Note: Explicit sexual deleted
Sam woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and a dry mouth. He groaned softly, pulling the blankets up to his chin, and willed the pain in his head to go away. He laid there for a long time, feeling wretched, when a thought suddenly occurred to him. Without moving, he reached out to Bumblebee, brushing against the soft glow of his mental presence. At once, Sam felt the scout's attention focus on him with a gentle pulse of welcome and inquiry.
/Who won?/
There was a warm swell of amusement across their bond.
/Steelers, 24 to 18./
Despite the pounding in his skull, Sam grinned into his pillow. He slanted an eye open, reaching out to pull his cell phone off the nightstand. After a quick google search, Sam took a screenshot and then texted an image of a Packer's jersey to Dave. As he tucked the phone under his pillow, he noticed the glass of water on his nightstand. Mentally thanking his drunk self, he pulled the glass towards him and took a tentative drink. When his stomach didn't rebel, he took a deeper drink and then replaced the glass on the bedside table. Sam sank back down onto the pillows, debating whether to get up and find some acetaminophen. He eventually discarded the idea and rolled onto his side, pulling the blankets over his head as he closed his eyes.
He woke up again just after noon, by which time his headache had receded to a painful throbbing. He cautiously sat up, reaching for the glass and drinking the rest of the water. He realized all at once that, not only was he not nauseous, he was actually hungry. He quirked a smile, pushing aside the blankets as he climbed out of bed. As far as the side effects from having Allspark energy radiating from his cells went, manageable hangovers was definitely a tick in the 'pro' column.
Sam grabbed some clothes from the closet, and then made his way into the bathroom. The mess that greeted him there caused Sam to grimace deeply. Tossing his clothes on the counter, he pulled open the bathroom closet and retrieved some Lysol and a rag. He spent the next ten unpleasant minutes cleaning the toilet and the floor, revising his opinion about the generosity of drunk Sam. When he was finished, he stripped and climbed into the shower. He stood there for a long while under the warm spray, letting the water soothe away the last remnants of his headache.
By the time that Sam was dressed and on his way to the mess hall, he felt mostly fine.
He glanced at his cell phone as he walked, and noticed that Dave had texted him back. Grinning, Sam thumbed the notification, and saw a screenshot of an electronic bank transfer for a hundred dollars. Sam laughed loudly, earning him a few confused glances from passersby in the corridor. He paid them no mind, quickly texting back the personal aid.
SamWitwicky: Graceful in defeat, I see.
Sam chuckled to himself, sliding his phone back into his pocket as he walked into the mess hall. The large cafeteria was bustling with activity, loud with animated talking and the clinking of dishware. As Sam grabbed a cafeteria tray and queued in line at the galley, he turned his attention inwards. He was unsurprised to find himself back within the confines of the Creator bond, but the solid block separating him from Ratchet's mental presence took him aback. He had expected a haranguing from the medic as soon as he woke up, not radio silence.
/I see no reason to lecture you. The hangover was sufficient punishment for your actions./ Ratchet's dry voice cut across their bond unexpectedly, and he startled in response. He only just managed to steady the glass of water on his tray, glancing at the woman in line behind him with an apologetic smile.
/Thanks, Ratch./ He replied wryly as he pushed his tray along the galley. He nodded to the cook, who was the same soldier who had greeted him the day before, and gestured towards the minced meat samosas. The cook loaded a serving onto a plate and handed it to him.
"Thanks… Jackson." He said, glancing at the soldier's nametape.
The cook grinned at him, "You're welcome, Ambassador."
Sam sighed inwardly, but nodded in farewell and continued down the galley.
/You seem in good cheer./ Ratchet observed.
Sam huffed a quiet laugh, suddenly struck by the absurdity of his situation. He was walking through the mess hall, nodding politely at the people around him, while having a telepathic conversation with a millions-of-years old alien medic.
/Well, I won a hundred dollars. What can I say?/
Sam felt, rather than heard, Ratchet's unimpressed snort.
/If you feel well enough to be facetious, then you're well enough to get back to work./
Before Sam could reply, he felt the medic shift and then Sam was abruptly free of the confines of the Creator bond. Sam winced his eyes shut, reaching out to ready himself on the galley at the dizzying transition.
