Notes: Chapter warning: Fluff and angst. Explicit sexual content removed
The West Quad was quiet and still, a welcome counterbalance to the frantic urgency that spurred him forward. Sam walked quickly, his eyes skipping over the closed doors on either side of the cavernous corridor. Although he did not know where he was going, he was certain that he was getting closer. He turned, glancing over his shoulder as he walked. The curtain of darkness that had followed him all the way from North Quad draped the hallway in shadow, obscuring the path that he had taken. Despite his earlier fear, his silent companion no longer felt malicious—instead, it felt patient. Expectant.
Something compelled Sam to glance down, and he startled in surprise. Once again, the lithe form of Ravage padded along at his side. The cyber cat walked in tandem with him, matching his pace with ease. Although Sam's curiosity piqued at the sight of her, his steps did not falter.
"You're here." He observed quietly.
"I am."
Sam was silent for a moment longer, and then he asked, "Where did you go?"
"I did not leave." She replied, angling her head to look at him.
Although her words were enigmatic, Sam felt a swell of relief in response.
"I'm glad." He murmured, reaching out a hand to brush his fingertips over her broad head, "I can't do this alone."
Ravage rumbled, low in her chassis. It was a contemplative sound, reflective and thoughtful.
"You are not alone, Sam. I am with you, always."
Sam smiled, comforted by her promise. Together, they made their way deeper into West Quad, further than Sam had ventured before. They passed the command center, the training range, the berthing hangars, Prime's office—all closed. The only sound to mark their procession was the squeak of Sam's shoes against concrete and the sound of Ravage's metal claws tinkling against the floor. They walked side by side, neither outpacing the other—if Sam was asked, he would have been hard-pressed to say which of them was leading and which was following. Eventually, they turned down an empty corridor that ended in a large, white door. As with all of the others that they had passed, this door was also closed. Sam ambled forward until he stood inches away from it. The door blended almost perfectly into the wall, visible only by the half-inch outline that extended around its edges.
Sam glanced down at Ravage expectantly.
"Well, what now?" He asked.
The cyber cat sat on her haunches, curling her long, metal tail over her paws.
"I do not know. For all of my knowledge, I am not omniscient."
Sam frowned faintly, stymied by her strange non-answer.
"I'm where I'm supposed to be. I can feel it."
"Well then, we shall wait." Ravage replied, "We have been blessed with an abundance of time."
Sam nodded faintly before lowering himself onto the floor beside her. He crossed his legs, grasping his knees with his hands, as he stared up at the imposing doorway.
Behind them, the shadows gathered in silence.
Sam woke slowly, shifting comfortably against the mattress. The medical bay was quiet except for the faint hum of distant machinery. It was a familiar and comforting sound, and Sam sighed softly in contentment. He rolled onto his side, burying his face into the pillow, as he pulled the blankets up around his ears. Sam laid there for an interminable time, just beginning to drift off again, when he heard heavy footsteps approach the berth.
"Come on, wake up." Ratchet instructed briskly.
Sam groaned under his breath.
"I'm tired, Ratchet. Go away."
The medic scoffed loudly, a derisive sound if ever Sam heard one.
"Whose fault is that?" Ratchet asked unsympathetically, "Get up or you'll be awake all night… again."
Sam pulled the blankets away from his face, glaring balefully at the chartreuse mechanoid.
"Go to sleep, get up—God, make up your mind." Sam complained.
Ratchet snorted in response, reaching over to place a familiar-looking cafeteria tray on the overbed table.
"I see that a lengthy rest has done nothing to improve your exasperating manner."
Sam rolled his eyes as the memory of that morning rose to the forefront of his mind.
"Thanks for that, by the way." Sam replied dryly, scrubbing his hand over his face, "What time is it?"
"Two o'clock in the afternoon." Ratchet answered, moving the overbed table towards him with a pointed look. Sam sighed in resignation and pushed himself up into a sitting position. A cursory look revealed that the medic had brought him a sandwich, an apple, and a carton of milk. Sam's lips quirked up, and he glanced at Ratchet in dry amusement.
"Do you have the Food Pyramid taped to your workbench?" He asked, only partially in jest.
