Bumblebee. A tiny yellow insect. A talented alien scout sent to earth to hunt down the key to saving his (its?) entire race.
After having recovered from the shock of watching his dumpy old car split apart and reform into a towering robot, after coming down off the adrenaline high of witnessing said car-turned-robot slug it out with a black demon masquerading as a police car, he had actually found the alien known as Bumblebee to be quite friendly. Almost harmless, in a way. He played snippets of songs over his radio, did an endearing little dance and clapped expressively. It had almost been like interacting with a child-- a happy, bouncy, curious little child.
Boy, had his first impression ever been wrong.
The autobots-- and, by extension, cybertronians in general-- were adept mimics. Chameleons. With four years of experience skimming the periphery of human society under his belt, Bumblebee had proven more than able to adopt the ideal persona to set a skittish pair of humans at ease. Not that he had immediately turned around and skewered them alive to dissect their brains or anything, but by bits and pieces Sam had come to realize that the Bumblebee he interacted with day to day was but an act, a character he slipped into the way he would slip on his battle mask. Play pop songs at full volume. Blow raspberry sound bytes. Bounce on his tires and twiddle the steering wheel playfully. Squirt water to imitate tears. All (or almost all) were actions carefully executed to elicit a desired response.
At first Sam had laughed and played along, thinking he had found the coolest co-conspirator ever in the form of an alien robot. After all, what teenage boy didn't dream of befriending an alien and using the super-awesome powers of said alien to prank his friends and take revenge on his enemies? There was also the awe inspiring (maniacal giggle inspiring) factor of even knowing an alien to begin with.
But then reality had come crashing down around their ears, and the goofy (harmless) yellow car changed from best friend to ruthless warrior as easily as flipping a light switch. The battle mask came down; innocent, open features vanished beneath hard, cruel lines, and the playful Bee changed into a deadly hornet. The same hand that patted his back and mussed up his hair burst apart, clicked, whirled, became a cannon that, with a searing blast of turquoise light, blew molten holes in the sides of buildings and other robots.
Not that he wasn't worshipfully grateful for the alien's fire power. Quite the opposite, in fact. Plunging back into battle with the bottom half of his legs missing (metal struts poking out like exposed bone) the way he had probably saved many lives, including those of Sam and Mikaela. But it was as if the buddy you hung out with at school had suddenly taken a hatchet to a group of muggers harassing you in the parking lot-- terrifying, and very disturbing. The sheer intensity with which the Bouncing Baby Bumblebee had gazed at him after the battle, body horrendously scarred and wounded, blue optics gleaming with an almost feverish passion, and quietly, solemnly, requested to continue his mission of guardianship had frightened Sam. Where was the happy yellow Camaro he had tentatively begun to call friend?
After a while the unnerving Warrior had submerged again and the quirky, familiar Bee had taken its place. But he never forgot. And suddenly every song, every gesture, every word held a sour note of wrongness. The cardboard cut-out, inflatable doll no longer seemed real; he itched to peel back the thin top layer of skin on the Bee onion, but didn't quite dare. He dreaded what he would find beneath, or how many false personalities he would have to sift through to get there.
Anyone thousands of years old, not to mention someone killing in a brutal war for thousands of years, was bound to have a whole collection of skeletons in the closet.
As he slowly turned to take in Bee's motionless form, it was hard to reconcile the scratched, docile, inanimate car before him with the merciless, uncannily graceful defender that had only days before smashed in the face of one demented robot and literally ripped the spine from a second. What do you say to your savior? How do you prove yourself to someone who would come running at your panicked call and kill for your without a second thought?
"So...what's up?" Not the most brilliant thing that had ever come out of his mouth.
But Bee didn't seem to mind the laid back greeting. With a barely audible rumble he started his engine and rolled forward until his front bumper was barely six inches from Sam's shins.
"At the moment? The ceiling."
