Bumblebee spent the next two days sitting in the garage, feeling as if he would die from the sheer boredom. Having been held captive before, Bumblebee was familiar with the reality that most of that time was spent having nothing to do but sit there and worry about what might be coming next.
One break in the monotony was when Larry came and tried to pound out the worst of the dents. He also reattached the mangled side mirror. He said nothing, but his expression suggested he felt guilty and was trying to ease his conscience. He didn't know that Bumblebee had been given the opportunity to get away from him, but had chosen to come back. It was probably for the best that Rick hadn't told him.
The only other change from the norm was Rick, who came out the first day with the clear intention of driving away in the Jag, but then stopped like he suddenly couldn't remember why he'd come out to the garage. Eventually, Rick was sitting on the concrete floor, leaning against Bumblebee's left front fender and playing with his keys, while quietly relating aloud everything that had been the result of that fateful and ill-advised race.
The other driver would live, but his spine had been broken in the crash; he might never walk again. All of the drivers from that night were in trouble with the police for illegal street racing, as were several others, including Tracy, who was apparently mad at Rick for having ducked out. Rick seem to know them all by name, and Bumblebee gradually realized that all of Rick's friends were in trouble, but he wasn't because he hadn't been there when the cops arrived and nobody had offered his name. Rick was experiencing a variation of survivor's guilt. His friends weren't dead, but they had all been caught and -if not for his sister's demand that he get Bumblebee off the track- he would have been too.
"I should have been driving that night," Rick said at one point, "It should have been me, not Fina."
Humans tended to act like feeling guilty was a bad thing, with only negative results. But, as Rick talked to him that day, Bumblebee saw a side of the boy that had heretofore been hidden beneath layers of arrogance and selfishness. Beneath everything, Rick cared about his sister... and his friends, instead of caring only about what they could do for him. Right now, none of them could do anything for him, and being associated with them would land him in trouble, though how much trouble he couldn't know. Yet, whether he knew it or not, it was obvious Rick would rather be with them than here.
Rick sat for a long time, talking more to himself than to Bee, fiddling with the keys for the Jaguar. Then, finally, he said he was going to visit Fina in the hospital. He stood up, got in the Jag, and drove away. He didn't get back until late in the evening. He had been drinking. He made it out of the Jag, weaved uncertainly and then collapsed against Bumblebee.
"Can't go in the house like this," he muttered aloud, and then climbed through Bee's lowered side window and worked his way into the backseat, where he promptly fell asleep.
It was about three or four in the morning when Rick awakened, sobered enough to get into the house without attracting the notice of anyone who might be awake. He was back again before sunrise.
"I'll be back soon," he told Bumblebee, patting the Cybertronian on the hood as he went to the Jag.
While Rick was gone, Larry returned to the garage and worked out most of the lesser dents along Bumblebee's sides, and tried to straighten out his warped front bumper. Despite the number of times he'd been flipped recently, Bumblebee's hood and top were largely intact; his armor plating was strongest at these points and had protected him from serious harm. Larry had gone back to the house by the time Rick got back, and Bee knew it was unlikely either was aware the other was visiting the garage frequently. Unless they were avoiding each other for some reason.
Rick had barely parked the Jag, backwards and crooked in the garage, when he got out carrying something heavy, which he shortly deposited on the ground near Bumblebee. It was a paint can.
{You're serious?} Bumblebee asked, unable to fully keep the scorn out of his voice.
Regular paint that you could find in a hardware store didn't cut it for Cybertronians. Between being shot at and the way their moving parts brushed against each other (particularly during transformation), any regular paint would be scratched clean off in no time. Bumblebee had been somewhat in need of a paint-job for a long time, all of the Autobots were. But they all looked passably well-kept in vehicle mode, so no one would take much notice of the myriad small scratches that adorned their surface. The Autobots didn't have time for paint. Even if they did, hardware store paint wasn't going to work well for them and would be a waste of precious time and resources.
Beyond that, Bumblebee had been dented and mangled by the two races, a ruined paint-job seemed like it was the most trivial somehow. Fina had been accused of obsessing over appearances. Evidently she was not the only one, if Rick was concerned with paint at a time like this.
"Oh don't worry, this isn't all I've got," Rick said, misinterpreting Bumblebee's noise of disgust, "I've got another few quarts of the stuff, paint rollers, touch up brushes, a dust mask, all the stuff I need. This isn't the first time I've painted a car. Trust me, this'll look great when I'm done."
{Sure, but what about the next time I transform?} Bumblebee muttered.
"Look," Rick said, going back to the Jag and pulling out another can, holding this one up as if he thought that would help Bee see it better, "Yellow with black, just like before. Trust me."
Bumblebee didn't like to think of himself as vain, but he couldn't help the twinge of relief at hearing Rick wouldn't be trying to change his colors. Not that he expected the paint to last, and not that it was really important, but Bumblebee was rather fond of his looks. Hell, how he looked was the only thing of his former life on Cybertron that he had left.
