Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Bumblebee…”

The voice sounded familiar against Bumblebee’s audials, but the words it spoke were smothered, thick, as though pushing through sludge before reaching his processor. It was dark and Bumblebee’s frame ached, small stabs of pain growing more and more potent as his startup programs began to fire up one by one.

“Come on, kid, optics open.”

“Don’t be so harsh, Ratchet! That was quite a fall he took.”

“Yeah, which is why I need him awake. I need a thorough assessment of the damage.”

“Shh! Guys, shh! Do you hear that?”

“He’s coming back online!”

“About time.”

“Ratchet!”

“What?! What’d I say?”

Bumblebee’s optics flickered a few times, streams of errors loading his HUD before he could properly take in his surroundings. Glaring, angry red messages blasted across his vision, stuffing him with more information than he cared to read through—his primary focus was the screaming pain in his processor.

“Ow,” he mumbled to no one in particular, reaching a servo toward his helm for barely a moment before his arm was jerked back down.

“Slow down there, kid,” a gruff voice said, the syllables swimming confusingly through Bumblebee’s thoughts. “Take it easy.”

“You were just snapping at him to wake up. Make up your mind.”

“Blow it out your actuator, Prowl.”

Bumblebee blinked a few times, his vision twitching and refocusing, sharpening on a collection of faces that stared down at him with concern carved into their faceplates.

“Hey,” Bumblebee said, his voice much scratchier and weak than anticipated. “I know I look good, but seriously, take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

Optimus and Ratchet, both hovering directly above Bumblebee’s helm, exchanged small frowns with one another.

“Are you feeling alright, Bee?” Optimus said slowly, enunciating each word with incredible pointedness. “You took quite a tumble back there.”

Bumblebee frowned, grimacing as he tried to cock his helm and was rewarded with a shooting pain that radiated from horn to chassis. “Tumble?” he said, reaching up to rub the source of the throbbing and, strangely, tangling his digits amongst a mass of cables. “What the—”

“Don’t touch that,” Ratchet said flatly.

“Don’t touch what? The frag are you doing to my head?”

Bumblebee’s spark thumped with sudden worry, and he tugged at the cables for only a moment before Ratchet smacked his servo down once again.

“This isn’t good, Ratchet,” Optimus said. “Bee, do you know our names?”

Bumblebee scoffed, unsure of whether to be confused or irritated. “Of course I do, boss bot,” he said. “Optimus, Prowl, Bulkhead, Ratchet. Any other stupid questions?”

“Where are you?”

“The… medbay, I guess? Why are you—”

“What day is it?” Ratchet asked gruffly.

Bumblebee laughed, rolling his optics at the sheer stupidity of the question. “It’s February, isn’t it?” he said with a snicker. “Frag only knows what day, but something like that. Sari and I went for shakes the other day and I did donuts in the snow, and she puked in my backseat. Duh.”

Bumblebee continued to laugh, though his amusement rapidly faded into nervous chuckles as his team shared another set of frowns amongst one another.

“Ha… ha ha… what?” Bumblebee said, his optics darting between his teammates. “Guys? Hello? Cool guy talking, but no one’s answering… ha ha…?”

“I thought so,” Ratchet muttered, almost to himself, disappearing from Bumblebee’s line of sight. “Sit still, kid.”

“What’s going on?” Bumblebee asked, his optics snapping toward Bulkhead, who was shuffling anxiously from pede to pede. “Bulk? Give me some deets here. You’re freaking me out.”

Bulkhead’s gaze shifted to somewhere behind Bumblebee’s helm, waiting for some unheard nod of permission before he lumbered closer to the berth. “Don’t freak out, alright?” Bulkhead said quietly.

“I’m about to if you don’t spit it out,” Bumblebee said, grimacing as he felt an oily presence slip into his processor, a line of code snaking wetly through his hard drives.

“Well—um—it’s October,” Bulkhead said, barely audible, a very nervous grin stretching across his face. “But—”

“It’s what?” Bumblebee shouted, sitting up aggressively, the cables in his helm tightening and slingshotting him back into the berth with a loud crack. “Ow! For frag’s sake!”

“That was entirely your fault,” Ratchet’s voice said with far too much amusement. “Sit still.”

“October? You’re gonna drop that bomb on me and tell me to sit still?”

“Stop shouting,” Prowl said, his optics flashing irritably from behind his visor. “We were chasing Nanosec across Ambassador Bridge and you—quite stupidly, I might add—climbed up a tower in hopes to catch him. A pede slipped, and you cracked your helm hard against the concrete when you fell.”

Bumblebee’s processor was swirling, frustration and worry assaulting his helm and dragging his attention back to the thumping pain in his circuitry. “That can’t be right,” he said slowly, trying to put together memories and frowning when they returned black and clouded with static. “Nanosec, he’s—he’s in jail, right?”

“He broke out in July,” Optimus said softly.

“Stop thinking so much,” Ratchet added. “I’m trying to run a program here.”

“Oh, right, let me just not think for a second,” Bumblebee spat. “That’s an easy thing to do.”

“You certainly managed it when you climbed those suspension cables,” Prowl muttered snidely.

“Hey!”

“Prowl, not now,” Optimus said in a stern tone that wavered with barely suppressed laughter. “It’s alright, Bumblebee. If you think it’s still February, you only lost eight months of your memory. It’s nothing we can’t give you a refresher course on.”

Bumblebee sighed as Ratchet’s code emptied from his processor, its slick occupance dumping through one of the cables wired to his helm. The physical relief did not, however, extend to his emotions, and he groaned loudly as Optimus patted his shoulder reassuringly.

“Don’t do that,” he mumbled, rubbing his optics frantically. “Seriously? Eight months? Gone, just like—just like that? Zip, bam, gone?”

“Eight months and thirteen days, it seems,” Ratchet said matter-of-factly.

Bumblebee thumped the back of his helm angrily against the berth. “Not helping.”

“I wasn’t trying to help.”

“Gee, thanks. Can’t Sari fix it?”

“We’ll use the key to speed up the healing process, but I doubt it will restore the memories themselves. Those are gone for good, I’m afraid.”

“Hmph.”

Ratchet scoffed, and Bumblebee winced as the cables were plucked from his helm, each one tugging uncomfortably at the oversensitive plating. “I’ll give you some pain medication for the damage to your armor, but the memory loss isn’t physically reversible,” Ratchet said, his voice moving in circles as he unplugged wire after wire. “Self repair will take care of damaged circuits, but the memory files are all heavily corrupted. ‘Fraid there’s no coming back from that, even with a whole lot of tinkering.”

Bumblebee frowned, trying to dig for any memory of Nanosec’s imprisonment, but all he received in return was bursts of static and glitching colors.

“Right,” he said sullenly. “I’m just getting blips of stuff. Great.”

His spark sank into his stomach, and he closed his optics with a sigh. Eight months of his life, gone in a flash. How could he have been so stupid? Climbing on a suspension bridge certainly did sound like a terrible idea of his, but he doubted he would go so far as to actually do something like that. Had he gotten dumber in the past three-quarters of a year, or just braver?

“‘Blips,’ you say?” Prowl said, his visor suddenly alight with a glimmer that made Bumblebee’s spark sink even lower.

“No,” Bumblebee snapped. “No.”

“What? I haven’t said anything.”

“You’ve got that look. That ‘I wanna try stuffing crystals in your head because they’re magical or whatever’ look. That’s a load of hooey and you know it.”

“The metaphysical properties of crystals on the human psyche are stronger than you may think,” Prowl said loftily. “But I wasn’t going to suggest that. If you have ‘blips’ of memories, perhaps the corruption can be undone manually.”

“Yeah, right,” Bumblebee grumbled. “They’re gone. It’s fine. Nothing super important happened, right?”

“Importance is subjective,” Prowl continued airily. “Perhaps if you try to recall the feelings you experienced as we recount the past months, you’ll be able to jog your memory rather than simply memorize the occurences.”

“For frag’s sake, Prowl,” Bumblebee said. “English, please.”

Prowl sighed. “Try to remember instead of just accepting what happened.”

“Sounds dumb. No.”

“It would shorten your studying time.”

“...Fine.”

Bumblebee sighed as obnoxiously as he could in an attempt to express his displeasure, but he sat up nonetheless, finally able to rub at the large, pulsating dent in his helm. The plating was warm to the touch, the crater deep enough to settle his entire servo into, and a small part of Bumblebee was amazed that the fall hadn’t knocked him offline entirely. Must’ve fallen from the very top, he thought sulkily.

“We can review my logs for the past eight months, then,” Optimus said, reaching a servo toward Bumblebee. “Can you walk?”

Bumblebee swatted the helpful hand away, dropping to his pedes and trying not to show the wave of dizziness that swept over him. “Yeah, I can walk,” he mumbled. “Let’s just get this over with. Give me the short version of everything, okay?”

Something nagged at Bumblebee as he followed Optimus to the communications center—he felt as though he was forgetting something. He tried to brush it off, of course, as it was obvious that he was forgetting something, but his brief glances through the windows and toward the grey October sky felt uncomfortably empty. He strived for an emotion that he couldn’t recall, as though he was waiting to open a present that he’d never even received.

You have amnesia, stupid, Bumblebee told himself firmly. You’re forgetting a bunch of stuff. You probably had plans with Sari that you forgot or something like that. And she’ll totally understand. Just focus on remembering this slag so you can go to bed.

Wringing his servos together nervously, Bumblebee took a seat across from Optimus, who tossed a datapad in his direction.

“I’ll send you my logs, and we can read through them together,” Optimus said with comforting warmth. “Find the last thing you remember, and we’ll start right after that, okay?”

“Okay,” Bumblebee mumbled, groaning internally as a mountain of files began to fill his inbox. This is gonna take forever.

He scrolled listlessly toward February, disregarding all of the logs from later months, knowing that they were going to be useless for quite some time. The first of February had clearly been boring, but Bumblebee was relieved that he could recall the weight of the shovel in his servos as they’d repaired the flooring in the base.

“These are, uh, extensive,” Bumblebee said, skimming through Optimus’ seemingly endless written words. Every hour of the day was meticulously written down, unbiased in presentation and undeniably dull. “The first and the second, I remember both of those.”

“Good,” Optimus said brightly. “Keep going.”

Bumblebee briefly wondered if beating his helm against the wall would jog his memory, but he forced himself to continue reading. Everything about February 3rd rang a bell, but quite suddenly, his recollections sputtered and faded into multicolored static.

“The third,” he said quickly, peering at the file. “Around, uh… two in the afternoon. Everything goes kinda fuzzy after that. Ow…”

Bumblebee rubbed his processor, already hating Prowl’s stupid idea. Trying to remember these moments was not only awkward, given that they read more like notes than memories, but it ached. His processor spluttered as he tried to remember calling Fanzone a ‘yellow-headed brain sucker,’ much to his disappointment—that was a hell of an insult, if he did say so himself.

“No problem,” Optimus said with a comforting smile. “We’ll start there, then. I’ll read, and you just listen, alright? Take notes if you have to.”