Ratchet snorted again, a sharp ex-vent of air, as he folded his arms over his chassis.
"You can use the nutrients."
"French fries have potassium." Sam returned glibly, picking up the sandwich.
"And an overabundance of sodium and trans-unsaturated fatty acids."
"Well, it's not like I need to worry about having a heart attack."
"A fortunate reality, given your proclivity for nutritionally questionable foodstuffs."
Sam laughed lightly, opening his sandwich to pick off the mealy-looking tomato slice. He dropped it onto the paper plate and then replaced the slice of bread. As he took a bite, he glanced up at the medic again.
"I can't believe I've never thought to ask—is there an energon equivalent to junk food?"
Ratchet's expression mellowed, becoming contemplative. He tilted his head as he stared down at Sam.
"Once, before the war." He replied, "Energon could be refined into high-grade fuel and confectionary. The process is too energy-intensive to bother with any longer."
Sam took another bite of his sandwich, mulling over the revelation.
"What made it confectionary?" He asked, eventually, "Does refining energon change its taste or its potency?"
Ratchet's expression became faintly surprised, as though he were taken aback by Sam's inquiry.
"That is an astute question. The short answer is that it did both, in so far as beings without an organic gustatory system can perceive taste."
Sam tilted his head, puzzled by the medic's response.
"You can't taste energon?"
"I didn't say that." Ratchet replied dryly, "Our sensation of taste would be more analogous to your olfactory system. Odorants stimulate the Cybertronian equivalent of sensory neurons within our sensory arrays, which provide data that could be likened to taste and smell."
Sam frowned faintly, trying to make sense of Ratchet's words. After a long moment, he ventured, tentatively, "So you smell things instead of tasting them?"
"That is grossly reductive, but it is essentially correct."
"Bummer." Sam replied sympathetically, taking another bite of his sandwich, "When Megatron showed me what energon was like, my brain associated it with food—cold beer, hot coffee, that sort of thing."
Ratchet's mouthplates thinned in a grimace, the mention of Megatron souring his mood. Sam could feel the swell of animosity-anger through their bond as though the feelings had been his own. Before the medic could comment, however, another thought occurred to Sam. He swallowed his mouthful of nutritionally balanced boredom, and tilted his head in curiosity.
"Is refined energon toxic to me?"
Ratchet's optics shuttered slowly, "What?"
"Refined energon. Is it still toxic to me?" Sam repeated, "With the Allspark energy in my body, I mean."
"Dare I ask what put that thought into your head?"
Sam shrugged, unaffected by the dry sarcasm in Ratchet's voice, "Megatron."
Ratchet's expression noticeably darkened, and the tumultuous flood of emotions across their bond became deeper still and more pronounced. Sam could not keep the wince off his face at the confusing onslaught of sensation. At once, the unfamiliar feelings were gone, replaced with a sense of quiet contriteness. Ratchet brushed gentle fingers over Sam's mind, as though to reassure himself that he was all right. Sam smiled faintly up at the medic in response.
"Thanks, Ratch."
"My apologies, Sam."
"No harm, no foul." Sam replied, taking another bite of his sandwich before he prompted, "So, energon?"
Ratchet ex-vented a slow sigh, as though he were trying to salvage the last vestiges of his patience.
"Energon is likely no longer toxic to you in its refined form. Concerns about toxicity aside, however, it is still corrosive to organic flesh."
Sam huffed a quiet laugh as he reached for his apple, "Gotcha. Don't drink the Kool-Aid."
Ratchet snorted in response.
"An interesting colloquialism, but apt."
Sam wiped the shiny red flesh of the apple with his shirt before taking a bite. As he chewed and swallowed, he turned his attention inwards towards the spark bond. Bumblebee's presence glowed at him from a distance, winter white and familiar. If he concentrated, Sam could make out brief flashes of seriousness and intent. After a few moments, he turned questioning eyes towards Ratchet.
"What's Bumblebee doing?"
"Ask him yourself."
Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes, "I can tell he's busy. I don't want to bother him."
Ratchet's expression became thoughtful, "Can you? What else can you tell?"
