Midge lets Bumblebee press in for another kiss, her lips finding his mouth plate sloppily. The familiar tinge of diesel and honey assaults her senses, his scent penetrating her nostrils like it belongs there.
The garage is humid, the heavy air hovering around the woman and her robot as though magnetized. She leans back against the workbench, her elbows folded under her against the surface.
The Autobot kneels over her, easily three times her size, crowding her against the surface. One servo braces against the bare concrete, holding him steady above her. The other floats under her dangling legs, caught between seeking contact and careful distance.
Pistons twitch under his faceplate, guiding it to match her rhythm with unsure, stuttering movements.
A long exhale streams from Midge's nostrils, her closed eyelids fluttering. A year ago, he was afraid of even getting close. He wouldn't move, just let her smooch him to her heart's content. That worked for a little while.
Now, though? He's well-practiced, and even seeks it out. Midge had very few complaints.
There were, of course, times when they cracked metal and teeth together, uncoupled pin jumpers, or pinched skin in hinges, but that wasn't today. Today feels like the culmination of all those sweaty, hot hours of exhausting, titillating work.
It's easily one of their favorite pastimes. Bee claims he still needs practice, that he needs to keep his skills sharp. It's a ruse, one she can see straight through, but she prefers to play along.
A large digit brushes the underside of her thigh, sending a shock up her body. She sighs into the kiss, warmth swirling in her gut. Her tongue glides along his mouth plate and dips below the seam, curious and unafraid.
Bumblebee sees stars when she tickles the backside of it, her saliva leaving the metal slick. Heated air blows across her cheeks as Bee's cooling fans kick into gear. His HUD shows him the temperature of his engines is rising, but he ignores it.
His helm bobs, his components shifting in ways that almost mimic her jaw moving up and down. She yields to the pressure, opening wide for him. Bee dives closer into her soft, warm mouth, his metal poleyne scraping the concrete as he shuffles closer.
His thumb strokes her thigh, grazing from her knee to the hem of her skirt. Not groping, just touching, appreciating, worshiping.
Each time they do this, he surprises Midge with his control. His gigantic servos sometimes tremble with restrained emotion. His optics sometimes shutter as if to block out the distractions.
She caresses down his chin, into the open space under his jawline. She learned not to reach for his far-away shoulders. Her hand falls to the cables of his neck—dense, solid, but just narrow enough for her fingers to wrap around. She holds the sinews tightly, pulling him into her orbit and suffocating him with her atmosphere.
His fans level up their power, forcing hot air out of his vents. The warm air shuffles the fabric of her skirt, the jersey fabric lifting gently with the breeze. They don't hear the door swing open.
"Holy—Can you not do that in the garage?"
Her father's voice in her ears is like a bucket of ice water, dumped over them with no warning.
Bumblebee almost jumps away from her, his hands pulling back as though burned. His helm whacks one of the overhead beams, but it stays miraculously stable. He lets out a mechanical groan, holding his metal head as he sways.
"Oh my God, dad!" she shouts, hopping off of the work bench and pulling her skirt back down. "Have you heard of knocking?"
If he hadn't seen their activities, he'd have known by her messy hair and kiss-swollen lips.
"I know you're grown, sweetie, but I'll never be comfortable with another man putting his hands on my baby girl," Ron hushes his daughter, standing in the doorway facing opposite them. "Even if that man is a robot."
A laugh leaves her, though not out of humor. She shrugs animatedly, her hands slapping her thighs when she lets them drop. "You don't have to like it, dad. You don't even have to understand it, you just have to put up with it."
He takes his classic stance, the one he had when she was in that hospital bed, or when he found her cigarettes when she was 14, or when he found out she was looking at porn on the family computer at night. "As long as you two live under my roof—"
"Yeah, yeah, we know." Midge rolls her eyes, holding her elbow with a bent arm. "Nothing inappropriate behind closed doors. Does our whole relationship fall under the umbrella of "inappropriate" now, too?"
"That's not fair," her dad mutters lowly, hands rising to his hips. His short-sleeved collared shirt is light and airy, his khakis screaming "father on vacation." Her parents had plans to make a trip out of taking Sam to university and getting him settled.