The war had been desperate, even in Bumblebee's youth, and so he had never been allowed the time to aspire to anything but becoming an Autobot because by then there was nothing left but the two warring sides; and Bumblebee could not be a Decepticon, even though they promised more time for personal pursuits because nearly everyone in that army had an ego the size of a planet and more than a little selfish concern with his own interests. Decepticons tried to buy recruits with the promise of power, glory, and the ability to make or do anything that they willed because they would have their own corner to rule in the name of Lord Megatron. But Bee hadn't been interested, because he could see that what sounded like the freedom to do whatever he wanted came with too high a price tag, and that freedom would be false because he would always be under the absolute control of Megatron, who would allow only certain types of personal pursuit, and then only when it did not interfere with his own plans and desires. Freedom with a bit and reins was not freedom at all.
And so Bumblebee had joined the Autobot cause. Bumblebee would, for as long as he served, follow the orders of his superiors. He would be a soldier, and the war would allow him little personal time. The Autobots could not make promises about the society which would follow if they defeated Megatron, because they did not intend to become rulers in his place. Their sales pitch wasn't as inviting except for one detail: they were honest, and as a result he trusted them.
The long and the short of all that was that, when Cybertron had gasped its last breath and the war had come to Earth, the Autobots had been left with nothing. Not only their home was destroyed or lost, but almost everything they had. Bumblebee's attachment to his coloration was less about vanity, and more about clinging to one of the only things he had left that was still him, that hadn't been consumed by the fires of war.
"Look, I get that this doesn't make up for my being an ass, but it's something I know how to do," Rick said, "And besides, it's something that will matter to Fina when she comes home."
Appearances mattered to Fina. And Fina, as had only recently become apparent to Bee, mattered to Rick.
As Rick circled Bumblebee, evidently figuring how and where he'd like to start, he suddenly frowned and stepped closer. He put a hand on the side mirror, running his fingers along the line of the repaired break. Then he stood back and looked Bee over again, realization coming to his eyes. He wasn't the only one working on repairs here. That seemed to surprise him.
"He gave you to us," Rick said quietly, "What does Dad care what happens to you now?"
{Maybe he knows what he's done is wrong,} Bumblebee suggested.
"Man, I wish I had a clue what you were saying," Rick said, "I mean, after hearing that lady on the motorcycle respond to you, it's obvious you're not just making noise, you're really talking. I just... have no idea what you're saying."
{Most people don't,} Bumblebee told him mildly.
"And yet, you keep on talking," Rick remarked, "Which seems like a wasted effort."
{So are most of the things you say, but you don't see me stopping you from babbling endlessly.}
"If you're hoping that I'll figure out how to understand you if you just keep talking, don't bother. I'm not that smart."
{Finally. Something we agree on.}
Rick shrugged and set to work. It was soon apparent that he had not been merely boasting; the boy could actually paint. Somehow that surprised Bee. He wouldn't have expected the spoiled and bratty rich kid to be able or willing to do anything akin to hard work, and painting a car certainly qualified. Painting a car by hand was a lengthy, multi-step, labor intensive project; one where mistakes were easy to make and could be difficult or impossible to cover up once made.
Even though Rick was using the same colors, Bumblebee's paint had taken such a beating that this was hardly a touch up job, more like completely starting over – especially the way humans did it.
Rick didn't talk while he worked, wearing the dust mask to protect himself from the fumes and dust he generated while working would have made it virtually impossible anyway. Bumblebee wondered if he was thinking and -if so- what about.
Rick left late at night. In the morning, he came back, but not to continue the work. While he'd been working, he'd taken the other cars in the garage out of it, and put up protective plastic to keep the bits of paint and such off the other surfaces in the garage. The air had cleared overnight, and Rick returned the SUV to its spot, leaving in the Jag. The paint-job was far from finished, but it seemed that Rick had something more important to do today than work.
When he got back, it was evident that what he'd had to do was go and get Fina from the hospital. Bee wondered what Larry and Vera were doing that made them unavailable. He knew they hadn't left, because the SUV was still here, and it was the only vehicle on the property besides Bee and the Jag.
When Fina got out of the passenger side, Bumblebee felt the crumbling of his anxiety about her as relief flooded in at the sight of her able to get out of the car on her own and walk. She had stitches in the side of her forehead, her right arm was in a sling, and she moved gingerly, but she was alive, she could walk, and she was well enough to come home. It could have been much worse.
Rick offered to help her towards the house, but she shrugged him off and turned instead to the garage. She looked at Bumblebee, and her jaw set, he could see the muscles tightening under her skin.
"You," she said, and there was no mistaking her anger as she spat through her teeth, "Of course you're here. This is your fault. You did this to me."
The words stung, because Bumblebee believed them. He had felt nothing of the accusations of Larry or Rick, because he knew that they were just looking for someone else to blame. But the anger and hurt in Fina's bright eyes could not be denied. He was guilty. If he hadn't chosen his desire to race over his duty to keep humans out of harm's way, Fina would not have been hospitalized.
"I wish I'd never laid eyes on you," Fina said, "I wish we had never met."
He saw in her eyes what she did not say: I wish you were dead.