Sam was taken aback by the interest in the medic's tone. With a burgeoning sense of curiosity, Sam turned his attention back towards the spark bond. The bond-space itself was warm and familiar, and in the distance, Bumblebee's signature glowed at him enticingly. Instead of brushing against him in greeting, Sam concentrated on the waft of sensation that crossed the space between them.
"Well, he's focused." Sam said slowly, "Whatever he's doing is taking a lot of his attention."
Ratchet nodded minutely, as though encouraging him to continue. Sam frowned faintly, struggling to make sense of the glimpses of thought, emotion, and impression that he could glean from the scout.
"He's… angry? No, irritated. He's definitely irritated. Whatever he's doing, it's really annoying."
To Sam's surprise, Ratchet's mouthplates twitched up in a smile.
"Bumblebee is helping Hot Rod to rearrange the Ark's clinic. Knock Out was not satisfied with its previous layout."
Sam stared up at the medic, torn between surprise, sympathy, and amusement.
"I hardly know what part of that sentence to address first." Sam said, slowly, as he set down his apple core, "You're letting Knock Out re-arrange the clinic?"
Ratchet lifted one pauldron in an indifferent shrug, "He insists that he can improve flow and efficiency. If I don't like it, I'll make him put it back the way it was."
"Can't you already tell if you'll like it?"
"Yes, I can."
"Do you?"
"I do not."
A frown turned down the corners of Sam's mouth, "Ratchet, don't be cruel."
Ratchet's expression became pointed and disapproving, "I am not being cruel. Knock Out has insisted that he knows better than I do—I am giving him the opportunity to learn that he does not. It will keep him busy and satisfied for the afternoon, while also teaching him a great deal about the clinic."
"It'll put him in his place, you mean." Sam translated, dryly.
"That would be a happy outcome indeed."
Sam rolled his eyes, "He was kind to me, you know."
"Which is why he is in the clinic and not the brig."
He huffed a soft laugh at the sardonic tone of the medic's voice, before brushing against Bumblebee's signature. His touch was tentative and gentle, and his bonded's attention focused on him in an instant. Sam pushed affection-sympathy at him, and the answering swell of exasperation made him laugh aloud. As he leaned into Bumblebee's presence, he became aware of Ratchet's scrutiny. Sam pulled away from the spark-bond slightly, glancing up at him in expectation. The medic's optics were bright with an indefinable emotion.
"You are remarkably adept at navigating neural spaces." Ratchet said at last, and Sam realized all at once that the expression on his face was pride, "Whether the spark bond, the Creator bond, or the neural-net. I would not have thought it possible, for someone so immature."
"Thanks… I think."
Ratchet snorted, an unusually loud sound in the otherwise quiet hangar.
"I was referring to the development of your neural connections." He replied dryly, "Any conclusions drawn about your emotional maturity were inferred, not implied. Perhaps something for you to reflect on."
Sam rolled his eyes again, pushing the overbed table away as he kicked off the blankets.
"Can I take back what I said about you being so good to me?"
Rather than deigning to reply, Ratchet scoffed. The medic folded his arms loosely over his chest and pinned Sam with a flat look.
"Your neural connections are developing faster than even my most generous estimates." Ratchet continued, as though Sam had not spoken, "At this rate, I would estimate that your connection to the neural-net will be stable within seventy years, perhaps less."
Sam tossed the medic a sardonic look as he pulled on his pants, "Well, aren't I the little go-getter."
"You're quite the prodigy." Ratchet replied, his tone all dry sarcasm, "If you are amenable, I would like you to start spending time outside of the Creator bond today."
Sam climbed off the gurney, bending down to grab his sneakers. He tossed one onto the mattress, pulling on the other with one hand.
"Is that a good idea?" He asked uncertainly, "You said the Seekers have Creator protocols."
"That is a consideration." Ratchet responded, "However, I believe the risk to be minimal. I will be actively monitoring you."
Sam picked up his other sneaker, balancing against the gurney as he pulled it on. He mulled over Ratchet's words for a long moment, and unable to think of a reason to protest, Sam shrugged in acquiescence.
