Title: Another Gate

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Transformers and all related characters therein do not belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended.

Summary: Several years into the future, the war still continues between Autobots and Decepticons, and through it all, life goes on, and everyone's still looking for ways to hold on. Three shot. SamxBumblebee.

8888

It was late autumn, and the last of the blackberries were falling. Under the weakening and cooling sunlight, most of the leaves had dropped, leaving the trees bare and carpeting the forest floor in hues of corn husk yellow and Thanksgiving brown. Sam moved easily through the trees, the thin dirt path clear from the thick summertime vegetation. The thorny branches that did reach out were brittle and easily pushed aside. It was chilly, but no more so than what was fended off by a simple track jacket and jeans, and the coolness of the air felt good in his lungs—light and fresh and crisp, so different from the city air that always tasted of bitterness and lingered like dust in his throat.

But while the forest was quiet and lonely, that was not why Sam was taking his walk. No, he had a destination. One that lay dipped below the pine grove, just off where the makeshift trail curved away to find more suitable, open space. This destination was beyond the half-crumbled, moss-covered stone wall and dulled points of barbed wire that were curled around rotted wood posts. Signs that had long since lost their vibrant colors warned against hunting and trespassing. Sam picked his way through the obstacles, his stride every so often halted for the purpose of kicking pine cones out of the way, or to pick a ghostly pale mushroom that was silken to the touch. There were very few sounds in the forest. Most everything was curling away before the oncoming frost of winter and soaking up the last of the thin warmth from the sun. Music would have done well for the setting, and Sam could imagine hearing notes of clarinet music—hopping like birds through the branches; but it was quiet, as though it were being played from a distant room.

Sam stood on the edge of the path. It fell away to his right, disappearing around a hill of birch trees. The music continued on down the path, leaving him alone with the wind that rose and fell in gentle pulses; a breath in the forest. Before him, the forest was closed off, having long since folded in on itself as plants fought for space. The blackberries glistened like dark lights in the tangles, their tasty temptation filling the dew drops that covered their skin. Sam would have stayed, would have combed through the bushes to gather the berries like he and his mother had done so often when he was little, but his hands were hurting. Under his black leather gloves, his skin was filled with burrs, with biting insects and pulling aches in the tendons. He could feel the tips of the gloves' fingers filling with blood, warm and slick under his nails.

Oh, God, it hurt.

The low, mossy wall was easily crossed, a few of the stones wobbling dangerously under his feet as he stepped across the top. Sam pushed his way through the brush, twigs and leaves crunching with each step. He thought himself quiet, but he knew to the worms and pill bugs beneath that each touch to the ground he made was heavy and crashing. Each roll from heel to toe must have been deafening, and perhaps to them seemed like heralding to the end of the world. He kept going though, passing over, and the worms and pill bugs returned to sifting through the soil. The end of the world, then, was only temporary.

A muddy, steep bank ended the line of trees, and Sam managed a few stair-steps down on exposed roots that were jutting out from the mud before jumping. The shock of the landing traveled up his shin bones, and he had to shake it off before continuing down the thin shoreline of Pepper Moon Lake. The shore opened up once it reached flatter ground, the bordering trees creating a sheltered grove where a tongue of black water rested, waiting for winter. Here, Optimus was sitting, the tips of his feet just touching the water, which made miniscule reaches up the planes of metal. The beach was sand and pebbles, well away from the marshland, and despite his size, Optimus was well sheltered from the view from the rest of the lake. Sam made his way up to the Autobot leader, not bothering to call out a greeting. No doubt Optimus had heard his approach at least a good mile away. Instead, Sam simply took his place next to Optimus' ankle, reaching down to pick up a flattened pebble and toss it across the water's surface. It skipped three times, leaving a path of ripples before sinking into the blackness. Not bad, since it had been a few years since Sam had found a decent enough skipping stone with which to practice.

"Thanks for doing this, Optimus," Sam said, and even to his own ears, his voice sounded strange. It was not shaky, nor did it carry any tones of fear or hesitation. It was only…grateful. "I know it wasn't very fair of me to ask, but I knew no one else would understand. Much less help."

Sam picked up another stone and tossed it out, counting the skips and feeling satisfaction when it went farther than the first.

