Disclaimer: I don't own the Transformers film series.
—
The course of true love never did run smooth.
—
.
.
.
.
.
He gazes onward, willing the knot in his throat to subside. His stomach churns unpleasantly as he squint his eyes against the slant of golden sunlight. Crude graffiti and fissures in the grimy white stone are the prime vision of the bland building. Traffic on the street is light. It's early morning, the shop must be opening soon – or what he recalls of its schedule, that is. He recalls quite a lot, actually; it's a maelstrom of memories that chaotically envelope his head, threatening his cool disposition.
He hears the motorcycle down the street a minute before its arrival, rumbling against the asphalt. A shudder of nervousness and excitement slips down his spine. He shovels his hands into his pockets, unable to process the reason behind him standing at the gate. Why is he here? He could have called, could have reassured her hysterical voice: "I'm fine, Mikaela. I'm sorry for worrying you. It's been a long time." Insert awkward chuckle.
He should have called, he should have explained that yes, he had been in Chicago during the battle, but no, he was not dead or severely injured. Well, certainly that much would have been obvious.
There are many things that Sam should have done.
He recalls Carly, her full lips and her sweet smile. She's not Mikaela and he has never wanted her to be. Mikaela was iron-spined and blunt, her tone affectionate in an assertive manner. It always amused him, her tenacity and her "I love you more" attitude. Carly's always swathing him in adoration, reserving a worshipful voice just for him – what more can a guy ask for, right? Yet Mikaela, she goaded him, she teased and joked with a sharp tongue and a witty remark always at hand, treating him as a best friend and a lover.
He loves Carly, so why is he here?
The motorcyclist, in her leather contraption of a suit (his muscles strain) turns just as the garage doors open, revealing a shimmering black... car. Probably a Ford. Mikaela can name it easily and swiftly, pinpoint its model, brand, date, and mechanisms. She and Bee enjoyed playing a game called "Guess the Year & Brand." Bee, for all of his technological advancements and understandings, rarely won. She's fixing it – the engine has been removed and there's scraps of metal piled into a cardboard box. The entire garage, just like the shop and its yard, is pure metal.
She doesn't notice him, an innocent bystander hovering at the locked entrance.
Opening is in 30 minutes.
He shifts uncomfortably, remembering her cold demeanor, the outrage and fear that wrapped around her like the black wings of a dark angel. She had been possessed, unable to comprehend, to accept. They were destroying his life, she had furiously shouted; they were the source of his inevitable end if he continued to play the hero. The Autobots were sheer poison to him and his life. She couldn't quell the hellish nightmares that clouded her mind in the dead of the night – his limp body, the white discoloration, the stillness of death carved onto his face. They were stealing her sanity.
"You were dead!" she had screamed, angry tears blinding her as she shoved and pushed him, and then clung to him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "You have no fucking clue what that feels like, Sam! Seeing the person you love j-just... dead! And it'll happen again if you keep up with this bullshit!"
She had stormed away, had packed her belongings, having refusing to acknowledge his poor reasoning. Was it poor, he knows contemplates? It must have been, for her answer had stunned him; caused him to question the reality of his situation. There are times, even after Chicago and Carly and such, that he questions it all.
"Saving the world is worth it," he had stated, heart fragmenting as he stared into her, truly into her – the lost little girl, a thief for a father and a single memory of an absent mother. Loneliness terrified her, particularly forced loneliness. Death forces many undesired circumstances.
"Sam... you are my world."
He loves Carly, yet Mikaela is calling to him again. Her honest and open statement had never truly escaped him. But on the distant horizon of his life, he's listening to the chime of church bells. His finger pulses with a distant ache for a ring (a promise). Carly's waiting on the horizon, he knows it.
Mikaela takes off her helmet and sets it on the motorcycle. A cascading mane of ebony locks sweep down her back. She licks her lips and unzips her jacket, revealing a simple tank top. She rarely dressed for fashion in the way that Carly does, always donning the expensive attire of affluent Chicago shops. No, Mikaela dresses for comfort and security, for a job that involves grease and dirt.
God, he had loved when her soft creamy flesh was coated in grease.
In fact, he had loved her.