"Well, whatever you think, I guess." Sam said.
"I am of the opinion that you're developing quickly. You need as much experience within a structured and controlled environment as possible." Ratchet replied, "And of course, the more experience that you have with firewalling, the better."
Sam groaned.
"Aw, c'mon Ratch." He complained, "I had more than enough experience firewalling onboard the Nemesis."
Ratchet pinned him with an unimpressed stare.
"Your experiences on the Nemesis notwithstanding, you require a great deal more practice than you've currently obtained."
Sam exhaled slowly through his nose, lifting his shoulder in a resigned shrug.
"Alright, fine. Can it wait until tomorrow? I have to talk with my folks, and I don't want the entire island to hear me get reamed out by my father."
Ratchet's expression did something complicated—his optic lenses spiraled down to points as his mouthplates tightened minutely—and he nodded in response.
"That is a prudent request." He acknowledged, gruffly.
Sam sighed softly, pushing his hands into the pockets of his pants, "Where are they?"
Ratchet's optics became distant in a way that suggested he was looking for the answer to Sam's question. After a moment, his gaze sharpened and settled on Sam again as he replied, "They are in their quarters. Red Alert informs me that they left briefly for their mid-day meal, but otherwise they have sequestered themselves since returning from the hangar."
Sam could not keep the grimace off his face at the news.
"Well, I had better get it over with. Procrastinating will only make things worse."
"Would you like a drive? I am unable to leave my experiments, but I am certain that Hoist would be amenable."
Sam shook his head minutely, "Thanks but no thanks, Ratch. I think I'd rather walk."
Ratchet nodded in wordless acknowledgment, before extending a servo towards him. Sam steadied himself on Ratchet's thumb as he stepped onto the medic's palm. Large digits curled around his body as Sam was brought close to Ratchet's chest. The medic strode across the hangar, his steps ringing across the large room, before stopping just in front of the bay doors. He stood there for a long moment, silent and inscrutable, before ex-venting a soft sigh. The sound was uncharacteristically solemn, and it caused Sam to glance up in confusion. Ratchet angled his helm to look down at him, his optics startlingly bright.
"Your father's acceptance or denial of what has happened in no way affects the reality of who you are, Sam. I hope you will remember that, if the worst comes to pass."
Sam's throat closed up in an unexpected swell of emotion. He did not need the bond between them to understand Ratchet's reassurance for what it was—an expression of his affection and regard. Unable to voice his appreciation, Sam pressed his palm flat against the medic's chassis. The metal was smooth and warm beneath his skin, a sensation with which Sam was becoming intimately familiar. Although the medic spoke no further, he brushed the tips of his digits down the curve of Sam's back. It was an uncharacteristically tender gesture, a show of support, and Sam leaned into his mental presence gratefully.
Sam stared at the apartment door for an interminable time, nerving himself up to ring the doorbell. Although he could feel Bumblebee's quiet regard, overlaid with impressions of uncertainty and concern, Ratchet's mental presence had receded from their bond completely. He opted not to dwell on that fact, instead taking another steadying breath as he thumbed the notification button on the card reader affixed to the wall beside the door. His heart drummed against his ribcage, and it took a concerted effort to keep his breathing steady and even. When his mother answered the door moments later, Sam didn't know whether it was a torture or a relief.
"Hello Sammy." She murmured, pulling him into a hug. Sam wrapped his arms around her torso, breathing in the smell of her.
"How's Dad?" He asked quietly, cutting to the quick of the matter.
"We talked this morning and I told him everything." She replied, pulling back to look Sam in the eyes, "He didn't take it well."
The trepidation in his gut sharpened to abject dread at the grimness of her tone. He hesitated for a moment before he forced himself to ask, "Will he see me?"
His mother's eyes softened as her expression became unhappy.
"Of course he will." She whispered fiercely, as though she were trying to convince Sam of the sincerity of her words, "Sammy, he's your father."
Sam was unable to keep the grimace off his face, "I know, Ma. Can I come in?"
