Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Sam dreamed in disjointed images and half-memories.
He was in the library at Princeton as books exploded into loose paper around him, fluttering in the air like a twisted tickertape parade as he ran for his life. The sound of gunfire, rapid and impossibly loud—getting louder as the Pretender gained on him—and terrified screaming filled his mind. (God, please no...)
He ran past faceless students, desperate to get out, get away, get safe, but his legs were so heavy. No matter how he tried, the Pretender got closer, and closer—
Then, with the logic that can only make sense in a dream, he's running out of the library and into the desert. Egypt. And standing between him and the broken body of Optimus Prime is Megatron, impossibly large in the harsh sunlight.
Slowly, the Decepticon leader turned towards him, and Sam saw the Matrix gleaming in his curled fingers. Fear surged through his body like molten metal, and Sam desperately looked down at his own hand—now empty.
No. It can't be. (Optimus! Optimus, get up! Get up!)
Then Megatron was lifting his arm towards him, charging his fusion canon, and the Decepticon growled a single word, which Sam remembered with perfect, horrible clarity—
"Die."
Brilliant blue flashed across his mind—
Sam jerked awake in bed with a cry, his heart pounding in his chest as though he'd just run a five-minute mile. The motion caused pure agony to lance his sides as he twisted his ribs wrong, and the edges of his vision swam precariously. Sucking in sharp breaths through gritted teeth, Sam squeezed his eyes shut and tried desperately not to vomit as the pain and lingering terror of his nightmare soured his stomach. Focusing all of his willpower, he pulled air in through his nose and out of his mouth, once, twice. Slowly, the nausea began to fade and Sam became aware of his surroundings.
He was in his assigned room onboard the aircraft carrier. The florescent lightbulb still shone in the ceiling, and his jacket was still on the floor. Everything was exactly the same as it had been before he'd fallen asleep, and yet it was totally different. The room wasn't small, it was claustrophobic. Megatron and Starscream could be about to attack right now, and he'd never know it. It would only take one well-placed blast from a plasma canon to blow a house-sized hole through the ship, and that would be it. They would all drown as the ship filled with water on the way to the bottom of the sea.
Sam realized he was shaking violently about the same time he became aware of a strident sound—his cellphone was ringing, persistent and urgent. It must have been what had woken him up. Sam didn't need to check his phone to know who was calling. After all, he'd shut off the phone before he'd gone to sleep. Who else could it be?
Suddenly, Sam had a primal, hindbrain-driven need to get out of this room and off this boat, right-the-fuck-now. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest as he lurched to his feet and yanked the door open. An officer walking half-way down the hall jerked in surprise as Sam stumbled out of his room. He jogged towards the closest hatch door, opening it and stepping through in a single motion.
Two military types stood in the hall on the other side of the door. One was a tall, dark man with a no-nonsense expression and the other was a woman, her pale hair pulled in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Both wore identical uniforms and held M4 assault rifles across their chests. The eyebrows of Tall and Serious rose up to his hairline as he looked Sam up and down, though whether it was in surprise at his sudden entrance or his haphazard appearance, he couldn't guess.
"Flight deck." He said without preamble, noting his voice sounded reasonably sane. Excellent.
Tall and Serious nodded slowly, "Yeah, okay. You alright son?"
Sam felt a flare of anger at the patronizing tone, and narrowed his eyes at the solider. No, he was not alright. He was shaking so hard he thought he might fall apart, and his chest burned as though it had been set on fire. He was about as far from 'alright' as he had been since Egypt.
It must have shown on his face because Tall and Serious said, placating, "Alright, alright. Follow me."
Sam fell into step at the soldier's side without a word. His shirt, which was soaked through with sweat, was rapidly cooling in the air-conditioned hallway, and goosebumps broke out over his arms and torso. It was no time at all before Sam was shivering in cold as well as pain. He did his best to pay attention to the route they were taking—down the hallway, through a port door, down another hallway, up a narrow flight of stairs, down one more hallway—but every hallway was identical in appearance, every door and every feature looked the same. It was a small eternity before they approached the flight deck door, which the solider pushed open for him. Sam stepped into the darkness, eyes closing in relief at the feeling of fresh air on his face. When he opened his eyes again a moment later, he was not at all surprised to see Bumblebee waiting a dozen feet away in his alt form.
