For a while, it had been pretty easy for the two of them to forget about the rest of the team. After all, Bumblebee was just getting used to his newfound companionship in the Autobot tactician, settling into that comfort, and finding himself more at home than anything else ever had been in his life. That he didn't have to worry about keeping up appearances, being careful with his words, or worrying about what was going to happen next—that was enough, right there. So long as they were together, he felt safe. That's how he had always felt.

He hadn't realized it before, but then again, he'd spent so much time trying to be the perfect little soldier that it took him awhile to realize how far from perfect he really was.
So maybe it was quite an honest admission when Bumblebee admitted to himself that he was actually kind of scared of the prospect that this would end one day; after all, things could never go on forever. He was too young to die yet, and no matter how hard Bee fought, he couldn't see what he could hope to achieve by staying alive. He had nothing to look forward to except the possibility of another assignment somewhere in the middle of nowhere, on some distant planet where no one who cared about him would miss him if something did happen to him. It was a sobering thought to consider, and it left the tiny robot feeling cold and miserable; however, he tried not to think about it too much.
That was part of living, wasn't it? To try your best and keep moving forward? Bee had done just that until now, despite everything and everyone around him.
And even when he got lonely (and sometimes lonely seemed like all he had), he kept reminding himself to stay happy. To live his life as best he could, without regrets. And if he ever started to feel lonely and afraid, well, he still had Prowl by his side, right? The bot would make sure Bee knew everything was going to be okay.

Bee would tell himself that every time a bad night came. But it never sounded quite true; no matter how much he wanted to believe it, he just knew better than to put his trust in anyone else. So for now, he stuck with pretending that everything was fine; he pretended that he wouldn't cry over spilled energon, and that he wouldn't wake up screaming in the middle of the night, because he knew that if he let himself get too close to someone, he might lose them. He pretended that he didn't know that he was falling apart inside, and that he didn't know that he was going to die someday soon. No matter how many days went by and he felt the same way, however, he tried his hardest not to show it in front of anyone. Because they might just take pity on him, and then everything would just fall apart again. He couldn't risk losing them over something stupid like that, not when he needed them so desperately. He just wished he was stronger enough to stand on his own two feet...
And that was another problem entirely.

When he was alone in his room, the thought haunted him constantly. He wondered when the pain would start—when his body would finally give out on him, and leave him helpless and alone in the darkness. When he would finally stop hurting; when he would finally stop caring. When the world would finally stop spinning. When the nightmares would finally stop coming. When there would finally be nobody there to see him cry. If he would eventually reach that point, would he be able to recognize it? Or would he become just another person lost in the dark, abandoned and forgotten? Or even worse, would he fade away like a candle flame snuffed out by the wind? And that was why he didn't allow himself to get too close.
Because if anything happened—even though he told himself that he had to be realistic, that he had to accept whatever life threw at him and be ready for it. Even when he found someone—or something—who made him feel safer than the walls he kept around him—someone he could rely on to watch his back—he still had to push them away. He couldn't afford to love anybody, because they would all get hurt, and he'd lose them. Just like everyone else. Maybe he should have learned that lesson early, before he became attached to them. Before he trusted anyone; before he began to care too much. But it was too late now, and he couldn't change it anymore. And anyway, what did it matter? What was done was done, and all he could do was move on from here. And he hated himself for being so cowardly—at least a little bit.
But if this kept up, his resolve would break down and everything would come crashing down on him; he was certain of it. And he was tired of being weak, and tired of fighting back against the overwhelming fear that threatened to suffocate him whenever anyone got too close; he was sick of hiding and running away. There had to be something he could do, or maybe nothing at all, and if the latter was the case, then he wouldn't mind ending it right away. Not at all. Then maybe he could finally stop hurting. At least, then he'd feel like he was making things better instead of just causing pain. Maybe it would all be better off without him anyway.
Better for everybody. Better for him. Better for everyone. So it doesn't matter what happens next. None of it matters. None of it. He can just lie down and die. Why fight this battle when it would just hurt everyone he loved—especially the ones who mattered most? He had already failed them once; he didn't need another reason to prove how worthless he was. He was a failure. And so he should just shut his mouth and disappear, since that's what he deserved. That's what he deserved for failing so miserably.

He was crying again. He didn't know what had gotten into him this time. But he wasn't going to pretend any longer that he didn't feel the crushing weight of his failure pressing down on his chest. He couldn't keep doing this to himself. Forcing himself to be strong was becoming exhausting, especially in times like this. Especially when he still wasn't strong enough to face his fears head on, like the good old days when he could go charging through fire without a second thought. He needed to find a solution. Fast. Now.

Or everything would be lost.

Maybe I could find help? He considered the idea for a moment and rejected it almost immediately. Who would want to help him, a failure, with his problems? He couldn't go to Ratchet—he didn't know what the medic would say, and he certainly couldn't ask Optimus Prime. And besides, they probably wouldn't be able to help him anyway. They were too busy; they weren't exactly equipped to handle emotional problems like this. Well, that's not fair. Optimus Prime was perfectly capable of handling things like these, too. He was probably already doing it. But Bumblebee couldn't possibly drag the commander into something as personal and upsetting as his spiralling descent into despair. He would probably only freak out. And the last thing they needed right now was a nervous mech with PTSD to add to their list of worries. He wasn't about to drag anyone else into this mess he had created for himself.