Bumblebee could not have hated this situation more. At least Optimus was a competent storyteller.

The sun was hanging low in the sky, and Bumblebee was starting to fear that he’d fall asleep before they made it through February 9th. His processor throbbed and protested every time he tried to dredge up the memories, completely exhausting him within hours, but Optimus showed no signs of slowing down.

“Boss, I’m tired,” Bumblebee whined, kicking his pedes around like a sparkling. “Can’t we call it a night?”

“We need to at least finish this log,” Optimus insisted, as he’d done for the past three logs. “You’re doing great. Do you remember what happened after Bulkhead and Prowl got in that fight?”

“No,” Bumblebee snapped, irritation getting the better of him. “I don’t remember anything. Stop asking me that.”

“Right,” Optimus said with a nervous chuckle. “So, we got back to the base, and Prowl immediately went to his room, huffing up a storm. Then Ratchet—”

Optimus’s voice faded as Bumblebee’s optics slid out of focus, boredom and annoyance clouding his repeatedly failed attempts at regaining his memory. Every part of him wished that he could just download these stupid events, or that any of them would appear as something other than thick static and smears of color.

But no matter how hard he tried, remembrance danced just out of reach.

Bumblebee spent a few minutes wondering if there was some way to talk Optimus out of this. His attention span was short, to say the least, and the negative reinforcement of an aching processor was only making it worse. I could just lie about remembering, Bumblebee surmised. He wouldn’t quiz me or anything, would he? Ugh. He totally would. Slag. Maybe if I pretend to die—

Bumblebee blinked as his datapad vibrated, his thoughts immediately interrupted as he glanced down at the screen.

Blinking slowly at the top of his notification bar was a single message from an unknown sender.

Excited at the idea of literally anything other than Optimus’s droning, Bumblebee flicked a digit across the message, allowing it to fill the screen. It looked no different than a normal private message—Bumblebee had gotten plenty of those from Sari today—but the words made his spark do a panicked backflip.

Heard you took a fall. Feeling alright, love?

He couldn’t help it—his jaw dropped as shock ricocheted through his frame. Optimus’s words faltered as Bumblebee’s datapad clattered to the floor.

“Bee?” Optimus said hopefully. “Did you remember something?”

“Who loves me?” Bumblebee blurted without thinking.

Optimus’s face clouded with immeasurable confusion. “I’m—what?”

Bumblebee snatched his datapad from the floor and practically threw it in Optimus’s face, shaking it violently. “Who the frag is this?” he yelled shrilly. “Who called me ‘love?’”

“It’s an unknown sender,” Optimus said, his brow furrowing. “Maybe it’s Sari playing a joke on you. Don’t—”

“No, I’ve been messaging her all day!” Bumblebee said. “It’s not her!”

“So, trace the address,” Optimus said with a shrug. “Maybe it’s Fanzone.”

“Oh, yeah, because he’s one for terms of endearment,” Bumblebee snapped.

“It was just a suggestion!”

“It’s an encrypted address! An unknown sender, Prime! Who is this? Screw continuity, tell me who this is!”

“I don’t know,” Optimus said shortly. “Cross my spark, I don’t. It’s probably a joke, Bee, calm down.”

Bumblebee shook his helm, splatters of crimson static exploding in his processor. His tanks fluttered in a way he’d never experienced before, something hot and bubbly dancing through his spark, the same untraceable emptiness lacing the edges of his frame.

who is this?!!?!? he typed frantically, scowling viciously, his processor pounding as the sound of static filled his audials.

“Bee, calm down,” Optimus said soothingly. “You’re going to be confused for a while, it’s natural. Maybe that’s an inside joke with someone that you forgot about. You’ll get there.”

Bumblebee didn’t answer, staring at his datapad as the mysterious sender began to type, a small ellipsis floating on the screen. Bumblebee’s vision tunneled as he stared at it with undying intensity, his spark thumping aggressively.

Who else would it be?

Bumblebee scoffed aloud, tapping at his screen so aggressively that he feared it might crack.

is this some kind of stupid inside joke??? i’m missing a chunk of my damn memory and you’re gonna joke with me???? whoever you are, youre a fragging jerk. tell me your name!!!!

The ellipsis appeared for a moment before abruptly ceasing. They remained gone for the longest moment of Bumblebee’s life, returning for barely a second before another message appeared.

Don’t tell anyone about this. I’ll find a way to fix it, love.

Bumblebee had barely read the message in its entirety before the screen cleared, leaving no indication that he’d messaged anyone at all. He made an indignant noise aloud, scrolling through his message history, but there was no trace of the sender, the messages, or anything.

“Bee!” Optimus said, his voice cutting through the crazed bewilderment currently assaulting Bumblebee’s thoughts. “Are you alright?”

Bumblebee opened his mouth, prepared to hurl the datapad back at Optimus and show that the message had disappeared, but something deep in his gut urged him not to. He had no reason to not show Optimus—in fact, it would be a much better idea to share it in case it was something important—but something stopped him regardless. Meaningless flashes of glitching memory files were somehow telling Bumblebee to listen to the mysterious messenger, and despite his reservations, Bumblebee nodded.

“Y-yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it was, uh, it was one of the cops I know. Just messing with me. You were right.”

Optimus raised a brow. “You sure?” he said. “You look like you might be overheating.”

“I’m not!” Bumblebee lied, disregarding his internal thermometer. “Just—let’s finish up this log, and then I really need some sleep, okay?”

“I understand completely,” Optimus said. “We left off at Prowl and Bulkhead’s fight, right?”

“Sure.”

Optimus launched back into his story, but Bumblebee’s focus was fixated entirely on his datapad. Who had called him ‘love?’ And why? When? Was Optimus lying, or was someone really just playing a prank on him? How could this thick, comfortable feeling in his systems feel so new and so familiar at the same time?

The only thing Bumblebee was certain about was that his spark was still thumping, and he seriously doubted it would slow down anytime soon.

Chapter Text

Bumblebee had always hated evening patrol, and tonight was proving to be no exception. The streets of Detroit were packed to the brim, rush hour clogging the roads from white line to white line. Rain pattered on Bumblebee’s windshield, his wipers fighting to keep the glass clear, the quiet hum of his engine barely audible over the gentle hiss of droplets against metal.

But for once, Bumblebee wasn’t counting the seconds until his patrol ended. Something about the monotony of rain, the constant starting and stopping in traffic, the blurry headlights in his view—all of it allowed his thoughts to dance elsewhere. Patrolling was oddly peaceful, especially in the rain, because what sort of idiot criminal would decide to rob a bank and risk losing traction when trying to speed away in their getaway car?

None—that’s what Bumblebee assumed. And he was grateful for the boring respite. His processor had not stopped throbbing since his first daily memory-recalling session with Optimus, and even after three of them, the ache was proving no easier to tolerate.

Bumblebee flicked his high beams irritably at a pedestrian, honking a few times as they jaywalked with a polite wave. Yeah, yeah, wave at me, whatever, Bumblebee thought, slamming into second gear and spinning his tires against the wet pavement as he jolted forward. Fanzone would’ve arrested you for that.

Unfortunately, patrol wasn’t proving to be much easier than time in the base. His memories seemed quite keen on staying corrupted, and it was hard to fight the urge to remember events despite wanting to escape them. Glances at storefronts and certain intersections occasionally caused sharp headaches to briefly assault Bumblebee’s processor, his thoughts flickering as the corrupted files fruitlessly attempted to resurface. One parking lot in particular had nearly caused Bumblebee’s engine to stall out, though he couldn’t come close to pinpointing why—all he managed to remember was a few blocks of purple and a strange tightness deep in his chest.

It was, for lack of a better word, annoying. Bumblebee tried to keep his gaze forward, to focus on the road, but his processor clogged with static even in the most mundane locations: what could possibly be significant about the intersection of Franklin and Orleans?

This is so stupid, Bumblebee thought bitterly, veering to the left in hopes of clearing the glowing scarlet static from his processor. Eight fragging months. Of course a ton of stuff happened. Every fragging street in this city is going to have some sort of memory attached to it. Stop worrying about it and just keep an optic out for trouble.

He desperately wanted to stop worrying about it. But some part of his processor refused. Something was missing, something important, and it was etched into every crosswalk in this city.

Is it that person who messaged me? Bumblebee thought idly, veering toward the river, hoping that the whispers of water on water would drown out his thoughts. Who was that? How did they delete the whole conversation like that? Who are they?

He was thinking in circles—he knew that. And it was nothing short of exhausting. The hard pavement softened into grass under Bumblebee’s tires as he transformed, rainwater splashing against his optics and sending his HUD into a confused frenzy.

Whatever, he thought, pacing down the sidewalk, nearly slamming directly into a trashbot in his confused haste. It was probably just a wrong number or something. Maybe someone from boot camp picking on me. Ironhide was always sort of a prick.

He sighed, swallowing down the inexplicable knot of doubt in his tanks. There were more important things to worry about than one stupid message on his datapad. Or, at least, he hoped there was, because he was going to go crazy if he didn’t find something else to fixate on.

A candid of Bumblebee as he told one of his impossibly long, derivative stories. Their hands, one so much larger than the other, but somehow perfectly intertwined.

Blitzwing chewed on his lower lip as he dragged his thumb across his datapad, each one revealing a different photo he’d taken with—or of—Bumblebee.

A selfie, only one of them smiling. Another selfie, Bumblebee screaming and laughing as Blitzwing’s grinning crimson maw gaped just shy of the small yellow helm.

What was he supposed to do? Blitzwing sighed quietly, his optics shuttering for a moment, obsessing over the same worries he’d been having for three days now. Bumblebee had amnesia. Enough so that he’d completely forgotten about everything they’d learned from each other, all of the moments they’d shared, the feelings they’d so slowly grown to accept, everything.

Bumblebee shouting something accusingly at the camera, part of the frame blocked by Blitzwing’s thumb. Bumblebee asleep in Blitzwing’s lap, curled up into a ball, his frame glowing coolly in the moonlight.

It had taken months for Bumblebee to openly admit his feelings for Blitzwing, and even longer for Blitzwing to openly express the same thing. Blitzwing bit his lip so hard that he nearly split the mesh, ignoring the metallic taste of energon on his glossa. One fall had undone so much, and Bumblebee had no idea. How could they possibly come back from that?

A shot taken by Bumblebee as they kissed, completely out of focus. An even blurrier shot of Blitzwing trying to shout at Bumblebee for biting his glossa, his faceplates even redder than normal as heat flooded the sensors.

Blitzwing hadn’t a clue on how to proceed. What could he possibly do in a situation like this? They’d held nothing but contempt for one another, and faked doing so for longer than Blitzwing would’ve cared to admit. What kind of Decepticon would fall in love with an Autobot? Or, to take Bumblebee’s side, what kind of Autobot would fall in love with a Decepticon? It was as stupid as it was irreversible—or, at least, Blitzwing had assumed it was irreversible.

Memory loss. How could the situation be any worse?

