Chapter warnings - Minor PTSD symptoms, nothing drastic yet.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
"Sam." Bumblebee murmured softly, "Sam, come on. Wake up."
Sam groaned, turning his head to burrow his face into the pillow, before mumbling something that might have been interpreted as, "Leave me alone."
Although the pillow was thin and lumpy, it felt like heaven after two years of sleeping on the cold, hard floor or on an equally unforgiving berth. He lay there for a few moments, just beginning to drift off again, when Bumblebee gave his shoulder a little shove.
"Don't fall back to sleep."
"What do you want?" Sam grumbled into the pillow.
"It's time to get up." Bumblebee said apologetically, "You need to eat something."
"Bee, I haven't slept in two years. It can wait."
"Sorry, Ratchet's orders."
Sam groaned softly in response. After he had calmed down from their emotional reunion, Ratchet had been all business. The medic had brought him a simple meal, dry toast and applesauce, before setting up an intravenous fluid drip as Sam picked at the food. After he had finished eating, feeling uncomfortably full despite the meager portions, Ratchet had ordered him to get some rest. Sam had stared at him in disbelief, protesting that he had just woken up, but the medic had been as unyielding as iron. Before they could start arguing in earnest, Bumblebee's holoform had climbed onto the gurney, guiding Sam to lay down beside him. Bee had stayed there like that, gently stroking his fingers up and down Sam's back, until he had fallen to sleep.
The memory motivated him to turn his head slightly, squinting open his eyes. Bumblebee's holoform was still beside him; they laid facing each other, chest to chest, with their legs tangled together beneath the blankets. The holoform's expression was faintly amused, his lips quirked with the barest hint of a smile. The sight of him made Sam's lips curve upwards in a smile of his own—he had never woken up beside the holoform before.
"Good morning." Sam murmured, voice rough from sleep. He reached out a hand to trace the line of the holoform's jaw, brushing his thumb across his chin, "Is it morning?"
The holoform's eyes softened in fond amusement.
"It's one o'clock in the afternoon."
"How long was I out?"
"About ten hours. You can go back to sleep after you've eaten."
Sam huffed quietly, "Bee, that's been the tagline of my life for the last two years."
Although Sam had meant the words lightly, Bumblebee's expression darkened with a mixture of consternation, anger, and remorse. The holoform reached out a hand, pressing it firmly against the side of Sam's face.
"I'm sorry, Sam."
Sam huffed again, suddenly uncomfortable.
"Hey, no brooding in bed. It's a major turn-off." He said, aiming for a teasing tone but falling flat. The holoform frowned faintly, but before he could reply, Ratchet's voice carried across the hangar.
"There's to be no anything in bed in my medical bay, you reprobates."
Sam lifted his head, glancing in the direction of the voice. Ratchet strode towards them, one servo cupped in front of his chassis, with exasperation written all over his faceplates. The dry reproach was so stereotypically Ratchet that Sam found himself grinning in response.
"Good afternoon to you too."
The medic stopped at his bedside, giving Bumblebee a pointed look, before turning his focus towards Sam. The holoform smiled at Sam apologetically before dematerializing from his side. A moment later, there was the sound of shifting metal, and then Bumblebee straightened to his full height beside Ratchet. Sam hadn't realized that his bonded had been waiting in his alt mode just a short distance away.
Sam's attention was abruptly pulled away from his musings as Ratchet initiated a sensor sweep. He grunted in surprise as the glitchy red scan swept him from his head to his toes, leaving an unpleasant pins-and-needles sensation in its wake. As soon as the red light disappeared, Ratchet leaned forward to place a tray on his overbed table.
"Your vitals are better this afternoon. How do you feel?"
Sam shrugged, pushing himself into a sitting position before pulling the overbed table closer towards him.
"Pretty good, I guess. All things considered." Sam glanced down at the tray, grimacing as he did so. Ratchet had brought him a thin broth, a Kaiser roll, and an individually wrapped package of saltines, "Don't get me wrong, I'll be happy if I never see another MRE again, but soup?"