She turns her head in his direction, curiosity arising. His heart beats loudly in his ears. Her head turns back to her own situation as she peels off the rest of her suit. Of course. Jeans, stained by black smudges.
The sunlight is brighter than ever.
Her entire body tenses. She drops the suit, her hands lingering in the air. Sluggishly, she turns, her entire body facing him. Those crystalline blue eyes are wide and frightened and shocked. Even from afar, he's able to the note the cherry red flush of her skin.
He smiles meekly.
She returns the gesture, her feet carrying her across the space of their distance. The speed of her walk is almost superhuman. It startles him.
"Sam?" Her voice is high-pitched and heavenly. It caresses him, opens up his mind to a plethora of memories that momentarily paralyze him to his spot. "Sam?" she says again, louder this time, her tone almost distraught.
"Mikaela," he manages to respond, albeit in a low murmur. He's wounded and graceless, defenseless in the presence of her beauty, her vibrations that penetrate the repressed energies humming in the air.
"Sam," she breathes in a fluttery whisper, hurriedly whipping out the keys from her pockets and unlocking the gate. He's not entirely certain, but their movement is magnetic, almost supernatural. Upon the gates sliding open, her arms immediately encircle his neck, his own arms snaking around her slender waist. They're very close then, their grip on one another tight and unyielding. Her scent is metal and grease and gardenias; familiar. He breathes it in, no longer resisting the memories that consume him in their tender embrace.
"Are you okay?" she asks, surveying him for damage. Definitely Mikaela, always seeking to repair. Her silken hair brushes lazily against his skin as a morning breeze strokes them. "Sam, I-I... You never called back." She pouts and he's not even sure that she realizes she's pouting.
His lips curve into a slight smile. "I guess I just thought it was time for a reunion."
"But Chicago," she insists, shaking her head frantically. "Sam, I tried to get a flight there, but all the flights were closed. I was going to drive but it all ended so soon and... Jesus fucking Christ, you scared the shit out of me!" She whacks him lightly on the chest, eyes slitted and jaw taut.
Despite her open-palm assault, they remain in their embrace. Too close. He retreats frantically and she mimics the action, smoothing her hands down her jeans, regarding him gently with those gorgeous, expressive orbs. They open the soul, whether the soul is willing or not. He had always known that of her eyes.
"How do you even know I was there, huh?" he asks teasingly, folding his arms. No more touching, Sam. You love Carly and Carly loves you and it's a fairytale ending.
She rolls her eyes. "You're Samuel James Whitwicky, okay? Without the wit," she adds sarcastically, frowning disapprovingly at him.
He laughs, truly laughs. "You caught me. Always the hero, right?"
A thick silence blankets the atmosphere and he mentally berates himself. Yup, definitely no wit – or class, for that matter. Her mouth shapes itself into a kind smile, reassuring him, and she quickly interrupts the tension by stating frankly, "Sam, I'm glad you came out here. I missed you."
"I missed you, too," he admits despite himself. You have a girlfriend, Sam. You told her you loved her. You still tell her you love her. I love you, I'll see you soon, was his final goodbye to her before boarding the flight to Los Angeles for reasons he hadn't disclosed but she probably guessed. "But hey, you know... I..."
"You have a girlfriend," she finishes, tilting her head. "I caught that, Sam."
"Always reading me like a book," he chuckles hoarsely, his body racked with unwilling flames of affection. It's her beauty, he tries to rationalize. There was always a strange reaction to her beauty amongst men and women – you were being suffocated, choked, but it was euphoric. "It should be illegal to be that friggin' gorgeous!" his mom had once commented, stamping her foot on the floor. It's impossible to forget her face, her aura.
He knows that very well.
"Was she there?" Mikaela asks quietly, staring at him with an unreadable expression. "Your girlfriend, I mean."
"Yeah," he answers shakily. "Yeah..."
"No dying this time, right?" Her attempt at conveying humor dissolves with the quivering of her bottom lip. His throat tightens and his insides twist. His hands ball into fists, the knuckles turning paper white with the stretch of skin across the bones.
"No... No dying. Just the same old running and explosions and Optimus saving the day."