"It's not the first time," Optimus responded quietly, and Sam let his gaze fall to search for another stone. He felt bad, yes, but true regret seemed absent. Perhaps it was too cold out, and regret had been content to be left behind. So strange, to feel like this, Sam thought. Every preconception he had had been shed away in layers on his hike through the woods, leaving him with nothing but the ache in his hands. Was this really how it felt…

Sam reached for another stone, turning it in his fingers. It was perfect. He would have killed for a pebble like this when he was younger, when he had visited the lake with his parents and had combed across the beach to find the ideal skipping stone. As a child, he would have paid it the proper respects: admired its smoothness, uniformity of color, and he would have made his parents come out to watch him make it skip all the way across the lake. This stone, he would proclaim, would skip all the way to the other shore, where he would plan the next day around walking around and finding it again. Back and forth, back and forth, the stone hopping across the water like a miracle. But now, the aching and trembling in his fingers was so great he could barely hold on to it, and at his toss, it failed to make even one skip. It fell in an arc to the water and disappeared with a tiny splash.

Of everything that had happened, was happening, and would soon stop happening, it was that stone that broke him. Damn it. He did not even get one skip out of it. That would not do. He had to try again, but to do that, he would have to go and get it. Yes. He had to go get it.

Sam shrugged off his jacket, but left the gloves on. What a ridiculous thing, Sam thought as he waded into the water, the cold of it instantly seeping through his shoes and socks to wrap around his toes. What a ridiculous thing to take off his jacket. Habit, he supposed, but once he was waist deep, he wished he had it. It would have been no guard against the water, but it would have offered comfort. Still, he dared not to go back for it. Mikaela could keep it. She would want it.

Ah, the cold. He shivered, teeth alternating between gritting and chattering as the water lapped around his chest. Sam felt his heart racing, lungs drawing in rapid, shallow breaths as they struggled against something that was wrong…but oh, did it feel good on his hands. Like his toes, the water drew away the feeling in them, numbed them to a nothingness that made Sam laugh breathlessly in the deliciousness of that vanishing pain.

Also ridiculous, Sam thought, was taking the breath before he dived under, the water rushing around his ears and tugging lightly at his hair. Habit, he supposed. For a moment, he panicked, every cell in his being still tied to Earth screaming for survival—the surface, to reach the surface—to hold on

But that was it, was it not. For so long he had been told to hold on. From when he was little, playing on the climbing wall and his father at the bottom, encouraging him ever upwards and to not let go of the hand holds, to learning how to ride a bike, passing class, reaching for Mikaela in the rubble, to hold on to that goddamn All Spark. But holding on was easy. Anyone could do that. This was harder, the ultimate test, and Sam had an image to maintain. He would not back down, would not be afraid. So, in the blessedly cold darkness that was seeping into his bones and hands, Sam let go.

8888

"Girls go to college, to get more knowledge; boys go to Jupiter to get more stupider."

Sam had been prepared to step around the corner, ready to enter the Commons and for the first time in a few weeks feeling re-energized and alert. However, the sound of a young girl chanting an old schoolyard rhyme to the steady thwap-thwap of a jump rope stopped him, making him pause and wait for the right opportunity to strike. Slowly he shifted his weight to peer around the corner, making sure to stay mostly out of sight.

"Boys are rotten, made out of cotton; girls are sexy, made out of Pepsi."

Perfect. She was facing away from him, the loose curls of her blonde hair bouncing with each hop over the pink and white striped rope. Amidst the dark, heavy rock and overall blandness of jumpsuits and military-provided clothing, the sight of a bright pink skirt, white tennis shoes and flowered white shirt was like a breath of fresh air. Sam quietly stepped into the Commons, a few individuals noticing him and nodding their head in acknowledgement. Sam ignored them. Rather, he stepped up to the jump-roping girl and, timing it to avoid an unpleasant smack from the rope, Sam reached out and scooped her up into his arms. It earned him a surprised squeal, the sound turning to delight as the girl realized who her captor was.

"You sure have a bad opinion against us boys, Annabelle," Sam said, tickling his fingers along the girl's sides as best as he could without dropping her. Annabelle squirmed in his hold, simultaneously trying to avoid the tickling and reaching up to hug Sam around his neck.

"Sam, you're back!"

It was said between gasping laughs, and Sam took pity. He set Annabelle back down and she was quick to latch onto his waist, the force of her tackle enough to make Sam stumble back a few steps. Annabelle grinned up at him, blue eyes scrunching into bright crescents that arched above her broad smile. With careful consideration, Annabelle grabbed his wrist and dragged him over to a small circle of sofas and chairs that were circled around a low-slung coffee table. Already gathered were Mikaela, Sean, Maggie, and Glen. On the table was a conglomeration of food that had been snatched from the cafeteria, piled high to create a free-for-all grab breakfast.