He walked towards his guardian—the cold air brought with it the unwelcome realization that he had left his coat and his shoes back in the room—and was gratified when Bee opened the door for him. Without a moment's hesitation, he climbed inside the cab and settled into the driver's seat. The door clicked shut behind him and (wonderfully) warm air blasted from the vents on Bee's dash. Sam closed his eyes as his head pitched forward, thankful beyond words for the warmth and quiet of Bee's cab. Slowly he reached up and wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel, grounded by the feel of smooth leather under his skin. Minutes passed by in silence and the tightness in Sam's body relaxed by increments, his heartbeat slowing as his anxiety bled away.
When Sam felt calm enough to talk, he unclenched his fingers from the steering wheel and lay back against the driver's seat. The movement caused his ribs to twinge, and he wrapped his arm around his torso with a wince. Now that he was cognizant enough to take stock of himself, he realized that every single muscle in his body hurt. Delayed onset muscle soreness, he knew. The strain of the last two days was making itself felt, adding to the list of grievances his body was currently holding against him.
"So," Sam said, voice low and rough, "Come here often?"
"Are you alright?" Bumblebee asked without preamble, sounding strained. Although contact with the Allspark had healed Bee's voice circuitry, the scout rarely used his speaking voice. He preferred instead to share snippets of pop songs, jingles, and sound effects to communicate. Sam knew then that he must have unsettled the scout greatly.
"I'm alright Bee," He reassured his guardian tiredly, "Just a bad dream."
Even as the words left his mouth, Sam knew that wasn't the whole truth. He'd had bad dreams before, even bad dreams about Megatron, but nothing like this. This had been visceral. Judging by the mournful-sounding burst of static from the radio, his words had not assuaged the yellow Autobot.
A sudden thought occurred to Sam and he asked curiously, "How'd you manage to turn my phone back on?"
A moment of silence followed—Sam knew he had surprised his guardian with the apparent non-sequitur—and then Bee was answering, "It was a simple thing to do. As long as your cellphone has a charge, it is always sending and receiving signal."
Sam nodded, accepting the answer without question. He had come to learn that seemingly nothing was impossible when Autobots and technology were involved. After all, how else had his guardian managed to text him while he was deep within an iron battleship in the middle of the Red Sea?
"Well, thank-you." He replied softly.
Sam shifted and winced again as his ribs protested. At the minute gesture, the driver's seat lowered a fraction and warmth blossomed around him. Sam had to bite back a groan as the aching muscles in his back soaked up the heat like a sponge—it felt amazing.
"Heated seats?" He asked, voice strained, "Bee, you've been holding out on me, buddy."
The steering wheel twiddled playfully in front of him, earning the Autobot a small but genuine grin.
Sam's eyes fluttered closed and he heaved a sigh as muscles he didn't know he had slowly loosened. He may have wide-spread burns, two cracked ribs, and he may be physically exhausted, but in that moment everything was alright. He was warm and comfortable. He was safe.
Sam lay quietly for a while before another thought occurred to him, and he asked without opening his eyes, "How's Arcee?"
The driver's seat reclined another few inches, and Sam sighed in appreciation.
"Arcee is in recharge now. Rachet has done all he can until we return to Diego Garcia. Chromia and Elita-One are with her."
Sam nodded slowly, murmuring, "That's good."
"Arcee and I have known each other since before the Great War," Bumblebee was saying, his voice pitched low and smooth, "She's a warrior, she'll be fine."
"I knew you guys were friends, but I didn't know you'd known each other for that long."
"Oh yes," Bee replied, his voice quiet, "Arcee and her sisters were sparked not long before me. She was a scientist, back on Cybertron, before the Great War."
"How long ago was that?"
"Millions of years ago." Bee replied.
It was a long moment before Sam answered, and his words were barely a murmur, "I sometimes forget that you guys are so old."
