Notes: Chapter Warning: Explicit sexual content – Removed
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Sam met Rung the following afternoon.
The psychiatrist allowed him to choose the location for their session. He had an office onboard the Lost Light, but as the thought of leaving his quarters was daunting enough, Sam had absolutely no desire to bridge to another ship. Rung had suggested the hydroponics lab instead, and unable to see an alternative, he had agreed. As a result, Sam found himself pacing up and down the neat rows of planters as he waited for the psychiatrist to arrive. The air was humid and warm due to the misting system that kept the plants in peak condition. Each planter included a label that was written in Cybertronian—plant type or growing instructions, he assumed. He couldn't read the glyphs to know for certain. He made his way down the aisle, his eyes skipping over the various seedlings as he walked. The air smelled like wet soil and green things, as it so often did after a heavy rain back home. It was a pleasant, albeit melancholy scent.
His introspection was interrupted by the sound of doors sliding open. He half-turned, glancing towards the entryway as an unfamiliar mechanoid stepped into the hangar. The stranger was short and thin with a narrow waist. Although he was plated in orange and white panels, he lacked the bulky armor of the other Autobots. He glanced briefly around the room, before his vivid blue optics settled on Sam.
"Hello Sam." He chirruped in greeting, "It's nice to finally meet you."
Sam resisted the urge to cross his arms by bracing his hands against the stainless steel table in front of him. The metal was cool to the touch.
"It's nice to meet you too." He lied.
Rung smiled at him as he walked closer. His optics were large and round, giving him a slightly bookish appearance.
"This is a lovely space. Do you come here often?" He asked, glancing around the room as he approached.
Sam shrugged, a barely there twitch of his shoulders.
"Sometimes, I guess." He replied.
Rung's smile softened as he stopped on the opposite side of the table. Standing this close to one another, Sam realized that the psychiatrist wasn't much taller than he was—eight or ten feet, perhaps a little taller.
"Please allow me to properly introduce myself." He said, "My name is Rung and I am the psy-ops specialist onboard the Lost Light."
Sam's brow furrowed in confusion. "A psy-ops specialist? I thought you were a psychiatrist."
Rung's smile turned wry as he pressed his servos against the table. "I am—the latter predates the former. I have been licensed to practice psychiatry since before the Golden Age."
Sam tipped his head to the side, suddenly curious despite himself.
"I guess I didn't realize psychiatry was a thing for mechanoids." He said, before realizing the absurdity of his statement, "I mean, not in any kind of formal capacity."
If Rung was offended by his inane comment, it never showed. Instead, the psychiatrist cocked his head, mirroring Sam's posture.
"We may not have a hippocampus, but we still process our experiences, as humans do." Rung replied, "And sometimes those experiences don't write properly when transferred from RAM to quartz storage. When that happens, talk therapy can help—as I know you are aware."
Sam ducked his head, suddenly self-conscious. Unable to look the psychiatrist in the eye, he reached out and ran a thumb over the dark green, serrated leaves in front of him. The placard affixed to the planter had four distinct glyphs, and he didn't recognize any of them.
"So, what's the process here?" He asked, without looking up, "Do we need to go find a chaise lounge or something?"
He could feel the soft wash of Rung's amusement across the neural-network. It caused him to turn his attention inwards, regarding the spark signature in front of him. It was a soft peachy-orange color, diffuse and wispy in nature. Even through his firewalls, Sam could glean impressions of calm and competency that reminded him of Optimus or Ratchet.
"The process of talk therapy is much the same between our two peoples." Rung chuckled, "It involves a lot of time and patience and trust. Our understanding of medical privacy differs from yours, of course, but I have written a patient confidentiality sub-routine into my programming."
Sam was hardly listening. Rung's signature glowed at him on the neural-network—warm and inviting. Unable to resist, he reached out, brushing mental fingers across the orange glow. He could feel Rung's answering start of surprise, but the psychiatrist did not protest or pull away. Sam leaned forward, in both body and mind as he smoothed across the glowing node. The sensation was pleasant and somehow… familiar. It took Sam a long moment to realize why, and when he did, his head came up in surprise.
"How old are you?" He blurted.
Rung blinked owlishly at him, seemingly taken by surprise by the non-sequitur.
"How …old?" He asked, confusion coloring his voice.
Sam flushed hotly, his mind catching up with his mouth as he realized the impertinence of the question.