"Morning, everyone," Sam said as he took his place next to Mikaela. Annabelle was quick to climb up into his lap and make herself comfortable, but not before grabbing a muffin to hand to her human cushion. Sam gratefully took it, tearing away the plastic wrapping and biting into the apple-cinnamon flavor with a ferocity that was probably considered undignified, but his hunger kept any notion of etiquette away.

"Morning," Mikaela replied. "Where's Bumblebee? I thought you'd two be glued at the hips since he got back."

"He was still in recharge when I left. I would have waited, but I'm starving. Sorry I didn't meet you guys for dinner."

Mikaela snorted, waving the apology off.

"Don't worry about. Bumblebee told us that you were asleep."

"How did the dig go?" Maggie asked from across the table, Glen already reaching for the laptop that never seemed to leave his side.

"Good," Sam answered. "We got a pretty decent sample—about fifty pounds, I think."

"Looks like Wheeljack's weighed it in at 24.4 kilograms. That brings our total supply up to about 36,300 kilograms," Glen said as he typed away on his laptop. Sam frowned. He thought they had had more than that.

"So…is that good?" Sean questioned, Mikaela turning her gaze to Sam, her eyes asking the same question. Annabelle had occupied herself with a cat's cradle string, twisting it through her fingers, but Sam could tell she was listening as well.

"Not particularly," Sam replied. "But it's not bad, either. It's just useless. Groenite is an extremely efficient, powerful energy resource, but beyond experimental testing, no technology has been developed to harness that energy. Even if it were to be developed, it would be extremely expensive, and the energy received from the groenite would not compensate for it. And it's energy is only as efficient and clean as the technology used to harvest it. These were some of the problems they had with developing hydrogen cells about twenty years ago. The fact is, we don't have enough groenite for it to be considered of any use."

"But it is enough for us to not let it get into the wrong hands," cut in another voice from behind Sam. Annabelle twisted in Sam's lap to peek over the back of the sofa, and a second later, she was leaping from her position and running to the new arrival.

"Daddy!"

Will knelt down to welcome his daughter into a fierce hug, and Sam waved at Ironhide as the weapon's specialist stepped in behind Will.

"Hello, princess," Will said, placing a kiss on Annabelle's forehead. "Were you good for Ironhide while I was away?"

"Good!?" Ironhide scoffed. "She was a little hellion. A Pit-spawned demon who leaves a trail of destruction wherever she goes."

Annabelle's eyes were wide and innocent as she mock-whispered to Will, dragging him by the hand over to the rest of the group.

"Ironhide doesn't like playing 'Duck, Duck, Goose.'"

"How many times have I told you?" Ironhide grumbled, the gears for his cannons twitching under the plates of his arms. "I am neither duck nor goose nor any other form of squawking, messy waterfowl."

"I don't know, the squawking part seems to fit," Will muttered, quickly dodging a not quite joking swipe from Ironhide. "I'm impressed you got him to play, Annabelle. He won't play it with me."

"We all played," Maggie said. "But don't be too surprised. It was either that or Disney Princess Fairy Tale Adventure."

Ironhide shuddered, the rest of the group laughing, and for the moment Sam could forget the ache pulling beneath his bandages. It felt good being together again, even if some members of their group were not present. This was something that the Decepticons did not have: a camaraderie, a pool of bonds that had made all of them all the better for having met each other. They had each other, and even with death and danger following at their heels, jokes could still be made at Ironhide's expense. All that was left, really, was to make sure that these types of moments were the only moments that existed.

"The President wants the groenite moved to a more permanent location," Maggie said as Will sat down next to her. "We can't keep moving that amount of material every time the Autobot base gets attacked. There's too much danger in it being intercepted."

"I've already talked to her about that," Sam said, shaking his head. "The problem is that any place that has sufficient security is a target for Decepticon attacks. There was however, the idea of moving it to Sault St. Marie."

"Where's that?" Mikaela asked, leaning forward in interest.

"It's a double city in both Michigan and Canada, and the location of the Soo Locks that connect Lake Superior and Lake Huron. If we store the groenite in the locks, it will be well hidden, and it's a very low-profile location. Optimus has already put in his preliminary approval for the move. Now all we are doing is waiting for the final approval for Washington."