His mother nodded, her face pale and drawn, as she stepped aside. As she opened the door wider for him, Sam caught sight of his father sitting in the recliner beside the reading nook. He was staring resolutely at the television, still in the same clothes that he had been wearing in the hangar. Sam stepped into the room, glancing at his mother as though to ask permission. When she inclined her head minutely, Sam ambled towards the couch.
"Hey Pops."
"Three years." His father replied, voice tight, without ever taking his eyes off the television, "You knew about all of this for almost three years, and you never thought to tell us."
The flat tone of his father's voice fanned the flames of Sam's anxiety with a vengeance. He stepped around the corner of the couch, moving to sit down on the cushion nearest to the recliner. Sam clasped his hands tightly, resting his arms against his knees as he stared at the floor. Even if his father had not been focused on the television, Sam was unsure whether he could look him in the eye.
"I thought about it all the time. I just didn't know what to say." Sam replied, softly.
"You didn't know what to say?" His father repeated, his voice only just controlled, "How about starting with, 'I've been infected with the energy of an alien artifact that's made me functionally immortal'?"
Sam flinched as his father's tone took on a caustic edge. His mother sat down beside him, murmuring an admonishment in his father's direction.
"Yeah, I guess that would have been a good place to start." Sam replied, trying for levity and falling flat.
"Or maybe you could have mentioned that you died while in the custody of people who said they would keep you safe. How about that?" His father snapped, ignoring Sam's interjection completely.
Sam squeezed his hands together until the muscles in his forearms protested at the strain. He did not bother trying to defend himself, to explain the nuances of what had happened, because he was certain that his father would not care one whit about Ripcord's fanatical beliefs or the extent of his betrayal.
"Were you ever going to tell us? If your mother hadn't walked in on you and him—" His father spat the pronoun like a curse, "would you have said anything?"
Sam's heart was pounding against his ribs now, and he struggled to keep his anguish off his face. He could hear the depth of emotion in his father's voice—his rage, his despair, his bitter disappointment. It made Sam feel precariously afloat and unmoored. In desperation, he squeezed the thumb and forefinger of one hand into the tender flesh of his purlicue until he saw stars.
At once, the quiet thrum of uncertainty-concern at the edge of his mind sharpened with alarm.
"I don't know." Sam replied softly, "I hope so."
Bumblebee brushed over his mind, his touch feather-light and gentle. His mental presence had an entreating edge, imploring Sam without words. With conscious effort, Sam released his painful grip on his hand.
"You hope—! You hope so." His father repeated, turning to look in his direction for the first time since Sam arrived, "Well, I hope so too, Sam. I really do."
"Ron, you promised." His mother snapped.
His father looked at her, raising his shoulders in an affected gesture of indifference.
"There've been a lot of broken promises here, Judy."
"Dad, this wasn't exactly easy for me." Sam said, voice strained, "I'm sure it was hard to hear about it, but I experienced it. I was alone and I was scared—I did the best I could."
His father's expression twisted in a complicated rush of emotion that passed too quickly for Sam to decipher.
"You wouldn't have been alone if Prime hadn't taken you away from us."
The condemnation in his father's voice was thick enough to choke on, and Sam flushed hotly in response.
"It wasn't Optimus' fault, Dad."
"Don't you dare defend him." His father snapped, and the abject rage in his voice caused Sam to jerk back in surprise, "He promised me to do good by you, Sam. He promised me. He took you away to save your life, and it was all for nothing."
"Dad." Sam murmured, aghast, "It wasn't all for nothing."
"Don't say that!" Ron bellowed, pushing himself to his feet. He began to pace the small room, his face flushed crimson with anger, "All of this—all of it—was to protect you, Sam. That was the point of everything. The grief and the separation and the uncertainty. Prime was supposed to keep you safe from the Decepticons—that was the deal." His father stopped in mid-stride, turning to stare at him. His expression was stricken, equal parts grieved and infuriated, "Optimus Prime promised me that he would take care of you. Look at you now—" His father gestured towards him sharply, "You look like a concentration camp survivor."
"Ron." His mother warned sharply, taking one of Sam's hands into her own. His father stared at them for a long moment and then something in his expression broke. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head minutely.
"Prime promised me that you would be okay." His father muttered, wretchedly, "He promised me."