Another candid shot of Bumblebee, cheering as he cannonballed into the river, water flying toward the camera. A hastily-taken selfie of Bumblebee, laughing as he ran away from a very enraged and very wet Blitzwing.

Blitzwing had spent hours researching memory restoration techniques, but the information was lacking at best. Deleted files could easily be recovered, but corrupted files were another story entirely. And if a fall was the cause of Bumblebee’s memory loss, Blitzwing highly suspected that the hardware hosting the information was damaged, which meant only one thing—the data was gone forever.

It would be easier for Blitzwing to simply move on. He knew that, deep in his spark. Their mutual growth alongside one another had been what so deeply solidified their relationship, and there was no way of replicating that. For Bumblebee’s sake, Blitzwing was tempted to delete all of his own memories and proceed as though they had never shared their first kiss together, never held hands, never exchanged a comforting embrace, never laughed with one another, never—

Who are you kidding? Blitzwing thought dully, minimizing the photos with a sigh. You’ll never be able to delete him, no matter how hard you try. You don’t even want to.

What would Bumblebee want? Blitzwing remembered every one of the Autobot’s words, endless as they were, and he was certain that Bumblebee wouldn’t want to lose him. The softness in those big blue optics had been unmistakable when Bumblebee first uttered the words I love you, Blitzwing. He was in love. And Blitzwing was as well, even if that love had become abruptly one sided.

Blitzwing choked down his pride and opened his messages, generating a fake address the way he had done so many times, masking each letter under piles of scrambled data so only Bumblebee would be able to read it.

I can help you understand, he typed, his spark pounding in his chest. But you have to trust me.

Sending the message was the most difficult thing Blitzwing had ever done. But he forced himself to do so, reminding himself of the warmth so evident in Bumblebee’s optics, the way his smile spread across his entire face. He loves you, Blitzwing told himself. Some part of him has to remember that.

Blitzwing prayed, for the sake of his own sanity, that he was right.

His frame jittered nervously as his datapad lit up, a response lighting up his inbox far sooner than expected.

why the frag should i trust you?

It hurt. It pained Blitzwing, physically and emotionally, to see such angry words scrawled across his screen. Even without seeing Bumblebee, Blitzwing could practically feel the confusion emanating from his datapad, the wariness, the circumspection. His tanks churned miserably, grief weighing heavy on his spark.

You learned to do so once, and I’d like to help you learn again, Blitzwing wrote, knowing that it would take a miracle for Bumblebee to agree. Why would he? Blitzwing was, as of now, a stranger to Bumblebee, a mysterious messenger who spoke only lies.

Blitzwing sat back in his berth, gritting his dentae. If only he believed in miracles.

Bumblebee’s digits shook as he stared down at his datapad, though whether it was from the messages or the icy rain on his shoulders, he wasn’t sure.

Who was at the other end of his conversation?

A million frenzied ideas flew through Bumblebee’s processor, each of them worse than the last. This could all be an elaborate prank, or some kind of convoluted life lesson from Ratchet, or a Decepticon trick that would inevitably end his life. Everything and nothing was possible—every theory Bumblebee could think of made perfect sense and none at all, and he hated it.

“This is so dumb,” Bumblebee said aloud, thumping his helm irritably against the tree he was using as a backrest. “For frag’s sake. This is so dumb.”

He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to respond or not. His processor told him not to, defaulting to the worst case scenario, but something deep in his spark urged him to listen to whomever was writing these messages. And he had no idea why he felt that way.

Optimus had always told him to trust his gut, and that had certainly gotten Bumblebee in trouble. It was most likely the same sentiment that had convinced him to climb up the bridge and promptly fall off, knocking out all of his memories. But as Bumblebee typed a harsh refusal, his spark screamed at him to accept the offer for help, pounding against the inside of his chest.

“This is so dumb,” Bumblebee repeated aloud, closing his optics as he sent a single word to the unnamed recipient.

ok

He hated himself almost immediately after sending the message, noticing that it was read immediately. Whoever this was, they were clearly awaiting his messages, leaving the conversation open so they could read them as soon as they were received. Someone’s desperate, Bumblebee thought, smirking to himself and trying to ignore the explosion of gritty static that flitted through his processor.

There’s a small wooded island just east of Peche Island. Midnight.

The brusqueness of the message put Bumblebee even more on edge, the divide between his processor and his spark growing even larger. Peche Island was isolated enough, but at midnight, it was sure to be completely abandoned. What kind of helpful person would want to meet Bumblebee in a situation like that if they weren’t planning to kill him? Bumblebee had heard Sari talk about stranger danger, and if this wasn’t the textbook definition of the term, he didn’t know what was.

is this some kind of trap? Bumblebee typed with a scowl. are you gonna kill me, punk?

The insult was empty—Bumblebee was quaking from helm to pede. Every one of his sensors was firing warnings at him, his final shred of common sense begging him to destroy his datapad and never engage with these messages again. But his aching need for information was stronger than his sense of self preservation, and if there was even the slimmest chance of getting his memories back, he was going to take it.

The flashes of buggy static were far more annoying than Bumblebee was scared. And he really hated studying.

He choked and spluttered on rainwater as another message flew into his inbox. Something about the words felt so familiar, too familiar, and it made Bumblebee’s spark flutter with the same uncomfortable sensation he’d been feeling all day.

I would never hurt you. If you remember nothing else, please remember that.

Bumblebee wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that. Caught way off his guard, he spat a mouthful of water onto the ground and watched the messages vanish before his very optics, once again leaving no trace of their existence.

He’d never felt so lost. He was definitely forgetting something important—that was becoming more and more evident by the minute. And though he wasn’t sure how, Bumblebee was certain that these messages were indeed a piece of the puzzle, one way or another.

Chapter Text

This was, without a doubt, one of the dumbest things Bumblebee had ever done. For once in his life, he was walking slowly and trying to memorize the landscape of the island, jumping every time the river lapped loudly at the nearby shore.

He knew he shouldn’t be here. A complete and total stranger had told him to come here in the middle of the fragging night, and he’d agreed to do it. The ground underneath his pedes was plush from the aftermath of the day’s rain, the air still prickling with electricity even though the last bolt of lightning had struck hours ago.

Bumblebee tried to blame his uneasiness on the weather. The thick black clouds were the cause of the stifling atmosphere, not his nerves, and the impossibly dense silence must be a result of hiding insects. His processor was flickering and sputtering constantly because of electricity, certainly not because somehow, Bumblebee felt as though he’d been here before.

Nothing, and yet everything, looked familiar. Bumblebee was certain that he’d never been to this island, especially since he’d had to swim to reach it, and swimming had never been his forte. But the way the branches swayed and loomed over him held some sort of significance, even if he couldn’t be sure what it was, and the defective snags of crimson memories only solidified his mounting sense of déjà vu.

Bumblebee swallowed as he looked around, wondering where the mysterious messenger wanted him to go. They knew that he had no memories, didn’t they? Why else would they want to meet with him? This island wasn’t large, but it certainly wasn’t small— how could he be expected to know his way around?

He almost called out, the urge to ease the suffocating tension growing more and more intense by the second, but his voice caught in his intake every time he tried. His processor flashed, as useless as it was bright, and he spun around on his heel, spark thumping in his chest.

He didn’t know how he knew, but he was certain that he was being watched.

Bumblebee anxiously admitted to himself that the prickling that danced across his frame was not from leftover electricity in the air, but from his sensors screaming at him that he wasn’t alone. There was another presence here—it had been here since the moment he’d arrived—but he didn’t know what it was.

Or, rather, who it was.

“Hello?” Bumblebee forced himself to say, his voice cracking and dropping into nothing.

His plating tingled, but he received no response, the silence pressing in on him once again. Bumblebee shuddered, folding his arms over his chest, trying to ignore the bite of nighttime October air.

This is dumb, he told himself for the millionth time that day. This is so fragging dumb. I can’t believe I’m doing this, wandering around in the middle of the night in some place I’ve never been, yelling out for someone who’s probably just gonna snipe me. Oh, jeez, am I gonna get sniped? Is that why I feel watched?

Bumblebee glanced down at his frame. No red dots from a laser sight. He sighed an underwhelming sigh of relief, one that did nothing to ease his discomfort.

“This is dumb,” he said aloud, pitching his voice as much as he could tolerate. “Is there anyone here? I know you’re watching me—you’re not very subtle. You’re just creeping me out, and honestly, if your goal is to help me out, you aren’t being very helpful.”

No response. Of course. Bumblebee sighed louder, pretending to be much braver than he felt as he peered into the trees.

“I’m going home,” he called shortly, trying to ignore the aching buzz that had started humming deep in his processor. “Can you hear me? I’m going home.”

His head started throbbing, the hum so loud that he could barely hear his own thoughts over its monotonous growl. Where exactly was he that would make his corrupted memories hurt so much? Deciding firmly to stick to his guns, Bumblebee promptly started walking, making sure his footsteps were loud and pointed.

“Bye,” he shouted to no one. “See this? I’m leaving. I am walking away. And you better not message me again, because if you do, I’m giving my datapad to Optimus. He’ll find a way to bust your stupid little scheme. Bet you thought I’d stick around and let myself get killed, huh? Well, I may not remember the past few months, but I’m not stupi—”

Bumblebee’s words froze like ice in his throat as he heard a muffled thump, echoing through the trees just to his left.

He whirled around against his better judgement, trying to make a sound as his optics scanned wildly through the trees. “H—hello?” he said, irritated that the words were barely audible.

Thump. Bumblebee took a step back, staggering slightly, realization dawning on him as he realized what the noise sounded like—footsteps. Heavy, slow, purposeful footsteps, from something big.

Slowly, Bumblebee shifted his gaze up.

His entire frame seemed to lock as his optics latched on two pinpricks of scarlet amongst the treetops, glowing so brightly that the dark, wet leaves around them seemed to be on fire.

Bumblebee wanted to scream. He wanted to run, to fight, to do anything, but his frame wouldn’t move. Every joint in his body seemed to be bolted in place, and all he could do was watch as the red spots of light that were definitely a set of optics burned into his own.

They got larger with every soft thump. Bumblebee choked on failed words as the steps quickened slightly, the red soon joined with a dim purple haze, warped and nearly invisible under the cover of trees and nighttime.

A Decepticon insignia joined the fiery red optics.

Bumblebee’s chest heaved, his spark hammering in his chassis as panic ripped through him. He managed to squeak out a pathetically tiny whimper, one pede unsticking from the ground just enough to take a step back as the dark frame grew clearer, closer, bigger.

The darkness melted away from the Decepticon’s towering frame, and all at once, Bumblebee’s rigid frame came undone. His vents screamed as he started to hyperventilate, scrambling backwards as rapidly as he could, tripping almost immediately as he tried to take steps that were far too large for his size.

He slammed into the ground, snapping back to reality for just long enough to scream. His stingers discharged as he collapsed into the mud, and he fired wildly at the Decepticon looming in front of him, missing completely in his frenzied state.

“Stay away from me!” he shrieked at the mech he knew as Blitzwing, scrabbling to his feet and loading his weapons with as much electricity as they could handle. “Stay away from me!”

