Chapter 8
Sam walked slowly, trailing behind the solider in front of him. Bumblebee's confession had had a curious effect on his mental faculties. When he had been talking with Optimus, Sam had been so angry that it had felt like his rage would burn him from the inside out. After speaking with Bumblebee, however, he felt only numbness—as though he had disconnected from his limbic system entirely. After the sharpness of his anger and grief, the apathy was an almost welcome sensation.
Unfortunately, it in no way impeded his ability to think. To rememeber.
Sam understood the implications of Optimus' words, at least in an abstract sense. He was going to be transferred to a military facility in the middle of the Indian Ocean, where he would stay for the foreseeable future. It was likely that he wouldn't see Mikaela, his parents, or his friends for a long time—perhaps not for the rest of his life, if he were particularly unfortunate.
A grimace twisted his mouth. Considering how the last two years had gone, he wasn't positive how long 'the rest of his life' would be, exactly. He did not share Optimus' confidence that hiding on Diego Garcia would in any way dissuade Megatron if the Decepticon leader decided to make good on his threat.
His confinement—and it was confinement, there was nothing consensual about this arrangement—also meant a whole lot of no mores. No more date nights with Mikaela out to the movies, where they'd hold hands in the dark and eat junk until the credits rolled. No more college, no more dorm room. No more sleeping in on the weekends, only to be woken up by his father yelling loudly up the stairs for him to get his ass up. No more Mojo and Frankie. No more California Christmases. No more American passport. No more birthday breakfasts with his parents, which he always complained about even though he secretly loved the dorky tradition.
The train of thought was threatening to shatter the apathy that had wrapped around him like a fog, and Sam swallowed hard.
How was he going to tell them good-bye? How could he possibly do that to his parents? To Mikaela? Just three days ago, they thought they had lost him forever. It turns out that they had—they just didn't know it yet.
The realization brought with it a surge of anger that took his breath away. Sam wasn't so far gone that he didn't understand Optimus' concern. He even understood that the Autobot leader was right about Megatron and the mech's burning desire for revenge. Sam had known from the moment he'd stood up in that warehouse and saw Megatron's red optics narrowed down at him that the Decepticon leader was looking to settle a score. But by his actions, Optimus had accomplished that which Megatron had never managed, though not for lack of trying. Optimus had effectively ended his life—or at least his life as Sam knew it.
After Mission City, Sam had been eager to return to normalcy as quickly as possible thank-you-very-much. He had the car, he had the girl, he had some kickass battle scars, and he had a brand new sense of self-confidence that came from saving the world. Although the American government had nervously nibbled their fingernails, and hemmed and hawed as they debated (at length) about whether to allow his family to stay in Tranquility, they had ultimately decided that the risk of future attacks was minimal. So Sam had returned to school, and eventually things had gone back to normal—well, normal plus a cadre of sentient aliens whom he came to tentatively call friends.
Sam felt a twist of grief in his gut.
Friends.
That wasn't the right word to describe his relationship with Bumblebee—not by far. When Bee had first returned with him to Tranquility, there had been an awkward period as they got to know one another. Sam remembered his nervousness every time he had stepped into the garage. He was never sure how the yellow scout would respond to his presence. Would he be happy to see him? Or would he be annoyed to be interrupted from whatever it was that a millions-of-years-old highly experienced alien infiltrator did all day?
But Bumblebee had always welcomed his presence.
For the first few weeks after Mission City, Bumblebee had been quiet during their time together. Sam hadn't minded—he had known the scout was recovering from his injuries—and besides, Sam had talked enough for the both of them. He would sit on the cement floor in front of Bumblebee's alt form, and ramble on and on for hours. He talked about his classes and his homework, and he complained about high school drama. He would talk about the plots of his favorite movies and television shows, list the pros and cons of his favorite superheroes, and argue adamantly for one fandom over another. Sometimes his talking would take an introspective turn, and he'd think aloud about his future. On those days he would speculate about his fledgling relationship with Mikaela, about what it would be like to go to college, and about what it would be like to be out on his own.
Bumblebee listened to it all with endless patience. Whenever Sam asked the scout a question about himself in those early days, the mech would warble thoughtfully in his dial-tone language before answering. At first, the answers were hesitant, guarded even, but eventually the scout's reticence was replaced with a sort of affectionate exasperation. As the days turned into weeks and the weeks became one month since Bumblebee had come home with him, the awkwardness between them had eased into the first stirrings of genuine friendship.