All at once, Sam realized that his father's rage and bitterness were not directed at him. The knowledge made something unclench inside of him, and Sam's trepidation softened with compassion. He let go of his mother's hand, standing up and stepping around the coffee table. Sam approached his father slowly, cautiously.
"Dad, I'm okay." Sam said, and when his father narrowed his eyes at him, he clarified, "Or at least, I will be."
"Don't do that." His father snapped, "Don't act strong. Don't act like everything's okay."
Sam stepped towards his father, lifting one shoulder in a weak shrug.
"I didn't say that everything's okay. I said that I'll be okay, and I will." He replied simply.
His father squeezed his eyes shut at his words.
"Sam—"
"It's true, Dad. I'll be okay."
His father made a raw sound, and his expression twisted in desperation, "Maybe you'll be okay this time, Sam. What about next time? And the time after that? You are caught up in something so much bigger than yourself."
"I know, Dad." Sam murmured, "And maybe I don't know what will happen the next time the Decepticons attack, but I do know that I'm safer here than anywhere else."
His father barked a harsh laugh, "How can you say that? One of Prime's own people killed you."
"Ripcord wasn't an Autobot."
"Autobots, Decepticons—Sam, listen to yourself! They are aliens who have been fighting a bloody civil war since the Pliocene, for Christ's sake." Ron's said, his voice sharpening with earnestness, "You are in way over your head."
Sam sighed softly.
"Yeah, Dad, I know, but that doesn't change anything."
Ron's eyes flitted over Sam's face, desperate and searching.
"Sam, listen to me. These mechanoids… they sound like us and they act like us, but that's all it is. An act." His father's voice had gone low and imploring, "Prime and Bumblebee and your doctor, they can take human form, but they aren't human."
Sam raised his hands to clasp the older man by the shoulders. He returned his father's gaze, resolute and earnest.
"Dad, whether they're human doesn't matter. They're still people—and now they're my people." Sam replied, before giving his father's shoulders a squeeze, "That doesn't change the fact that I'm also your son."
Ron's face twisted with grief, and in the nakedness of his expression, Sam could see his father's fear, his uncertainty, his bitter loss. Without a word of warning, Sam found himself drawn into a hug. His father clutched him against his chest so tightly that Sam could feel the thundering pace of his heartbeat. He raised his hands and hugged him back.
"I'll be okay, Dad." Sam murmured into the cotton of his father's shirt, "I'm where I'm supposed to be."
At his words, Ron's grip tightened around him. They stood there, holding each other in silence, until his father had regained some control over his emotions. Then he stepped back, giving Sam's shoulders a squeeze, and returned to his chair by the reading nook. Sam watched him go, confused by the feeling of loss that lodged itself in his chest, before he returned to his spot on the couch. His mother stared at him in silence, her eyes shining with emotion, before she turned and picked up the remote. A moment later, she flipped through channels until she found a re-run of Cheers. They sat together, all three of them staring at the television without speaking, as the sound of quippy one-liners and canned laughter filled the silence. His mother moved closer to him, taking his hand into her lap once again. He turned to look at her, letting his appreciation and affection show on his face. She smiled back at him in understanding. After Cheers was over, they sat through two episodes of Seinfeld. When that was over, the voice-over announced that an episode of M.A.S.H. was next on the docket. His mother picked up the remote, turning off the television with a flick of a button.
"I am just famished. Let's get an early supper."
His father grunted disapprovingly, "Judy, it's barely five o'clock."
"I'm hungry, Ron." She replied, and Sam recognized the tightening of her tone from a childhood filled with stern lectures, "Go change."
Thirty minutes later, Sam found himself standing in line at the mess hall. The large room was filled with the contented clinking of dishware and the low buzz of conversation. His mother pushed a tray along the galley in front of him, commenting on the quality and quantity of available options ("Sam, don't get the pasta salad. It looks like it's been out awhile.") while Sam winced apologetically at the soldiers standing ready to serve them. His father followed a short distance away, silent and introspective. Although Ron had barely spoken in the two hours since their talk, some of the hardness had left his eyes and shoulders. It was a fact for which Sam was quietly grateful.
