouldn't find Bumblebee there. Carly and his parents meandered into the house and immediately set to unpacking. Carly would spend the first three days at his house, and would then venture over to her friend's house for a week while they stayed in California—for how long, not even he knew just yet. Two days ago, he had feared for her life. She had been so close to getting killed herself, but now she was alive and well and he knew she'd be safer at a friend's house than with him. He didn't want her to see him like this, in an almost catatonic state. He had been close to the brink of tears more than once, and he didn't want her to see what a blubbering, pathetic fool he could be.
They both needed to settle their nerves, and Sam didn't think he'd be able to reach a sense of calm if Carly was there. She too, was a reminder of the things he could have lost forever. He wanted to be alone just for a little while. Knowing she was safe and out of harm's way elsewhere would lessen the stress.
However, he would be lonely once she left. Sure, he'd have her for three days, but after that, what would he do? Who could he talk to? His parents? No. They wouldn't understand the turmoil that was coiling inside him, ready to spring into something terrible and nasty. He didn't want to worry his parents or Carly for that matter. They had been through enough. He was so desperate that he even thought about calling up Mikaela, but then thought better of it. Although she would understand his pain, he knew he couldn't talk to her just yet. It was best he left things in the past where they should be. Sam hunched his shoulders and let out a breathy sigh. He was already missing Bumblebee.
The Autobots were busy in Diego Garcia taking part in a two week long NEST debriefing, and on top of that, they were also mourning the loss of their fallen comrade Ironhide. Sam still couldn't believe that another one of their own had fallen. Sure, Ironhide had been a bit difficult to get along with, but he was still a good guy…alien, whatever. He briefly wondered how Lennox was taking the news.
And here Sam was, still in the garage, resembling a zombie as he swayed about on his feet and fought to stay awake. Sam felt like sinking into the earth, his muscles crying out with a soreness so intense that he almost, almost gave in and let himself collapse. The garage floor looked welcoming right now, speckled with blue, white and yellow epoxy—a new touch. It seemed his dad had taken his advice after all and spruced up the garage. Sam blearily blinked his eyes and stretched his neck, earning him a wince when he found the movement to be incredibly painful. He'd have to take a couple of days off to recuperate. At the moment, all he wanted to do was feel the cool press of floor tile against his skin. Better yet, the cool surface of Bumblebee's hood, however, he knew that was quite impossible right now. He couldn't call up Bee and tell him to come home just for his own selfish reasons. The Autobot had just lost a comrade, and was most likely very busy.
'Sleep,' his brain told him as he stifled yet another yawn. He could think about everything else once he had some sleep in his system, but before he even had time to set foot out of the garage, his knees buckled and he found himself falling, the floor growing closer and closer. The last thing he heard was the shrill scream of his mother.
There was nothing he could do. He knew that something about this situation seemed off, as if he had experienced it before, telling him that something bad was going to happen, something horrible and terrifying and all things dreadful, but his brain didn't allow himself to think of it any longer.
His fingers curled around the corroded railing, fingernails coming away scuffed and dirty. He could see the trailing plume of smoke as the shuttle ascended into the bright Texan sky, fire and dust and smolder raging from the shuttle's burners so fiercely that the colors looked distorted. He tilted his head higher as he followed the shuttle's path, tears falling down his cheeks, pooling between the indents of his nose, running over the curves of his lips. His tears felt hot, his face felt hot, his entire body was burning with a rage so fierce that he found it hard to keep himself upright, using the railing as his only support.
They were leaving.
The Autobots were leaving and they were never coming back. They had basically been kicked off of Earth and forced never to return, and worst of all, Bumblebee was on that shuttle. His first car, his best friend—he would never get to see him again. Sam knew he should be worried and focused on the safety of his planet, Sentinel's betrayal, and the impending doom that Earth was going to endure, yet he couldn't get his mind off the feeling of his heart being torn in two. His best friend was leaving him. Bee was leaving. He wasn't coming back. And just when things couldn't possibly get any worse, the shuttle exploded.