The sound of Bee's actual voice rather than a canned snippet of dialogue raised his spirits. A little. Contact with the Allspark over a year before had healed whatever damage had prevented him from speaking in anything but rasping wheezes. Like all the Autobots, his voice was smooth, measured, masculine. One of the first questions he had sprung on his guardian after the flurry of activity in the wake of Mission city had begun to calm was why, if the Autobots were genderless, did all their voices posses a male inflection? The answer he received was simple, if troubling in its starkness of perception-- to humans, male voices carried more power, authority and, ultimately, more credibility. The sad thing was, he had to concede that they were right. If Optimus had started speaking with a woman's voice when they first met, he might not have been as inclined to follow his instructions as if they were the word of God.
"Hardy har-har. Like I haven't heard that one before," He glanced nervously to the other vehicles sitting silently nearby. He kept his voice low, hoping not to wake them if they were trying to sleep. Recharge. Whatever.
"There is no need for reticence. Your presence does not disturb us."
Sam jumped slightly at the interjection from the Hummer search and rescue vehicle sandwiched between a black Topkick and a Peterbilt truck. Its dark interior disturbed him a little. Like talking to a ghost. (And ghosts have a habit of coming back, don't they? Megatron was dead dead dead and then he was alive again...)
Then he blushed faintly, feeling stupid. Of course, his mere footsteps were loud enough to alert their audio sensors of his entrance. He also fervently wished he knew what 'reticence' meant.
"Uh...right." Once again, he astounded himself with his own brilliance. Way to go, Sam. "I guess I just wanted to see if you guys were, you know, okay. Not that you wouldn't be, no reason for you not to be, you're as tough as nails after all-- tougher, actually-- and that's great because there were an awful lot of decepticons and ancient voodoo robots blowing shit up-- not that I didn't think you could beat them, you guys are awesome, awesomely strong and fast, no reason why you shouldn't beat them--"
"Sam, what is the matter?" Bee interrupted him softly, inching forward until Sam could feel the warm, vibrating metal pressing up against his legs.
What's the matter? Everything. Nothing. No one died, they're all still together in one piece, but it was so close to being a planet-ending disaster that he can still taste the bitter bile of fear, a yawning chasm of hopelessness and despair opening up to swallow him whole. There was so much blood, so much pain, so much fear and desperation and keeprunningkeeprunning that it soaked in like a sponge and won't go away--
He swallowed. Hard. "Nothing. Nothing's the matter. I'm cool."
"I still do not understand the purpose of such a nonsensical phrase," Ironhide huffed out, grinding his tires back and forth, "Your body temperature has remained a constant 98.623 degrees fahrenheight, indicating that no 'cooling' has taken place."
Sam gave a weak little chuckle. "I can't believe no one's explained it to you yet, what with all the time you spend hanging out with us humans and all. Especially the military types. From what I've heard, they have their own language, though I'm pretty sure 'cool' is in there somewhere. What I mean is, I'm--" (don't grimace, don't grimace) "--fine."
The feel of Bee's bumper against his shins began to make his skin crawl. He took a minute step back, relieved when the disguised transformer did not follow him.
"So...how are you guys holding up? Aside from, you know, working out the dents from just having a knock-down drag-out fight against the devil incarnate," he forced his voice to remain steady, keeping his eyes fixed on the crescent of steering wheel he could see through Bumblebee's windshield no matter how they itched to slip away and linger on a certain flame-decorated truck. (--dead dead dead, all to save me, not running even from two, three, four decepticons all at once, a defiant 'I'll take you all on!' ringing out like a trumpet, a battle cry as he went to the cross--)
He drew in a deep breath. Held it, fluttering, in his chest. Scanned the walls, the ceiling. "Sorry they stuck you down here. Can't say I like what the interior decorator did with the place. Still, at least you don't have to put up with curious sailors staring at you all the time."
"Our injuries were, for the most part, minor, Sam. Ratchet patched us up, and our internal repair systems are taking care of the rest," Bee soothed, ignoring his attempt at misdirection.
Ratchet made a sound suspiciously like a snort. "Still, it will be better when we finally reach Diego Garcia. I do not have access to all the materials I need to complete all the repairs on board this ship, but I did manage to convince them to set up a rudimentary medical bay back at NEST headquarters. It is not as advanced as I would prefer, but it will certainly serve to get the job done."