After Sam paid for their meals, they found a table near the registers. His mother and father sat side by side, while Sam sat across the table from them both. As his mother made her way through her roast chicken dinner, she regaled him with news about their lives over the last two years. Sam learned that the United Kingdom had been a boring place to live, after the novelty had worn off. Their house had been cold and damp and smelled like wet dog, no matter what his mother had done about it. Arizona had been a better place to live so far. Although it was equally boring, the climate had been more to his mother's liking. It was closer to Nana White too, and the Special Forces detail that had been assigned to them had allowed his parents to visit her occasionally. Nana White was doing well, Sam was told, although her hip had been bothering her since Thanksgiving.
Sam listened to it all in silence, a half smile curling the corner of his mouth. When they finished eating, he gathered up their trays and dirty dishes, and made his way over to the waste receptacles. He scrapped plates, stacked cups, and stowed the trays as he waited for his mother and father to catch up. When his parents finally meandered across the large room, they made their way out of the mess hall together. The North Quad was relatively busy, given the dinner hour, and Sam returned the nods and polite greetings that he received as they walked. By the time that the third uniformed officer had inclined her head respectfully, his mother turned a sunny smile in his direction.
"I think that's so nice, Sammy." She said, loudly enough that Sam was sure the retreating officer must have heard her. Sam winced his eyes shut.
"Ma, lower your voice."
"I'm just saying that it's nice is all." She repeated obliviously, "They're treating you like the President."
"They're treating him like an Ambassador." His father replied dryly, the first words that he had spoken since they had left the apartment. Sam glanced at him in surprise, and his father lifted a shoulder in a shrug, "That's the point of all this, right?"
Sam nodded slowly, trying to control the swell of relief that he felt, "Yeah. It is."
His father grunted in response, and the three of them fell into a companionable silence. By the time that they reached his parents' apartment ten minutes later, Sam felt cautious optimism blooming through him. He kissed his mother on the cheek as his father pressed the visitor's badge against the card reader by the door. The light on the device blinked green as the door unlocked with an electronic-sounding click.
"I will see you both tomorrow, alright?" Sam asked.
His mother nodded, smoothing her hands over his shoulders and down his arms.
"Let's get breakfast together and go for a walk before it gets too hot."
"Yeah, sure Ma. That sounds nice. I'll show you Marianne Point—it's down past the airfield, and it's really nice."
"That sounds lovely, Sammy. Get some sleep, okay?" She asked, giving his hands a squeeze.
"Sure, Ma." He replied dryly.
"And maybe shave. An Ambassador shouldn't have a five o'clock shadow."
Sam rolled his eyes, but his father spoke before he could reply.
"Don't fuss at him, Judy. He can shave when he wants to shave." His father said, taking his wife by the elbow, "Let him get going."
His mother made an exasperated noise, but she stepped forward and gave Sam a hug good-bye all the same. A moment later, his parents disappeared into the apartment, the door shutting quietly behind them. Sam stood in the corridor for a long while, staring at the door in silence, before he turned on his heel and headed towards his own apartment. As he walked, he thought about the confrontation with his father. Sam thought that he understood the nature of his father's concern now. While the injuries that he had sustained had spurred his father's angst, they had not caused it. His father was scared and angry and bitter to be losing his only son, in a way that had nothing to do with their separation. Sam was slipping deeper into a world that his father knew nothing about—one with which Sam had become intimately familiar in his absence.
As Sam pressed his identification badge against the card reader beside his door, he sighed softly. It wasn't his father's fault that he couldn't begin to comprehend Sam's altered circumstances. Sam barely understood it himself. He stepped into his apartment, letting the door swing shut behind him. He toed off his sneakers, dropping his cell phone and badge onto the stand beside the entryway. As he made his way towards the bathroom, he wondered, not for the first time, what Bumblebee saw in him. The scout was superior to him in every conceivable way—he was more intelligent, faster, stronger, longer lived. He could calculate trajectories and battle maneuvers in a fraction of a second. He was more durable, less prone to injury, easier to repair. He was also more experienced, having spent countless years traveling through space. He must have seen things that Sam couldn't even begin to imagine.