It was not entirely true, in that Sam was several steps ahead of this game, more so than the others were thinking. Approval, with all of its associated meetings, red tape, logistics calculations, and stamping, had already come from both ends. The supply move was scheduled for the end of this week, only two days away, and it would be carried out with the utmost speed and secrecy. The team would consist of himself, a small collection of soldiers, Bumblebee, Optimus, Sideswipe, and, once it came time to leave and he was finally able to recruit the final member, Will. Optimus had been a much debated addition to the team, since he would be needed at the base. However, the issue of moving the groenite had been centered around transportation, and the amount they had to move was too great for any of the other Autobots to carry in one trip. Flying had been a possibility, but military jets were at high risk from the Seekers, who had an uncanny ability to show up out of nowhere and enjoyed using human pilots as moving targets for testing weapon upgrades. The only option left had been ground transportation, and Optimus was the only Autobot whose alt. form could pull such a loaded trailer with ease. As well as garner the least amount of attention.

Sam nibbled at the last bit of muffin in his hand as the others fell into more comfortable, idle chit chat. The move was well-planned, well-organized, and fairly simple. Take the groenite to Michigan, leave it, and then come back. Easy enough, but it would do to not be too flippant about it, or take the mission for granted. He had done that before, and had paid the price for it. Still, Optimus' presence gave Sam a better peace of mind. And if all went well, then he could be back in New York by Monday, and Bradford and whatever geologist the USGS sent out would have the mining teams working more effectively than he himself had managed. Everything should work out, if except for the chance of one problem…

A sharp throb along Sam's hands made him flinch, fingers curling so tightly inwards that his knuckles turned white, and he bit into his tongue to keep from making a sound. Damn it. This was going to be cutting it close.

"There you are, Sam," Ratchet intoned from the Commons entranceway. He sounded only mildly exasperated, considered an exceptionally good mood for the Autobot medic. "Have you finished your breakfast?"

"Yes, sir," Sam answered, already standing up to meet Ratchet's next request.

"Good. Now come with me to the medbay for your physical."

"God, Ratchet. Give the kid a break. You give him more check-ups than my dentist sends me those little post cards for a teeth cleaning," Will said. "I don't think he's going to fall apart on you."

"I am well aware the humans do not 'fall apart,' Colonel," Ratchet said as he met Will's gaze straight on. "But Sam has a habit of causing upheaval, and likes to surprise me. Good morning to you all, if you'll please excuse me."

With that curt dismissal, Ratchet turned, moving to follow Sam, who had already left.

8888

Sam had already hopped up onto the examination table and was peeling off his shirt when Ratchet arrived. The motions were familiar, even standard, and Ratchet moved with considerable speed on checking Sam's vitals.

"You're in a good mood, Ratchet," Sam commented as Ratchet prodded him with various tools. "I imagine you haven't had to deal with the twins today?"

"The twins irritate me in ways previously unknown, and I am currently plotting their slow, painful destruction. That makes me happy," Ratchet said, a little too convincingly. "Blood pressure 110/70, resting heart rate at 72, temperature at 98.2. Eyes, ears, and nose good. No pains, headache, fevers, or other abnormal symptoms experienced in the past two weeks?"

"No, sir."

"Well, once again, Sam, you seem to be in perfect health," Ratchet said, entering the data into the medbay's computer, a massive machine that seemed to take up half the wall. The size was for Autobot convenience only, to them, it was probably more like a small but powerful laptop.

"Yeah, I seem to be," Sam agreed quietly. Ratchet ignored him, entering a few more pieces of data before stepping up to the medbay's door and punching in a locking code, one to which only Optimus and Wheeljack were privy.

"All right, Sam, let me see the hands."

Sam wanted to hesitate, but practically unbidden his fingers set to the task of unwrapping the bandages. He always hated this part. No matter how many times he did this, he was never ready for it. Never ready for the sight waiting for him beneath the gauze. The lower layers came away red, though maybe that was not a sufficient term. Once perhaps they had been red, when they had been newly applied, but now they were brown, the redness long since turned old and dry. One would assume the bandages that the wounds underneath to be gashes, or ridges of healing skin where the cells were knotting themselves back together. The truth…Sam could never keep from recoiling.