Sensing an undercurrent of anxiety to the words, Sam could not help but dart a glance to the imposing figure of Optimus Prime. His stomach folded itself into knots at the horror-filled thought that he had not yet spoken because he could not speak. Not quite daring to ask outright, and hoping beyond hope that the other autobots would not sit there calmly conversing with him if their leader were in immediate danger of dying once more, he deliberately misunderstood the implied urgency.
"Are we, like, in danger of Starscream swooping in and taking pot shots at us when there's no where for us to go but the bottom of the ocean?"
Even as the words bubbled up through his throat he dreaded the response.
"No," Ironhide huffed, "'Screamer may be one scary bastard on the battle field, but in general he's a coward. Neither he nor Megatron left without serious injuries, I made sure of that. They won't risk an attack unless they're sure they can win, and with only two of them even moving about, half of us could probably sit out the fight and we'd still win."
"Oh. Well, good."
"'Have no fear, have no fear,'" Bee chirruped, "'I'll take care of you, kid!'"
The heavy, laden parasite in his chest began to writhe and squirm.
"We will protect you and your family, Sam," Optimus Prime intoned firmly, causing Sam to flinch violently in a sort of whole body jerk. He hadn't realized the powerful autobot was even aware of their conversation. But along with the shock came a profound sense of relief. Muscles he hadn't even realized were clenched slowly relaxed. He didn't know much about robo-anatomy, but he assumed that some basic principles were universal; talking = conscious = not-on-death's-door.
Optimus' tone changed, growing softer, carrying a note of solemn promise that seemed inexplicably regretful. "You need never fear decepticons again."
A crushing flood of guilt washed over a mental dam and drowned him in the frothing tide. His stomach soured; he fought back the urge to throw up. Aware of the flushing red coloring his ears he turned to studying his hands, picking at the mitten-like bandage covering the burn he'd acquired when Jetfire had done that freaky light show that dumped them in Eygpt.
He murmured softly, "It's not Decepticons I'm afraid of."
He never saw Bumblebee move, it happened so fast. One moment there was a car before him and the next-- flashing, whirling parts spinning outward; sliding, clunking, reforming-- he was staring up at a super-advanced alien robot (way too advanced to be Japanese). Having reverted to his natural form, Bee lowered himself until they were face to face, boy to robot, one alien to another.
"Sam," for the first time in months, Bee's voice emerged strained, "there is no need to be afraid of us. We would never, ever, hurt you."
Sam jerked his head up, stunned by the words. Gobsmacked that his whispered comment had been interpreted in such a manner, he responded without thinking.
"Maybe not on purpose--"
This time, Bumblebee jerked away from him. And hearing the short, mournful whine the yellow autobot gave, his mobile antenna flattening to his helmet, he felt truly sickened with himself. A large hand reached out to him (a comforting finger resting on his shoulder, hand wrapped around his side and cupping his back, stargazing together-- which one is Cybertron?) but pulled away again slowly before making contact, fingers curling inward.
"No, wait! That's not...that's not what I meant. I wasn't talking about you guys!"
"And yet you are afraid of us, if only subconsciously," Bee said quietly, voice only a whisper of sound. His radio was dead. Utterly dead.
Sam wanted to deny it. Needed to deny it with the same itching, burning compulsion that had driven him to the cargo hold in the first place. He even opened his mouth to do just that. But for some reason his proclamation of unwavering faith got twisted around on the journey from his mind to his tongue and became, "Look, my conscious and subconscious are so mixed up right now I don't know what I'm afraid of, okay?"
"Hey Sam!"
For the second time that morning he spasmed as though tasered. Turning on his heel he found Mikaela standing in the doorway looking sleep-rumpled, irritated and utterly gorgeous.
"Um. Hey, Mikaela." Mr. Smooth Operator.
"Everyone's been looking for you, Sam. Why didn't you come to breakfast?"
"Because I was here, obviously. As in, standing. In this room. Talking."
She only rolled her eyes and smiled indulgently, sauntering forward to grasp her mentally impaired boyfriend by the sleeve and tug him along after her, back towards the door.