Sam huffed softly as he flushed the toilet, making his way over to the sink. As he washed his hands, he felt a pang of remorse that was born from insecurity. Unbidden, Knock Out's words from several days ago came back to him. Had Bumblebee gotten himself shacked up with a human? Would he have made that choice of his own volition, given the opportunity?
As Sam stepped out of the bathroom a moment later, warm arms wrapped around his torso. He yelped loudly in surprise, nearly jumping out of his skin as Bumblebee's holoform pressed against his back.
"Yes, I would have." He murmured, kissing the nape of Sam's neck.
"Jesus, Bumblebee, you almost gave me a heart attack!" Sam snapped, twisting to look at his bonded, "You would have what?"
"Yes, I would have chosen you, given the opportunity." Bumblebee repeated, his teeth scraping the tender flesh at the junction of Sam's neck and shoulder. The sensation sent shivers through his body, and Sam made a soft noise in response.
"I told you once that you are the person that I care about most in my life." Bumblebee continued, pulling the collar of Sam's shirt aside so that he could press a kiss into the skin of his upper back, "Surely you realize by now that was not hyperbole."
Sam swallowed around the emotion that tightened his throat. He remembered that conversation with the clarity born of painful self-flagellation. It had been after Optimus had died and they were hiding in the abandoned factory with Mikaela and Leo. Sam had wanted to turn himself in, and Bumblebee had talked him out of it. It had been before he was resurrected in the Egyptian desert, before he had on-lined in the medical bay, and before the bond had blossomed to life between them.
"You may be smaller and younger and less experienced than I am, but in no way does that make you inferior." Bumblebee murmured against Sam's skin, "You can improvise and adapt in ways that I cannot. You are also braver and more resilient than I am. You experience the world with a clarity of perception that is both remarkable and refreshing." Bumblebee's hands settled on his hips, and with gentle pressure, he turned Sam around to face him, "Above all else, I am in awe of your inherent goodness, your steadfast optimism, which not even Megatron could tarnish." The holoform pressed the palms of his hands against the sides of Sam's face, his gaze serious and entreating.
"I would choose you over all the others in the universe, Sam." He continued sincerely, "Because you are mine and I am yours. We were always meant to be together."
Sam's expression softened with affection, "Yeah. Yeah, we were."
Bumblebee hummed in agreement, leaning forward to press a kiss against Sam's lips as he walked them towards the bed. Sam kissed him briefly, before pulling away to flash a lopsided grin.
EXPLICIT SCENE REMOVED – To read it, look up Author: Arabis on AO3. Story: Tribulations
The only sound in the room was Sam's loud, gasping breaths. Bumblebee laid down beside him, pressing his forehead against the side of Sam's face.
"Thank-you." Bumblebee murmured, and Sam was confused by the raw quality of his voice.
"You're thanking me?" Sam asked, incredulously, once he was capable of speaking. The disbelief in his voice seemed to surprise his bonded, who laughed quietly in response.
"I am." Bee replied, tugging at him meaningfully. Sam obliged him, rolling over to settle his head against the holoform's chest.
"Yeah, well, you can 'thank me' any time you want. Consider this a standing invitation."
Bumblebee huffed another laugh, wrapping his arm around Sam's shoulders. Sam pressed closer to the holoform, nuzzling his nose against the side of his neck. Sam could feel a fierce swell of affection spill over their bond in response, startling in its intensity.
"Mm, right back at you." Sam murmured, drowsiness plucking at the edges of his consciousness. Bumblebee angled his head to glance down at him, before shifting to pull the edge of the blanket over Sam's body. Sam hummed in appreciation, snuggling closer to the holoform. He was warm and comfortable, relaxed in that full-bodied way that only a mind-blowing orgasm could achieve.
/Rest. I'll be here when you wake./ Bumblebee murmured at him, his voice like a promise.
Sam sighed softly, letting his eyes flutter closed. He laid there like that, wrapped in blankets and Bumblebee's tight embrace, as he drifted into a light doze—all thoughts of his father and their argument the furthest things from his mind.