/Come on, Ratchet. Have mercy./ Sam entreated, shaking his head as he walked towards the cash registers at the end of the mess hall. He felt a faint pulse of amusement from the medic, and he rolled his eyes in response.
/Believe it or not, I am uninclined to enable irresponsible behavior./
Sam huffed a soft laugh, handing his identification badge to the heavyset older woman at the cash register. She keyed in his items and swiped his card, handing his badge back with a warm smile.
"Thanks." Sam murmured, and then took his tray to a nearby table. Once he was sitting, he turned his attention towards the neural network. He stretched his mind outwards, feeling along the expansive mental space with a faint smile quirking the corner of his lips. The presence of multiple spark signatures, some familiar and some strange, glowed at him enticingly. It was ethereally beautiful and unquestionably alien.
He moved forward, darting from signature to signature with growing curiosity and delight. There was Wheeljack, who was sunshine yellow and jolly, and Bluestreak, who was as gray as the fog rolling off the ocean on a cool morning. Further away, liquid quicksilver shone at him appealingly. He brushed tentatively against the signature, and felt a start of surprise followed by a surge of curiosity. His lips quirked at Perceptor's touch in his mind, keen with scientific interest, before Sam's attention was pulled away again.
He stretched himself as far as he could, moving from spark to spark. Jolt (blue as a butane flame), Mirage (crystal clear and cool), Hot Rod (don't think petal-soft!), and Cliffjumper—
He pulled up short at the sight of Cliffjumper's spark signature. It was pale purple, almost white, glinting like a winter amethyst in his mind. It was different than the other signatures that he had touched, glittering rather than glowing—
/Yo, Matrix boy! Get a room!/
Sam cried out in pain as the agonizingly loud voice cut through his mind like a scythe. He grabbed the sides of his head, squeezing his eyes shut, as Ratchet's presence swelled in fury. Sam was back inside the confines of the Creator bond in an instant, but he could hardly tell through the ringing in his mind. He became aware of Bumblebee's hot anger and concern, and he leaned against the scout's presence gratefully.
"Ambassador?" A voice asked urgently, "Are you alright?"
Sam forced his eyes open, glancing sidelong at two officers who were sitting at the table beside him. They had identical expressions of concern on their faces, and one was half-way out of his chair as though he were about to come over.
"I'm fine, I'm sorry." He managed through gritted teeth.
The officer slowly sat back down, but neither he nor his companion looked particularly convinced by Sam's assurances. They nodded in acknowledgement, turning back to their meals, but Sam could tell that they were watching him.
/What the fuck was that?/ He demanded after a moment, rubbing his good hand over his face.
There was a long silence before Ratchet replied, his voice clipped and tight, /That was Skids earning himself additional work detail./
/Is he glitched? What's his problem?/
/I frequently ask myself the same question. As far as my diagnostic skills can determine, he has a perpetual case of poor judgment./
Sam huffed loudly, spearing a samosa with a fork. The ringing in his head was already receding, but it had certainly curbed his urge to get back to the neuralnet. He worked his way through his meal, aware of Ratchet's irritation bleeding across their bond, before he started towards the tray receptacle. As he passed by the two officers, he noticed that their plates were empty and he winced his eyes shut in embarrassment.
Before Sam could make it to the receptacle, Bumblebee's holoform snapped into existence beside him. A nearby soldier jerked as though he had been electrocuted, his eyes widening in surprise. Bumblebee turned to look at the man, smiling in apology, as his companion murmured something urgently. Whatever he said, the solider obviously understood, for he snapped off sharp salute.
Bumblebee took Sam's tray, scrapping dishes and stowing them away, before gesturing towards the mess hall entrance. Sam grimaced, but fell into step beside him.
"More good will?" He asked, and Bumblebee smiled sympathetically.
"Dr. Lewis' orders." He confirmed.
Sam felt a swell of genuine irritation, and he had to fight the urge to snap at his guardian. Lewis was not his superior, and he was not required to obey her orders. Almost before the thought had finished crossing his mind, he felt Ratchet's displeasure across their bond—and this time, it was not directed towards Skids.
Sam bit off his protest, pushing his hands into his pockets as he followed Bumblebee without complaint. They walked in silence towards the officer's section of North Quad, and Sam's good mood from earlier deteriorated with every step. He had weeks of physical therapy to look forward to, and that was before his surgery to remove the plates in his shoulder.