Sam watched the sky with wide, quivering eyes, dread taking hold of his entire body. He stood stock still as he stared up into the sky, watching as fire and coagulated smoke danced a ring around the now plummeting bits of debris that raced towards the earth, bits of the Autobots—bits and pieces of Bumblebee. He felt himself fall to his knees, wondering briefly why he didn't seem to register the pain, and clutched at the railing, shrieks and sobs ripping from his mouth as he shuddered and trembled. He could taste the saltiness of his tears, could feel the pain of fear clutching at his legs as it raced straight towards his heart. Bumblebee was dead, he was dead, he was dead, he was dead. Sam had just watched him die.
And then Sam was suddenly transported to a different place, a different scene- they were in the heart of Chicago, buildings and debris tumbling down all around them, Bumblebee's hulking body bent over, head cast towards the ground as he waited for the finishing blow- .
Same woke up with a start, a sob escaping his throat as tears flowed softly down his face. He shot straight up from his bed and frantically began dabbing at his face with the hem of his t-shirt, willing the tears to stop. Sam halted, mind racing. Funny, he hadn't remembered changing…or putting himself to bed, or even entering his room for that matter. He looked about him, licking the tears from his lips, as he surveyed his room. The room was covered in a layer of darkness, shadows dancing across the room in patterns as the light from the moon streamed in through the blinds. Everything still looked the same—his parents hadn't changed a thing, however it was as still as empty as it had been the day he had packed up his things for college and left for the opposite side of the country. If it had been up to his father, his former room would have been turned into an office or a gym or something, or whatever dads did when their sons left for college.
Sam pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thump frantically against his palm. His legs felt like lead, and there was a numbing pain that started from his ankles and sprouted up to his thighs, the type of pain you get when you're so frightened that your entire body starts to ache. Sam wasn't sure how he got there or what time it was, but all he knew was that he was terrified. He realized that he'd just woken up from a nightmare. He brought his fingers to his face and traced his digits fleetingly around his eyes, the skin there puffy and moist. He was no longer crying, but his nose felt stuffy and once in a while his chest would flutter and he was forced to take a shuddering breath to calm himself.
Sam shimmied out of the blankets and threw his legs over the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his thighs as he hunched forward and held his head in his hands. He never wanted to dream of that moment again. There were two instances, two for crying out loud, where Bee had come so close to dying, and during those two instances, all Sam could do was watch.
The reminder only made him more miserable. He had been so helpless. Sam always prided himself on being the only human he knew of that wasn't as helpless as the rest—he wasn't a bystander or some distressed citizen, and he had helped save the planet on more than one occasion, but in Chicago…he had been reduced to a weak, pathetic human being. He could have at least called out and distracted that Decepticon, he could have devised an escape plan when Charlotte Mearing gave the okay to begin expelling Optimus and the other Autobots off Earth. He could have done so many things, it could have been different, and now he was stuck having nightmares.
Sam drew in a shuddering breath and glimpsed to his right, where his cell phone sat upon the dresser drawer near his bed. He had half a mind to call Bee, or perhaps text him, to know whether he was alright or not, but then Sam realized what a stupid notion that would be. Of course Bee was alright, he was a giant alien robot with an arsenal of weapons and technology at his disposal. The question was, was Sam alright?
The nightmares continued to plague Sam's thoughts for the next four days, and each night, Sam would wake up in his bed in a panic and covered in sweat. Sometimes he'd wake up trembling and shaking, sometimes he was crying, his shrieks of terror and blubbering sobs waking up his parents on more than one occasion. For the first three days, Carly would be there at his bedside no matter what time of night, running lithe fingers through his hair as she whispered soothing words in his ear, and then when the time had come, she had reluctantly packed up her belongings and left to stay at her friend's house, his parents promising her they'd have things under control. It was a good thing she had left though; he wanted it that way. Now she wouldn't have to see how much of a coward he really was.