"I'm not so old." Bumblebee said, with real amusement in his voice, "Optimus and Ratchet are many times my age. If you can believe it, Ratchet was a Senator before the war. Optimus was the Chief Scientist at the Temple Simfur, where the Allspark was kept following its excavation." Bee's voice softened in fond remembrance, "Optimus and I worked together at the temple; he oversaw the Allspark and I protected it."
Bumblebee stopped speaking, his radio going dark and quiet, though he was not waiting for a response. His sensors (and Sam's soft, even breathing) informed him that his human was fast asleep.
Sam half-awoke a short while later, roused by the sound of an engine turning over. He raised his head an inch or two and blinked blearily at his surroundings, disoriented. But then Bee was murmuring at him and Sam relaxed, eyes fluttering closed as his lay back against the seat. Warm and comfortable, he was asleep again a moment later.
Sam woke slowly, groaning in disapproval. His first conscious thought was that he hurt all over; the burns on his chest in particular were well within the domain of legitimate pain. Sam reached blindly for his blankets, fully intending to roll over and go right back to sleep. When his hands grasped empty air, he blinked his eyes open in confusion. He stared at his surroundings in disorientation for the space of a heartbeat—steering wheel, gear stick, dash board—before his mind caught up with him.
Bee's interior was quiet and dark; sometime during the night he had tinted his windows so they were opaque. The clock on the dashboard informed him that it was 8:14 AM. Sam's first thought—tinged in genuine surprise—was that he had slept the entire night without another nightmare. Sam's second thought was a rush of sheer embarrassment at having done so in the first place.
"Oh my god, Bee." Sam groaned, voice rough with sleep. He struggled into a sitting position, and the driver's seat inclined forward to help him. "I am so sorry if I snored." A second thought occurred to him and Sam gasped, mortified, "Oh my god, did I drool on you?"
The lights on the radio brightened and the dial slid across frequencies, resulting in a burst of sound that was suspiciously reminiscent of laughter.
"Good morning, Sam." Was the amused reply.
Sam rubbed his good hand over his face and groaned again, audibly.
"How are you feeling?" Bee inquired, and Sam took a moment to consider the question before answering.
"Pretty rough," He admitted, "My chest hurts."
"Your burns or your ribs?" Bee asked, pragmatically.
"Both, I guess, but mostly the burns." Sam glanced at the dash again, where the time was glowing back at him, "Doctor Doom is going to be pissed. He wanted to see me at seven."
"Yes, I know. He contacted Ratchet when you failed to arrive on time, but Ratchet felt that your rest was more important than a dressing change. The doctor eventually assented." Bee replied. Sam was familiar enough with the grumpy old medic to discern the truth of the scout's words. The doctor had requested he wake Sam and send him down, and Ratchet had refused.
"Well, I guess I had better head down then." Sam said, and in response the window tint faded away until he had an unobstructed view of the flight deck. Bee was parked on the far end of the ship, under an awning of camo canvas that was hung over a large portion of the deck. Sam could see the other Autobots, parked in their alt forms and assembled in groups. On the far side were Mudflap and Skids, a short ways away were Sideswipe and Jolt. Ironhide and Optimus were closer, and off to the side was Arcee, sandwiched between Chromia and Elita-One.
Sam was unsurprised but dismayed to see Ratchet standing directly in front of Bumblebee in his bipedal mode, arms crossed in a characteristically human way. If the expression on his faceplate was anything to go by, the medic was impatient-bordering-on-annoyed.
"Any chance you could outrun him?" Sam asked, only partially joking.
"Not if he knows what's good for him." The medic replied, and rapped Bee smartly on the hood with his knuckles, "Out you get."
The door clicked open, and Sam climbed out obediently. It was a ginger undertaking, but he mostly accomplished it without twisting his ribs too badly. The door closed shut behind him and Sam had an irrational urge to whisper 'Traitor' in Bumblebee's direction, but he didn't have the chance before Ratchet was kneeling down in front of him.
A flat blue light emitted from Ratchet's optics as his medical scan swept over Sam's body.
"How are you feeling?" The medic asked with his usual brisk, no-nonsense manner.
Sam shrugged, "Exactly like I look." He replied wryly, because Sam knew he looked and felt like shit.