"I'm sorry." He stammered as heat blazed across his face, "I didn't mean… I mean, you don't look—" He swallowed the words down, before taking a deep breath and trying again, "I just meant that your signature looks… old."
The confusion on Rung's face was gone, replaced by a mixture of amusement and curiosity. He tipped his head to the side, as though considering Sam closely.
"I suppose I am old, in relative terms at least." He chuckled. "I was on-lined approximately seventeen million years ago."
Sam stared at the psychiatrist, unsure whether he had heard him correctly.
"You're… seventeen million years old?" He asked, incredulously.
Rung's optics warmed to a bright turquoise as he inclined his helm.
"I am indeed. I was on-lined near the Pious Pools shortly after the end of the first Golden Age." He replied.
Sam's head spun with a mixture of shock and disbelief, but all he could manage was a faint, "…and I thought Ratchet was old."
Rung surprised him by throwing back his head and laughing. He had a warm, affable laugh that had the corners of Sam's lips twitching despite himself.
"Ratchet would probably prefer the term experienced." He replied at last, "Or seasoned, perhaps."
"I'm sure he would." Sam said dryly, "But that doesn't make it true."
Rung chuckled at him, friendly and indulgent, but all at once, Sam remembered the purpose of their meeting. The smile slid off his face as his shoulders drew up in sudden tension. The psychiatrist seemed to sense his shift in mood, for his expression changed, becoming professional and nonjudgmental.
"Why don't you tell me about yourself?" He asked, gently.
Sam crossed his arms tightly over his chest, betraying his discomfort. "There's not much to tell that you don't already know."
The psychiatrist would have received the same data packet as all newcomers. It contained a detailed list of files on Earth, its inhabitants, and all that had happened over the last ten years—including Sam's role in it. That said nothing of his medical files, which included an abridged and redacted version of Karen's therapy notes.
"Indulge me." Rung persisted.
Sam shrugged his shoulders as he turned and began pacing down the aisle. "I don't know what you want to hear. I was born in a little town in California. Only child. I got caught up in an alien civil war when I was sixteen—the rest is history."
Rung walked along the opposite side of the table, keeping pace with him.
"It will be one day, surely." He agreed, "Not now. Now it's your life."
Sam glanced sidelong at him. Although the psychiatrist was smaller than the other Autobots, he still towered over the budding plants that separated them.
"Yeah, I guess." He evaded.
Rung regarded him for a long moment, before abruptly switching tactics.
"What do you hope to get out of this?" He asked.
Sam pulled a face as he reached the end of the aisle. "What, therapy?" At Rung's agreeable nod, he barked a harsh laugh. "I don't know. Am I supposed to say closure?"
Rung followed behind him as he rounded the table and started down the next aisle of potters. His expression was neutral but kind.
"My clients often have different outcomes they hope to achieve." He replied, "Some may want closure for a traumatic experience in their past. Others may want to learn how to cope with new stressors in their lives. There is no one size fits all solution for therapy, Sam."
Sam frowned faintly as he listened. He could appreciate the truth of that, well enough. Karen was always careful to distinguish between pre-existing trauma and ongoing stress, even if it was often difficult to untangle the two. He reached out, trailing his fingertips through the water that had beaded on the tabletop.
"New stressors." He repeated, slowly, "Like being uprooted from everything I've ever known and thrown into a minefield of alien politics? That sort of stressor?"
"Yes." Rung replied.
Sam sighed heavily, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back against the table. Rung stopped a few meters away, leaving a polite distance between them.
"I'm in way over my head." Sam admitted eventually.
"It has been a big upheaval for you." Rung acknowledged, clasping his servos behind him. "Don't try to tackle it all at once. How about this? Tell me the first thing that comes to mind when I ask this question." He waited until Sam inclined his head, before he continued, "Why haven't you left your quarters since the argument in the mess hall?"
It should have come as no surprise that Rung knew about his confrontation with Bulkhead, but it threw him off-balance all the same. It made him feel peeled open and laid bare. He shifted his weight uncomfortably, and tried to deflect. "I don't know if you've noticed, but we're not in my quarters."
Rung pinned him with a knowing look. "Please answer the question, Sam."
Sam could feel the color rising in his cheeks again, and he turned his face away.
"How much time have you got?" He muttered.
"All the time in the world."
Sam bit the inside of his cheek as he admitted, quietly, "I'm embarrassed."
"Alright, that's a start." Rung said encouragingly, "Why?"
Sam pinned the psychiatrist with a disbelieving look.