"We'll see you guys later at the debriefing," she tossed to the autobots, "I have to go make sure my absent-minded boyfriend eats something before all that's left is congealing bacon grease. Later."
Sam twisted to look back over his shoulder, heart contracting painfully at the sorrowful hunch to Bumblebee's frame. "Yeah. Like she said. Bye, Bee," he added softly.
The door closed, cutting off the view. He resisted the urge to bang his head into it until it left a dent or two.
The mess hall was crowded, but not so crowded that they couldn't find two seats together. Unfortunately, they ended up at the same table as Simmons and Galloway. Needless to say, no soldiers had been inclined to eat in their company. Sam groaned as Mikaela began to bee-line for the two losers, tray held like a viking battering ram before her. Catching up, he playfully bumped his hip into hers and leaned down to whisper in her ear.
"Come on, 'Kaela. Simmons? Simmons? Let's go find someplace else."
"There IS no place else, Sam," she responded loudly, loud enough for the two adult losers to hear, a touch of agitation coloring her tone. With a resigned sigh he set his tray on the metal table top and seated himself beside his girl friend. (..Sam! Do you hear me!? I said I love you!...)
"Ah, look who deigned to come sit with us mere mortals!" Simmons observed mockingly, "It's resurrection boy and his hotty girl friend!"
Sam graced him with a lukewarm glare before turning his attention to opening his carton of orange juice. He liked orange juice. Every morning he could get it, he used it to wash down a granola bar before darting off to class (two days, he had been in college for TWO DAYS) or to school or to Miles' house. It energized him more than coffee without making him spaz out like he was high. His mom encouraged him to drink it because of all the health magazine articles she had read about the benefits of vitamin C. He humored her and pretended to choke it down for her sake when really he would have drunk it any way, without any vitamins at all. It made her happy and proud of him, so he supposed it was worth it to play along.
But when he peeled open the white lip of cardboard he froze. Orange juice, contrary to its name, was not actually orange. It was yellow. Yellow like Bumblebee's armor. (Bursts of energy exploding like bombs, louder than fireworks, hot enough to melt steel, valiant yellow melting, melting, sloughing away into the sand--)
"Sam, you okay?"
Mikaela's fingers ghosted over the back of his hand. He blinked, realizing he'd been staring down into his carton of juice for a long time. Slowly, he folded it closed again and pushed it away from him, all the way to the other side of the table. He was losing his mind.
He looked up to see Simmons watching him with a guarded expression, but when the man felt his gaze he returned his attention to mutilating an egg on his plate.
"Don't go all loco on us, kid. You, her, and that jar head seem to be the only ones the big guys trust," he advised sternly, pointing him into submission with a fork.
"Which is ludicrous, considering he's a teenager," Galloway ranted mulishly in return.
"Hey! I'm have you know I'm eighteen. I can smoke and buy a house and everything."
The sallow-faced politician, resembling nothing so much as a rumpled vulture swimming in a garish 80's jacket not unlike his own, hacked at his own breakfast without looking at them. "Oh yes. Because both of those things make one so mature."
Simmons looked at him. "You did go see that shrink, right robo-boy?"
Sam pulled a face around a bite of bacon. At any other time it would have been pretty good. But for some reason, he felt like he was chewing wet cotton. Completely tasteless.
Worried that being caught up in a fire-fight with thirty-foot-tall aliens bent on rending you limb from limb and destroying your planet would cause some amount of psychological stress, a faceless bureaucrat had made an hour-long counseling session with an onboard shrink a requirement for every human member of the survival party. If they had thought they could have pressed the autobots into obeying them, they probably would have requested that the alien robots do the same. (snicker) Sam would have almost taken facing Frenzy again to get out of it. Almost.
When his turn had come, he entered the closet-sized office with as much trepidation as a doomed man presenting himself to the firing squad. The hospital-green walls and musty old couches crammed into the space did little to put him at ease. Neither did the plastic smile of the thirty-something woman behind the laminated desk.
She asked him his name. He told her.
She asked him about his childhood. He told her.
She asked him about how he met the autobots. With only slight hesitation, he told her. If she was asking to begin with, she must have already been given the security clearance to hear the tale.