"Care to be more specific?" Ratchet prompted, dryly.
Deciding that honesty was the best way to escape Ratchet's scrutiny, Sam answered, "My burns hurt the most. My ribs are okay if I don't move suddenly. If I do, the pain is pretty spectacular." As an afterthought, Sam added, "And every muscle in my body hurts."
Ratchet's optics shuttered thoughtfully, and then the fingers of one hand split apart into a dozen delicate instruments and Ratchet was reaching for him.
Sam was blindsided by the terror that surged through his body in an instant. Although the rational part of his mind knew that this was Ratchet, and that the medic would never hurt him, another part of his mind was right back in the warehouse with Scalpel's spindly legs pricking into his chest and its needle-like appendages waving in his face. Sam recalled the little bot's terrible words with perfect clarity, 'Ve must haff ze brain on ze table!'
Ratchet froze as soon as his sensors detected the surge of adrenaline and Sam's increased heart rate. He withdrew his hand immediately and asked, concerned, "Sam?"
Sam sucked a harsh breath of air through his teeth, "Sorry." He managed, coming back to himself, "You surprised me."
Ratchet looked at him, expression intense and considering, before speaking, "I'm going to lift your shirt and look at your dressings. Dr. McNeil has briefed me on the condition of your injuries, but I would prefer to do my own assessment." Ratchet raised his hand again to indicate he was about to approach, watching for any sign that Sam was about to balk. Sam gritted his teeth, willing himself not to move as Ratchet's instruments plucked at the cloth of Sam's shirt and lifted.
To Sam's surprise, Ratchet continued his narration, voice low and measured, "I'm looking to see if there is any drainage from your burns—you can see that these bandages have a reddish tinge, indicating there was discharge overnight. That's normal and to be expected." The lens of Ratchet's left optic whirled and extended slightly, "My scans detected no signs of malignant bacteria, and my visual inspection confirms that the skin along the edges of your burns is healthy looking and uninflamed.
Ratchet replaced Sam's shirt, and grasped his left arm gingerly by the wrist, turning it slightly. The medic learned closer, optic whirling again, to inspect the burns on Sam's upper arm. These hadn't been as bad as his chest and remained un-bandaged.
"These burns are less serious. How do they feel?"
Sam had to swallow around the lump in his throat before he answered, "Tight but not very painful."
Ratchet let go of his arm and withdrew his hand. He looked at Sam intently a moment before saying, "This may feel odd."
Sam opened his mouth to ask for clarification, when a glitchy-red scan emanated from Ratchet's optic and swept him from head to toe. He took a step back in surprise, because Ratchet had been right: it was a distinctly odd feeling, like television static and white noise had combined to tingle over every inch of his body. Sam was decidedly not a fan of the sensation, but before he could open his mouth to protest, Ratchet's head jerked back and his optics shuttered in shock at whatever he found.
Unnerved by the medic's reaction, Sam asked uncertainly, "What? Do I have cancer or something? Because I have to say, it will be a cosmic joke if a malignant tumor is what kills me."
Ratchet snorted in response, back to his usual self, "No, Sam, you do not have cancer. Other than your injuries, you are in perfect health."
"Well, okay then. That's good."
The medic rose to his feet, regarding Sam closely and said, "Go straight to Dr. McNeil so he can change your bandages. I have notified him that you are on your way."
"Yeah, okay. Sure. Thanks Ratchet." Sam said, still uncertain. Bee's door popped open and a burst of song played out of the radio,
"Let's ride, let's ride, let's ride. Hop in the front seat."
Sam glanced over his shoulder and noted that the observation deck was over half the length of the ship away and, thankful for the lift, he eased back into the driver's seat. As Bee's engine turned over, Sam glanced through the windshield and saw that Ratchet was standing next to Optimus, who was now in his bi-pedal form. Although Sam could not hear a word they were saying, he had the distinct impression that they were talking about him. Then Bumblebee was turning away, accelerating down the length of the battleship, and both 'bots disappeared behind the cover of camo tarp and a wall of containers.
Notes: Bee knew exactly what he was doing.