"Isn't it?" She storms past him, her shoulder bumping his as she moves into the kitchen swiftly. She's mortified and looking for a way out. "You act like I'm gonna find an accountant from Burbank and move in down the street. What do you think this is for me?"
"Margaret, you know I love you." His hands settle on her shoulders, prompting Midge to step back and let them fall. He clenches them, but doesn't make another attempt. "I just don't think it's good for you to rebound like this. You're looking for the opposite of what you and DJ had, and I mean the total opposite, but—"
"Rebound? It has been ten years, dad." Shaking her head, she turns from him, one foot on the first stair. "Whatever."
Her shoes against the hardwood floor punctuate her finish. She stops a few stairs up, turning as though she had something to say, but ultimately chooses not to.
He stands frozen in the doorway, rubbing his neck as if his shame could be wiped off.
She leaves him in her dust, stomping up the stairs irritatedly. She loves her dad, but he always goes about these things the wrong way. Controlling, admonishing, domineering.
The difference now is that she doesn't need to take it anymore. When she makes it to her room, the door thuds closed with finality. She'll apologize to Bee later.
The argument made her feel like packing. Soon, Sam, Midge, and Bee would all be 3,000 miles from here and she couldn't be happier.
"Keep. Keep. Sell. Keep." She looks over her shoulder and winces at the numerous sorted canvases. The keep pile is much larger than the sell pile. The hard part will be removing the fabric from the stretcher bars. There's at least twenty paintings there and if she's lucky, they'll fly off the table at Art Basel Trenton in a few weeks.
Her new place? A 700-square-foot studio with no walls, high ceilings, a garage, and a cargo lift. Perfect for a girl with a giant robot boyfriend. Sam had to be on campus when his classes started, while Midge has time. She plans to take a few extra days getting everything together, but that doesn't mean she's slacking.
She had already sent over most of her furniture, leaving her room mostly bare. Her paintings were some of the few items she insisted on moving herself, along with some other sentimental items.
Standing up after sitting for so long, her knees crack and crinkle. She makes her way to the kitchen in search of caffeine. She checks the fridge only to find her cold brew coffee has barely a sip left.
"Ugh! Sam," she mutters angrily, knowing her little brother had left her the basically empty bottle. She takes the container, squeezing all the air out of it to save space before she tosses it into the trash.
She'll just have to make coffee. She tosses some ground beans in the filter and sets it to brew a half pot. While she waits for the amber liquid to drip, her eyes settle on the door to the garage.
She isn't happy with how things ended earlier. She hadn't wanted to leave but she couldn't stand there and listen to her father go off again.
She wonders if, in the hours since their fight, Bumblebee had found something else to do. She imagines him on the other side, sulking or tracing patterns in the dust. They were having a nice time before Ron shattered the mood. Nearing the entrance, her fingers curl around her mug, weighing the choice.
She steps through the door, ducking her head to watch her bare feet on the splintering wooden stair. She holds her mug in one hand, but it has only sugar and milk, still waiting for the coffee to be added.
Bumblebee is facing away, laying on his front with his helm propped up on his servo. She had given him her old laptop when her dad gifted her a new for Christmas. Like the one she gave him last year, Bee became obsessed with recording things from conversations and burning them onto CDs.
The telltale sound of a whirring CD drives gives him away. She knows immediately that he's burning CDs as he is oft to do.
She peeks around his rerebrace, noting the cable trailing from his gauntlet to the laptop. The screen flickers too fast to follow. He lets out a mechanical groan, his damaged vocalizer humming as if a shell of what it once was.
Like a howling dog that sounds a little too human, there was an almost language-like quality to his grunts. The cadence and the vehemence, the lilting of different syllables, it all made up a sort of language. The rhythm seems to form sentences and, when paired with context clues, words. The lower pitches sound almost like consonants.
Had it really taken her until now to notice? Had he used his voice more often, maybe she would've known, but then it also might prevent it from healing. She silences the ruminating thoughts, forcing herself in the present moment.
Her thoughts and her eyes are fixed on the 'bot in front of her.
The sound started high, lowering over the course of four syllables. The meaning is obvious from his clenched fist and lowered optical ridges. "Man, fuck Vista."