Sam pressed his badge against the card reader set into the wall by his door, before walking into his apartment. He didn't even have the chance to toss his badge onto the table before Bumblebee was on him. The scout pushed Sam up against the wall hard enough to force a grunt out of him, before pressing against him from chest to hip.
"What are you doing?" Sam demanded, before Bumblebee ducked his head to mouth at the sensitive spot below his ear. Sam bit back a groan, and he could feel a flash of exasperation through the Creator bond before Ratchet's mental presence disappeared.
"You're tense." Bumblebee murmured against his skin, raising his head just enough to bite lightly at Sam's earlobe, "Your physical therapy will be more effective if you are relaxed."
Sam barked a laugh at the flimsy excuse, but he wasn't about to call Bumblebee out on it.
Explicit Scene Removed
It took a long time before Sam felt capable of rational thought. He blinked his eyes open and pushed up onto his elbow, glancing down at Bumblebee in amusement.
"I have to hand it to you." Sam teased, his voice barely a murmur, "If I were any more relaxed, I'd be dead."
Bumblebee huffed a quiet laugh, climbing onto the bed to lay down beside him. Sam smiled at him, shifting forward to run his fingers over Bumblebee's jaw. The simulated skin beneath his fingertips was soft and pliant, perhaps not as warm as real flesh, but otherwise it was virtually indistinguishable. His eyes flicked up to meet Bumblebee's intense stare.
"Do you enjoy it when I touch you like this?" Sam asked curiously, his thumb ghosting over Bumblebee's bottom lip.
"I always enjoy it when you touch me." The scout replied sincerely, and Sam gave him a wry look.
"You know what I mean."
Bumblebee's voice was husky when he replied, "Yes, I enjoy it."
Sam bent down until his forehead rested against Bumblebee's temple, unable to articulate the feeling that was welling up in his chest.
"Sam?" Bumblebee asked after a moment, his voice soft.
"Yeah?"
"You still have to do your PT."
Over the next week, Sam's life settled into a predictable routine. In the mornings, he would work through his physical therapy exercises, sometimes alone and sometimes with Bumblebee, before he would make his way to the mess hall. After breakfast, he either walked to West Quad to spend time with Bee, Cliff, and Roddy if they were not on patrol, or he would head towards East Quad to Wheeljack's lab. The engineer delighted in his company, and Sam found that he enjoyed listening to Jack's exuberant stream-of-consciousness as he worked. Sometimes Sam assisted him, but often he just watched as the engineer took things apart and put them back together again in new and interesting ways.
After lunch, Sam would make his way to the medical bay to work on firewalling with Ratchet. Bumblebee often accompanied him, and Sam was thankful for the moral support. He had improved his capabilities with the filtering firewall, but he was still hopeless with the basic block, much to his consternation. Ratchet was unbothered by his struggles with the simple firewall, content that Sam was making progress in other areas.
One afternoon, after Sam had demonstrated a marked improvement in his control over the filtering firewall, Ratchet pinned him with a contemplative look.
"Bumblebee, demonstrate your egress filter." He instructed, and there was something speculative about his tone.
The scout chirped in acknowledgement, and then Sam felt a gentle nudge in his mind. He turned his attention inwards, and felt as Bumblebee drew the filter over his mental presence. It was profoundly strange—he could feel Bee through their bond, but otherwise it was as though the scout had vanished from the neural network.
"That is so cool." Sam breathed, focusing on the spot where Bumblebee's presence had been a moment before—when he brushed against it, he felt nothing.
Ratchet made a considerate noise, his optics narrowed in thought.
"Try it, Sam."
Sam glanced up at Ratchet in confusion, "What, how?"
"Oblige me."
Sam frowned minutely, but turned his attention inwards. He recreated what he had observed Bumblebee do—a complicated twist and pull, as though drawing a veil across his mind. To his astonishment, he felt the filter fall smoothly into place.
"Huh." He said in surprise. The veil—and Sam could think of no other word for it—was soft against his mental presence, a shimmer between him and the neural network. He felt a fierce surge of pride from Bumblebee, and the scout crouched down beside him so that they were at eye-level with one another. Sam quirked a smile at him, before glancing to Ratchet.