She asked him how he was feeling. He stared at her. Then he laughed. Laughed a hollow, sharp-edged laugh.
Eventually he got sick of her trying to pick apart his mind like he was some lab specimen, asking him to just tell her everything like she was his best friend (Bee. Bee. Bumblebeeeeee!!!) and not some complete stranger who really didn't give a damn and whose whole world existed inside a text book. If she could have known, if she had been there, if she had run with him through that city, faced down the real life monsters with him, watched humans flicked aside like bugs with him, screamed for help when none was coming with him, cried for the life of a sacrificed friend with him, then she wouldn't be asking him any questions. She wouldn't have anything to say. Anything at all.
All told, the only thing his 'therapy' session had accomplished was to give him the firm conviction that there was someone in middle management who owed him an hour of his life back.
"Yeah. I did." Sam shrugged, "Fat lot of good it did me."
Galloway scowled. "You probably weren't even trying. It's not a miracle cure, you know. You have to work at it."
His hand tightened around his fork until he thought it would bend in half. He looked up with a half smile, tendons standing out on his arm, and replied cheerfully, "You are absolutely correct. I didn't try at all! Maybe I'll schedule in some acupuncture next, you know," he shrugged again, scrunching up his face in a jovial expression of thoughtfulness, "Just to say I've done every piece of useless bull shit I possibly can. I'll hire a feng shui guy right after that to round out the list. And if I can find a carnival psychic, I'll throw him in too."
"Sam!" Mikaela hissed at him. Her livid expression surprised him, but it only added fuel to the fire.
"Don't you agree? I mean, I don't know about you guys, but somehow talking about my 'feelings' doesn't make the world go back to being happy smiling rainbows and unicorns."
"That's it," With shocking vehemence, Mikaela slammed her cup down on the table, pushed her chair back and stood up, "If you're going to act like a spoiled brat who wants to go cut his wrists in the bathroom every time something bad happens I don't want to eat breakfast with you anymore."
Feeling like a runaway plane that just flew into a boiling thunderstorm without realizing it, Sam found all his ire draining out of him.
"Mikaela, wait!" He reached for her arm as she snatched up her tray in preparation of stalking off. Some little part of him glowed with happiness that she did not jerk away from his touch. Sighing deeply, he slipped his hand around her wrist and gently rubbed the dip in her palm with his thumb, feeling her rapid heartbeat beneath his touch. "I'm sorry, okay? What's wrong? You've been wound up all morning."
Shaking her head, she reluctantly folded herself back into the chair beside him, rotating her arm so that they clasped hands beneath the table.
"Not ALL morning," she corrected grumpily. The ice in her eyes thawed with warmth as she looked at him, but as she grudgingly turned to face Galloway they hardened over again. "HE can tell you what's wrong with me."
Looking affronted, the older man brought a fist down on the table. "Now look here, I haven't the faintest idea what's caused all this madness--" he indicated with a waved hand the mess hall in general, "--but I assure it has nothing to do with me."
Simmons, looking far too gleeful at the lovers' spat, glanced at Galloway before raising a lewd eyebrow in Mikaela's direction.
"Something you're not telling your boyfriend, girly?"
A glare hot enough to melt decepticon armor washed over him without apparent impact.
"Get your prevented mind out of the gutter," she turned her heat vision on Galloway, "Does the word 'debriefing' ring any bells?"
Now looking confused, affronted, and mildly disturbed all at the same time, he glanced between Sam and Mikaela without comprehension.
"Well, yes! Debriefing is standard procedure after the completion of any military mission. When the situation calls for it, all civilians that are deeply involved are included as well. But what does--"
Rolling her eyes, Mikaela turned away from him to face Sam head on. He gulped, not liking the sympathy-filled look on her face. She normally only used it on little kids, dogs, and decepticon spies she was threatening with a torch.
"You can't go back to college, Sam."
……………
Author's note: Never fear, this isn't the end of the story. This chapter, however, has begun spiraling out of control and this seemed like an acceptable place to end it for the moment. Additionally, it's 1:30 am and I'm bushed. So no more tonight, folks.
Needless to say, this two-shot will become a three-or-more-shot.