After that, Bumblebee started spending more time with Sam in his bipedal mode. The two of them would sit together in the garage, or on the bluff overlooking Tranquility, or at the reservoir, and they would talk. At first, Bumblebee was hesitant, almost shy, but conversation came easier to his guardian with practice. It had seemed like no time at all before the scout was calling him with news about the Autobots or texting him silly things to make him laugh.
Sam remembered the first text message that Bee had ever sent him. He had just said goodnight, giving the bot an affectionate pat on the hood before he walked into the house. His father had intercepted him in the kitchen, grousing at him for forgetting to take out the trash (again), when Sam felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. After he had promised his father that he'd take out the trash and sweep the driveway in penance, Sam had pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen. The message was a single image of the South Park skiing meme with the words, "Forgot to take out the trash? You're gonna have a bad time" across the top and bottom of the picture. Sam had stared at it in disbelief for the space of a heartbeat before he started laughing, hard. The overused, not even funny meme juxtaposed with the fact that it had been sent by a super intelligent alien robot was so absurd that he laughed until his mother had stuck her head into the kitchen and asked him what was going on. Sam had waved her off and looked out the window towards the garage. When his eyes settled on the form of the yellow Camaro, draped in the shadows, the bot had flashed his high beams at him playfully. The grin that had stretched his face had almost hurt in its earnestness.
From that time on, the two of them had been inseparable. Over the last two years, Bumblebee had been a universal constant in his life. Friendship was an entirely inadequate term to describe what was between the two of them. Bee was his best friend, his guardian, his confidant, and his partner-in-crime. He proved to be dependable and loyal, protective and fierce. In all that time, Bee had never once deceived him.
At least, not until today.
That realization made tears prick the corners of his eyes. With conscious effort, he pushed the pain away, to think about later. After.
The unknown solider stopped in front of a nondescript door, which he pushed open and gestured for Sam to step inside. The room within was a conference room of average size, with an oval table bolted to the floor in the center of the space. A dozen office chairs encircled the table, and a white board was affixed to the back wall.
Sam looked at the soldier in confusion, but the man just gestured for him to take a seat. Obediently, Sam pulled out the nearest chair and sat down, his thoughts turning back to the matter at hand.
How was he going to explain to his parents that they weren't going back to their little house in the suburbs? Or that he wasn't going back with them at all? And how was he going to explain all of this to Mikaela, who had been so upset at the prospect of him moving across the country to attend university that she'd almost broken up with him? How would she handle an indefinite long-distance relationship?
Sam felt grief twist in his gut again.
Did he even want that for her? She deserved better than that.
After an interminable time, Sam was interrupted from his thoughts by the sound of the conference room door being opened. He looked up and saw a grim-faced Williams gesturing for his parents to enter the room. He could tell immediately by the stricken look on his mother's face that his parents had been informed about their situation. Absurdly, Sam felt a moment's gratitude that he didn't have to be the one to break the news to them. The feeling passed as quickly as it came.
He got to his feet as his parents stepped into the room. His mother's face was drawn tight, her eyes red rimmed and watery. His father's neck was streaked and his face was deeply flushed. Sam stepped forward and took his mother's arms by the elbows.
"It'll be okay, ma." He murmured, "You'll be okay."
"Sammy." She whispered, raising her hands to cup his face, "My baby boy."
Sam's eyes fell closed at her words, which were simultaneously heartbroken and tender.
Don't cry. He thought to himself fiercely. Don't you dare.
His father was there then, wrapping Sam in a hug that squeezed the air out of him. Sam's ribs stabbed painfully, but he didn't protest. He didn't pull away. He raised one arm to wrap around his father's shoulders, his other arm squeezing his mother close.
"I should have bought you the Porsche." His father said, obviously trying for levity despite the emotion in his voice.
Sam's lips quirked into a weak smile.
"I'm pretty sure all that would have changed is that I'd have a yellow Porsche sitting in my garage instead of a Camaro. Besides, the insurance would be killer." He replied wryly.
His father's arm tightened around his shoulder.
"You deserve better, Sam." His father said.
Desperate to stave off the emotion choking his father's words, Sam replied soothingly, "It's okay. It's okay, dad. I'll be okay."
Don't cry. Don't cry.
Just then, Williams cleared his throat politely from the doorway. The look his father directed towards the solider was considerably colder than their previous interactions. After a moment's hesitation, Williams spoke.
"Would you folks be more comfortable in the officer's lounge?" He asked gently.
Sam glanced around the room, which was nondescript and impersonal. He couldn't imagine the next few hours would be any more or less painful given a change of scenery.
"The officer's lounge would be nice, thank-you Robin." His mother replied instead, and that was that.
Williams nodded and stepped out of the doorway to let them to leave the conference room. As Sam stepped into the corridor, he asked the soldier, "Where's Mikaela?"
