(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
The smile on Bumblebee's face deepened, warming with amusement.
"I wasn't sure whether you would recognize me." He said.
"Of course I knew it was you. I'd know you anywhere." Sam replied, pushing himself into a seated position, "Are you okay?"
The corners of Bee's lips quirked up in fond exasperation, "I'm fine, Sam. Some minor injuries to my strut and chassis, nothing that Ratchet can't fix."
Sam frowned, leaning forward, "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"What about Hot Rod?" Sam asked, "Is he okay?"
"He will be okay." The scout replied carefully.
Anxiety pooled in his stomach at the vague answer, "Bee, what aren't you telling me?"
There was a noticeable pause before his guardian replied, "He will be okay—he's currently in stasis. Ratchet repaired most of the damage from Thundercracker's canons; his self-repair routines will take care of the rest."
The anxiety in his stomach curdled into guilt in an instant. As though reading his mind, the scout admonished, "It's not your fault, Sam." When he didn't reply, the scout repeated firmly, "It's not your fault. Don't worry about us, we're fine. How are you feeling?"
Sam sighed, allowing the scout to redirect the conversation without protest.
"I've felt better in my life, but I'm okay."
A small frown pulled at Bee's features. He stood, crossing the space between them in a single step, and bracketed the sides of Sam's face with his hands. Sam blinked in surprise, but did not pull away. Bee tipped his head back carefully, his eyes roaming over Sam's face. The scout's fingers brushed over his forehead and cheeks, cataloging every nick and bruise. Some distant part of him thought that he should be uncomfortable, with a strange man crowding his personal space, but he wasn't. Regardless of what he looked like, this was Bumblebee, and Sam felt completely at ease under his hands.
After a moment, Bee's hands dropped to his shoulders and squeezed gently.
"I'm sorry I couldn't get to you in time."
The corner of Sam's mouth quirked up. "Hey, the guilt trip is my thing. Get your own thing."
Bee's features brightened in amusement and he huffed a laugh, "I can have two things."
"Maybe, but that one's mine and I'm not sharing." Sam quipped back. Bee huffed another laugh, before his voice turned serious again.
"How do you feel? Really?"
Sam shrugged, "My head hurts and I'm dizzy."
"Understandable. You sustained a head injury when you landed on the bream; it was exacerbated by Thundercracker's attack on Roddy."
Sam frowned, perplexed and anxious in equal measures. "I don't remember that."
Although the warm expression on Bee's face didn't falter, his eyes sharpened.
"What do you remember?"
Sam's eyes narrowed in concentration. "I remember texting you after I left the mess hall this morning—was that this morning?" Bee nodded, and Sam continued, "And I remember getting stitches, but other than that, it's all a blur."
Bee nodded considerately, "Ratchet told us to expect impairments in your short-term memory and concentration."
"So they say. I hate the idea of losing time." He replied, voice tense.
Bee's thumbs soothed gentle circles into his skin. "I'll help you remember what I can." The scout promised.
Sam didn't reply, unsure of what to say. It was not like his guardian could be with him every moment of the day for the next three weeks—or longer. Bee continued rubbing his thumbs into the muscles of Sam's neck, his touch solid and grounding. It felt nice, a welcome distraction from the pounding in his skull, but Sam found himself feeling unaccountably shy.
"You don't have to do that." He murmured, self-consciously.
Bumblebee hummed at him reassuringly, his hands feathering over Sam's shoulders in a now-familiar gesture. Sam sighed softly, but he did not pull away. Encouraged by his reaction, Bee nudged him gently and Sam shifted obediently to give the scout better access. Bee's hands ran down the length of Sam's spine, his fingers tracing invisible patterns into the skin of his back through the opening of his hospital gown. As his hands dragged up Sam's sides, the scout's fingernails ghosted over his skin, and Sam shivered from head to toe. Again and again, Bee's fingers ran down his spine, pressing into the muscles of his back, his touch alternating between feather-light and firm. Sam relaxed slowly, his head falling forward as his eyes fluttered shut. By the time Bumblebee began on the small of his back, he was limper than a wet dishrag, lost in a fog of oxytocin and dopamine.