Ratchet scoffed loudly, crossing his arms over his chassis, "If Knock Out had any sense at all, you wouldn't have been eating ready-made meals in the first place. Given your limited caloric intake and substantial metabolic stress, it could have killed you."
Sam frowned faintly, feeling inexplicably offended on Knock Out's behalf.
"He did the best that he could."
Ratchet stiffened, looking as though he were wrestling with the impulse to say something scathing at Knock Out's expense. Eventually, he ex-vented slowly before speaking with an air of affected calm.
"Be that as it may, you lost thirty-two pounds during your captivity. To avoid re-feeding syndrome, you will adhere to a strict diet for the next two weeks."
"Lucky me." Sam replied dryly, picking up his spoon. The soup steamed lightly in the cool air of the medical bay, thin and brown with finely diced vegetables. Eating with the IV taped to the back of his hand proved to be a nuisance, but he managed it. Ratchet watched him the entire time that he ate, his expression one of clinical focus. It was not until Sam was halfway through his soup that the medic spoke again.
"When you have finished eating, you can have a shower. Dave brought a change of clothing and toiletries while you slept."
Sam went rigid, his heart leaping into his throat as he looked up at the medic.
"He's alive, then?" Sam asked quietly.
Something softened in Ratchet's optics, "Yes, he's alive. Although he was seriously injured in the attack, he recovered without complications."
Sam swallowed hard, trying to control the emotions that swelled through him—relief, worry, guilt. After a moment, he realized that he was gripping the spoon so tightly that the tendons in his hand ached. Sam relaxed his grip with conscious effort, forcing himself to meet Ratchet's gaze again.
"Did anyone die?"
Ratchet's expression became inscrutable, neither his physical appearance nor his mental presence betraying anything of his emotions.
"I don't want you dwelling on that, Sam. You need to focus on your recovery right now."
Sam's eyes narrowed dangerously, irritation flaring through him in an instant.
"How many?" He demanded.
Ratchet's faceplates downturned in a disapproving frown, but before the medic could reply, Sam exploded.
"How many people died, Ratchet? Ten? A hundred? How many people did Megatron kill trying to find me?" Sam was shouting by the time that he had finished speaking, his voice strangled by the force of his anger.
Ratchet's expression cooled noticeably, "Thirty-one people died in the attack."
Sam stared at the medic uncomprehendingly, unable to process his words. He was distantly aware of the way his heart had started to beat erratically in his chest, causing his pulse to thunder in his ears, but it was a periphery concern. Barely noticeable.
Thirty-one people died because of me.
All at once, Bumblebee's holoform appeared on the berth at his bedside. He reached out, gripping both of Sam's shoulders, forcing him to turn towards him. The holoform's expression was grim and concerned, his grip bordering on painful.
"They didn't die because of you, Sam. They died because of Megatron." Bumblebee said earnestly, his eyes searching Sam's face, "You have to believe that."
Sam stared at him for a long moment, something ugly lodging itself in his chest. He squeezed his eyes closed, head tipping forward until his chin practically rested on his sternum.
"You can pretty it up however you like, Bee. Megatron came here for me." Sam said quietly. A thought suddenly occurred to him and Sam's head snapped up, fear replacing his bitter anger in an instant, "He's not going to stop. He promised me—wherever I go, he'll find me." Sam swallowed hard, "It's not safe here, not anymore. I have to leave."
Bumblebee's holoform didn't move, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into Sam's shoulders.
"You're safe, Sam. A lot has changed since the attack."
Sam felt his fear sharpen into the first stirrings of panic at the scout's comforting tone, "You're not listening to me! Don't you get it? He won't stop, not ever. As long as I'm here, everyone on this island is in danger."
"Calm down, Sam." Ratchet said, stepping closer to the berth. The medic's earlier disapproval had vanished, replaced by stark concern, "Bumblebee is right, the island is protected. You're safe."
Sam stared at the medic incredulously for the space of a second before he barked a sharp laugh.