Williams hesitated a moment before he replied, "Last I heard, she was still in her debriefing."
Sam nodded slowly. It made sense that her debriefing would take longer than his parents'. She had been with him for the entire debacle.
Williams gestured for them to follow him, and he started walking towards the hatch at the end of the corridor. His mother gave his hand a tight squeeze, and then they started after the soldier. It was no time at all—just two hallways and another hatch door—before they arrived at the officer's lounge.
When Sam stepped into the room, he made his way towards the couch at the opposite end of the space, where they had sat together last night. His parents followed behind him. Williams, he noticed, stopped next to a decorated solider sitting at the trestle table, and spoke to him in a low voice. The soldier nodded once and started making his way around the room, tapping people on the shoulder and gesturing towards the open door with a nod of his head. It was no time at all before the space had cleared out.
The silence between him and his parents stretched on, tense and charged with emotion, until his father muttered, "To hell with this." He stood and turned on the television, flicking through channels until he stopped on a show about a psychic detective. Satisfied, his father sat down in a nearby armchair. The clichéd storyline and the exaggerated acting made for surprisingly soothing background noise. Sam watched the show in silence for an interminable time—long enough for the main character to make a dramatic pronouncement in front of an assemblage of irritated looking detectives—when his mother scoffed loudly beside him.
"Honestly, what a stupid story. How could he figure out that the babysitter did it because she broke her necklace?"
Sam knew instantly what his mother was doing; it was a shared joke between them. His father was notorious for watching shows that would appeal to a teenaged girl. If it was on CW than chances were that his father was a fan. Sam and his mother would tolerate the terrible choice in entertainment for only so long, and then they would start in on the commentary.
Doesn't he realize that any evidence he finds in her apartment will be inadmissible in court without a warrant?
Do the writers realize that silencers don't work like that?
Oh, she has short hair and piercings. I wonder if she's an angry army brat who lost her parents or a techy nerd with a mysterious past.
His father would ignore them until their snark ruined his suspension of disbelief, and then he'd start complaining, grumpily. It entertained Sam and his mother to no end.
"Anyone unconscious for that long would have permanent brain damage." Sam replied in agreement.
"Maybe that explains what happened to the writers of this show." His mother replied, and Sam laughed in response. From across the room, his father huffed.
"Why haven't they charged him for tampering with a crime scene? The detectives were right there."
"Because he's dreamy, ma." Sam replied sarcastically.
This back-and-forth between them continued for the remainder of the episode. The sarcasm and the teasing was simultaneously comforting and painful, but in that moment, it was what he needed. What they needed.
When the credits started to roll to the tune of the catchy theme song, his father stood up with a huff.
"I'm going to the bathroom. You guys find something to watch if you're so good at it." He grumbled, but there wasn't any heat to his words. The older man walked towards Williams, who was sitting unobtrusively by the door, and muttered to him quietly. The solider nodded once, and then called over his shoulder in their direction.
"I'll be back. Sit tight."
After Williams and his father left the room, Sam stood up and changed the channel on the television. He passed by the news stations quickly, but there was still occasional flashes of his face or Megatron or the Fallen. In short order Sam found a show that he knew his mother would like, and then he sat back down.
Ron squinted in the brightness of the midday sun as he stepped out onto the flight deck. The heat and humidity were oppressive, and it was only the matter of moments before perspiration started beading across his forehead and the back of his neck. He glanced at Williams who nodded to him encouragingly, and then he started walking towards the opposite end of the flight deck. Ron could see the bright shapes of the Autobots in their car forms (alt modes, he believe they were called) in the distance, under an awning of camo canvas. Not for the first time, Ron felt a profound sense of unease at the anachronistic sight of the flashy automobiles parked quietly on the deck of a battleship.
Unlike Sam and his wife, Ron had never felt at ease with the yellow Camaro that had taken up residence in their garage. He avoided the Autobot unless it was necessary for them to interact. It wasn't that his son's guardian—Ron's lips thinned in a grimace at the thought—had done anything to offend him, but Bumblebee was just too otherly. Ron had watched the interactions between the alien and his son with a sense of dread that took him months to understand. It was only after Ron had happened to see them together in the garage one evening that he could articulate what exactly bothered him about the scout.