Bumblebee shook his helm at that thought, hoping that it would clear his processor and calm his racing spark once and for all. There had to be something he could do. Right now, though, he just needed a distraction, which meant going out and spending some time with one of the other bots. His mind was so full of anxiety that he didn't notice that he was already walking towards the nearest door. And that was probably for the better.

"Hey."

Bee nearly jumped in surprise when he heard the voice calling to him in the hallway. He turned around quickly, expecting to see Prowl, but instead he saw Ratchet staring down at him with concern written all over his features. "What are you doing?" he asked cautiously.
Bumblebee blinked and looked away, unsure of how to respond. After thinking for a moment and finding his words lacking, he simply said: "Just leaving the base."
Ratchet nodded and crossed his arms; he stood silent for a few moments while the smaller bot fidgeted nervously under his gaze, waiting for what he wanted from him next.

Finally, the medic finally spoke, his expression turning serious once more. "It's getting harder and harder to keep yourself together, isn't it?" Bumblebee opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when Ratchet raised his hand to silence him. "Don't bother arguing, kid. You don't have to tell me," he added with a sigh. "I've seen you almost weekly since the beginning of the war, remember?" Bumblebee didn't reply , knowing that it would be pointless to argue. Instead he just lowered his optics and stared at the floor sadly. Ratchet continued on: "You've been putting on an act, you know that? A very convincing one too..." He sighed again and folded his arms. "I'm pretty sure you' ve convinced everyone else around here, but it won't work for long."

The scout raised an optic ridge at his mentor; he was clearly surprised to hear that there might actually be someone who cared enough about his well-being to look after him—not to mention try to fix his problems. Ratchet chuckled softly, and then continued: "I mean, it's not that hard to notice. Your emotions are so obvious ; the way you're acting right now is practically screaming out to me."
Bumblebee clenched his jaw tightly, but didn't answer. He didn't want to admit it, but he was scared. The fact that Ratchet had already noticed seemed impossible. Yet somehow, the older bot must have.
"Do you really think I'm stupid? Do you honestly think I don't know what kind of condition you're in right now?" he asked in response to Bumblebee's silence.
It took him a few seconds to realize that Ratchet was waiting for an answer. He didn't want to talk about it, but there was no choice; the doctor obviously knew too much already. But what was he supposed to say? How was he suppose to explain? In the end he settled for a quiet, defeated shrug. Of course he knew. But he wasn't prepared to talk about it yet. Not until he absolutely had to. Because if he started talking now, he wouldn't be able to stop. Not until his thoughts were forced out. Not until everything came pouring out of him at once. Until he broke apart completely. And he was terrified of that possibility. Of what would happen if he allowed himself to open up.

To trust.

He was tired. And tired of being afraid. And tired of pretending to be okay when he wasn't.

That was what he was doing, wasn't it? Pretending he was fine, trying to hide his pain from everyone, even from himself. Trying to convince them that he was ok, that he could take care of himself. He couldn't let anyone get close to him if he was truly that pathetic...right? Right? Because if they did, they'd just get hurt, too, and he couldn't let that happen. He didn't want anyone to get involved with this mess. He didn't want to cause trouble. He didn't want anything bad to happen again—ever. But what if it did happen? What if someone else did get hurt because of his selfishness? What if they were taken away, forever? Or worse, killed? He couldn't lose anyone else. And the thought of losing anyone else left him cold inside.
But if he talked, he would just make it worse for the both of them. And he didn't want to do that. Because he didn't want to hurt anyone. That was part of why he was so determined to avoid it. Because if he ever let himself open up, he would surely ruin everything. And then everyone would be hurt and he would never forgive himself for forcing that burden upon the others around him. He could never force them to feel the pain that he did every day since waking from stasis all those vorns ago. He never wanted to put them through that. They had already suffered enough. He would never ask them to bear that burden on top of their own. So he was never going to reveal to anybody that he had feelings, because that would just cause more hurt, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it? And he had caused so much pain already It wouldn't do any harm to just bury it for the rest of his life; he had already done so for this long. What was a little longer if it meant that the others wouldn't suffer in the same way he was? It was time to accept what he had become—a useless wreck. He wasn't worth anybot's compassion. If the other's pity got to him, it was his fault. He shouldn't be bothering them with such matters anymore—not now and definitely not ever. That was for certain. And even if it wasn't…it didn't matter. He couldn't afford to fall apart. He would never allow that to happen. He couldn't. Because if he fell apart—if he faltered and crumbled into nothing—then what did he have? Just a dozen broken pieces of himself. A dozen broken pieces of bot who was worth nothing. Of a bot who was nothing more than broken, damaged parts held together by the fact that he could never bring himself to hurt the ones he loved so deeply, not even if it meant relieving his own suffering. He was far too worthless for that.

Broken.

Damaged.

Worthless. Nothing more than that. That was him. But there was no point hiding behind those excuses, was there? No point hiding behind lies. No point hiding behind his mask, trying to pretend to be something that he was not. There was no point pretending anymore. Because that was all he had ever done before. Fake it 'til he made it, right? He had tried to live the life that he had always wanted. It had worked at first; it had kept him safe and happy. It gave him hope. Now everything felt so hollow. Empty and meaningless. Empty and meaningless and numb.

He felt empty.

So empty.

And painful.

And useless.