Bumblebee wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it was not for Blitzwing to slowly raise his hands and retreat ever so slightly. Something glimmered in his boiling crimson optics, something that Bumblebee would have identified as worry if he hadn’t been in a complete panic.

“Okay,” Blitzwing said, his voice quiet but his accent prominent, immense wings pinned back as if in resignation. “I’m staying away.”

Bumblebee’s processor seared. It felt as though hundreds of needles were being weaved into the circuits and yanked on all at once, frantic chunks of static clouding his thoughts with intensity like nothing Bumblebee had ever felt before. He screamed again, words failing him as confusion and primal terror temporarily disabled his ability to speak at all.

He fired a few more shots, yelling louder as the bolts of electricity glanced off of Blitzwing’s armor, leaving only small smears of black in their wake. The Decepticon barely grimaced, but he didn’t move as Bumblebee rained down as many hits as he possibly could across his frame.

“W-why—you,” Bumblebee stammered, his vocalizer spitting smoke. “You—you—”

“I told you that you would have to trust me,” Blitzwing said, slowly lowering his vast frame to the ground and landing on his knees with a thud that split leaves from their branches.

Bumblebee shrieked and stumbled backwards, the movement rocking a wave of vertigo through his frame and pitching him back into the mud instantly. He wheezed, dragging his heels into the dirt as he tried to crawl away, painful slashes of crimson and purple surging through his processor.

“I—I—what the frag,” Bumblebee said, his vents hissing and stalling as his frame started to overheat. “What the frag? You? You?”

“Bumblebee,” Blitzwing started, his servos still held firmly in a gesture of surrender. “You—”

“I knew it!” Bumblebee hollered, pointing accusingly at Blitzwing. “I knew this was some kind of—some kind—some sort of Decepticon trick? You, what, you found out about my amnesia, and now you tricked me, huh? You were gonna kill me? Was that your plan?”

Cogs in Blitzwing’s face twisted under the thin plating. “If I intended to kill you,” he said in a low voice, “don’t you think I would have done so already?”

“Shut up!” Bumblebee shouted, pushing himself clumsily to his feet. “You were watching me this whole time! You were gonna—you were gonna snipe me!”

“That’s just not true.”

“Shut up! Shut up! I don’t want to hear it! You—you—I knew you Decepticons were awful, but taking advantage of my memory problems, I—you’re sick! Completely fragging sick!”

“Bumblebee,” Blitzwing said, his voice strangely tight, almost pleading. “I—”

“You called me ’love!’” Bumblebee screamed. “You’re disgusting! Do you know how messed up that is? Do you have any idea how creepy that is? All to get me on some island, in the middle of nowhere, where no one will find my body! You’re—that’s—you’re sick!”

“I wasn’t aware that you’d lost your memories,” Blitzwing said, and Bumblebee chose to ignore the blatant distress that laced the words. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, you creep!” Bumblebee yelled. “You’re not sorry! You—”

“Bumblebee, please,” Blitzwing said, his servos shaking as he held them above his helm. “You must listen to me. I’m aware of how this must sound—”

“You sure as slag don’t, because it sounds completely insane and you’re still talking!”

“This—” Blitzwing said, gesturing between himself and Bumblebee. “We— started in early April. So I assume your memory issues are—”

“No!” Bumblebee said, covering his audials, begging his processor to stop overflowing with so much static. “No! Shut up! Shut the hell up! I don’t want to hear it!”

“We were sent on patrol at the same time—”

“Shut up!”

“—And we began arguing quite a lot—”

“Shut up!” Bumblebee shrieked. “Shut your fragging mouth! Shut up!”

Through the overwhelming sound of static, Bumblebee heard a loud whirr, and he drew a shuddering gasp as he saw that Blitzwing’s face had switched to crimson, a deep scowl etched into his features.

“How about you shut up and listen to me?” Blitzwing bellowed, practically spitting flames from behind his visor. “I’m trying to help you, you incessant chatterbug! Just try to remember something, stop screaming, and listen to what I’m saying! I lo—”

“Get away from me!” Bumblebee said, firing his stingers a few more times, trembling with wicked glee as the bolts collided with a crack against Blitzwing’s helm. “Never talk to me again, you sicko! If there’s one thing I know, it’s that I would never, ever let someone as—as terrible as you call me ’love!’”

Whirr. Blitzwing’s powder-blue face returned, hard as stone, the red glow of his optics shimmering almost wetly. But Bumblebee didn’t care: he took the moment of oppressive silence to run as fast as his legs would carry him, tearing the damp ground beneath him to shreds.

His processor thrummed with an ache that seemed utterly ceaseless, blocks of red and purple shuddering deep in the circuitry, but he ignored all of it. He ran for his life, vents wheezing as they tried to pull into his systems, his spark thumping and twisting and backflipping with an unidentifiable vigor.

It’s because you’re scared, Bumblebee told himself, over and over, turning the words into a mantra. It’s because you’re scared. It’s not anything else. It’s because you’re scared. You’re afraid. Don’t overthink it. It’s fear. It’s because you’re scared. Oh, Primus, please let this be fear.

Chapter Text

Blitzwing wasn’t often distressed to the point of feeling genuinely ill, so it was quite strange for him to note that his tanks hadn’t stopped churning for the past seven hours.

His processor was spinning, empty but still roiling, his gut filled with acid that gnawed at his insides with painful potency. He chewed at his lip, brow furrowed, trying to move past the heavy weight of grief on his chest and think of a plan.

But the weight wouldn’t seem to lift, no matter what he tried. Bumblebee was alive, which was something he could be grateful for. The little minibot could have been seriously injured, and all he’d lost were his memories. In theory, it was certainly something to appreciate, but Blitzwing couldn’t unsee the electric panic in Bumblebee’s optics, the raw horror he’d shown as Blitzwing had made his presence known.

It had been months since Blitzwing had seen that expression, and he hadn’t even considered that he may see it once again.

Blitzwing’s datapad lay abandoned across the room where he’d thrown it earlier, its screen unusually dark without Bumblebee’s flurry of messages incessantly bringing it to life. It pained Blitzwing to look at it, to be reminded of what he’d lost, to wonder how the hell he was going to get the love of his life back.

He sighed and closed his optics, dragging his servos down his face. A small part of him wished that he’d come up with some sort of plan for a situation such as this, but how could he have possibly predicted that Bumblebee would forget their entire relationship? Blitzwing wondered if perhaps he could simply let Bumblebee fall in love with him again, but he knew deep down that their mutual disdain had been what kept them so close in their earliest days.

Disdain was no longer an option for Blitzwing. He could pretend, of course, but he couldn’t convince himself to build a relationship on lies. Bumblebee deserved better than that.

And he sure as hell isn’t going to let you spend time alone with him anymore, Blitzwing thought bitterly, smacking his face with frustration, ignoring the heat that rushed to his faceplates and the smear of crimson that clouded his vision.

“Blitzwing?”

Blitzwing snarled furiously, the sound of Lugnut’s voice feeling like knives in his audials. He grabbed whatever was near him, which happened to be a lamp, and pitched it toward the door, dentae bared.

“What?” he barked, grinning viciously as the lamp smacked into Lugnut’s optic.

Lugnut returned the irritation, stomping on the lamp as it hit the floor, crushing it to powder under his massive pede. “Pardon me for wondering why you’ve been moping all morning,” Lugnut growled, walking into the room without a care for privacy—as usual. “We have work to do. Get up.”

“Frag off,” Blitzwing said, very pointedly turning his back to Lugnut. “I’m not feeling well.”

“You look fine.”

“And you look ugly!”

Lugnut huffed, smacking one of Blitzwing’s wings sharply. “Now is not the time to be petty,” he glowered. “Lord Megatron has—”

“Oh, for frag’s sake, you oil-leaking bolt-head, I don’t care,” Blitzwing spat. “I don’t feel well. I’m not going anywhere or doing anything. Do you need me to beat the concept into your processor?”

“Quit acting like a sparkling,” Lugnut said tiredly. “You act as though I’m unaware of what you act like when you’re ill.”

Blitzwing growled. “Shut up. I hate you.”

“Well, I hate watching you hide in your quarters while we could be serving the purpose of Lord Megatron,” Lugnut said pompously. “Tell me the issue so that I may fix it.”

“You don’t care,” Blitzwing muttered. “You just want me to work on whatever nonsense Megatron has insisted upon for the day.”

“Do not act as though you know my intentions!” Lugnut said defensively, despite both of them knowing quite well what Lugnut’s intentions were. “Whatever my end goal may be, the first step is getting you out of this room. Tell me your issue.”

Blitzwing groaned loudly. “It’s not anything you can help with, moron,” he said. “Go away.”

“I will not.”

“Fine!” Blitzwing sat up abruptly, whirling to face Lugnut, staring directly into his expressionless optic, his irritation bleeding away as he thought of Bumblebee. “I lost something. Something that I held rather dear to my spark. And I am not sure of how to get it back, or if it can even be returned.”

“What was it?”

“Not your business.”

Lugnut shrugged. “Fair enough,” he grumbled. “Well, whatever this trinket is, is it truly worth abandoning your duties to wallow about?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.” Lugnut scratched at his chin thoughtfully, gazing toward the looming stone ceiling. “Well, the best course of action when losing something is to retrace your steps.”

“I’m not sure if that’s possible, in this case.”

“It is always possible,” Lugnut said. “What is lost is never truly gone. Only hidden. And in order to find what is hidden, you must step back and deduce what led to the item’s disappearance, no matter how far back you must go.”

Blitzwing opened his mouth to argue but quickly shut it, glancing thoughtfully at his datapad. Bumblebee’s memories weren’t an object, like Lugnut was presuming, but perhaps they weren’t as out of reach as presumed. Bumblebee had come to the island, after all, and he hadn’t called the other Autobots for backup.

Perhaps Bumblebee still had some shred of his memories, even if they were beyond recognition. And if Blitzwing found a way to loosen even one of those files, it could be enough to locate the rest of them.

“Very well,” Blitzwing said, surprised that Lugnut was capable of being helpful. “I will do that.”

Lugnut snorted. “Come, then,” he said. “Our great and glorious leader requires our services.”

“Of course,” Blitzwing said with a roll of the optics, clambering rather unwillingly from his berth. “Lead the way.”

“I intended to.”

As he followed Lugnut to the control center, he ducked down to retrieve his datapad from the floor, tucking it into his subspace as quietly as possible. Not that Lugnut would notice—he was clearly too focused on whatever menial task Megatron had in store for them—but it never hurt to be careful.

Fresh determination had washed through Blitzwing, and he knew precisely where to begin: pictures. Looking at photos of himself and Bumblebee had resurfaced thousands of old memories, bringing them to the forefront of Blitzwing’s thoughts, and he was certain that they could do the same for Bumblebee. A surge of desperation rushed through Blitzwing’s frame, and even as Megatron began listing their daily duties, Blitzwing was thinking of ways to contact Bumblebee once again without immediately being shut down. It may be difficult for Bumblebee to see pictures that he couldn’t remember taking, but it was a risk Blitzwing would have to accept.

