Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All unrecognizable ones are the intellectual property of yours truly; their theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

Title: The List

Summary: Transformers AU. Sparkbearer sidestory. Evelyn's list of "Things That I Never Thought I Would Do But Wound Up Doing Anyway Because Of Those Blasted Autobots." Drabbles and oneshots. Ongoing.

Rating: T

Warnings: mild cursing, other warnings to be posted on a chapter-by-chapter basis

Author Notes: Once more, I have been bitten by the sidestory bug. This one came about after listening to Evelyn gripe about all the weird situations she ends up in thanks to Sideswipe and his ilk.

And you have to admit, she does have a point.

The List

How It Began

Rules:

1) An experience cannot be included on The List simply due to the involvement of 'giant alien robots.' (I. e. 'eat dinner with giant alien robots,' 'watch TV with giant alien robots,' etc.)

2) Ditto for 'disembodied voice.'

"What's this?"

Evelyn held up the journal and looked toward Jamie questioningly. Seated beside her on the small couch, the dark-haired woman smiled, but it was the sort of smile that never reached the eyes and merely deepened the stress-lines upon her face. It was the sort of smile that made Evelyn's heart clench with guilt.

"It's a journal," said Jamie.

"I can see that."

"Oh." Jamie swatted Evelyn's shoulder lightly. "Don't be thick, Chickadee."

"I'm not being thick. I'm being confused." She set the journal upon her lap and ran her fingers lightly over the cover. It was bound in a soft material not unlike suede, dyed a deep emerald green, embossed with vines and flowers. "Not that it isn't lovely, of course."

"It's... This is going to sound silly, but you don't ever talk to me or your folks or Dicky-boy or... anybody, really. And even I know that's no good, and every gal needs a diary. So, I saw it at the store the other day, and it just seemed right."

Evelyn pondered that, opening the journal. Her eyes blurred with tears as she saw a short message scrawled upon the inside cover in Jamie's elegant script. For My Chickadee, something for you to talk to. Love, Your Lark.

Evelyn sniffled. "God, Jamie, you are such a smooshy... sappy... Lookit, you're gonna' make me cry!"

"Don't you dare," Jamie scolded. "If you cry, then I'm going to cry, and then we'll just have to get out the hairdryer to air out the carpet 'cause the floor is going to be darn well soaked."

Evelyn laughed and snuffled and swiped at her eyes. "Chickadee and Meadowlark. From the days when writing coded messages in class was cool."

"Coulda' given James Bond a run for his money, hm? Though I'm pretty sure Mrs. Johansen wasn't fooled." Jamie glanced toward Evelyn out of the corner of her eye. "Do you really like it?"

"I love it." Evelyn wrapped her longtime friend in a one-armed hug and squeezed. "Love it, love it, love it."

Dear diary...

Evelyn stared at the line. She closed one eye and squinted, considering. Cliché, she thought. Very, very cliché.

She erased the two words and pressed the eraser to her lips, pondering. After a moment's thought, she tried again.

My name is Evelyn Meredith Hughes.

She erased that as well. Sighing in frustration, she rolled her eyes, and suddenly the pencil seemed to be moving on its own.

You know, this wouldn't be half so hard if it weren't for those oversized tinker-toys that abducted me in the first place.

Everyone thinks of aliens as little green, spindly, bug-eyed fellows, and here I am, Evelyn Hughes, linguistics professor, budding mechanic, onetime schizophrenic, who can honestly say that there is intelligent life in the universe, and it averages thirty feet tall, travels armed to the gills, and is very much of the mechanical persuasion.

To borrow a phrase, 'who'da thunk?'

She grinned to herself. "'Who'da thunk,' indeed."

And, naturally, being the only human currently aware of their existence, I'm entitled to a great deal of 'firsts.' First contact, of course, but also first extraterrestrial food sampling, first human-Cybertronian symbiotic... whatever you would call what happened to Sideswipe and me.

Evelyn laughed softly and covered her eyes with her free hand. Images of a towel-lined box and a towering silver table and glowing blue eyes filled her head, and she set to writing once more.

To be honest, I don't know who was more out of their depth: me or the poor sparks who had to take care of me. Bless them, I'll never be able to repay them.

Come to think of it, I'll never be able to repay Sideswipe either, but as Ratchet would say, "That's a whole other bucket of bolts."

Her cheer vanished, and she now frowned as she turned to a new page.

I must be some sort of magnet for surreal-slash-ridiculous situations. Be abducted by aliens –really, honestly abducted by aliens,– get involved in an extraterrestrial war (which has been going on since before my species evolved), help with first aid for an alien military unit, witness the first ever episode of When Cats-Cradles Go Bad—

"Poor Bluestreak," she said, and then she had to pause in writing until her fit of fond giggles subsided. "Poor Ratchet."

I'm going to have to make a list. I've got to keep track somehow.

She paused. She looked at the last two sentences. She pondered. Not a half-bad idea.

Evelyn turned to a new page and wrote in large block letters:

THE LIST