"Yeah, I've heard that before."
Although Bumblebee flinched as though he had been struck, Ratchet did not react to his words. He continued to stare down at Sam, his visage calm and composed, with his arms folded loosely over his chassis.
"Wheeljack and Perceptor have developed an energy barrier, which is currently encapsulating the base. We have also upgraded our energon detection network, extending its range to 100 kilometers in all directions. No one, Seeker or otherwise, is getting the drop on us again. If they try, then they will be shot out of the sky with our improved air defense system, courtesy of Red Alert and Ironhide." Ratchet's words were said matter-of-factly, as though he were sharing an indisputable truth, and Sam felt some of the tension leave his body. Bumblebee squeezed his shoulders again, brushing across his mind in a gesture that was both familiar and reassuring.
After a long moment, Sam found himself asking, "Red Alert?"
"Red Alert is our Security Director. There have been a number of new arrivals in your absence."
He was distantly aware that the medic was trying to distract him, but despite himself, Sam felt his curiosity pique at the information. When Ratchet was not forthcoming with any additional details, Sam sent a wordless pulse of frustrated inquiry across their bond. Only then, did Ratchet oblige him.
"Red Alert arrived with Inferno, a rescue bot, and Smokescreen, a diversionary tactician, approximately two months after the attack. Hoist, First Aid, Grapple, and Beachcomber arrived six months ago. Hoist and First Aid are part of the medical corps. Grapple is an architect and Beachcomber is a geologist."
"A geologist?" Sam repeated in surprise. He had never realized that geology was a viable career path for a Cybertronian, before or after the start of the Great War.
"A geologist." Ratchet confirmed, "He is the most solitary of the bunch, being what humans might call a tree hugger."
Sam's eyebrows flew up at the medic's dry tone, a grin splitting his face of its own accord, "A tree hugger?"
"I believe I have the correct vernacular. A tree hugger. A hippy. An anti-war naturalist."
Sam laughed, genuinely delighted with each new phrase that came out of Ratchet's vocalizer, "I can't wait to meet him."
"There will be time for all of that later. Do you feel up to a shower?" Ratchet asked, cutting off Bumblebee before his bonded could reply. Sam considered the question seriously, and then he nodded.
"Yeah, I think so." Sam said, hesitating, "Ratchet, listen—"
"It's alright, Sam. I'm not upset." Ratchet said, correctly interpreting Sam's disquiet, "Your apology is appreciated but unnecessary."
Sam brushed mental fingers over the medic's neural presence, trying to convey his appreciation across their bond. He felt Ratchet's huff of fond exasperation, before the medic's holoform materialized beside him. He watched as the holoform pushed the bedside table away and grasped Sam's wrist, efficiently disconnecting the extension tubing from the cannula of the IV. When he did not remove the IV itself, Sam glanced up at the medic in confusion.
"You are on full dose intravenous potassium, phosphate, calcium, and magnesium, and will be so for the next forty-eight hours." Ratchet explained, helping him pull the blankets down. It was only then that Sam noticed that he was dressed in a familiar hospital gown. Ratchet's bipedal mode stepped close as his holoform helped him off the gurney, before extending his servo towards him. Sam climbed unsteadily into the medic's palm, and Ratchet brought him close to his chest as he crossed the hangar.
To Sam's surprise, he noticed a previously unnoticed door that was set into the wall at the back of the room. The door was human-sized, standing in stark contrast to the alienness of the medical bay. He hesitated for a long moment, before glancing up at the medic.
"That's new, right? I mean, I've spent a lot of time here, and I don't remember seeing that before."
Ratchet ex-vented a snort, "Yes, it's new. Given your natural proclivity for injury, I decided to make some changes to the medical bay to better accommodate you."
The Chief Medical Officer lowered into a crouch, setting Sam on his feet. Immediately, Ratchet's holoform appeared beside him again, stepping forward to push open the door on his behalf. The room within was small, containing a sink, toilet, and an open air shower. He felt a twinge of appreciation for Ratchet's consideration—after Ripcord's attack, Sam had had his fill of bedpans and sponge baths.