She parts her lips. "Sam... I..." She closes her mouth and stares at the ground, yet he knows fully what she wishes to say. He thinks it often (more often than he'd like) in the night, his hands behind his back as he gazes at the ceiling. Worse, even with Carly draped on his side, needing him even in her sleep.
I should have been there.
"It's alright," he replies, touching her shoulder. She's soft as he remembers. "I'm glad that you were safe here. You've been through enough."
She grins, her eyes lightening as she gazes warmly at him.
"I'm still glad I got in that car with you."
.
.
.
.
.
"Who's this?" Carly had once asked, tone accusing and baffled all the same as she pried an object from his secret chest buried in the back of the closet. She held up a photograph and Sam had stopped mid-stride, his mouth opening yet no words formulating as as to explain the beautiful, dark-haired girl in the picture.
Carly arched an eyebrow, dumbfounded and annoyed with his silence. "Sam," she repeated, her voice sharper, trying to pry him from his seemingly random display of deafness, "who's this girl?" Jealousy laced through her, as expected when encountering Mikaela – even with just an image that's a mere fraction of her perfection.
"That's... Mikaela," he had answered, staggering with his words, "she's an... ex-girlfriend."
"An ex?" Carly raised her eyebrows. "And why, pray tell, do you have a photo of your ex-girlfriend stashed away in a box in the very back of your closet along with"—she digged deeply once again, discovering more items of interest—"Pokemoncards?"
"I didn't want my mom selling my Pokemon cards... so I hid them..."
"Samuel," she warned, eyes narrowed as she glared sternly at him. "Why do you have a photo of her?"
"Because..." He had sighed then, knowing that evading Mikaela forever was an impossible task. "You know what happened with me in Los Angeles and Egypt, right? With Megatron being unfrozen and then the Fallen and the Matrix? You remember me telling you all of that?"
She nodded warily, eying him. "Yes, and...?"
"Mikaela was there. We were dating... She was there with me for all of it. Like you and all of this, except when it all began."
"Oh." Her mouth opened and sympathy knocked down her anger. She didn't press the subject further, but had examined the photo closely; peculiarly. After several prolonged moments (with his patience being chipped away as he resisted the urge of snatching the photo from Carly), she had whispered, "She's very lovely, Sam," and quickly placed the photograph where it had been uncovered.
After that, he had found a new hiding spot for his secret chest.
.
.
.
.
.
"Sam, I'm sorry for everything," Mikaela says, her legs crossed and her hands folded neatly in her lap.
They're perched on lawn chairs beside the garage, the sunshine showering them in warmth. The light reflects beautifully off her eyes. It's maddening and undeniably beautiful, but he keeps his influx of compliments to himself. If he doesn't, he'll be bathing her in nothing but, "You're so beautiful" commentary.
"It's okay," he replies, trying not to go down that road. "Really, it is."
"It's not," she insists, pouting once more. "Sam, nothing's really alright. You should have called."
His eyebrows knot together. "I wanted to... see you."
"And what? We don't have anything to talk about." She exhales loudly, shoulders slouching as she observes his face. The corners of her lips lift. The suddenness of her mood change isn't entirely surprising, if not welcoming, and he grins with her. "You look more mature. Like a changed man."
"You've changed, too," he notes, eying the shape of her cheeks and the ambition of her countenance. "You're the owner now, right?"
"Yeah," she replies briskly. Proudly. "My dad retired and passed the torch onto me."
"Still a beauty with brains," he says, regretting it instantly. She blushes deeply, yet doesn't respond. Sam, he chastises, mentally shouting at himself. You have a girlfriend. Her name is Carly. However, you're flirting with your ex-girlfriend who once laid over your dead body sobbing and...
Oh, God.
There are many things that Sam shouldn't do.
.
.
.
.
.
"You must have really loved her," Carly had whispered the next night, snuggling closely against him in the darkness. Her English accent was adorable, he thought, even when trying to mask the envy and curiosity in her voice. "You must have really loved Mikaela."
Sam didn't blink.
Sam didn't say, "No."
Sam couldn't say no.
Sam wasn't a liar.
"I'll always love her," he admitted. Carly stiffened, her breath shallow and her heartbeat pounding against his chest. "I love you now, though," he reassured, embracing her; kissing her forehead, smelling the soapy freshness of her blonde hair. "I love you, Carly. Mikaela's the past."