Cuts, he could handle. He had seen blood before, seen deep flesh and puncture wounds, had even seen peoples' insides spilling out. But along his palms, the skin was missing. It was gone completely, as though someone had cut an outline of his palm and removed the skin, taking both tendons and nerves with it. He could see the bones, those long elegant lines of the metacarpals and the rounded tops of the carpals. They were his bones, Sam had no doubt. But they were not the color they were supposed to be. They were not pinkish color of live bones, nor any variant of yellow or white that would be expected of exposed bone. Instead, the bones were dark gray, the faintest shimmer of silver glitter to them as Sam turned his hands under the overhead lights. Sam could see past them; they were lying across a bed of blood vessels, tendons, and muscles, and while Sam could make out the individual shapes of these structures, they too were coated in a fine leafing of silver. So, perhaps, instead of having been removed, it was more correct to say that his skin seemed to have been eaten away, and this dissolution was continuing throughout the entirety of his hands' bulk. Across his palms, extremely thin lines of silver stretched from wrist and up into his fingers, no doubt responsible for his hands' continued movement and function. Sam was unsure of their strength, but he could never quite convince himself to touch the filaments and find out.

How the rest of his hand, the internal workings and structure, managed to remain isolated from the outside environment was the work of the silver, the grayness within that sealed off the edges of the skin like clamps and was probably doing the same thing within. Each day, Sam could feel the silver dissolve in a little farther, setting up makeshift structure behind it to try and take the place of the tissue it had destroyed. And this time, it had gotten farther than it had before. More of his skin was missing than the last time, and Sam could make out the bottom curves of the phalanges, a dark vein starting to stretch up the length of each finger as though it were making a cut from which to peel away the skin. Aside from an itch and a persistent, low throb, Sam could not feel the strange material, nor could he receive sensory input from it. It was more as though his hands had fallen asleep—he could move them, operate them, but any feeling aside from the ache was gone. As time went on, he would lose even more control over them.

Ratchet carefully placed a large hand underneath Sam's, mindful of the sensitive, spongy tissue that was left. A red light from one of Ratchet's scanners passed across his hands, the illumination for a moment allowing Sam to see the pulsing blood through the tissues in the top of his hands, rolling underneath the gray leafing of…whatever the stuff was. The red light ceased, disappearing, and for several long minutes, all Ratchet did was stare at the horrifying, organized stripping of Sam's flesh.

"These intervals have increasing longevity," Ratchet said at long last, a thumb rubbing soothingly down Sam's arm. Sam snorted.

"By about a couple of days each time. Not a whole lot of longevity. But what does it mean?"

"I don't know," Ratchet answered, voice heavy and Sam knew that that was the hardest thing for Ratchet to say. "It could mean one of two things. Either your body is figuring out how to fight the takeover, or the process itself is learning, and getting better. I cannot say with more certainty until the interval's longevity is extended for weeks, or even months, beyond one year. But it does not seem like you are going to escape the Recycling this time."

Ratchet pulled away, striding to the computer to enter in official requests that were also familiar, and as equally unhappy.

"I hadn't assumed so," Sam murmured, curling his fingers back to almost touch the silver webbing across the palm before extending them back again. He did not quite want to know their feel that badly. He wanted the bandages back on.

"Judging by the advancement of the metal," Ratchet announced, using a generic term for the substance eating away Sam's skin, though it was not quite metal. Ease of reference. "I do not recommend you participating in the transportation of the groenite."

Sam snapped his head up, eyes wide, but he was not completely surprised by Ratchet's declaration.

"But I have to go. If I don't, Bumblebee won't go, and we can't make changes to the team that quickly. Even if we did find replacements, it would cause a delay. We can't afford that—there isn't enough wiggle room in the schedule."

"You only have about five more days, Sam. If the takeover begins while you are on the road and only partway to your destination—"

"Then it will be a good thing I have Optimus with me. He's helped me each time before, and he'll be able to keep Bumblebee away."

It was a fairly decent argument, one that Ratchet would have trouble opposing. Especially since Sam knew that Optimus would take his side over Ratchet's. When Ratchet spoke up again, though, Sam realized that Ratchet had given up on the argument and moved to something more volatile.

"Why have you not told Bumblebee? He would want to know."

Sam looked away, unable to meet Ratchet's gaze.

"He doesn't need to know, though, Ratchet. All he needs to know is that I get sick once in a while, and he doesn't have to worry about me. Besides, I don't want him to look at me differently."