As he stepped through the door, Sam noticed a pile of clothing and a small mesh bag on the countertop.
"There is a bench in the shower. Please use it." Ratchet said, and then his holoform disappeared.
After a moment, Sam stepped forward, running his fingers over the pile of clothing on the countertop. Long sleeved Henley shirt, jeans, boxers, socks. A pair of sneakers. Beside it all, a small pack of toiletries. He unzipped the mesh bag to find, among other items, a travel-sized toothpaste and a toothbrush.
Sam grimaced, suddenly aware of the carrion taste in his mouth. He picked up the toothbrush and toothpaste, before proceeding to scrub two years' worth of buildup off his teeth and tongue. When he finished, he picked up the mesh bag and made his way over to the shower before turning the temperature gauge to its high setting. At once, water streamed from the showerhead set in the ceiling. With it, came a flood of unwelcome memories.
The stringent smell of cleanser, steaming in the cold air of the wash racks.
The sensation of metalmesh scrubbing across his skin, leaving unforgiving redness in its wake.
Megatron's pleased rumble, servos on his body as he pressed Sam towards the shower—
Sam jerked away, gasping loudly as he came back to himself. As he stood there, clutching the mesh bag in his hand and shivering uncontrollably, he became aware of Ratchet's quiet scrutiny. He tried not to flinch under the weight of the medic's regard, embarrassment and shame combining to spread a flush across his face.
"It wasn't always like that." Sam said quietly, voice barely audible over the drumming of the water against the tiled floor, "He usually let me shower by myself."
Almost before the words were out of his mouth, Ratchet brushed mental fingers across Sam's mind. The touch was comforting, pacifying, and utterly non-judgmental. Sam's eyes fluttered shut as he leaned towards the sensation. He stayed like that until the remnants of his flashback faded away. By the time that he opened his eyes again, the bathroom had become foggy with steam.
The whole while, Ratchet's mental presence was a model of control, betraying nothing of his emotions.
Sam sighed softly, steeling himself with grim determination as he pulled the hospital gown off his body. He placed the mesh bag in the alcove set into the shower wall, took a deep breath, and stepped into the flow of water. The shock of heat went straight through him—it was almost painfully hot, nothing like the warm spray of solvent that he remembered. His head pitched forward and he groaned—it felt amazing. He sat there for a long time, letting the water cascade down his back, before he eventually picked up the mesh bag and got to work cleaning himself. He scrubbed with more force than strictly necessary, determined to remove every trace of the Nemesis off his person.
When he finally shut off the shower, his skin was tender and pink. Sam dried himself with the towel that Ratchet had left him, before making his way over to the sink. As he pulled the pants up over his hips, he realized that the clothing fit comfortably, despite his weight loss. Sam's lips quirked fondly.
Carter works fast.
Sam pulled the shirt on over his head, before sitting on the floor to put on his shoes and socks. When he finished, he slung the towel over his shoulder and made his way back into the medical bay. Bumblebee was waiting in his alt mode a short distance from the door, while Ratchet had assumed his familiar position at the workbench halfway down the hangar.
"So, I should probably go see a dentist." Sam said conversationally.
"Although my sensors did not detect any significant damage, you are scheduled to see an ophthalmologist and a dental surgeon this afternoon." Ratchet said, glancing in his direction, "After you've seen Dr. Anderson."
Sam frowned, coming to a stop next to Bumblebee. He leaned one hip against the Camaro, crossing his arms over his chest.
"I don't need a psych-eval, Ratchet." He protested, hating the defensiveness in his voice. They all knew exactly how fucked up he was, no evaluation necessary.
"No, you don't. Dr. Anderson wants to outline your treatment schedule."
Sam's frown deepened, anxiety stirring in the pit of his stomach. Although Karen had been his therapist since he had arrived at Diego Garcia, the idea of sharing this aspect of himself with her was intolerable. He had no desire to talk about what it felt like to be tortured, physically and mentally, until he had contemplated suicide. It was too raw. Too soon.