Sam had been talking animatedly to the alien, who had been in his bipedal form at the time, when his son said something that caused the Autobot to clap his hands expressively. Sam's resulting laugh had carried across the lawn, and Ron had seen those blue optics brighten in response. It was then that Ron realized that the scout's actions had been deliberate, carefully chosen to elicit the burst of laughter from his son. This made Ron think about all of the other times he had seen Bumblebee emote—cry fluid to imitate tears, flutter his wing flaps excitedly, huff air through his vents to imitate a sigh—and Ron realized exactly what was happening. Bumblebee's actions, his words, even the snippets of pop songs that he played through the radio were all premeditated—each purposefully chosen, in order to endear himself to his son.
Ron frowned at the memory. The Autobots were adept mimics, and their ability to blend into their surroundings had served them well for millions of years. It was also this ability that allowed a battle-hardened alien soldier, who had been embroiled in a civil war for longer than human civilization had existed, to choose the words, actions, and gestures that would put a sixteen-year-old boy perfectly at ease.
It wasn't that Bumblebee's actions or intentions were malicious, Ron was forced to admit. On the contrary, the scout was obviously deeply concerned about his son's well-being—his actions in Egypt only confirmed this knowledge. It also wasn't that Bumblebee was manipulating his son or forcing him to do things he didn't want to do. Ron knew the two of them well enough to know that it was Sam who called the shots in their relationship. But there was something in those shining blue optics whenever Bumblebee looked at his son that shook Ron to his core.
In that gaze, Ron was able to see an aching loneliness. It was a look of quiet desperation, of someone who had been alone for far too long and in his son had finally found companionship. It was a determined look, possessive and reverent in equal measures, and it scared the shit out of Ron to see that look directed at his son.
He was interrupted from his thoughts when he saw Optimus Prime separate himself from his companions, driving towards him from across the flight deck until the large truck came to stop several feet away. Ron stared at the Autobot leader as the large mech transformed and lowered to one knee in front of him.
"Mr. Witwicky," He intoned solemnly, "I had hoped to speak with you."
"I bet." Ron replied, voice tight. When he had sat in the officer's lounge watching Psych, he had only been half-listening to the television show and Sam and Judy's conversation. His thoughts had been turned inward, recollecting the debriefing and thinking about the implications of their current predicament. It had not taken long for him to decide that he wanted to speak with the Autobot leader, alone. Now that he was here, however, he found he did not know what to say.
It seemed that Optimus did not have that problem.
"Mr. Witwicky, please know that I deeply regret the circumstances that have necessitated such extreme measures. It had never been my intention or my desire to separate Sam from you and your wife, but our current situation requires I take actions to ensure Sam's safety, as well as your own."
Ron grimaced hard at the large mech.
"Listen, I didn't come out here to try and change your mind—not that I could, seeing as you already had his citizenship revoked." Ron said, irritation and frustration sharpening his words. Optimus merely inclined his head, silently encouraging him to continue.
"As much as I hate this situation—and I do hate it, with every fiber of my being—I know that Judy and I can't do anything to protect Sam from those monsters. Even if we changed our names and hid in the middle of nowhere, they'd find us eventually. They'd find him, and there wouldn't be a god damned thing we could do about it."
Ron's jaw tightened and he was careful to keep the tremor out of his voice, "At least with you, he has a chance of making it to his next birthday."
Optimus leaned forward, his entire posture rigid with a quiet intentness, "You have my word that I will do whatever is in my power to ensure that your son lives a long and happy life."
Ron nodded. The Autobot leader's reputation for being both honorable and steadfast had preceded him, and he did not doubt the mech's sincerity.
"I hope you mean that, Prime. Sam is only eighteen years old; he has his entire life ahead of him. It's not enough to hide him away on some island—that's not living, that's just surviving. What are your plans for his education? For his emotional and intellectual fulfillment? How will you make sure he's happy, Prime?"
The Autobot leader regarded him closely, seemingly considering his questions before answering.
"I have made arrangements for Sam to continue his education through a combination of on-line learning and applied training; what he chooses to study is up to his discretion. Even within NEST there are numerous potential career paths that he could pursue, based on his education and interests. He has expressed… resistance to the idea of becoming the Cybertronian Ambassador to Earth—"
Ron smirked at the Autobot leader's hesitation. Ron was well aware of his son's rare but explosive temper, and he was positive that Sam had not made things easy for Optimus. Privately, he hoped that his son had given the mech hell.
"—but there are other options available to him." Optimus finished.
Something occurred to Ron, and his eyes narrowed at the Autobot leader.
"Do you mean signing up to be a soldier?"
Optimus hesitated before he replied.
"I would not deny Sam's request to join NEST, were he to ask me." The Autobot replied carefully, "There are non-combatant positions that Sam could excel in—communications and logistics come to mind—but I do not believe that Sam has any interest in becoming a soldier."
Ron wasn't satisfied with the reply, and so he asked pointedly, "Yes or no, Prime, are you going to let my son start fighting in your war?"