The difficult part would be convincing Bumblebee to look at them in the first place. But if Blitzwing had only one thing left, it was hope.

There’s no way. There’s no chance in hell. No fragging way. He’s bonkers. Completely fragging bonkers!

Bumblebee hadn’t slept a wink. The entirety of his night had been spent shaking down every inch of his room, tearing through everything he owned in some futile hope of finding evidence. Whether that evidence be in favor of a relationship with Blitzwing or against it, Bumblebee had to know.

Something about the entire situation was wrong, and Bumblebee was terrified to admit it, even to himself. He knew that he should’ve gone straight to Optimus after returning from the strange island. He should have reported it, noted down the coordinates, and worked on a plan to take the triple changer down. He knew that he should’ve done all of that, but he couldn’t.

And, even worse, he didn’t know why.

Bumblebee managed to ignore the uncomfortable pounding in his spark and the flashes of color that assaulted his thoughts when he tried to think about Blitzwing. But there was no part of him that could understand why he wasn’t telling anyone about his night.

I gotta know, Bumblebee thought, glancing meekly around his room, which looked as though a tornado had ripped through it. Why would that freak make something like that up anyway? It had to be some kind of trick. Obviously. And you need to tell Optimus about it. You know that! Just get up and go tell him, idiot! Go!

Much as he tried to convince himself to do so, Bumblebee didn’t get out of bed. He had a billion questions and no answers, and Blitzwing’s little stunt had only made him feel worse. Bumblebee didn’t think that he could’ve possibly been more confused after falling asleep in February and waking up in October, but somehow, he’d managed it.

It seemed to take years for the sun to rise, and as soon as Bumblebee saw its healthy orange glow, he leaped from the berth and bolted toward Prowl’s quarters.

He wanted to prove Blitzwing wrong. He didn’t know why he was so desperate to ensure that the Decepticon had been lying, but he was. If he could write this off as a failed assassination plot, he could move on and move forward.

Or, at least, he hoped he could.

“Prowl!” he yelled, flinging open the tatami door with more vigor than he’d ever had at seven in the morning. “Help me meditate!”

Prowl was, predictably, tending to the large tree that consumed most of his room, sighing as Bumblebee’s sudden entrance frightened away several birds. “Come in,” he said dryly.

“Help me meditate,” Bumblebee repeated, rushing toward the ninjabot and tugging at his arm. “Come on, you’re always trying to get me to do it, right? ‘Slow down, take in the world,’ all that junk? I wanna do that! Right now! Prowl? Prowl, are you listening to me?”

“I can hear you, yes,” Prowl said softly, tossing a handful of seeds toward the cautiously reapproaching birds. “Dare I ask why you want to meditate?”

“I was Googling stuff last night, and I read somewhere that a lot of humans do it to clear their brains and that sometimes it can bring back repressed memories, which is sort-of-kind-of what I have, right?” Bumblebee said in one breath, bouncing on his heels. He had to get answers, even if it meant conforming to Prowl’s stupid processor crap. “Come on, please? Optimus’s lectures are boring as frag, and if I have to sit through one more, I’m gonna take my processor out and chew on it. Come on, come on, come on, please?”

Prowl waited patiently for Bumblebee to finish rambling before glancing down, a small smile on his face. “I would be happy to help you,” he said warmly. “I’m actually quite flattered that you’d consider meditation. It’s a truly healing method, and it—”

“Yeah, listen, I don’t care,” Bumblebee said breathlessly, grinding his dentae as his processor spasmed, blurring momentarily with red and purple as Blitzwing crossed his thoughts. “Can we do it, like, right now? Before another dumb lecture?”

Prowl contemplated for a few moments, and Bumblebee nearly jumped out of his plating in anticipation.

“Alright,” Prowl said finally. “But only if you agree to listen to everything I tell you to do.”

“Anything and everything,” Bumblebee said, saluting. If it means proving that Blitzwing is full of slag, I’ll meditate every damn day.

Bumblebee felt quite stupid sitting on a cushion on the floor, watching as Prowl filled a small fountain with a stream of endlessly bubbling water. The sound of birds chirping as the world awoke was undoubtedly peaceful, but Bumblebee couldn’t seem to calm his jittering nerves.

What was he going to uncover by doing this? Would he uncover anything, or would he just make a fool of himself in front of Prowl?

Despite Bumblebee’s nerves, Prowl seemed quite content, dragging his digits through a stream of sunlight that had started peeking into the room. The entire room seemed to hold a hazy orange glow, cast by the combination of warm yellow sunlight and the vibrant red leaves clinging to the branches of the tree.

“Take a few moments to relax, Bumblebee,” Prowl said softly, his voice low and oddly comforting. “Deep breath in, hold it, then let it out slowly. Repeat this process a few times until you feel at peace.”

“This is dumb,” Bumblebee said.

“Funny, that doesn’t sound like deep breathing,” Prowl said snidely. “Close your optics and focus.”

Bumblebee grumbled, starting to doubt the validity of this idea, but he obeyed regardless and shut his optics. The smile in Prowl’s voice was evident as he spoke.

“Good. Now, breathe in to the count of four.”

Bumblebee did.

“Hold it to the count of three.”

Bumblebee did.

“Now exhale to the count of five. Slowly.”

Bumblebee did, trying his absolute best to ignore the frantic urge to go run laps outside. How could Prowl possibly sit still like this for more than three minutes? Bumblebee already felt like he was going nuts.

“Thoughts will cross your processor,” Prowl continued quietly. “This is normal. Acknowledge them, then let them slide away. Clear your processor of everything that isn’t breathing. In for four, hold for three… out for five.”

‘Clearing his processor’ may have been the most difficult thing Bumblebee had ever attempted. But he held onto the hope that doing so would give him answers, and he breathed as instructed. Slowly, allowing his thoughts to run rampant and disappear, fading into nothingness.

Prowl waited patiently as Bumblebee inhaled, held, and exhaled over and over, finally settling into a comfortable rhythm. Not thinking was more calming than Bumblebee would have expected, so much so that he wasn’t even annoyed when Prowl’s voice filled his head once again.

“Since this is our first journey together, I will be walking you through a guided meditation,” Prowl said. “Focus on your breathing and allow my words to carry you wherever you intend to go. Is there any spot you’d like to visit?”

Trying not to think about how idiotic that sounded, Bumblebee exhaled, keeping his optics firmly closed. “The Detroit River,” he said without hesitation.

“A wonderful choice,” Prowl replied. “Continue doing as you are, focusing on your breathing. In, hold, and then out. Allow for the warmth of the sun to wash over you, for the whisper of the river to fill your thoughts and to flood you with relaxation.”

Bumblebee dared not laugh. Even though he felt like a moron, he did feel calm.

“See yourself walking by the banks of the river,” Prowl said. “The busy city is behind you, but you can only hear the babbling of the water against the shore. A breeze blows across the river, slightly cool, and you watch a thousand ripples dance across the surface of the water.”

Bumblebee took another deep breath, transporting himself back to the Detroit River, amazed at how easy it was to imagine himself standing at the water’s edge. He did love the river, and it was an easy thing to picture—wide, blue, peppered with birds and distant boats.

Huh, he thought. Cool. Maybe this isn’t the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

“You reach down and dip your servo into the water,” Prowl said. “It is slightly warm, just enough to be comfortable to the touch. You feel calm, pleasant, and the serenity washes over your entire frame. You can hear only the sounds of water and wildlife—birds tittering, insects singing, frogs croaking. You take a deep breath, allowing for the peacefulness to fill your entire body, soaking into every transistor, every capacitor, every circuit in your frame.”

Bumblebee did. He reached down to water that wasn’t there, tracing his digits through it, breathing deeply without a second thought.

“Memories of the river fill your mind—some of your fondest memories,” Prowl said, his voice sounding as though it was echoing over the imaginary river, soft and pleasant as it traveled across the grass. “You remember times with your friends and teammates, and you are filled with a sense of belonging and safety. As long as you are here, you are protected. By them, and by the water.”

Bumblebee laughed as he dipped a pede into the water. Static. Bulkhead pushed him forward, and he screamed as he— Static. —being splashed in the face and screaming, but it was a joyful one.

This was working, Bumblebee realized with a start.

“You start to walk along the edge of the river, slowly, without destination. You have nowhere to be except here, and you are happy to simply have this moment to yourself,” Prowl said. “The sunlight is warm, not hot, as it glows upon your plating, and you can feel the grass under your pedes, plush and rich with life.”

Sari was in his driver’s seat, and he was speeding along the sidewalk— Static. She was laughing, but the sound cut short as he swung his door open, and she flung herself out and into— Static. He threw her, and she shrieked with laughter as she soared through the air and crashed into the shimmering blue water with a loud— Static.

“When you are by the river, you have no responsibilities,” Prowl continued. “This is a moment of solitude and peacefulness for you and you alone. As you realize this, you wade into the water, feeling pebbles and sand beneath you as the water reaches your ankles, then your knees, then your thighs, then your waist. It is cool, clear, and bright, just like the sky above and the breeze that is brushing against your frame.”

A large hand was intertwined with his own as he tugged on it, trying to drag forward the— Static. The moon was bright against the water, and it bounced off of— Static. He swam frantically toward the shore as a tidal wave rushed toward him, emanating from the mech that had cannonballed mere inches from him with a wild crimson— Static. The sound of jet engines faded more and more as he waved, his spark warm and his plating damp from swimming. He knew that—

Static.

Static.

Static.

Bumblebee’s optics snapped open, tears of pain streaming down his cheeks as he suddenly reached up to grab his violently throbbing helm.

“Stop!” Bumblebee screeched, leaping to his pedes and kicking the cushion as hard as he could. “Stop it! I don’t want to do this anymore!”

Prowl’s light tone immediately hardened, and he rushed forward, concern written all over his features.

“Bumblebee?” he said, looking quite alarmed. “Are you alright?”

“I’m done!” Bumblebee yelled, wiping his face feverishly and wrenching his arm from Prowl’s soothing grip. “I’m—I’m sorry, I just—I gotta—I’m—”

“It’s alright,” Prowl said hurriedly. “What did you see? Did you remember something?”

“No!” Bumblebee yelled, staggering slightly as he bolted toward the door. “Sorry—I mean, thanks, I just—I gotta go!”

He was grateful that Prowl didn’t seem to argue, because he was certain that his helm was going to implode if he tried to think about anything else from his forgotten summer. Bumblebee whimpered quietly as he hurled himself back into his quarters, slamming a pillow over his audials and trying to catch his breath.

“This can’t be happening,” he whispered to no one in particular, squeezing his optics shut and biting his tongue. “This can’t be happening.”

The details were fuzzy, but he was certain about two things: one, meditation worked much better than anticipated. Two, the mech he’d been swimming with was far, far too big to be an Autobot.

And as much as he wished to deny it, an unidentifiable part of Bumblebee’s spark was completely certain that those final memories had been of Blitzwing.