Sam's train of thought was interrupted by a soft, hesitant caress across his mind. He glanced down at the Camaro in surprise, sending a wordless pulse of inquiry across their bond.
/Please, Sam. Go see her, hear what she has to say./ Bumblebee implored, /She can help./
The scout's mental voice made his heart flutter painfully in his chest; it had been two years since he had last heard it. Sam reached out instinctively, pressing against the warm, winter-white glow in his mind. It was security and comfort and love—perfect in every way. All at once, Sam realized that he couldn't refuse the scout's request.
"Yeah, alright." He murmured, "But I'm not making any promises."
The meeting with Karen went about as well as could be expected.
Evidentially keen to capitalize on Sam's pliant mood, Ratchet had sent him straight to South Quad. The drive through the bridge had been strangely disorienting. Although everything was the same as he remembered it, it was also completely different. He felt like an outsider again, an interloper, who did not belong among the soldiers and civilian support staff that they passed. The walk through South Quad to Karen's office had been equally off-putting. The curious glances that he received from passersby, tinged with recognition and sympathy, had set his teeth on edge. By the time that Karen welcomed him into the familiar room, with its comfortable seating and pleasant decor, he had been in a bad temper.
To her credit, Karen took his bullshit in stride. She neither commented on nor reacted to his sarcasm or biting remarks, instead steering the conversation towards neutral territory. When she had broached the topic of his treatment regimen, Sam narrowed his eyes at her.
"No."
Karen tilted her head considerately, "Do you have a reason for your objection?"
"I don't need anti-depressants."
"Sam," Karen started, in what he had come to think of as her therapist's voice, "There is nothing wrong with requiring a little help to get back to baseline. Sertraline and paroxetine are both widely prescribed for post-traumatic stress disorder and panic attacks."
Sam worked his jaw for a moment, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair.
"I just don't want them."
Karen leaned forward, hands clasped together and resting on the desk in front of her, "Sam, you were suicidal thirty-four days ago. Can you look me in the face and tell me that I don't have a reason to be concerned?"
"Thirty-four days ago, I was being tortured." He snapped, letting his head fall against the back of his chair. He stared up at the familiar ceiling for a long moment. If memory served him correctly, there were seventeen tiles there.
"You were." Karen agreed, "And for almost twenty months prior to that as well."
He did not reply. Yup. Seventeen tiles.
"Sam, you don't just 'get over' something like captivity, torture, and forced isolation because you got to come home. An experience like that lingers, and it will eat you alive if you don't let me help you."
He swallowed hard, lifting a shoulder in a careless shrug.
"Fine. Whatever you think."
Karen stared at him for the space of a heartbeat, before leaning back in her chair.
"Alright. I want to start you on sertraline at 25 milligrams a day. We can adjust your dosage, or add additional medication, depending on the severity of your symptoms. We will also resume our bi-weekly sessions, Tuesdays and Fridays. Do you have a time preference?"
Sam winced his eyes shut.
"Sam?"
"No, no preference."
"Let's start at our old time, then. One o'clock. If you want to adjust our meeting times, we can do that." She said, clicking a pen before jotting something down on the pad in front of her, "In between sessions, I want you to start exercising."
Sam lifted his head from the back of his chair, a frown knitting the space between his eyebrows.
"Karen, I've lost thirty-two pounds. There's no way that Ratchet will sign off on that."
She huffed a soft laugh, "Nothing too strenuous, and not without Ratchet's approval. Light impact cardio shouldn't be an issue—walking, swimming, cycling, whatever you prefer. So long as it gets you outside and moving."
Sam heaved a sigh, "Fine. How often do I have to do this?"
This time, it was Karen's turn to frown.
"This isn't a punishment, Sam. Sunshine, socialization, and endorphins can contribute to positive mental health as much as SSRIs and therapy."
"Fine."
"Alright, well, in the meantime you should rest and recuperate."
"Will do."