"I told Bulkhead to go to hell." He drawled, "I might not be a theologian, but I'm pretty sure that's a faux-pas."
"Have you been avoiding him?" Rung asked, cutting to the quick of the matter.
Sam made an exasperated noise as he pushed away from the table and continued his pacing. "Yeah, I guess. Him and everyone else."
The psychiatrist followed behind him. "Are you afraid they will think less of you?" Sam shrugged his shoulders, but he didn't reply. Rung let him get half-a-dozen paces before he asked, gently, "Sam?"
Sam couldn't look at the psychiatrist, and so he stared straight ahead as he walked. The plants in this aisle was taller and leafier, and it gave the impression of privacy. It was a fact for which he was thankful, even though they were alone in the hangar. "Yeah. I am."
"Why?"
The question was delivered with an air of professional compassion, but it still made Sam flinch. He continued another dozen paces, trying to sort the maelstrom of his thoughts into some kind of coherent dialogue. When he reached the end of the aisle, he came to an abrupt stop and sighed heavily.
"I'm supposed to be better than that." He admitted quietly, "They say I'm a Prime—and that's a whole conversation onto itself—but at the very least, I'm an Ambassador between our two peoples. When Bulkhead said…" His voice trailed off as his throat thickened, and he had to swallow before he could continue, "I should have shown him that people aren't what he thinks. Instead, I threw a temper tantrum, cursed him out, and stormed off."
Sam directed a weak smile over his shoulder. "I'm not making the best first impression."
Rung stopped several paces away, his vivid blue optics roving over Sam's face. His voice, when he spoke, was kind. "You were born in a little town in California. An only child. At sixteen years old, you were caught up in an alien civil war that changed you in every conceivable way. You were separated from your family, and you spent part of your formative years as a prisoner of war. Despite that, you have accepted the burdens placed upon you to the best of your abilities." The psychiatrist's voice turned wry as he added, "I would say that a 'temper tantrum' wasn't an unreasonable reaction, all things considered."
Sam turned his face away, blinking against the sudden sting of tears. He could hear Rung take a step closer, and then he startled in surprise as the psychiatrist placed a servo against his upper back.
"You're entitled to your emotions, Sam." He murmured.
The words were so like something Karen might have said that he couldn't help but laugh. It was a thin, watery sound, but it was genuine all the same. Rung smiled as he gave Sam's shoulder an encouraging squeeze, and then he gestured to the next row of planters.
"Shall we?" He asked.
Sam took a shuddery breath, before nodding his head.
"Lead the way."
Slowly but surely, Sam's days began to develop into a predictable pattern. He woke up at the beginning of first-shift and took an hour or so to take care of his bodily needs, before spending the rest of the morning with his nose stuck in a data-pad. He read everything about Cybertron that he could get his hands on—which, considering Teletraan-1's extensive repository, meant that he had millions of files to pour over. It was an intimidating task, and Sam spent most of his time in those early days just trying to figure out where to begin. He would have asked Optimus for help once, but he was avoiding the older Prime like the second coming of the plague.
He made his way to the mess hall around mid-shift, when he knew the common area would be mostly devoid of traffic. He ate quickly, usually standing over the sink, before wiping down the counter and making a hasty exit. His sessions with Rung followed his mid-day meal. The psychiatrist had originally wanted to meet every day, but at Sam's protestations, he agreed to three times a week. They met in safe, neutral locations—the hydroponics lab, or the library, or occasionally, the balcony at the top of the atrium. Their sessions weren't anything like Sam had been expecting. They talked about everything and nothing in particular. Sam's family, his schooling, his childhood, Bumblebee, the latest television show he was bingeing—anything but the two-ton elephant in the room. It wasn't therapy so much as it was socialization, and that suited Sam just fine.
In the afternoons, he spent his prescribed forty-five minutes in the gymnasium, before surrendering himself to Jazz's tender mercies. The saboteur took him all the way back to basics, a fact that strung Sam's pride. They worked on firewalling and filtering, navigating the neural-network, and hide-n-seek. Jazz seemed especially keen on the latter, much to Sam's dismay, and they spent hours tracking one another across the inky darkness of the neural-net.