"I don't understand. You said that only scouts have egress filters."
Ratchet made a noise in acknowledgement.
"Scouts and other stealth builds." He corrected, before continuing, "I suspected that you might have the capability after your success with the filtering firewall."
Sam shifted against the veil in his mind. It was comfortable and familiar, and maintaining it was as easy as breathing—there was no pain or strain, as there were with the other filters.
"But how?"
Ratchet lifted a pauldron in a shrug, "Were you not a Prime, I would say that you were sparked as a scout. As it stands, however, I suspect that you gained access to Bumblebee's base programming when you bonded."
"I could do this all day." Sam admitted, "It's easy."
Ratchet's mouthplates twitched in barely concealed amusement.
"The egress filter is useful for concealing your presence on the neural network, but it does nothing to protect you from attacks. You will need to continue practicing your firewalls."
Sam huffed softly, "They can't attack me if they can't find me."
Bumblebee chirped at him seriously, and Sam glanced at the scout in surprise.
"Things are not so straightforward on the battlefield. Egress filters are no match for a saboteur or a communications specialist."
"Like Soundwave?"
The medic openly grimaced, "Primus forbid you ever get close enough to Soundwave to find out."
Ratchet had him re-establish the filtering firewall in his mind, and then he and Bumblebee took turns testing its strength and limitations. Once Sam was thoroughly exhausted, Ratchet released him with a bottle of juice and orders to rest. He and Bumblebee spent the afternoon in the fresh air at Simpson Point, until Sam was ready to call it a night.
Approximately a week later, Sam was scheduled for surgery to remove the plates in his shoulder. To his surprise, the procedure was booked for the operating theatre in the hospital ward, and not Ratchet's medical bay. So on an otherwise nondescript morning in early March, Sam found himself sitting on a gurney in a sterile room as a team of medical personnel prepared for the surgery. There was Ratchet's holoform, of course, but also Dr. Lewis and a number of corpsman that he did not recognize. Sam tried his best to project an air of nonchalance as Lewis inserted the intravenous cannula into the back of his hand. As Sam lay down against the mattress, he felt Ratchet's reassuring touch in his mind.
Ratchet had previously decided, against the objections of the anesthesiologist, to put Sam in stasis rather than sedate him for the procedure. Sam lay against the mattress for a long while, before the medic leaned into his field of vision.
"Ready?"
Sam nodded once, and then he felt Ratchet's presence in his mind. There was a feeling of intent, a strange push-pull sensation, and then the room telescoped away.
He woke up an indeterminable time later in the hospital ward, his left shoulder heavily bandaged and his body pleasantly heavy in that full-bodied way that he recognized as top-of-the-line military-grade painkillers. Ratchet's holoform was already there, looking down at him with a clinical expression on his face.
"Welcome back. How do you feel?"
Sam frowned at the holoform, seriously considering the question. He felt warm, a strange combination of lightheaded and heavy-limbed that was somehow entirely enjoyable. After struggling for a long moment to figure out how to explain this to the medic, he blurted triumphantly,
"I feel like Christmas."
Ratchet's eyebrows rose to his hairline, but Dr. Lewis chuckled understandingly as she stepped up to his bedside.
"Christmas huh? Christmas tree or Christmas dinner?"
Sam smiled at her happily, pleased that someone seemed to understand.
"Oh, Christmas tree for sure. It's a glowy good, not a baked good."
Lewis laughed lightly, "Oh, I'd say that someone's baked all right."
Ratchet turned to regard her with an expectant expression, and she shrugged.
"He's high as a kite. He'll be fine, but you may want to up change up the Tramadol for Demerol."
Sam was in the hospital ward for thirty-six hours before Ratchet consented for him to return to his apartment. His recovery was slow-paced and uneventful. He spent the majority of his days either sleeping or watching television, and by the time that Ratchet removed his stiches and cleared him for return to normal activities, he was ready to climb the walls.
Wheeljack's surprise came two weeks later.
Sam frowned at the manila folder in front of him, willing his brain to absorb the information as though by osmosis. Optimus was preparing to receive the Moroccan delegation, and the file that Dave had prepared for him was full of information about the country and its Ambassador—one Ambassador Hilale—but Sam could understand only about half of what he read. The rest was a combination of foreign words and phrases that meant nothing to him.