As each day passed, the nightmares seemed to get worse, his mind imagining grotesque images, images of a dead and broken Bumblebee lying in pile of metal and shrapnel, energon leaking from gaping wounds along his chassis. Sometimes he'd dream of life without Bee, a depressing, morbid life, one with guilt so stagnant that Sam could still feel it even when he was awake.
"But Bee's alive," he'd tell himself in the night, his legs tucked neatly beneath the coverlet. "Bee survived and he's alright. He's with Optimus, and everything's fine."
These words did little to quell the night terrors.
Finally, on the sixth day, after waking up from a particularly nasty dream, Sam scrambled for his phone and quickly searched through his contacts for Bee's number, punching out a quick text message as his fingers flew over the touch screen keyboard.
S: How are you?
It was a simple message, but it would do. All he needed was a response—he just needed to know if Bee was okay. He then pressed send and set his phone on the empty pillow beside him, twiddling his thumbs about his lap. Within the next thirty seconds, his phone rang with an incoming text, and Sam felt a swell of relief course through him, although he wasn't in the clear yet. He needed to read Bee's response first to feel even remotely better.
B: I am fine Sam.
And as an afterthought, another text from Bee rang in.
B: It is late where you are. Shouldn't you be in bed?
Sam smiled a little at that, the first smile to grace his lips since he set foot in California. He didn't know that he'd been crying when he felt a tear drop splash against his hand; he rubbed at his eyes. Bee was okay, he could breath now; Bee was alright.
S: I couldn't sleep. Just wanted to know how ur doing. When ya comin home?
B: In another week. When I get home, I'll perform a scan on you.
Sam laughed. Only Bee would say something like that. He found it endearing that Bee still labeled his parent's house as "home". For some reason, it warmed him from the inside. This was their original home.
He reread the text and frowned: Bee wouldn't be coming home in another week. How long could Sam last with the nightmares? He'd have to put up a strong front for the rest of the week, if only it would make Bee come home sooner. He wanted to be as cheerful and happy and carefree as he possibly could when Bee came home. He didn't want the bot to worry, which he always did wherever Sam was concerned.
S: I'd like that. Well, I'm gonna go back to sleep. Ttyl Bee. Night.
He waited patiently for Bee's response, which was almost instantaneous.
B: Goodnight Sam. Sleep well.
Sam slept a little better that night.
Sam.
"Bee," he whispered shakily, running trembling fingers down the worn metal that served as Bee's faceplates. They slid aside at his touch, revealing slate colored metal underneath, still warm and gleaming.
I am sorry Sam.
Blue optics dimmed until the light seemed to snuff out entirely, and that massive metal head went limp and thunked against the pavement. Sam stared down at the downed Autobot, eyes wide and quivering. He quickly snapped his hands away, as though burned, and he scuttled back, staring at Bee's comatose body with dread.
No.
No. No, no, no , no, no, no.
This wasn't real.
This couldn't be real.
Oh fuck.
Oh shit.
Oh fuck.
Bee. What the hell—Bee.
God dammit Bee, wake the hell up. This isn't funny.
Wake up. Get up.
Yet the bot didn't respond. The hulking yellow body was spread eagled and motionless, surrounded by debris and twisted reams of metal. A puddle of copper colored energon surrounded the robot's body like a small pool.
No, not like Jazz, not like Optimus, not like Ironhide, not like this- .
Sam jerked himself awake, and by doing so, took a tumble off the bed, thudding against the floor so harshly that he was momentarily winded. His chest tightened as he gulped for air, running his hands down his chest as he fought free of his blankets. In a matter of moments, he was able to catch his breath once more, and gulped down huge breaths, relishing the way his lungs expanded, oxygen leaking into him like water.