After their sessions, which left Sam with a headache and a foul temper more often than not, he spent the rest of his evening in the hab-suite. Bumblebee worked alternating shifts between the bridge and the shield generators, but they usually had a few hours together before Sam went to bed. They spent their time curled up on the couch, mindlessly watching television. Cliffjumper and Hound occasionally joined them, whenever their duties would allow. Sam enjoyed those nights the most—Cliffjumper sprawled against the wall, arms folded loosely over his chest, while Hound sat cross-legged on the floor, staring avidly at the view-screen. Their conversation was always kept to a minimum, since talking was absolutely not permitted while Hound was watching television, but it was companionable.
Sam's avoidance of the rest of the crew lasted for almost two weeks before his luck ran out. He spent the morning in a conference room on the second deck, reading a lengthy file on Iaconian geography. The room was of middling size, by Autobot standards, with a circular table that dominated the center of the floor. He had discovered the room during his early exploration of the ship. It was virtually identical to the other conference rooms on the second deck with one notable exception: it had a massive view-screen along the back wall, roughly the dimensions of a movie theater screen, which provided a 180° view of space. Sam spent long hours there, lying against the curved bulkhead that framed the view-screen—sometimes reading, sometimes staring out into the darkness. On that particular morning, Sam was sitting with the data-pad resting against his knees as he read. He had barely begun the file on notable architecture when the door slid open, causing him to glance up in surprise—only to stiffen at the sight of Optimus standing in the doorway.
"Good morning, Sam."
Sam's mouth went dry at the sound of his familiar, rolling baritone.
"Hey Optimus." He managed.
The former Autobot leader took a step into the room. As soon as he passed the threshold, the door slid shut behind him, enveloping them in near darkness.
"May I join you?" He rumbled.
Sam huffed an uncomfortable laugh as he sat up a little straighter.
"If you want. I mean, it's your ship. You don't have to ask permission." He replied.
"The Ark is not my ship." Prime gently corrected him.
"You know what I mean." Sam said.
Optimus inclined his helm fractionally in response as he made his way around the conference table. The former Autobot leader's step was light, barely ringing against the metal floor. When he neared, Prime hesitated for a scant moment before he lowered into a loose crouch in front of him. Sam blinked up at him in surprise, but Optimus spoke before he could protest.
"You have been missed." He rumbled.
Sam's words died in his mouth as a warm flush spread across his face, betraying his embarrassment.
"I'm sorry." He managed to reply.
Optimus' expression was difficult to read, but his optics were impossibly bright.
"Your apology is unnecessary, Sam." He intoned gently. "I can… empathize with your need for space."
Something twisted inside his chest at the depth of emotion in the older Prime's words. He raised his head, forcing himself to look Optimus in the eye as he murmured, "Yeah, I guess you could."
The expression on Prime's face softened somehow. "I wish I could give you the time you need. It grieves me that I cannot."
Sam's flush darkened with discomfort, and he was unable to prevent his gaze from sliding to the floor.
"Yeah, I know." He managed, voice tight, "I get it."
Optimus ex-vented a soft sigh, a sound born of regret.
"Your altercation with Bulkhead was not… entirely unexpected." He rumbled, visibly weighing his every word. "I am partially to blame. I should have prepared you for the tensions you would face—both with Bulkhead's ilk and the caste system."
The mention of the caste system caught Sam's full attention. He raised his head, pinning the former Autobot leader with a look born of suspicion and surprise.
"Why didn't you?" He asked.
Prime rumbled low in his chassis, a deep vibration that Sam could feel in the air.
"I had hoped to give you time to grieve." He replied, "You have suffered a terrible loss—I did not want to burden you, before you were ready."
Sam flinched away from the compassion he could hear in the older mechanoid's voice. He could tell by the way Prime's optics spiraled down to points that his instinctive reaction had not gone unnoticed.
"Yeah, well, unless you feel like taking the scenic route to Cybertron, we're working on a deadline." Sam tried to joke.
To his surprise, the corners of Optimus' mouth twitched in wry humor.
"Unfortunately not, which is a shame." He rumbled in reply, "I understand the Perseus sector is lovely this time of year."
Sam barked a surprised laugh at the unexpected joke, and Prime's expression warmed with pleasure.
"I'd love to see it sometime." He grinned. "That would be a road trip of epic proportions."
The older Prime's expression shuttered somehow, growing hesitant, almost… uncertain.
"There is a great deal I wish to show you, Sam." He murmured, "All the wonders of the universe—planets where the sky glows orange instead of blue, and crystals grow rather than plants, and aurora borealis that can be seen, even from high orbit." As he spoke, Optimus reached out one broad servo, slowly, as though telegraphing his intentions. When Sam didn't protest or pull away, Prime curled his servo against his back, "There is so much for you to experience. This just the beginning."