"I hope Optimus doesn't expect me to remember any of this, because short of me learning to speak fluent Arabic, I'm coming up empty."
Dave chuckled at him good-naturedly, leaning back in his office chair as he pulled another dossier from the pile in front of him. He handed the folder to Sam, who bit back a groan as he opened it to see more of the same.
"This is information about their foreign policies, their governmental organization, and their economy." He quirked a smile across the table at Sam, "It's a thrilling read, I assure you."
Sam huffed, gathering up the folders as he stood, "Oh yeah, a nail-biter I'm sure. Thanks, Dave."
Dave waved at him good-naturedly, and Sam strode out of the agent's office and back towards his apartment. He was halfway through the bridge when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Sam transferred the folders to one hand, pulling his phone out with the other. To his surprise, he saw that Wheeljack had texted him. He tilted his head curiously as he thumbed open the notification.
Jack: Please come to East Quad immediately. I have something I would like to show you.
Sam's curiosity intensified, not only because of the enigmatic message but also because of the unusual contact from the engineer. In all of the time that Sam had known him, Wheeljack had never once sent him a text message. He reached out to Bumblebee through their bond, brushing against him in greeting. At once, he felt the full weight of his guardian's regard, and he smiled in response.
/Do you know what Wheeljack wants?/ He asked.
He felt the mental equivalent of a shrug.
/I am not sure./ Bumblebee replied, and Sam could feel the scout's curiosity through their bond.
Sam typed out a quick reply to Jack, and then he began to walk towards the receiving area. From this point in the Hive, it was quicker to cut through the large room than to navigate the entire way around the bridge. It was still the better part of twenty minutes before Sam turned the corner towards Wheeljack's lab. He smiled in fond remembrance at the black scorch marks on the ceiling and the walls, remembering how intimated he had been the first time that he had met the engineer.
He strode into the hangar a moment later, taken aback by the changes to the lab. The workbenches and shelving had all been moved aside, leaving a large empty space in the middle of the room. A strange contraption was located in the center of that space—a circular archway made of intricately twisted metal. Wheeljack stood beside the archway, shifting from pede to pede, his fins brightening to sunshine yellow at his approach. To his surprise, Optimus was standing a short distance away, staring at Sam with an inscrutable expression.
Sam tilted his head curiously, opening his mouth to inquire about the strange contraption, when he heard a voice from across the room.
"Sammy."
Sam's heart lodged itself in his throat as his head snapped towards the voice.
"Ma?" He whispered.
His mother and father were standing beside Wheeljack's workbench, incongruous amongst the towering shelves of alien technology. They looked almost exactly as he remembered them—his mother's hair was perhaps shot through with more gray and his father's belly was not as round, but they were there.
He didn't remember crossing the space between them, but suddenly he was crushing his mother in a tight embrace. Sam tucked his face into the crook of her neck, tears burning in his eyes. She murmured at him lovingly, one arm wrapped around his shoulders as the fingers of her other hand carded through his hair. Sam pulled back just far enough to stare into her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed and watery, but she was beaming at him in happiness. He couldn't speak around the lump in his throat, but she seemed to understand. She raised her hands to cup his face, stroking her thumbs over his cheeks affectionately.
Sam glanced towards his father, who was watching them in barely restrained emotion. Sam knew that he was crying, but he found himself unable to stop the tears once they had started. His father stepped forward and wrapped him in a bear hug, and Sam hugged him back wordlessly.
"You look good, Sam." His father murmured at last.
"You too, Dad." He laughed quietly, "How's Europe?"
His father chuckled at him, as his mother brushed the tears off his face.
"It's been good. We've been good." His father replied.
"We saw Stonehenge." His mother informed him, her hand raising to her chest, "Sammy, it was lovely."
Sam shook his head, overwhelmed by the sense of surrealism that had overtaken him.
"How are you here?"
He felt Optimus approaching, and glanced over his shoulder at the Autobot leader.
"Wheeljack has successfully reverse-engineered a working ground bridge." He rumbled, stopping a short distance away, "Once it passed its preliminary trials, I extended an invitation to your parents."
Sam glanced back towards his mother.
"How long as you staying?" He asked, hope blooming in his chest.