He pushed at the floor and heaved himself up, turning himself around so that he now rested on his bottom, his knees pressed to his chest. He knocked his foreheard against his knees, slowly breathing in and out, in and out. Sweat beaded down his temples, catching in his hair and pooling along the collar of his sleeping shirt. He needed air, he needed fresh air—he needed to go outside.
Sam quickly picked himself up from the floor and trudged across his room, ending up at his closet. He pried the door open and shifted inside for a zip-up sweater and a pair of shoes. Once he was done, he meandered back towards his dresser and snatched his phone, shoving it into his sweater pocket.
He wasn't going to go anywhere far; all he was going to do was sit outside in the backyard, maybe lay down in the grass or chill next to the fountain, however, he felt that he needed to keep his phone with him in case Bee called or texted, or whatever. After trekking about the house, he finally managed to make it outside. He slid the glass door closed behind him and stepped out into the grass.
Bee hadn't texted him since that one night three days ago, and it unnerved Sam. Logically, he knew he couldn't be on his Autobot's mind all the time, right? Bumblebee still had a responsibility to his team mates, and an obligation to the safety of Earth, which was now their permanent home—the bot's time was completely taken up. He had more important things to do than to babysit a human adult. Sam really needed to stop being so selfish.
But he couldn't help it. He desperately needed to see Bee in person.
"Stupid," Sam said aloud, digging through his pocket for his phone. If Bee wouldn't text, then Sam would! It was as simple as that.
S: Bee? He hit send, and waited for approximately 25 seconds to receive a response.
B: Hello Sam.
Sam exhaled in relief.
S: How are you? Are you okay? He winced; he could have come up with something a little more creative than that.
B: I am fine Sam. Are you alright?
S: I'm fine. Are you sure you're ok?
This time, Sam waited for nearly a minute and a half for the Autobot's response.
B: Is something wrong? Is everything alright?
S: Please just answer me. I need this, he thought.
B: Why are you up this late? Should you not be in bed?
S: Bee.
Two minutes this time.
B: Are you able to video chat at the moment?
Sam hovered his fingers over the keyboard. Unfortunately, his phone wasn't the latest model, which meant it didn't have the capability to perform video chat, and he really didn't want to hike all the way back upstairs and turn on the family computer.
S: I can't.
B: Why not?
Sam hesitated.
S: I'm outside.
After sending the text, he waited for a bit, twiddling his phone within his hands until a series of beeps resounded from his phone. When he looked down at the screen, he gasped, nearly dropping the phone on the grass beneath his feet. His entire phone screen was black and blank, it looked like it was turned off, but Sam could still see a faint glow emanate from the black screen, meaning it was still on.
Sam continued to stare at his phone, quirking his brow in confusion, until a flash of movement caught his attention. A wide screen suddenly popped up on his phone, revealing an image of himself with a small red dot situated on the top right corner of the screen—the phone was recording.
"Sam."
Sam nearly screamed. He recoiled and ended up dropping his phone, using the water fountain beside him to balance himself.
"Sam, are you hurt? What's wrong?"
It was his voice. Bee. It was Bee's voice. If he had known that Bee's voice would make him this relieved and unbelievably giddy, he would have tried calling the Autobot a long time ago instead of texting, but he hadn't wanted to bother the alien. But now…now, all he wanted to do was press his ear against his phone and listen to that voice all day long. Had Ratchet repaired Bee's voice receptors again? Didn't he know that Bee would find some way to mess them up again within a month's time?
Tentatively, Sam sat himself down upon the grass and picked up his phone, holding it gingerly within the palm of his hand. His own face stared back up at him, looking entirely weary and lack-luster. Dark smudges rimmed a ring around his eyes and his hair was messy an unkempt, brown curls sticking up all over the place. He looked worse for wear. Did that mean Bee had somehow managed to hack his phone, and was now seeing him via webcam? Sam's heart fluttered at the thought, but he quickly changed his mind and aimed the camera away from him. He looked so disheveled and sickly—he didn't want Bee to see him like that. He was sort of disheartened that he couldn't actually see Bee on the screen as well, but he would suffice with just his voice.