Chapter Text

Lazy days were some of Blitzwing’s favorite kind, especially when work was getting down without his need for intervention. Lugnut was on a mission with Megatron, doing something that Blitzwing hadn’t cared enough to listen to, leaving him alone in the base with nothing but the comforting draft and his own thoughts.

Fashioned from an old mine, the Decepticon base had always been chilly and dark, but Blitzwing never felt the need to complain. It was spacious and relaxing, and he could get lost in the surrounding tunnels for hours without seeing a single familiar path. The layout of the base practically begged for introspection, of which Blitzwing took full advantage.

Blitzwing had started wandering through the surrounding maze only a few minutes ago, yet somehow, his surroundings looked completely unfamiliar already. He relished the thought, gazing at the ceiling that loomed overhead, wondering if the echoing hiss was from rain, wind, or both.

He sighed and kicked at a rock, watching it disappear down the dark corridor for a few moments before he caught up to it again. He kicked it. It vanished. And then it reappeared.

So boring, Blitzwing thought contentedly.

He lifted his pede to kick once again when a notification appeared on his HUD: New message. From: Bumblebee.

Blitzwing wasn’t sure whether the bubble in his intake was one of suppressed laughter or irritation. Nonetheless, without hesitation, he grabbed his datapad, barely able to read the message before deleting it immediately:

you better not be screwing with me >:/

Blitzwing forced himself not to smile as he cleared the message data, hurriedly typing through a few programs before sending an encrypted message back to Bumblebee’s address.

All of our messages need to be encrypted. It’s far too risky to send them otherwise.

yeah, well, i dont know how to do that, soooo

Blitzwing couldn’t help but chuckle quietly. His hopes desperately tried to soar, but he crammed down his emotions, trying in vain to keep from getting ahead of himself. Just because Bumblebee was messaging him didn’t mean he remembered anything. In fact, it was unlikely that he did, given that he didn’t know how to encrypt his messages.

Though Blitzwing couldn’t help but feel immeasurable relief that Bumblebee had chosen to speak with him at all. He typed as fast as he could, leaning against the cool rock wall.

I’ll show you again. It’s not too hard.

Bumblebee’s speed faltered, and for a moment, Blitzwing feared he’d been too forward. He doesn’t know you, you fool, he thought, gritting his dentae. He’s not going to want to meet with you again—if he was smart, he’d run far, far away from you.

But Blitzwing’s spark did a backflip when he saw a new message on his screen.

whatever. i just need something from you

What would that be?

proof. i need real, solid proof. and like i said, u better not be screwing with me

Blitzwing’s back scraped against the wall loudly as he slid to the ground, his spark pounding so violently in his chest that he feared it may smash through his plating. All hopes of not getting overexcited disappeared, and Blitzwing found his digits trembling with joy as he replied.

Why?

Bumblebee took a long time to respond, and though his response was harsh and riddled with typos, Blitzwing felt a tidal wave of happiness pour over him as he read.

becuz i think i remembered something, u big stupid idiot! and it better not be what i thought it was. and if youo cant give me proof, that means it wasnt what i thought it was, and i can go bacjk to hating u like i should. so giove me proofnow or im gonna find u and call in an airstrike

Blitzwing knew he shouldn’t laugh, but he did anyway, his tanks twisting as though butterflies were fluttering against his every sensor. He quickly tapped into his gallery and selected his absolute favorite photo: a selfie Bumblebee had taken on Blitzwing’s datapad, a cheesy grin on his face and the faintest glimmer of a smirk on Blitzwing’s.

One simple photo seemed to capture everything Blitzwing loved so dearly about Bumblebee. His bright, beautiful optics, the smile he wore, the way he gazed at Blitzwing with so much love and admiration despite the faint grin he received in return. The photo was slightly blurry, and Blitzwing was certain that he’d protested against it, but Bumblebee had persevered regardless of his complaints.

The pesky Autobot always persevered.

Blitzwing sent the photo and waited with bated breath, his spark thudding as he watched the read receipt appear without response. Every second was agonizing, knowing that Bumblebee was looking at that photo, doing Primus knows what with it. Blitzwing hadn’t even stopped to consider how stupid it had been to send that image—what if the Autobot leader was over Bumblebee’s shoulder right now, using Blitzwing for information?

No, Blitzwing told himself firmly. Bumblebee wouldn’t do that. Trust him.

Nearly five minutes passed before Bumblebee responded, though it felt like an hour. And the reply was certainly not worth the wait.

that looks fake. the lighting is all wrong

“Are you joking?” Blitzwing hissed, gripping his datapad with crushing strength as his vision went red. “You took this photo, idiot, how could it be fake?”

No, it’s not, stupid.

give me real proof or im telling optimus about this. u have 10 seconds!!!!!!!!!

Blitzwing growled and navigated back to his gallery, selecting every photo he had with Bumblebee in it. “Oh, I’ll give you real proof,” he glowered, tapping through the photos regardless of how embarrassing they were. Shaky selfies, images of Blitzwing’s blurred faces as Bumblebee screamed at the camera, candids of Bumblebee when he’d looked particularly wonderful against the sunset. Even the one Blitzwing hated, where they both smiled into a shared kiss, Bumblebee’s arm outstretched as he stole a snapshot of their private, intimate moments.

Blitzwing sent them all out of spite, temporarily unconcerned by how overwhelming it may be to see one hundred and seventeen photos of a forgotten life. But it was also strangely cathartic, and Blitzwing’s rage soon gave way to heavy breathing, his vents labored as he tried to calm himself down.

The mountain of messages was opened, and Blitzwing stared with a heaving chest, waiting for a response. The ground against his back felt infinitely colder as he stared at Bumblebee’s icon, waiting for something, anything that would serve as comfort.

And without warning, Bumblebee went offline.

Blitzwing sighed, dropping his datapad into his lap and rubbing his faceplates. Frustration washed over him, and he slammed a fist into the ground, trying to keep himself calm.

“Frag,” he mumbled to no one in particular, closing his optics and letting his helm drop against the wall behind him.

At least Bumblebee had the proof he wanted.

Bumblebee’s frame audibly clattered as he trembled, staring at the datapad that he’d gracelessly hurled across the room. Despite his best efforts, it hadn’t shattered to pieces, and glowing on the floor was the image of himself with his lips pressed against Blitzwing’s.

“No,” Bumblebee whispered, his optics widening as he stared at it, unable to peel his gaze away. “No, no, no, no, no way.”

It was unmistakable. Bumblebee had never seen an expression like that on himself before, but he knew he was capable of it. As much as he wanted to look away, all Bumblebee could do was stare, his processor flooding with jagged images and feelings that he barely recognized. Flashes of crimson that solidified into Blitzwing’s optics, smudges of black against yellow that twisted into Bumblebee’s hand intertwined with Blitzwing’s, dark smears of purple reforming into Blitzwing’s plating in the moonlight.

“No,” Bumblebee said again. “That’s not possible.”

He knew his words were empty. The more he stared, the more he felt. He could taste gunpowder on his lips, could feel a set much larger than his own against them. He could feel a gentle touch on his horns, sliding down to caress the back of his helm. He could feel his spark thumping harder and harder in his chest—he could see Blitzwing rolling his optics as Bumblebee’s own servos outstretched, silently begging for an embrace.

Bumblebee rolled off the berth and slammed into the ground, too weak and confused to think straight. His helm felt like it was splitting in half as splintered memories rained against the circuitry, so powerful and overwhelming that his tanks heaved and he purged on the floor.

This can’t be happening, Bumblebee thought in a frenzy, wiping his mouth and crawling toward the datapad, his limbs moving of their own accord. Those aren’t real. They can’t be!

He didn’t want to pick up the datapad, and it proved difficult given how immensely he was quivering. But he summoned the last of his strength to scroll through the pictures yet again, groaning aloud as invisible railroad spikes drove through his helm.

He couldn’t remember any of these moments—not in his processor. But his spark reacted, and Bumblebee suddenly understood the uncomfortable disconnect that he’d experienced when running away from Blitzwing. His processor forgot everything, but the spark could never forget. It had known all along.

“No way,” Bumblebee breathed, still unable to wrap his mind around it, ignoring another set of purge protocols. “This isn’t…”

He scrolled to the next image, one that Blitzwing must have taken since only Bumblebee was in frame. His optics were sparkling even through the camera lens, a butterfly balanced on the very tip of his digit, its wings slightly blurred mid-flap as Bumblebee watched it with awe written in every inch of his smile.

“I don’t remember this,” Bumblebee whispered aloud. “I didn’t do this.”

But he knew he did. His spark twitched and his processor cleaved in two as it tried to piece together the broken shards of his memory. Bumblebee closed his optics and grabbed his helm, fearing the pain may make it explode, the sound of Blitzwing’s wheezing laugh reverberating from somewhere deep in his processor.

This couldn’t be possible. But Bumblebee knew it was.

His legs shook so badly that he worried he may not be able to stand, but after some struggling, Bumblebee managed to stagger to his feet and sway toward the door. As the faint, impossible smell of pine needles and wet leaves filled Bumblebee’s mind, he set his jaw and threw his door open.

He’d asked for proof, but he’d never anticipated getting any. And now, he was more determined than ever, setting his jaw as he made his way toward Bulkhead’s room.

“Bulkhead!” he called out in a voice like rusty nails. “Bulkhead!”

He stumbled against the door and slammed his fists into it, beating against the metal. “Bulkhead! Get the frag out here!”

The door slipped open, and Bumblebee would have fallen over if Bulkhead hadn’t caught him, concern etched into his features.

“Whoa, slow down, little buddy,” Bulkhead said, teetering Bumblebee back upright. “What’s wrong? You look—”

“Awful, I know,” Bumblebee panted, pushing past Bulkhead and strolling right into his room. “Pictures.”

Bulkhead stared blankly as Bumblebee began rifling through his drawers.

“Um, I’m sorry… what?” Bulkhead said.

“Pictures!” Bumblebee yelled, wincing as he looked at a painting in the corner of Bulkhead’s room. “Photos! Images! Whatever you wanna call them! I need pictures of stuff, it’ll help, I know it will!”

“Are you okay?” Bulkhead asked tensely. “You—”

“Get me pictures before I turn your room upside down!” Bumblebee shouted.

Bulkhead straightened and nodded. “Uh—yeah! Okay! Just sit down for a second, alright? Sari takes a ton on her little phone thing, I’ll just—let me call her and we can all look together, okay? But sit down for now, you look like you’re about to faint.”

Bumblebee tore open another drawer and frowned as he rifled through it, irritated at the lack of photos. Why did no one take pictures of things anymore? He made a mental note to start keeping a photo diary or something, grinning to himself at the irony.

“Yeah,” he said, walking backwards and sitting dizzily against Bulkhead’s berth. “Yeah, just—tell her to hurry, okay?”

“Will do,” Bulkhead said, nodding as he rushed from the room.