"What do you think you're doing?" Ratchet's wrathful voice cut through Sam's relaxed haze like scythe. He startled in surprise, snapping his head up to look at the medic in confusion. The motion made the room spin, and he squeezed his eyes shut with a muffled groan. Bee made a concerned sound behind him, but Sam waved him off.
"You idiot." Ratchet snapped, "You're supposed to be in recharge, not wasting energon on a hardlight. I'll deal with you later—go."
Sam cracked his eyes open, squinting at Bee confusedly. The scout chirped at the medic in apology, a disconcerting sound coming from his human holoform, but Ratchet's supremely pissed off expression didn't falter in the slightest. Resignedly, Bee directed a rueful smile at Sam before his holoform shimmered and disappeared.
"Primus save me from head-strong scouts!" Ratchet groused irritably. Unsure what to say to pacify the medic, and not wanting to make things worse for Bumblebee, Sam remained silent. Ratchet came around to stand at his bedside where Bumblebee had been only moments before, pinning him with an appraising look.
"How do you feel?" He asked, gruffly.
"I'm alright." Sam replied tentatively, "I got some sleep."
"I'm aware." Ratchet replied, pulling a penlight from his pocket, "Look here."
Sam winced as the light sent pinpricks of pain into the back of his eyes, but he didn't protest. Ratchet reached out both hands towards him.
"Squeeze my hands as hard as you can." He instructed, and Sam complied. Whatever Ratchet learned from these tests seemed to mollify him, for his expression smoothed and his voice lost its irritable edge.
"Your condition is noticeably improved. I can find no evidence that your injuries will have long-term effects."
"That's good." Sam replied.
The medic made a sound in agreement, "How are your other symptoms? Headache, dizziness, nausea?"
"My head feels like it's being split in two," He admitted, "The dizziness and vertigo come and go. The nausea went away pretty fast; I didn't throw-up or anything."
Ratchet nodded, "I can give you some acetaminophen after you've eaten. Do you feel up to something more substantial than soup?"
Sam nodded, "I think so."
"I'll have Adams bring you a tray. Do you need to use the bathroom?"
"Yeah, sure." Sam said, adding as an afterthought, "Can I shower? My hair is full of blood."
Ratchet looked at him considerately, "There is a bench in the shower stall. I'll agree to let you shower if you agree to sit the entire time."
Sam nodded. He had no desire for Ratchet to find him passed out in the shower, ass naked. He gingerly climbed off the hospital bed, pleased when the floor remained steady beneath him. As he had earlier, Ratchet walked less than an arms-length away from him as they cut across the ward. When they arrived at the bathroom, Ratchet directed him to lean against the doorframe as he stepped up to a floor-to-ceiling cabinet and began pulling out linens, which he carried into the bathroom himself. It was no time at all before Sam found himself sitting alone in the spray of warm water. He washed slowly, disturbed by the amount of blood swirling the drain. After he was clean, he sat there for a long while with his head tipped back, enjoying the steady thrum of water against his chest. Eventually, there was a sharp rap at the door and Ratchet's voice cut over the sound of the shower.
"Sam, time to get out."
He rolled his eyes in annoyance.
"Alright Dad, give me a minute." He called back, standing slowly as he turned off the taps. He stepped out of the shower, leaning against the sink as he toweled off. Getting dressed was a ginger undertaking, but he managed it, thankful that Ratchet had procured him a pair of pants. Sam opened the bathroom door moments later, fully expecting to receive a haranguing from the medic. Instead, Ratchet stood there with a strangely closed-off expression on his face.
"Your meal is here." He said, tersely.
The walk back to the bed proved to be more challenging than the walk to the bathroom. Sam stopped halfway across the ward as his vision swam precariously. Before he could say anything, however, Ratchet's hand was steadying him.
"Dizzy?" The medic asked, his hard manner softening minutely.
Sam nodded silently.
"Take your time."
By the time Ratchet helped him back onto bed, Sam was exhausted and his head was pounding anew. He laid there a long while with his eyes screwed closed. Eventually, he managed to say wetly, "I can't eat that."
Ratchet made a considerate noise, "I'll leave it. Eat later, if you can."
Sam slanted his eyes open at the holoform, who was looking at him with an inscrutable expression on his face.
"Thanks Ratchet."