Sam was taken aback by the depth of emotion in the older Prime's words. He angled his head to look up into his face, which was less than a meter away from his own.
"I'd really like that." He murmured.
Optimus did not reply right away. Instead, he stroked one broad digit across the line of Sam's shoulders. It was a gentle, tender gesture. They sat in silence as Optimus seemed to gather his thoughts, and then the older Prime withdrew, sitting back on his heels.
"Our most recent models suggest that we will arrive on Cybertron in approximately eleven months. There is a great deal you must learn before we make landfall." Prime rumbled, and judging by his inflection, it was Prime that was speaking.
Sam nodded as he gestured vaguely to the data-pad that lay on the floor beside him. "Yeah, I figured. I've been reading about the caste system and the city-states."
"Yes, I am aware." Optimus rumbled, inclining his helm, "But that is not all. Sentinel has reinstated the Senate, fledgling though it might be, and with it comes a host of social etiquette you must learn."
Sam stared at the older Prime, aghast. "…Etiquette?"
"Yes." Prime replied, "As you are aware, Sentinel is a functionist. Everyone has a role to play in his sphere of influence, yourself included."
"But etiquette?" Sam managed, tripping over the word, "I don't know the first thing about etiquette. I have the social grace of a water buffalo!"
Optimus' mouthplates twitched precariously, but his reply was firm when it came. "Which is why you must learn. I have arranged for tutors to help you prepare."
Sam groaned as he let his head fall back to thunk against the view-screen. "You have got to be kidding me. Who?"
"Mirage, Ultra Magnus, Rung, Ravage, and Jazz have all agreed to assist you." Prime rumbled in reply, causing Sam's head to come up in surprise.
"Jazz?" He repeated, skeptically. The others made sense—Mirage had been a noble, in the time before the war, and Ultra Magnus was a respected scholar on jurisprudence, but Jazz was a surprise. Courtly etiquette wasn't exactly a phrase he associated with the saboteur.
Prime's optics brightened with undisguised amusement. "Jazz has a… varied skill set that is well suited to the task."
Sam groaned for a second time as he climbed to his feet, before bending down to pick the data-pad off the floor.
"It sounds like a blast." He grumbled, brushing off the seat of his pants.
"I would meet with you too, if you are agreeable." Optimus added, "There is much to discuss about your role as Prime, particularly as it relates to Sentinel and myself."
Sam frowned, tucking the data-pad under an armpit as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Ratchet said it's been years since there was more than one Prime. Is that true?"
"Yes, it's true." Optimus replied, straightening to his full height and stepping aside to let Sam pass, "There have been two living Primes on occasion, but never before have there been three—not since the time of the Seven."
Sam grimaced as they started towards the door. "Wonderful."
Optimus angled his helm to look down at him, a soft expression on his face.
"I have every confidence in you, Sam." He rumbled.
Sam angled his head to meet the older Prime's gaze. "Well, I'm glad that someone thinks so."
A fissure of emotion flitted across Optimus' face too quickly for Sam to decipher, but there was no mistaking his fond tone when he finally replied.
"I think you may be surprised."
That night, Sam flopped onto the couch as soon as he walked into the apartment. He was pleasantly sore from a hard work-out, and the hot shower that followed had really hit the spot. He burrowed his face into the cushions, toeing off his shoes as he reached for the throw blanket.
"JARVIS?" He called, without raising his head.
There was an affirmatory-sounding chime as Teletaan-1 promptly replied. "Yes, Sam?"
"Can you put something on the television?" He mumbled, pulling the blanket up around his ears.
"Certainly, Sam. Do you have a preference?"
"Uh." He managed, turning his face to squint at the view-screen. "I dunno. Something light. A sit-com, I guess?"
There was a brief pause, and then the entertainment console flickered to life as The Good Place began playing on the screen. Sam groaned in approval as he rolled over onto his back and pulled the blanket over his head. He let his eyes flutter shut, drifting to the sound of the television. He didn't know for how long he lay there, half-asleep and comfortable, when he felt the couch dip beside him.
"Hello you." Bumblebee murmured, lifting Sam's feet and settling them in his lap. Sam grunted something unintelligible in reply, causing the holoform to laugh softly. "I missed you too."
Sam twitched the blanket away from his face so he could peer blearily at his bonded. "What time is it?"