Karen gave him a piercing look, as though she were trying to see inside his head. After a protracted pause, she stood up and gestured for him to join her. They walked out of the office together, into the small receiving area. It was empty, this late in the day, and Sam stood by impatiently as Karen booked their next eight sessions. Then she turned to look at him, a smile warming her face.
"Thank-you for coming today, Sam. I'll see you on Friday."
He murmured his farewells, before turning on his heel and leaving the office. He tried not to dwell on the fact that his hasty departure felt like a retreat. Bumblebee's holoform was waiting in the corridor, leaning against the wall with a patient expression on his face.
"I'm heading to Ops." Sam said, by way of greeting, before walking in the direction of Dave's office. Bumblebee fell into step beside him without comment. They were quiet as they walked, with Sam turning over his conversation with Karen in his mind. Bumblebee seemed to appreciate his need for silence, and the scout respected his introspection. It was no time at all before they turned down the familiar hallway, with its faded patterned carpet and doors that were set in both walls at even intervals. It was unbusy, this late in the day, with most of the support staff having left at five o'clock. One door was cracked open, however, spilling mellow light into the hallway.
Sam stopped in front of the office, rapping on the door with his knuckles.
"Come in." Dave's voice called out, and Sam felt his heart start to beat harder against his ribcage. He reached forward to push open the door, revealing the tastefully decorated space. Dave sat behind his L-shaped desk—sans jacket, with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows—with a focused expression on his face. He looked exactly the same as Sam remembered him: clean shaven, well groomed, with an open, friendly demeanor.
It took a second before Dave's eyes widened in recognition and surprise. He was on his feet in an instant, making his way around the desk. Before Sam could say a word, the agent grabbed him in a tight hug.
"Jesus, Sam. I'm so glad you're back."
Sam's lips quirked in a faint smile as he lifted his arms to return the agent's hug. "I'm glad you're okay. I was worried about you."
Dave pulled back, holding him by the shoulders as he huffed a laugh, "That's my line."
Sam smiled at him, before his eyes fell to the agent's chest. He could remember the sight of blood blossoming across Dave's shirt like it was yesterday. Dave frowned faintly, obviously following Sam's train of thought.
"Hey." Dave said, catching Sam's attention, "I'm fine. All good."
Sam got a grip on himself, forcing the smile back onto his face.
"I'm really glad to hear it. Listen, I wanted to say thank-you for the clothes. I appreciate it."
Dave shrugged noncommittally, but his expression was amiable, "No problem, it's my job."
The words startled a genuine laugh from Sam, "Is Optimus still working you too hard?"
Dave laughed lightly, inclining his head towards the stack of papers on his desk.
"He's not not working me too hard." He replied good-naturedly, "But I enjoy it."
"Of course you do. You're a masochist."
Dave laughed again, the skin around his eyes crinkling in amusement. Abruptly, Sam felt uncomfortable and out of place, incongruous amongst the keepsakes and the mementos of the office.
"Look, I don't want to keep you." Sam said before Dave could reply, stepping away as he pushed his hands into his pockets, "I just wanted to drop by to say hello."
"I'm so glad that you did." Dave replied sincerely, "As soon as Ratchet lets you out from under his thumb, let's grab something to eat at the Hall."
"So, never then?" Sam asked, forced levity in his voice.
"Hopefully not that long."
Sam knew a moment of awkward anxiety, unsure how to extricate himself from the agent's office, when Bumblebee stepped into the doorway.
"I'm sorry, Ratchet wants Sam back at medical."
Dave's eyebrows rose to his hairline, "No, of course. Thanks for coming by, Sam."
Sam nodded at the agent, waving good-bye, before he stepped into the hallway. They were out of Ops, halfway back to the bridge, when he glanced over at Bumblebee with a faint smile of appreciation.
"Infiltrators really are excellent liars."
Bumblebee graced him with a broad grin, "The best."
Notes: So, I did a lot of reading about re-feeding syndrome in researching this chapter. Let's just say that Sam is very lucky for the Allspark energy radiating from his cells, or he would literally be dead.