"Have you so little faith in him, Sam? Neither I nor Optimus think any less of you, nor consider you an aberration," Ratchet said gently, approaching Sam with fresh bandages and beginning to wrap them tightly around Sam's hands.

"It took a while, though," Sam countered, and he could feel a heat building behind his eyes. "For you both to get used to it. Bumblebee doesn't need to know for the same reason that Mikaela and Sean, Will and Maggie and all the rest of them don't need to know. I trust them, yes, but it would hurt them. It would alter them, that I could put Frankenstein's monster to shame. I steal bodies, Ratchet, I use them for my own and I don't want the others to know. We humans have a saying: ignorance is bliss."

"Bumblebee cares about you."

"I care about him, too, Ratchet," Sam replied earnestly, lifting his head to look back at Ratchet. "But this is just something I have to do alone."

"Not alone," Ratchet corrected. "Very well. If you insist, I cannot try to change your mind. But should you feel the takeover begin during the trip, you must tell Optimus immediately. I also want you to talk to him about the situation."

"I will."

"Good. Now, as long as you're here, take this cup. I need a sample for a UA."

8888

Sam had expected a welcome from Bumblebee, but perhaps not such an enthusiastic one. As soon as he left the medbay, Sam found Bumblebee waiting outside the door for him, and he could practically feel the tumultuous mix of happiness and worry swirling around his guardian. Bits of music and lyrics fell in tangled notes out of Bumblebee's speakers, as happened every time he got worked up.

"Since u been gone…No one could take your place…Joy to the world!...When you come home…Welcome back, welcome back, that thug's back….Where'd you go? I miss you so, it seems like it's been forever since you've been gone….Here I am so alone…We gotta get right back to where we started from!"

Bumblebee quickly knelt down in front of Sam, curling a large hand behind him that was comforting in his weight and unfailing support. Sam let himself lean into it, the visit with Ratchet having sapped away a little of his good mood. It felt wonderful to feel Bumblebee again, like coming home, and the uneasiness within eased. They had been separated for too long.

"Talk to the doctor, he said you're well for home …how to save a life…It's been over an hour since we poked the patient with something sharp…Doctor, doctor, give me the news."

"I'm fine, Bumblebee," Sam said, smiling as he petted the cool exoskeleton plating Bumblebee's fingers. "Just a little under the weather."

"Are you getting sick again?" Bumblebee asked, and Sam could feel Bumblebee's fingers tighten around him, curling protectively. It was a half truth, of course, since Sam refused to tell Bumblebee the whole story. With Ratchet's and Optimus' assistance to make everything sound more convincing, Sam had told Bumblebee that his exposure to the All Spark during its destruction had had residual effects on his body that worked in cycles, like a chronic illness that would rear its head on periodic intervals. His hands, Sam had told Bumblebee, were extremely sensitive, and had to be kept bandaged. According to Ratchet, without visual aids, an Autobot's scanners were fooled—Sam's hands operated as normal, and to Bumblebee, nothing would seem awry. He had simply trusted Sam on it, which left him feeling a little guilty to be carrying on the ruse, but it was far better than the alternative. The story worked wonderfully, and gave Sam a chance to disappear once in a while, to be left alone so he could recover when things got rough. Bumblebee allowed the solitude, so for nine years, Sam had been able to keep his secret. All he had to do was keep it up, and he had plenty of practice.

"A little bit," Sam answered. "But I'll be okay for the trip. I'll let you know if I start feeling really bad."

Satisfied, Bumblebee pulled back a little, shifting on his heels so that he was not so closely hovering over Sam.

"Would you like to go meet with Optimus? I believe he is in Wheeljack's lab right now," Bumblebee asked, but Sam shook his head.

"No, that can wait. How about we sneak out and go for a drive?"

It was almost funny, and certainly heart warming, the way Bumblebee visibly brightened, vocal processor chirruping with happy sounds that did not quite make it into words. Bumblebee was quick to pick Sam up and start moving towards the loading docks, stride long and hurried enough to make those people familiar with the pair to laugh. Sam did not care; he settled easily in Bumblebee's gentle grip. This felt right, being reunited after several weeks of separation. He and Bumblebee were friends, yes, but what they had also went deeper, unlike any other friendship Sam had.

But whatever it was, it did not really matter, and analysis could always wait. What was more important was the wind past an open window, the curve of the steering wheel under his fingers, and finally being right where he was supposed to be, all else for this autumn day forgotten.

8888

END PART II.