Midge smiles, her heart swelling affectionately at the sight. She found his mannerisms endearing and candid, the kind that lull her into a sense of safety and freedom.
"Having fun out here?" she asks, her free hand reaching for his upper arm.
He waggles a hand sideways at her in a so-so motion. Maybe it's only because she's here, but he looked happy enough now.
She raises the mug to her lips, but lowers it when she remembers what's inside. She isn't quite ready to broach the subject, stalling with a question.
"Are you already packed?"
To respond, he transforms. His trunk pops open with a 'beep beep' like someone had clicked his key fob twice. She bends over, taking in the variety of items. Blankets of all shapes and sizes are stuffed inside, along with a few CD cases.
Her mouth scrunches, puzzlement falling over her face. "That's a lot of blankets. I thought you said you don't get cold?"
"Is nae fer me," responds a Scotsman's voice over Bee's radio, the quality degraded from age. The radio buzzes, switching to another channel where a commercialized transatlantic accent tells her "Those East Coast winters are nothing to scoff at."
"Oh, so they're for me? What a gentleman." Midge giggles, nosing the side of his helm sweetly. She pulls away, slowly standing on her own two feet again. The silence stretches, her expression turning sour, almost guilty. "Hey, so, I wanted to apologize for earlier. My dad was off the handle. I didn't help either. Sorry."
His bright optics take her in reverently, then they shutter as he nuzzles her face. She lets another laugh bubble up, her arm rising to cradle his mandible. There are no words exchanged between them, but his meaning is obvious: "I forgive you."
She sniffs, her eyes feeling just the barest bit moist. Things are so different with Bumblebee. Existing with him is like breathing, even though their anatomy doesn't always agree.
She leans into him, rubbing her nose and cheek against his face plate as if she was soaking him up. His metal is chilled from being in the dark garage with the cool cement flooring and brick walls.
"Okay," she says to the 'bot, finally allowing herself to let go of the shame. Pressing a chaste kiss into his proffered jaw, she smiles then steps away. "Well, I'm gonna go back to packing. See you tonight, Bee."
He beeps in affirmation, his half-shuttered eyes and soft ridges smiling for him without the smile. His rounded, angelic expression stays behind her eyes even as she disappears back into the kitchen.
The morning air in the house is still, even as the family inside bustle around. Her parents were helping Sam pack everything in the car, then drive him 3,000 or so miles to Princeton. Midge and Bee would hopefully be moving out not too long after.
With the tension between her and Ron, she decided to stay home. She knows being stuck in a car with her father wouldn't breed an amicable atmosphere. Passing the fridge, she notices an open bag of sliced bread on the ground. She picks it up, placing it on the counter while she makes her way past the sink to the coffee maker.
Midge sets her mug on the counter, her hand instinctively reaching for the carafe. She grabs only air.
"Huh," she mumbles, her head twisting to stare at the barren countertop.
Half of the kitchen is gone. There's no blender, no stand mixer, no toaster, no microwave. She can't help but wonder if they were robbed. She looks around her but there's no trace of any missing appliances. The hair on the back of her neck stands up. She's not sure what it is, but something is definitely wrong.
"What the..." Midge trails off, her gaze caught by the movement outside the window. "Oh my God!" she screamed, her jaw dropping open as Sam sailed off the roof. She watches him land, rolling on the grass as dirt kicks up around him.
She backs up from the counter, intending to step outside. The moment she removes her hand from the mug, it cracks and shatters into a mess of milk and ceramic shards. Their waffle iron is closed on the mug, but it's warped.
There are eyes on it's top and teeth on it's side, a large glossa falling out of it's widening jaw. It's shaped somewhat like a Venus fly trap, but with iron instead of plant cells.
Noticing it hadn't grasped Midge, it steps forward, clawed toes curling around the countertop. She steps back, measured but not slow. She makes it to the fridge before she turns the other way.
She tears out of the kitchen, running barefoot onto the paved patio. "Dad! Sam!" She hears gunshots all around. Artillery rains from above as she ducks her head, trailing after her brother. It feels familiar, being shot at by a miniature version of a Decepticon. This time, there are just more of them.