The medic huffed in acknowledgement, and then disappeared without another word. Sam closed his eyes again, mentally wishing Bumblebee good luck as Ratchet seemed unusually grouchy this afternoon. He shifted, settling more comfortably on the mattress, and raised his hands to rub at his temples. Not for the first time since the attack, he cursed the Seekers for royally fucking up his day.
After what felt like a small eternity, Sam was able to open his eyes without wanting to vomit. He glanced at the over-bed table and noted the items on the tray: oatmeal, toast, banana, applesauce, juice. He reached out and took the juice, sipping slowly. When his stomach didn't rebel, he took a longer drink. When that still didn't result in any nausea, Sam picked up a piece of toast and nibbled at it slowly until it was gone. The effort required to manage this simple task left him feeling exhausted, and he closed his eyes without bothering with the blankets. As it had earlier, sleep came to him swiftly and deeply.
When Sam woke up and interminable time later, the hospital ward was dark and quiet. The curtain had been pulled closed around his bed, and he was surprised to see that the tray had been removed and the blankets had been drawn over him. He hadn't heard or felt a thing, that he could remember. Sam frowned, discomforted by the thought. When he pushed himself into a sitting position, he was pleased to realize that the pounding in his skull had receded to the point that he could accurately describe it as a headache. He glanced around the space, looking for a clock. He could tell by his pain level and clear mind that he must have slept for a while, but for how long exactly he could not say.
As if summoned by his thoughts, Ratchet materialized in front of him. Sam quirked a smile at the medic, "Keeping a close eye on me, Ratch?"
Rather than answer his question, the medic asked instead, "How are you feeling?"
"Pretty good, actually. What time is it?"
"Oh-five-hundred hours."
Sam's eyebrows rose of their own accord, surprised by how long he had slept. The early hour made him think about the scouts, and he asked, "How're Bee and Roddy?"
His question earned him an unimpressed snort, "Hot Rod is out of stasis, but I'll put him right back in again if he doesn't stop making a nuisance of himself. Bumblebee is in recharge, and he'll be there for another cycle if he knows what's good for him."
Sam's lips quirked in a smile, amused by the medic's harried tone. Knowing Hot Rod, the scout was being a less than ideal patient.
"How long do I have to stay here?" He asked, changing the subject. It had been less than a day, and he was already anxious to get out of the ward and back to his apartment.
"I'll discharge you this afternoon, if your condition continues to improve. I saw that you managed to eat something last night. Do you think you could eat some breakfast?"
"Yeah, definitely. I'm pretty hungry, actually."
Ratchet nodded, "That's encouraging. Let me take you to the bathroom, and then I'll see about getting you something to eat."
Once again, the holoform helped him down off the bed and across the hospital ward. When Sam glanced at himself in the bathroom mirror a short while later, he grimaced at the sight. The bruises on his face had darkened considerably overnight, and the cuts and scrapes had begun to scab over. Thankfully, he looked worse than he felt. After he had finished, Ratchet helped him back to bed, a trip he was able to achieve without any dizziness or nausea. Shortly thereafter, the hospital corpsman from the day before brought him a carbon copy of his previous meal. Sam smiled at the man in thanks, and tucked into his food, surprising himself by cleaning the plate. Ratchet watched him eat his meal in silence, his gaze clinical and assessing. After Sam had finished, the medic had him scoot to the edge of the bed so he could change the bandages on his face.
"You can take these off tonight before you go to bed. Be mindful of the sutures for the next few days."
Sam hummed in acknowledgement, and Ratchet disposed of the soiled gauze.
"Alright, I'll be back this afternoon. Get some rest."
Sam frowned at him, "Ratchet, I just slept for like twelve hours. Can I have my phone or a book or something?"
"No, you're to avoid screen time and cognitive strain for the next thirty-six hours."
Sam stared at him blankly, "What am I supposed to do then? Just sit here?"
"I'd prefer you lay there, but the sentiment is essentially correct."
Sam groaned, "Come on Ratchet. There must be something I can do."
The medic tilted his head at him, a perilous glint in his eye, "There is precisely nothing you can do, so oblige me and rest quietly."
Sam huffed at him, but he recognized the unyielding iron of Ratchet's temper when he saw it, so he acquiesced without further argument. The holoform gave him a long, warning look that said 'do not test my patience' as clearly as words, and then he disappeared.