Because to hell with that. Ron wasn't sending his only son away, possibly forever, if the Autobot leader was going to involve him in live combat anyway.
"No, Mr. Witwicky. I would not allow Sam to participate in armed conflict. Not with the Decepticons and not with human combatants."
Mollified by the Autobot leader's assurances, Ron nodded slowly.
"And all the rest? What are you going to do to make sure that Sam is happy? That he is fulfilled?"
Something softened in Optimus' optics as he replied, "Sam will be free to pursue his interests and hobbies as he so desires. Given his affable and friendly nature, I am sure that companionship will be easy for him to come by. William Lennox will also be stationed at the base and Robert Epps is on a rotating assignment, so he will not be without familiar faces. And of course, he will have Bumblebee."
Mention of the yellow scout made Ron's thoughts trail back to that night in the garage. He had stood there and watched Sam and Bumblebee for what had felt like hours, before he could identify the feeling that had lodged itself in his chest. It was jealously. He was jealous that the scout had replaced part of Ron's role in his son's life. No longer did Sam pester his father to take him on drives, or to go to the movies, or take him to school. That had become Bumblebee's job. His son also spent every spare minute with the yellow scout, which meant that family movie nights and game nights had become a thing of the past. Although Ron knew that this was an inevitable and natural part of Sam's maturity into adulthood, he resented the Autobot for hastening the process.
Now, however, Ron found that he was grateful that the scout would be there for his son—that Sam would have a familiar constant in his life over the next few months, which would doubtlessly prove to be tumultuous and painful for his son.
Ron sighed heavily.
"Did you know that Sam was a premie?" He asked, apropos of nothing.
Optimus cocked his head to the side and regarded him with open curiosity.
"A premie?" The Autobot leader repeated, obviously trying to puzzle out the vernacular.
A wan smile pulled at one corner of Ron's lips. It seemed that the god-like alien robot wasn't omniscient after all.
"Premie is short for premature—it refers to babies who are born before the 38 week mark. Sam was born about four weeks prematurely. Judy developed pre-eclampsia, and they had to induce labor early because her blood pressure kept rising no matter what they did for her. You should have seen him. He was so tiny—just this precious little thing." Ron's voice cracked dangerously, and he had to take a moment to compose himself.
"When we got married, we had decided we wanted to have a few kids," He continued eventually, "I had a big family when I was growing up, and I wanted Sam to have brothers or sisters. But the experience in the hospital changed all that. It was too hard to see him hooked up to all of those wires and machines, and even after we brought him home we couldn't relax. For months after he was born, I'd hold a mirror in front of his face every time he fell asleep, just to make sure he was still breathing. Judy and I agreed that couldn't go through all of that again."
Ron sucked in a harsh breath.
"But you know what? It didn't matter that Sam was an only child. He was perfect. He was enough." Ron knew that he had lost his tenuous grasp on his emotions, and his voice wavered hard as he continued, "I am giving up my son, my only son, to save his life. Do you understand? I might never see my funny, smart, goofy kid ever again, and I'm agreeing to it willingly, because I would sacrifice anything for him."
Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, despite his furious blinking.
"I'm giving up my son to keep him safe, but a boy needs his father. I can't be there for him, so you had better be the best father in the whole universe in my place. I don't care how busy you are running your war—you damn well better make time for him. You need to listen to him ramble on about the newest television show that he's obsessing over, and listen to him when he talks about his dreams, even though it drives you crazy. You need to listen to him when he complains about school, and be patient when he tests his boundaries—which he will—and give him Christmas presents and celebrate his birthday. You had better give him a hug when he needs it, even when he doesn't want you to. You need to tell him that you're proud when he does something great, and give him a kick in the ass when he does something stupid."
Ron was openly weeping now, but he continued, "You better love him, even when you want to hate him, and you better make sure that he knows it, even when he hates you."
Optimus nodded solemnly, "I will." He vowed.
"Do right by my son, Optimus." Ron said after he had composed himself. It was a directive and a threat, both.
"I will not fail him, Ron." Optimus replied, somber and serious, and Ron nodded in response.
"Thank-you." He said quietly, and then because he had to know he asked, "How long until we dock?"
Optimus shuttered his optics and replied, "Approximately three hours."
Ron nodded, feeling his heart clench at the news.
"Then if you will excuse me, I am going to go spend the last few hours I have with my son. Please see to it that we are not disturbed."
Optimus nodded once again, and Ron stared at the Autobot leader's face searchingly for a long moment. Satisfied with what he saw, Ron turned and headed back to the flight deck door without another word.