The two men slide to the ground behind the central concrete fountain. Midge follows, rolling between them while gunfire nips at her heels. She'd been here before, hiding from robots and praying for something to save them. Their dad was a new feature.
Ron's arm wraps around her shoulders, pulling her against his torso. He bends over, keeping their heads as low as possible. Their temples press together. A bullet hits the fountain's pool, water sloshing onto the sunny pavers that soak it up like thirsty roots.
"Daddy," she breathes, her eyes searching him for anything, a wound, a scrape. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm okay, sweetie." Another round of shells comes down and Ron shields their faces, flinching under the bombardment. He turns to his son, asking "What is that?"
"The whole kitchen!" Sam shouts back.
Midge closes her eyes, the dust clinging to her lips as she breathes heavily. She feels Sam's presence, his hand resting on her back. He leans forward, his abdomen seeming to squeeze the scream from his lungs.
"BUMBLEBEE!"
Sam's voice pierces the caterwaul of the assault. The reaction is almost instant.
The wall of the garage bursts into splinters and boards, the cadmium Camaro flying through the debris mid-transformation. By the time he lands on one knee before them, he's fully configured for battle, blasters out and optics alert.
He fires back at the attackers, peppering the back yard with shots. Soil soars into the air with every impact, showering the trio in dirt. He charges up one final blast, shooting it at Sam's room.
The top of the home is demolished, pieces of plywood and plaster falling like confetti. As the last threat is eliminated, Judy runs out of the house like her hair is on fire. So focused on her feet, she doesn't realize what she's headed for until her noggin knocks into a hanging planter.
Ron, sensing the danger has passed, rises to stand with the help of his arms. He hurries to his wife's side. Midge lets out a relieved breath, slumping her shoulders in the aftermath. The house, though smoking, will be dealt with, her parents seem fine, and the siblings have all their limbs. She counted.
"Bumblebee!" Sam shouts with as much frustration as he does desperation. The curly-haired boy points at the building Bee came from. "Get back in the garage."
Bumblebee, for his part, seems surprised. He throws his servos out, as if to say, "What did I do?"
"I'm about to have a nervous break down. Just go in the garage quietly, please."
"Whatever!"
Bee's buzzing seems to say as he waves them off. As he turns, he gets on his hands and knees, retreating back to the garage through the hole he made.
Torn between the smoking house and the busted garage, Midge waffles, looking back and forth between them and feeling the pull. After a five-second deliberation, she darts off toward the garage while her family tackles the home.
As she enters, her feet, dewy from the morning grass, stick to the dust on the concrete, leaving damp, petite footprints up to the massive mech.
She's about to call out, dipping under a stray piece of wood from the demolished wall, but stops.
She finds him on all fours as before, leaning back on his haunches with a servo raised. He smacks his helm once, twice, three times with his palm.
"Bee..." she says, her heart dropping. The 'bot turns to her, optics guilty. "Come on, don't do that."
It hurts to see the mech in such a mood. He's blaming himself, but it's obvious to anyone that his heart was in the right place. He had only been fighting the enemy, in his eyes, not destroying a home. There's a learning curve to teaching any alien to blend in with human society, so of course he makes mistakes.
Bee lowers himself further, his gauntlets folding in front of his optics. He leans them on the ground, looking like a teenager crying into their pillow.
"Hey," she coos softly, stroking his rotator cuff. "I know it was an accident. It's okay." Her head rests on his, her calm breathing leaving foggy patches on his metal.
As they speak in a not-so-traditional sense. She tries to ignore her father putting up a tarp over the knocked down wall and pretends not to feel his disapproving stare.
She cuddles his helm, leaning into his frame while she tries her hardest to take away his suffering.
Moments later, the tarp rustles. It pulls away to reveal her brother, his hand holding it up and away as he walks inside. She pulls back from Bee, knowing the two of them have a lot to talk about.
"Perfect timing. Get in there and make nice," Midge orders, stepping around her brother and into the outside air. She blows a strand of hair from her face, taking in her partially demolished childhood home. With a sigh, her shoulders slump.
Thank God she won't be living here much longer.
She tugs her folded Razor from her pocket, pressing the buttons by wrote to bring up her messages. She taps out a quick message to Lennox. After the kind of day they've had, she and Bumblebee could do with a visit to Diego Garcia.