Sam sat and stared at the ceiling in growing restlessness for hours. Sometime later, the lights in the hospital ward brightened, and the sound of a staff change filtered through the curtain around his bed—it was the highlight of his morning. Sometime after that, Adams stepped around the curtain and asked if he could eat. Sam shrugged and murmured an affirmative, and Adams disappeared around the curtain again. He sighed, closing his eyes in boredom.
"Are you paying attention?"
Sam blinked in confusion, reality abruptly shifting around him. He was sitting cross-legged on the hospital bed, a meal tray in front of him and a fork in his hand. Ratchet was standing at the foot of his bed, a slightly impatient look on his face. Sam went cold in an instant, stiffening in alarm.
"Sam, what is it? What's wrong?" Ratchet asked, sharply.
"What— when did you get here?" He managed, his voice strangled.
The look of irritation on Ratchet's face was replaced with concern. He stepped around the bed towards him, "I arrived just after you started your lunch. I was in the process of explaining about post-concussion recovery in preparation for your discharge this afternoon. Look at me."
Sam put down the fork, aware that his hands were shaking, and obliged. Ratchet stared at him intently, moving his finger across Sam's field of vision, which he tracked without being prompted. The medic's face turned down in a frown.
"I can find no evidence that your injuries have worsened. What was the last thing that you remember?"
"Adams had asked me whether I could eat, and I said yes."
Ratchet tilted his head considerately, "That would have been approximately ten minutes ago."
Sam blanched, horrified, "Is that normal?"
"Post-trauma memory loss is common. You have likely been experiencing it since the attack without realizing it. The effect will fade in time."
Sam shuddered from head to toe, and Ratchet awkwardly squeezed his shoulder.
"You'll be fine, Sam. I know it must be disconcerting, but you are making remarkable progress."
"Thanks Ratchet." He murmured, still discomforted but taking solace in the medic's words. He glanced down at the tray as he picked up his fork again. Apparently, chicken curry was on the menu.
"I'll begin again, as I doubt you have retained anything that I said. You will be discharged this afternoon. For the next twenty-four hours, you are to avoid the television, computer, and cellphone. As with this morning, you are to sleep or rest quietly. You can resume screen time and leisurely reading tomorrow afternoon. You are not to engage in any course work or strenuous exercise for the next three weeks. Do you understand?"
Sam nodded, "Yeah, I got it. No patrols, then?"
Ratchet snorted, "You will resume patrolling when you have made a full recovery and not before."
"How long will that take?"
"It takes however long it takes. Anywhere from three weeks to three months."
Sam grimaced but made no protest. Ratchet left shortly thereafter and he finished eating the rest of his meal, barely tasting a thing. He dozed on and off for the remainder of the afternoon, and he was nearly ready to climb the walls by the time Ratchet appeared at the foot of his bed and told him he was being discharged. Sam sat up quickly, relieved, and swung his legs over the side of the bed without a moment's hesitation. They walked together back to his apartment, stopping periodically for Sam to catch his breath or wait out a dizzy spell. Eventually, he was sitting on his couch as Ratchet prowled around the room, gathering up books and papers and tucking them away by the computer.
"I'm serious, Sam. No schoolwork."
"Yeah, I understand."
The medic pinned him with a skeptical look, and Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm not stupid, Ratchet. I understand the rationale behind your instructions."
To his surprise, the medic nodded in acquiescence.
"I'll have a tray brought for you later this evening. Keep your cellphone on your person at all times; if you fall or pass out then press the panic button. I'll keep a sensor trained on you for the next while."
"Yeah sure, thanks Ratchet."
The medic glanced around the room a final time and then nodded to him, disappearing without another word. For the first time in almost two days, Sam found himself blessedly alone.
First things first. He thought determinedly as he climbed to his feet and ambled towards the bedroom. He pulled out a pair of lounge pants and a shirt, sitting on the edge of the bed to take off the hospital gown and scrubs that he was wearing. After he was dressed, he walked to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, before washing his hands. When that was done, he walked back to the bed and laid down, pulling the throw blanket over him loosely.
He spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between sleeping on the bed and lying on the couch. As promised, Ratchet brought him his evening meal, and reminded him that he could take off the bandage before he fell asleep. Sam waved at the medic in appreciation, and walked back into his apartment. Ratchet had brought him a spread, evidentially unsure what Sam would prefer, and he ate until he couldn't eat anymore—surprised by the voracity of his appetite. Sam fell asleep on the couch shortly thereafter, the throw blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders. He slept until just after three in the morning, and then he was awake for the day. He lounged on the couch for an interminable time before he opted to have a shower and shave. When that was finished, he organized his paperback novels by color. What that was finished, he organized his closet. He glanced at the clock in the living room.
3:54 AM.
Sam groaned. Twelve more hours.
He sat on his couch, drumming his fingers against the armrest as he watched the time pass. He must have dozed off or grayed out sometime after four, because suddenly it was 8:30 and his door was chiming. He stumbled to his feet, shaking away the disorientation he felt, and opened the door. To his surprise, Bumblebee's holoform stood in the hallway, bearing his breakfast.
A genuine smile lit up Sam's face, "Good morning! How are you feeling?"
Bee's face brightened in amusement, "Good morning Sam, I'm well." There was an expectant pause and then he prompted, "Can I come in?"
Sam blushed in embarrassment, stepping out of the doorway, "Of course, sorry. You took me by surprise."
Bee set the tray on the coffee table, glancing around the space.
"Home sweet home." Sam said dryly, and something softened on the scout's face.
"I am pleased to hear you say it." He murmured.
Sam lifted his shoulder in a self-conscious shrug, "Yeah, it's grown on me." He sat down on the couch, and pulled the tray into his lap.
"I hope Ratchet didn't tear your head off." Sam said after he was settled, a hint of apology in his voice. Bumblebee glanced at him with a sheepish expression on his face.
"He did not, but it was a near thing. He objected to my decision to utilize a holoform."
"Why is it that Optimus and Ratchet use their holoforms, but none of you do? Well, besides Arcee, I mean."
Bee tilted his head considerately, "Holoforms are energy-intensive, and we have precious little energon as it is. Optimus' holoform is a necessity—it is the function of a Prime to lead, and that leadership occasionally requires it."
Sam chuckled as he started in on his bagel, "Hard to sign a John Hancock with a servo."
Bee inclined his head in acknowledgement, "True. He also visits with dignitaries who are intimidated by his bipedal form, and he uses the holoform as required to put them at ease."
Sam quirked a smile, "Yeah, that sounds pretty much in character for him."
"To my knowledge, Ratchet had never used a holoform before you arrived. He now has good cause to do so, however."
Sam reflected on his first meeting with the holoform in the hospital ward, and suddenly Ratchet's bad temper made a lot more sense.
"How's Roddy?" Sam asked, pulling the foil off a yogurt cup. Peach, he noticed, his favorite.
"Back to his old self. Ratchet cleared him for return to duty last night."
"That's great!" Sam enthused, then glanced at the clock on the wall—8:44 AM. He looked at the scout in confusion, "Shouldn't you be on patrol?"
Bee shrugged nonchalantly, "Roddy and Cliff took shift."
Sam could hear the words that went unspoken by the scout: So I could stay with you. He smiled affectionately.
"Thanks, Bee, I appreciate the breakfast. I wasn't sure whether Ratchet would want me to go to the mess hall myself."
"Certainly not." Bee replied, "Ratchet has made it exceedingly clear that you aren't to stop foot outside this apartment until after lunch."
"I'm feeling a lot better." Sam said with a shrug, "No dizziness or nausea since yesterday afternoon. I'm sleeping a lot, though."
Bee hummed in a way that implied he was aware of the fact. "Ratchet will be pleased."
The scout's eyes suddenly narrowed, his gaze locked onto the side of Sam's face. Sam blinked at him, surprised, "What, something on my face?"
"Your sutures." Bee replied, as though that explained everything.
Sam raised a hand and touched the tidy row of stiches at his hairline, shrugging, "Yeah, there's sixteen. I've never had stiches before—another thing I can cross off my injury bucket list. If I break a bone, I'll have Bingo."
Bee visibly winced at his words, and Sam grinned in response.
"What's the word around base?" He asked curiously, changing the subject, "I miss anything interesting?"