"Only for the day, Sam." Optimus replied regretfully, and his hope flashed into bitter disappointment in an instant. His expression must have been telling, because his mother grabbed him by the shoulders.
"Which means we don't have any time to lose. Show me around this base of yours, Mr. Ambassador." She said, grinning cheekily, and Sam rolled his eyes in response.
"It's not my base, Ma."
"Nana White cut out the newspaper article about the U.S. Ambassador's visit. She has it hanging on her fridge." His mother boasted, "You should see your picture, you look so handsome."
Sam huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Some things never changed.
"Tell me everything, Sammy. How are you?"
Sam froze at his mother's exuberant request, pinging Optimus immediately.
/What have you told them about me?/
He felt a gentle touch, the Autobot leader's presence overlaid with signifiers of reassurance and calm.
/Nothing beyond what is publically known./
Sam glanced at Optimus in appreciation, before turning a warm smile onto his mother.
"I'm good, Ma, really good." He assured her.
Sam gestured towards the hangar doors, noticing that Bumblebee had arrived in his alt mode. He quirked a smile at the scout, who popped open his doors for his parents.
"Bumblebee!" His mother exclaimed patting the hood of the Camaro affectionately, "How are you?"
Bumblebee's radio brightened as the dial slid across frequencies, before music burst from his speakers.
"Sweet Caroline! Good times never seemed so good! / Cause I'm walkin' on sunshine, (o-ooh), and don't it feel good?"
Sam's eyebrows rose to his hairline. It had been months since he had heard Bumblebee speak using song lyrics from his radio.
"That's wonderful, dear." His mother said, climbing into Bee's cab after his father.
They went first to North Quad so that his mother could see his apartment. She exclaimed approvingly at the tidy space, and Sam felt a funny turn in his stomach to see his parents walking around his living room. He told them about Stanford and his classes as they drove a full circuit around the bridge, then he gave them a cliff notes version of the arrival of the Trion and the Ark as they accelerated onto the lift in the receiving room.
They spent a better part of two hours touring the Downtown area. He showed them the re-purposed Administrative building that was now the foreign embassy, the Seaman's club, the theatre, and the base gym, doing his best impression of Dave Carter's welcome speech. His father was quietly introspective for the tour, but his mother was expressive with her praise. After they had lunch at the Dining Hall, Sam had Bumblebee drive them to Simpson Point. The picturesque beachfront was close enough to base that Sam felt secure, but isolated and tropical enough to show off the beauty of the island. They climbed out of Bee's cab, and walked towards the water's edge.
His father was quiet for a long time, before glancing sidelong at him.
"How are you, Sam? Really?"
Sam returned his father's look with a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"I'm good, Dad. Really. I'm where I'm supposed to be."
His father's expression was searching, but after a long moment be nodded.
"That's all I needed to know."
When they returned to Wheeljack's laboratory several hours later, Sam felt a familiar sense of anxiety building in his gut. His mother embraced him tightly, rubbing her hands over his back.
"Get a haircut before your next big Ambassador shindig." She murmured into his ear, and he smiled at her fondly.
"I will."
Wheeljack stepped up to the control panel by the ground-bridge, his servos flying across the keyboard. Sam startled back in surprise as a brilliant blue-green vortex sprung to life within the archway. A moment later, Will Lennox materialized out of the glowing maelstrom.
"Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky, are you ready to go?"
Sam found himself crushed within the tight embrace of his parents. There were no tears this time, no emotional farewells. They smiled at him fondly, murmuring their good-byes, before they walked towards the Major. Sam watched as the three of them stepped through the swirling vortex, and then they were gone. The blue-green glow disappeared a moment later, and Sam sighed softly.
He glanced towards Optimus.
"Thank-you for that."
The Autobot leader inclined his helm fractionally, his expression solemn and sincere.
"It was my pleasure, Sam. It is my hope that we can host them again sometime soon."
Sam reached a hand out, running his fingers over the gleaming yellow exterior of Bumblebee's alt mode. He could feel his guardian's warm regard through their bond, as well as his immense satisfaction.
"Did you know?" He asked, amusedly.
He felt the ghost of a chuckle across their bond
"Of course I knew," Bumblebee replied teasingly, "I told you—infiltrators are excellent liars."