Bumblebee took a deep breath, his spark dancing in his chest with feverish excitement. Every time he closed his optics, he could see images of himself with Blitzwing, and every single one made him feel lighter than air and more confused than ever.

Best of all, he saw moments that hadn’t been captured on film, brief and splintered though they were, but it was something. He couldn’t fight away the intense denial that filled his thoughts, but he knew that those photos had been real even if he couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Every flash of color made a little more sense, every untraceable scent, every glimmer of unrecognizable emotion.

Worst of all, Bumblebee realized the increasingly heavy ache of longing in his spark may not be for his memories at all: it was Blitzwing that he missed more than anything.

Chapter Text

“Alright,” Sari said, pulling her phone from her pocket and tapping away at the buttons. “I told Optimus that we’re doing group therapy here, and that he can’t bother us no matter what. Prowl is out on a nature walk, and Ratchet is off being a grouch somewhere. We’ve got all the time we need.”

Bumblebee’s processor was already thumping irritably, jagged flashes of purple and grey and crimson stabbing him in the back of the optics. “Sari, no offense, but you have the world’s tiniest phone,” he said, reaching up to rub his temples. “I don’t think pictures smaller than my pinky finger are gonna be any—”

“Well, duh—why do you think I made sure we had privacy?” Sari interrupted with the kind of smugness that only an eight year old could manage. “For an idiot made of technology, you’re really not up to date on the newest gadgets, are you?”

She proudly pressed a final button on her phone, and the television that Bumblebee had “borrowed” a few months back—apparently—illuminated with a widescreen snapshot of Prowl hanging upside down in a tree. Bits of grass and leaves blurred the edges of the photo, and Bumblebee snickered, putting two and two together in an instant.

“Tried to sneak a meditation photo, didja?” he said amusedly.

Sari giggled. “I took this way back when I first met you guys, cut me a break! I was really excited to meet you guys!”

“Oh, is this the day I broke the swingset in the park?” Bulkhead said, dropping heavily to the floor with a loud thump. Then he glanced nervously at Bumblebee, who sprawled on the couch with a quiet groan. “You remember that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, iron-head,” Bumblebee said. “That was, like, two years ago.”

“Just making sure.”

“I’m an amnesiac, not an idiot.”

“I was just making sure!”

“Guys!” Sari interrupted. “Bee, you clearly have a headache, so maybe don’t yell? I think that’s the exact opposite of what you’re supposed to do, actually.”

Bumblebee snorted, trying to shake his attention away from Blitzwing. Thinking about the triple changer had done very little to restore his memories, but based on how sharply his helm was pounding, his processor was full of information about the face-swapping Decepticon.

The collage of photos that Blitzwing had sent were still on his datapad—oddly enough, Bumblebee couldn’t bring himself to delete them. Sure, they brought about the sensation of a hot knife stabbing him between the eyes, but looking at them made Bumblebee feel oddly warm. Safe, comforted, as though a significant piece of his spark was truly residing in the collection of pixels.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bulkhead said, his voice hushed as he leaned toward Bumblebee. “These headaches you’re having seem way worse than before. Did something—”

“I found a couple of pictures on my datapad and I started remembering some chunks of stuff,” Bumblebee said quickly, figuring that a half-truth was still better than a full-lie. “But there, uh, there weren’t a ton of them, so I figured I’d ask around.”

“You kicked my door down,” Bulkhead said.

“Gee, I’m sorry. It’s almost like I want my memories back or something! I—”

“Bee!” Sari interrupted once again. “Stop getting worked up or I’m gonna tell Ratchet that you don’t feel good. Now, February, right? The… fifth or something, that’s when you go blank, right?”

“The third, sometime in the afternoon,” Bumblebee said, wincing as he forced himself to sit more upright, keeping the television in clear view. “But you can skip ahead to, like, March if you want to. Primus knows Optimus has already drilled the first half of February into me.”

Sari clicked her tongue and swiped through a few images, settling on one timestamped for March 9th. Bulkhead laughed, covering his mouth when Bumblebee winced and grabbed his helm.

“I was here for this,” Bumblebee said through gritted dentae, the image swimming somewhere between the television and his thoughts.

“You remember?” Sari said excitedly.

“No,” Bumblebee sighed. “But… I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like, it feels like I’m trying to remember a dream that I forgot or something. I get some chunks of it, then it all fizzles into static. Way more headaches, though.”

Bumblebee cracked his optics open to look at the picture—a shaky shot of Ratchet, apparently shouting at a young, bored-looking human. Sari was obviously laughing as she took the photo, given how out of focus it was, but Bumblebee could just barely piece together a few pieces of corrupted data.

“Ratchet was flooring it down the street since someone had just called an ambulance a few minutes ago,” Bulkhead reminisced with a small grin. “Then this one crossed the street right in front of him, and Ratchet nearly ran the poor guy over.”

“It was his own fault, not looking both ways,” Sari said knowingly.

“Ratchet complained about pedestrian laws for hours after that,” Bulkhead chuckled. “Remember how he said he was going to host that presentation at town hall about it?”

“I totally forgot about that!” Sari said. “Bee, I’m pretty sure he was actually trying to get you to look all that stuff up for him, since he said he had other things to do.”

“Of course he did,” Bumblebee said, rolling his optics. “As if I’d ever do that.”

“Well, since he never had the presentation, clearly you didn’t research anything,” Bulkhead said.

Despite the deepening ache in his processor, Bumblebee felt his face lift into a thin smile. It was a strange feeling, seeing Sari and Bulkhead take a trip down memory lane while Bumblebee watched from the outside. But strangely enough, it was comforting, and for a moment, Bumblebee felt a little bit less out of the loop.

“Are you remembering anything?” Sari asked gently, resting a tiny hand on one of Bumblebee’s tires.

He shrugged, closing his optics for a moment. “Like I said, it’s like trying to remember a dream,” he said. “But there’s something there. The colors and feelings—I feel like they’re a little more familiar.”

“That’s amazing!” Bulkhead said ecstatically. “Sari, show him that basketball game we played downtown, remember the one? With—”

“Optimus, yeah!” Sari said brightly, swiping rapidly through more pictures. “I got some great shots of that one!”

“Aw, come on, I missed Prime playing basketball?” Bumblebee whined, opening his optics once again.

Against all odds, this seemed to at least be doing a littlebit of good. He had no recollection of any such game, but he could almost recall the sensation of asphalt scraping under his pedes, the sound of Bulkhead shouting at him to pass the ball. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Bumblebee doubted Sari had the memories he was truly curious about—none of the Autobots seemed aware of his apparent relationship with Blitzwing, and Bumblebee intended to keep it that way. But at least he wouldn’t be completely in the dark anymore.

“And this one was taken right after,” Sari said excitedly, swiping to an image of Bumblebee in mid-transformation, just inches away from running face-first into a lamppost. “You swore that you were never going to race another guy in a supercar again after that.”

“Did I win, at least?” Bumblebee said.

“Barely,” Bulkhead laughed. “By an inch or two at most. You didn’t stop bragging for a month.”

“Well, get ready for me to brag about that again, because that is awesome!” Bumblebee said, admiring the body lines of the Ferrari he’d apparently taken on head-to-head. “Look at that thing! I beat that! Those have 550 horsepower minimum!”

“Here we go again,” Bulkhead groaned.

“I earned my right to gloat, thank you very much,” Bumblebee huffed, his processor pounding as fragments of pride washed over him, the exhilaration of a race he couldn’t remember brushing against the edge of his spark. “I’m getting a lot from that picture, actually. I’m all jazzed up just thinking about it.”

“It was a big moment for you,” Bulkhead said. “Maybe important memories are easier for you to remember?”

“Ugh, you sound like Prowl.”

“It’s possible! His weird meditation thing worked a little bit too, didn’t it?”

“Whatever,” Bumblebee said, dancing away from that subject as eloquently as possible.

“The only bummer about that race is that Prime totally banned you from street racing after that,” Sari said glumly. “But maybe if you don’t tell him that you remember being banned, we can—”

“Sari, no,” Bulkhead said firmly. “Street racing is dangerous! And the last thing Bumblebee needs is more head trauma.”

“But—!”

“No.”

“Buzzkill,” Sari muttered, though her grin didn’t falter.

Bumblebee was nearing his limit for the day, his processor fuzzy and dumb from constantly trying to dredge up missing memories. They had made it all the way through June, and while Bumblebee’s helm still felt empty as ever, his spark felt warmer, more secure. Emotions from these forgotten moments still clung firmly to his spark, and in Bumblebee’s view, that was a victory.

Only one more thing to try, he thought nervously, shuffling upright.

“Do you have any pictures of fights with the Cons?” he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Bulkhead turned around, cocking his helm. “Why?”

“I—they’re really tense, you know?” Bumblebee said, scrambling for any explanation that wasn’t ‘I want to see Blitzwing.’ “Emotional stuff seems to be doing the trick, and what’s more emotional than kicking Con tailpipe? Plus, what if I learned some awesome new fighting move and now I forgot it? I won’t stand for that!”

“Alright, alright, hold on,” Sari said, waving her free hand dismissively as the other scrolled through her image gallery. “I think there’s a few, just give me a second—pulling out my phone during fights isn’t usually my top priority, you know.”

“I would hope not,” Bulkhead said.

“A-ha!” Sari said, tapping triumphantly on her phone and casting a large, very blurry photo to the television. “This was back in August. Lugnut and Blitzwing were skulking in the woods, and Prowl accidentally bumped into them on one of his nature walks.”

“I’ve never seen Prime respond to a distress signal that quickly,” Bulkhead said.

Bumblebee let out a low whistle. “What were they doing?”

“Prowl tried to eavesdrop on them, but all he heard was them whining about being overworked,” Sari said with a small giggle. “Then Lugnut started stomping around and knocked over a bird’s nest, and Prowl went bananas. Of course.”

“We got there just in time,” Bulkhead said. “It was crazy. Leaves everywhere, tree trunks getting uprooted and thrown around, things were on fire, all that fun stuff.”

“I hid in Prime’s trailer when you all left,” Sari said proudly. “But then he made me hide behind a tree. Got some great shots, though!”

Bumblebee couldn’t have agreed more. His spark was racing just looking at the photos. Most of them were out of focus and obscured by falling branches, but the blurs of color alone were enough to send adrenaline pumping through Bumblebee’s cabling.

“Look at this one—that’s Prowl, right on top of Lugnut, stabbing him in the eye!” Sari said. “Oh, he was mad. Lugnut, I mean. He didn’t go blind, but his aim was way off after that.”

“Bummer that he got it fixed,” Bulkhead sighed.

“This one, too—Bee, you’ll love this!” Sari opened the next picture, and Bumblebee’s spark did a backflip, a thousand invisible hammers pummeling his processor.

Photo-Bumblebee was merely a yellow smudge, partially out of frame, but Blitzwing was standing at his full height with flames bursting from his cannons. Bumblebee’s spark squeezed as he sat up straighter, peering at the image in awe.

He attacked me, he thought. That’s not very boyfriend-ly, is it?

“What happened in this one?” he asked, trying to ignore the thick crack in his voice.