"Hey, Lenny. Got time for an appointment at the auto shop this week?"
She sends off the message with a beep, smiling at the thought of the brunette soldier. He's a good man.
Every so often, she and Bumblebee take a trip out to Diego Garcia. Lennox says it keeps morale up for both the soldiers and the 'bots. Seeing everyone is fun for them, too. Bumblebee is always missing the Optimus and the others. Though Midge isn't privy to their orders, she at least gets to see them. That's more than she can ask for, really.
"Soon. I'll get back to you. Got a meeting."
They speak in code, of course, since the Autobots are still a secret to everyone that isn't in the know. Hopefully they would find time, as it'd been an awfully long period since their last meeting.
There's not much purpose to a drawn-out or teary goodbye, in Midge's mind. She'll be in Princeton next week, then Trenton the following. Patting his back, she turns away. Much to do, after all.
But just as she's leaving, she hears Sam's voice filtering out from between the wood and the tarp.
Bumblebee hasn't said anything for the entire drive. City streets turn into a blur outside the Camaro's windows.
Usually he'd have thrown out a quirky clip or played something on the radio by now, but it was silent instead. He seemed almost preoccupied, probably because of what she overhead from outside the garage earlier.
Around his wheel, Midge flexes her fingers. It's so unlike him to be this quiet that she can't help but worry. One hand drifts to the center of his wheel, her thumb tracing the chrome ridges of the Autobot logo.
"Whatever's going on with you, you gotta get over it. I know you miss him and it sucks that he left, but... You still got me. We still got us."
Smiling warmly, she traces the stitches on the leather of the wheel, familiar and comforting, but there's no response. No seat belt squeezing, no vibrating, no warmth.
"Trenton or bust, remember?" She says, the studio apartment of their dreams appearing in her mind's eye. She was still excited for them and she wanted him to know. "The art scene there is real big there."
Below her, the Camaro rumbles sadly, still not able to shake his funk.
Midge's face falls. He's too moody to even talk to her, probably because Sam hadn't brought Bee to campus with him. Sam blamed it on the no-car-for-freshmen rule, but it stung. He feels like he was left behind, which he was.
Well, too bad. She'll remind him how much fun they can get up to—without Sam.
She presses on the gas, turning down a narrow road without a word of warning to Bee—Caldwell and 140th. The ugly, unkempt road was long and empty, sprigs of green sprouting from between the cracks.
She knows exactly what happens on this street. She'd participated more than once, winning every time, and she's sure Bee would get a kick out of it.
If she can just get him to realize that life doesn't end at goodbye, then she'd have reached her goal for the night.
Midge giggles as she comes to a stop in front of a red traffic light. A shining silver Mitsubishi Eclipse sits in the lane next to them, idling. Midge rolls her window down, tipping her chin at the other driver. He does the the same, his graying goatee swaying with the movement.
She revs Bee's gas, making his engine roar. Again, the other driver seemed to copy her. She either taunted the other driver very well, or it was a hell of a coincidence.
"You challenging me?" the stranger says, lowering his aviator sunglasses to peek at her through his open window. He raises an eyebrow at her carefree face, chewing lightly on the end of his cigarette.
"What's it look like?" she scoffs back.
Bumblebee beeps lowly, a shuffle of his gears accompanying it. As silent as he's been, he was paying close attention to the ordeal. A race may be just what he needs.
Staying locked on the stranger, Midge speaks lowly to the 'bot. "I'm the one taking you on a ride this time. It'll take your mind off things, trust me."
"Alright," growls the goatee, putting both hands on the wheel. "You're on, pedal princess."
Midge settles back into the seat, eyes on the road as her right hand moves down to the shifter. Her fingers on the wheel flex again for a different reason. Bumblebee trembles as he revs his engine
When the light turns green, she slams down her foot on the gas.
Bee's tires squeal, leaving black marks on the pavement. They leave behind a cloud of smoke. The Camaro peels down the road with a flash of laughter, both mechanical and human.
A/N: Art Basel is a big art show in Florida that a bunch of my friends would go to to set up a table and sell their art. I couldn't think of another art show so I put it in NJ in this universe lol.