Bumblebee shook his head, clearly exasperated by Sam's nonchalance but willing to change the subject, "Nothing since the attack. Optimus increased patrols to every four hours and doubled the number of sentries around the base. It was a challenge to get the fuel tanker blaze under control, but Wheeljack was able to develop a fire suppressant that did the job."
"Any news about the vote?"
"Not yet, it's still under debate, although Optimus seems optimistic. The vote will take place after the debate has been concluded—probably later today."
"That long?"
Bee shrugged, "The Representatives have a lot to say on the matter."
"They shouldn't. Transformers were on this planet before humankind was even bipedal."
"I assure you, Earth's heads of state do not see it that way." Bumblebee replied amusedly.
The scout stayed and talked with him for hours, for which Sam was intensely grateful. The time passed much more quickly in his presence than not. It was just after noon when Ratchet's holoform materialized in his living room, not bothering with the doorbell.
"Please, come in." Sam said sarcastically, after he recovered from his surprise.
The medic huffed, and replied, "How are you feeling?"
"Good." Sam said with a shrug, "Slept well, had a big breakfast. No nausea, no dizziness. I think I lost some time early this morning, but nothing to write home about."
Ratchet hummed considerately and moved to stand in front of him. He once again drew his finger across Sam's field of vision and then had Sam squeeze his hands.
"Pupils equal and reactive, tracking properly. Good forearm muscular strength. No fever, no swelling. How is your head?"
Sam lifted his shoulder in a shrug, "I have a bit of a headache, but it's barely noticeable. It gets bothersome if I'm on my feet too long, but nothing like yesterday."
Ratchet stared at him a long time before he said, "You're recovering more quickly than I anticipated."
Something about the medic's tone made it sound as though that were a bad thing.
"What does that mean?" Sam asked, suddenly defensive.
"I'm not sure. It may mean nothing."
"May mean nothing? So it may mean something?"
Ratchet looked at him considerately, as though trying to decide what to say. Sam narrowed his eyes at the medic warningly, and Ratchet seemed to come to a decision.
"I would have expected you to be in this condition in a week, perhaps less. It is possible that you have an unnaturally thick skull that protected you from more severe injuries—my experience would certainly support this hypothesis."
Sam opened his mouth to deliver a blistering reply, but Ratchet cut him off.
"Or it could be that you are healing quickly. Preternaturally quickly."
Sam's mouth closed with a snap, his lips turning down hard.
"The Allspark energy?" He hazarded a guess, and Ratchet shrugged.
"Perhaps, perhaps not. I do not have enough data to formulate a theory. Perceptor's scan on the airfield revealed a signature trace that was stronger than the one my scans found—though not significantly so. It is possible that it was an anomaly—"
"Or it's getting worse." Sam finished, grimly.
"Or it's getting stronger." Ratchet corrected, "That doesn't necessarily mean worse. After your three-week recuperation, I will complete another scan and compare the readings. With any luck, that will provide some answers."
Sam was silent for a long moment and then he shrugged resignedly, "Well, it's not like there's anything we can do about it anyway."
His words seem to take Ratchet aback, and Sam clarified good-naturedly, "What can I say? I have a good therapist. I've worked my way through denial, anger, bargaining, and depression—I'm all aboard the acceptance train."
Ratchet straightened with a sardonic quirk of his lips, "I am glad to hear it. Regardless of the cause, you have recovered enough to resume screen time and light exercise. No coursework for another three weeks."
"Thank God, I thought I was going to save Megatron the trouble and die of boredom."
Ratchet's countenance narrowed in disapproval, but before he could reply, his expression shifted into one of surprise. He glanced at Bumblebee, whose expression was one of delighted disbelief.
Sam looked between the two holoforms, "What? What is it?"
Bee grinned at him in growing excitement.
"The vote about Diego Garcia was just passed by the general assembly, 155-to-28. We are officially a member of the United Nations."
Notes: The Bayverse movies drive me crazy for many reasons, but one of the main ones is the way the United States orders the Autobots to leave the planet like they own the place (you'd be welcome in Canada, guys!). Well I have happily ret-conned that nonsense, and now they're officially citizens. Also, in case you're wondering: Sam gave Ratchet The Feels™ and the grouchy old medic didn't know how to process it.