"Sam. Where did you go?"
"I…I don't want you to see me," Sam responded quietly, still aiming the camera away from his face.
"Sam. You're being unreasonable. Please get back on the camera."
"No."
"Sam."
"No," Sam whispered, staring at the fountain beside him.
"I want to see you."
Sam was so shocked that he nearly dropped his phone yet again, but managed to catch it just in time before it hit the grass. He turned his head to the side to hide his flushed face, although he didn't know why he'd done it; it wasn't like Bee could see him anyway. Now, how was he supposed to respond to that? Easy of course: obey.
Sam reluctantly turned the phone towards him, where he could once again see himself on the webcam displayed across his screen. God, he really needed one of those facial treatments that Carly was always going on about, he looked positively grimy. His heart pounded in his chest.
"Hello Sam."
Sam let out a laugh. "Heya' Bee."
Sam averted his gaze. Although he couldn't see Bumblebee, he just knew the Autobot was observing him. He could practically feel Bee's searing blue optics roving across the expanse of his face. What would Bee say? Would he say that Sam looked awful? Would he say something else about his appearance?
"Why are you outside?"
Sam was caught off guard. He was so sure that Bee would have commented on his appearance, not his whereabouts. "I couldn't sleep."
"I see."
Oh no, that tone. Bumblebee wasn't buying it, but the bot wasn't saying anything else. Bee really did know Sam well enough not to pry and make him feel uncomfortable, which made Sam love him even more.
"I'm sorry for texting you so late, or so early, or whatever the time is over there," Sam blundered, averting his eyes.
"Forgive me."
Sam piqued his head, drawing the phone even closer to his face. "What?"
"I am sorry for not calling sooner. I apologize."
Sam felt the words leave him. His heart felt like leaping out his mouth, his mind was fuzzy and tight, his chest constricting as he fought the nervous little flutters flipping about in his stomach. Goosebumps raised along his skin, making the tiny hairs behind his neck and along his arms stand on end.
Bumblebee was apologizing. What reason did Bee have to apologize for? Sam clutched the phone within his hand, his fingers tightening around the sleek edges of the device. Sam was the one who was supposed to be apologizing; Sam was the one that felt so incredibly guilty.
Bumblebee could have died. The Autobot would have been a heaping pile of scrap metal if things had gone for the worse. It had been Sam who had just stood there and watched the shuttle explode, Sam who had been hiding under that pile of debris as Bumblebee stood hunched over in front of that despicable Decepticon, waiting for the fatal blow.
Sam was the one who was supposed to be sorry, and he was so, so incredibly sorry. Sorry for being a coward, sorry for being selfish all these years, sorry for not being a better friend. Why…why was Bee…why was he…?
Sam waited for that familiar cloying sensation that clawed its way up his throat, releasing a series of choked sobs that escaped his mouth. He blinked and blinked his eyes, trying to quell the swell of tears that were already stinging at the corners of his eyes, but alas, to no avail. They tumbled forth and spilled across his cheeks, fat, salty globs running rivulets across his face. Fuck, why was this so hard?
"Sam?" Bumblebee's tone was worried now, a bit frantic, so realistic for such a synthetic sounding voice, all digital and pitched. "Are those tears? Why are you crying? Sam? Sam. Sam?"
The young adult in question still held his phone aloft, his hands shaking as he tried to steady the webcam over his face. He stared into the recorder, wiping the tears from his face with his arm. He felt like such a teenager.
"I'm sorry Bee," he rasped, licking the salt from his lips. "I…I just miss you. I miss you so much. I…" Sam didn't care that he was acting like a moronic, bumbling fool. He didn't care if he was having a totally gay moment; didn't care that he was making so much noise with his croaking sobs and hushed sniffles.
"…I want you here, with me."
And Sam turned the phone over, powering it off with a press of a button.
Tweekerz: Part one complete.