"I understand," she said, although she didn't understand. He didn't want to contradict her statement openly; didn't want to spark an argument.
Because there's love and then there's true love.
He had felt both in his lifetime.
.
.
.
.
.
Mikaela asks, "Are you heading back home today?"
"Home?" He stares at her, confounded, before realizing that home means Chicago. "Oh, yeah. I am."
She nods, biting her lower lip and playing with her hands. "Sam... Why did you come? Don't bullshit me," she warns, jabbing her index finger at him when his lips part.
Sam presses his lips into a terse smile. His spine is erect, his shoulders straightened. He searches the core of his being, the very heart of his soul. She's patient with him, her eyes wide with a tender openness that no human is capable of recreating. Even with her stubborn persona, she was always able to resemble a helpless puppy – her lower lip jutting out, her eyes glassy, her head cocked ever-so-slightly to the side.
He's blinded by light, remembering the begging and screaming of her voice as she threw herself over his lifeless body. She had called to him, had pleaded desperately. Her feet had carried her across the war-torn desert in a panicked run. And in that moment, when his eyelids lifted and his vision created the divine image of an angel, he was struck with an overwhelming sense of love. It spread through his veins like wildfire, exploding and erupting with the might and brilliance of shooting stars.
There was just Sam and Mikaela and nothing else.
"It took all this to tell me that you loved me."
He smiles sheepishly at the memory; her loving caress, ignoring his bruised, battered, and bloodied figure. That night and the many nights to pass, they never relinquished their hold on another.
And then her grasp had slackened, her unconditional love falling into depression as she eventually vanished, vacating his heart.
Sam never filled that void.
Sam never replaced it, either.
Sam loves Carly so much.
Sam loves Carly for who she is and what she represents: herself.
"Sam?" Mikaela leans forward, concerned. "Sam, what's wrong?"
He loves Mikaela for what she represents:
The world.
"You're a black hole, you know that?"
"Sam, what—?"
"Always sucking me back in, you know that?"
She understands.
She's sick.
"I broke up with you," she whispers, eyes watering as she staggers to her feet. Sam follows her actions, completely devoured by the forgotten creature that's carving itself back into his heart. "Sam, I abandoned you. I left you and you found someone who didn't abandon you. She's not afraid. Sam, don't be a fuckingidiot."
Sam knows that Carly's not afraid.
Sam also knows that Carly's never seen his dead body, frozen in time and space. He knows that there are moments in which Carly had cowered and cried, unable to run to him – he doesn't blame her or resent her; fear chills the blood, makes movement and decision nearly impossible. He knows that Mikaela didn't leave his side and when she did, she took action of her own environment. He knows that she faltered and broke when he died.
When Optimus had perished, Sam had broken, too. He had shattered. If it had not been for Mikaela (and Bee, always Bee), he would have surrendered. He would have cried in a corner, would have torn out his hair.
There are many things that Sam will do.
.
.
.
.
.
Mikaela massages the back of her neck and stretches out her legs.
Sunlight peers through the glass of the windows. She leans back in the kitchen chair, her eyes staring forlornly into the brown liquid of her mug. For the muscle and labor her work days require, she's entirely lazy at home – unwashed dishes, unclean towels and clothes, garbage that hasn't been taken out to the dumpster. Then again, it leaves the apartment less empty.
Mikaela hates emptiness.
Her eyes find the calendar. Two weeks. Sam has been gone two weeks now.
He had kissed her forehead, said, "I'll always love you, okay?" and he had left, taking his flight back home. Home is Chicago. Home is Carly, his girlfriend.
She bows her head, attempting to drain the memory from her brain. It's destructive and painful.
It's karma.
Mikaela believes strongly in karma.
The doorbell rings shrilly, sweeping her away from her contemplation. Groaning, she throws herself from the chair and marches toward the door, annoyed with early morning salesmen. They enjoy her house – they enjoy leering at her and flirting and eyeballing and exercising charm that she doesn't care for.
Unlocking the door, she swings it open, eyebrows flattened.
Sam's grinning at her.
"I'm really glad you got in that car, too."