"It's just past joor-ten." Bumblebee replied, stroking his fingers across the narrow expanse of flesh above Sam's ankle, "I'm not on duty again until half-past second shift."
"Really? That's nice." Sam murmured, voice rough from disuse. He enjoyed falling asleep with the holoform, but his duties rarely allowed them to sleep together for any length of time.
Bumblebee hummed at him approvingly as he settled back against the couch. "What are we watching?"
Sam glanced towards the view-screen, "Whatever you want. I'm not really paying attention to this."
The entertainment console navigated through the menu of its own accord, and then an HBO show began playing on the screen. Sam recognized it, although he had no idea what it was called. They had started the series before leaving for New York City, but they hadn't watched it since.
Sam rolled onto his side, pillowing his hands under his cheek so he could watch. Bumblebee continued rubbing absentminded circles into whatever skin he could reach. They were ten minutes into the show when the holoform glanced sidelong at him and asked, "When did you eat last?"
Sam made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. "I grabbed some cereal after I finished at the gym."
Bumblebee huffed in exasperation as he pushed Sam's feet off his lap. Sam whined in complaint, shifting his hips so he could poke at the holoform with his toes, but Bumblebee smoothly avoided him as he stepped around the coffee table.
"What would you like?" He asked, tossing the question over his shoulder as he approached the cabinets near the bed.
Sam pushed up onto an elbow to watch him. "I don't know. Something salty, I guess. Some water too please."
He had squirreled away an assortment of dry goods for snacking, including beef jerky, trail mix, crackers, and chocolate. Bumblebee pulled open the cupboard and took a moment to consider the options, before he bent over to grab something from the bottom shelf. Sam was blindsided by the spike of arousal that hit him, low in the groin, at the sight of the holoform's tight ass. Bumblebee froze as soon as the thought crossed his mind, before twisting to look at him.
"Yeah?" He asked, surprise in his voice.
Sam's heart was suddenly fluttering in his throat as he nodded, jerkily, "Oh yeah. Big time."
The surprise smoothed out of the holoform's expression, replaced by something closer to anticipation. He made a show of shutting the cupboard doors, before slowly stalking back across the room. Sam pushed up into a sitting position, the blanket falling to the floor, forgotten, as he licked his lips.
"Would you like something, Sam?" Bumblebee asked as his bipedal mode crouched down beside the couch, "You'll need to ask nicely."
Sam grinned as he reached out his arms. "C'mere."
Bumblebee smirked as he climbed onto the couch, straddling Sam on his knees. Sam arched his back, straining to capture the holoform's mouth in a kiss. Bee chuckled at his neediness, grasping the sides of Sam's face in his hands before he obliged him. The kiss started off slow and deep, as they shared low drawn-out groans between them, but it wasn't long before Sam was panting, grabbing at the holoform's waist, his elbows, his shoulders, desperate for more.
The holoform reached down, grasping the hem of Sam's shirt and pulling it off over his head. Sam groaned his approval as he tried to lean forward, desperate to taste the simulated skin of the holoform's throat, but Bumblebee pushed him back against the couch.
"You are not in charge tonight."
Explicit Scene Removed
It took a few moments for the world to come back to him. When it did, he found himself lying on the floor, wrapped in the holoform's protective embrace as Bumblebee leaned over them. His bonded was staring down at him with an intensity that took his breath away, and Sam surprised himself by laughing. Bumblebee chirruped in surprise, but Sam laughed and laughed until his sides hurt. When his laughter finally tapered off and he could breathe again, Sam slanted a crooked grin up at the yellow mechanoid.
"I think I really needed that." He wheezed.
Bumblebee's expression became knowing as he smoothed a servo down Sam's flank.
"I'm glad."
Sam chuckled as he struggled into a sitting position. Bumblebee helped him up, and then the holoform guided him towards the bed. Sam stood passively as he was wiped down and dressed in his nightclothes, and then he clambered onto the bed and collapsed. Bumblebee climbed up after him, arranging Sam's unresisting body until they were curled together beneath the blankets.
"You should get some sleep." Bumblebee murmured, pressing a chaste kiss to Sam's sweaty curls, "I understand you have a big day tomorrow."
Sam grumbled in protest, but he let his eyes flutter shut all the same. He lay there, listening to the sound of his breathing and the rumble of Bumblebee's engines, until he eventually drifted off.
He didn't stir again until morning.
Notes: Author's Note OP's discussion about showing Sam the wonders of the universe was (lovingly) borrowed from Steelfeather's Instability.