“It was awesome,” Sari said before Bulkhead could speak. “I was so close to it, my eyebrows burned off a bit! You and Blitzwing were going at it, punching and scratching and running around like crazy—”

“I tried to help you out, but Blitzwing, um, hit me kinda hard,” Bulkhead chimed in.

“Ha! You mean he knocked you unconscious.”

“Sari!”

“I got this picture at the perfect moment,” Sari continued, disregarding Bulkhead’s indignance. “Three-face here turned away from Bulkhead, cannons down, and fired this huge sheet of fire at you. And I don’t know how you did it, but you did this awesome backflippy dodge move, and he completely flubbed his aim! You didn’t even get a scratch on you!”

Bumblebee’s spark drummed in his chest so violently that he feared it may pop out at any second. His processor spasmed painfully, a hiss of crimson static morphing and solidifying into a memory.

Bumblebee looked toward Sari nervously. Blitzwing’s gaze met his own, visor flashing with understanding, and his cannons clicked a few degrees to the left, directly away from Bumblebee.

Flames arched dangerously through the air, and Bumblebee faked a dodge, evading an attack that hadn’t been fired in his direction.

“Holy slag,” Bumblebee said aloud without thinking.

“I know, right?” Sari said excitedly. “He totally missed! Whatever you did there, you gotta figure out how you did it, because it was so cool. They ran right after that—I think Megatron called them or something, I don’t know. You said that they got scared of your ‘wicked moves,’ but none of us bought that.”

Bumblebee stared at the television for a few more long moments, jaw slightly slack with disbelief. He remembered something. Blitzwing had protected him in the heat of battle, quite literally, and they had both escaped unscathed.

“Listen,” Bumblebee said slowly, swallowing hard. “Um—I think that’s all I can do for one day, if that’s okay.”

Bulkhead turned around immediately, staring at Bumblebee with concern. “You alright, little buddy?” he said anxiously.

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine,” Bumblebee said, becoming acutely aware of how intense his headache had become. “Note to self—high-stress situations are good for memories but bad for my processor. Kinda feels like someone’s been splitting logs with my brain.”

“Did you remember something?” Sari said, her eyes going wide.

“Sorta,” Bumblebee mumbled, closing his optics as scarlet fireworks exploded behind them. “This was great, guys, really. I wanna do this again. I just… I need a break, if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine,” Bulkhead said quickly, scooping Sari from her perch on the berth and shutting off the television. “Just rest up, okay? Let us know if you need anything. Do you want some oil?”

“No, I’m good,” Bumblebee breathed, his thoughts focused entirely on his datapad. “Thanks, though. See you later?”

“See you later,” Sari confirmed, waving as she emerged from the crook of Bulkhead’s elbow. “Don’t die!”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Bumblebee chuckled. “Thanks again, really. This has been super helpful—you have no idea.”

Bulkhead smiled warmly, turning off the overhead light as he left the room, the door shutting behind him with a quiet snick.

Bumblebee stared at the door, waiting impatiently for Bulkhead’s heavy footfalls to vanish.

The very moment silence overtook the room, he threw his pillow across the room, practically falling on top of his hidden datapad as he rushed to unlock it.

Ping.

Blitzwing lifted his helm, narrowing his optics at his datapad as the screen lit up, casting a soft glow upon the room.

He hardly dared to believe it. But as he picked up his datapad and unlocked it, the message filled his spark with hope and immeasurable relief.

It was Bumblebee. The little Autobot, against all odds, had decided not to block him, instead sending a single message to Blitzwing’s public inbox:

teach me how 2 encrypt messages

Blitzwing didn’t intend to laugh, but he did anyway, chuckling quietly to himself as he deleted the message and opened an encrypted chat.

You’re going to get me in trouble if you keep sending public messages.

then teach me how to encrypt them, stupid

A weight seemed to lift from Blitzwing’s chest, and he took a moment to hold his datapad to his chest, breathing deeply for the first time in what felt like ages. He’d been tormenting himself for hours now, worried that his overreaction to Bumblebee’s request for photos had been a catastrophic mistake.

Instead, it seemed that Bumblebee believed him—even if only a little bit. Blitzwing drew another cool breath before lifting his datapad once again, trying not to type too frantically.

Strangely, this felt a lot like the beginning of their relationship. Blitzwing didn’t want to seem too eager.

When and where?

Bumblebee took a few minutes to respond, and Blitzwing vaguely wondered if he was having the same feelings—the insistent butterflies in his tanks, the indescribable nervousness of falling in love. It may be the second time for Blitzwing, but it was the first for Bumblebee, and Blitzwing was determined to do it properly.

Bumblebee deserved it.

same place, 1 am tonite. dont be late or im tattling, lol

I’ll be five minutes early, then.

Blitzwing waited for Bumblebee to read the message before deleting the conversation, quietly mourning its loss as he had so many times before. But finally, the sadness of hiding their conversations was laced with comfort, a soft excitement at the prospect of seeing Bumblebee in person. Hearing him talk, watching him move, touching his smooth plating, admiring his ability to chatter about absolutely nothing.

Blitzwing shut off his datapad, biting his glossa to fight down a smile.

He had his Bumblebee back—even if only a small part of him. And he was ready to earn the rest.

Chapter Text

There was something oddly comforting about remembering a place, even if Bumblebee only remembered it because he’d been here a couple of weeks ago.

The moonlight was thinner this time, the glow from the half-moon slightly dampened by the smear of thin clouds painted across the sky. The ground beneath Bumblebee’s pedes wasn’t quite as squishy as it had been before, just shy of being frozen. Even though November had barely begun, Bumblebee could see the warm air from his vents solidifying in front of him, accumulating into a puffy mist before dissipating into the atmosphere.

But fortunately, on this visit to what Bumblebee was now calling ‘Blitzwing Island,’ his fear had ebbed ever so slightly. The looming trees no longer looked dangerous and ominous, and the gentle smack of river water against the shoreline was a welcome distraction from the autumn silence. Bumblebee’s optics darted around, seeking out a shimmer of red amongst the greys and browns, trying to keep himself from wandering too deep into the woods.

“Hello?” Bumblebee called, twitching as his voice emitted as a pathetic squeak. He cleared his intake and tried again. “Um… hello? Blitzwing?”

The name tasted oddly familiar against Bumblebee’s lips, and he swallowed hard, rubbing his aching forehead. This will never not be super weird, he thought dejectedly, pressing his lips together, his spark pounding.

“Yo,” he said, forcing himself to be brave. “Swear on my spark that I won’t scream and run away this time.”

He held his datapad out to no one, shaking it as though it were a treat for a pet. “And I told you not to be late,” he said, irritation making his tone much more solid.

“I’m not.”

Bumblebee yelped, his plating rattling as a shiver went through him, instinct taking over his processor for a moment. He whirled around, optics widening as he held the datapad in shivering digits, staring up at Blitzwing’s towering form.

“Are you trying to freak me out?” Bumblebee snapped, taking a few steps back in spite of his own promise. “For frag’s sake! You can just walk out of the trees like a normal mech, you know!”

“I needed to remain hidden in the case that you opted not to come,” Blitzwing said, optics glowing like crimson embers against the dark sky. “But against all odds, you did show up.”

“I’m the one that told you to come here in the first place,” Bumblebee said, his pedes carrying him another step back as Blitzwing took a step forward.

“You are known for being a bit of a flake,” Blitzwing said, his tone strangely warm despite his ice-cold expression.

Bumblebee made a strange sound, his vocalizer caught somewhere between a scoff and an indignant curse. He stretched his arms as far as they would go, tilting the datapad in Blitzwing’s direction, his processor flickering with static.

“Show me how,” he said shortly.

Blitzwing’s expression was unreadable, and for a terrifying moment, Bumblebee thought of how easy it would be for the Decepticon to simply lift his leg and smash Bumblebee under his massive pede.

But instead, Blitzwing nodded and took a slow step forward, pausing as though to make sure Bumblebee wouldn’t run. Bumblebee didn’t—though Primus, did he want to—and Blitzwing continued to walk. His footfalls seemed to shake the entire island as he approached, carefully lowering his frame to the ground and sitting next to Bumblebee in an oddly casual cross-legged position.

“Sit,” Blitzwing said, a gentle plea dancing at the edge of his tone.

Bumblebee swallowed hard, his frame still shaking anxiously. I can’t believe I’m doing this, he thought in a frenzy, looking down at his datapad. This is so dumb. This is officially the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Number one. Absolute dumbest. I will never be dumber.

“Okay,” he croaked, dropping to the ground next to Blitzwing, ensuring that there was considerable distance between them.

“Okay,” Blitzwing repeatedly, holding out a servo large enough to crush Bumblebee’s helm into powder. “Hand me the datapad. Encrypting messages is quite easy, really.”

“Then they’re probably really easy to read, too,” Bumblebee said, dropping the datapad into Blitzwing’s outstretched hand before pulling sharply away.

“Not quite,” Blitzwing said, the faintest hint of a smile passing across his features. “I commissioned this application from a trusted source. The price was high, but he—”

“Lockdown,” Bumblebee said, wincing as a stab of pain rocketed through his processor.

Blitzwing cocked his helm slightly. “Correct,” he said. “How did you know—”

“No idea,” Bumblebee said, curling forward and pressing his throbbing helm between his knees. “Just show me the damn thing so I can go home, okay?”

Blitzwing didn’t pry—an extremely welcome change from the Autobots, Bumblebee supposed. His team seemed more invested in regaining Bumblebee’s memories than he was, and it was refreshing not to have four fresh headaches piled on top of two preexisting ones. Bumblebee lifted his helm just enough to watch what Blitzwing was doing, watching as the rough, scratched digits navigated through the datapad’s software.

“There’s two main functions to the application,” Blitzwing said, his voice softer than Bumblebee had ever remembered hearing it. “Mass-deletion and encryption. Encryption ensures that messages can only be transferred from your datapad to mine, or vice versa. If someone attempted to intercept the transmissions, they would see only gibberish. Interception is difficult, as well, since these messages cannot be added to any databases without our explicit permission.”

His servos are so big, Bumblebee caught himself thinking, watching the fluid movement of each joint, the way moonlight caught the dents in the black plating. He, somehow, remembered them being very warm, but decided not to overthink that at the moment.

“All you need to do is tap here and select ‘private’ before entering my address,” Blitzwing continued, though Bumblebee was barely paying attention. “Then we can message one another without fear of our messages being expropriated. We also agreed to delete all of our conversations after having them, so when we are done talking, tap the ‘delete’ button twice, and the conversation will disappear on both of our devices.”

“Uh-huh,” Bumblebee said absently. He likes lifting me up at the waist. I know he does. Always the waist… why there? My shoulders are a lot bigger and squishier, so why wouldn’t he—why do I even know that?

“Now you try.”

Bumblebee snapped out of his confused trance, meeting Blitzwing’s gaze with a start. “What?” he said dumbly.

Blitzwing snorted. “You want to know how to send messages, yes?” he said. “Then prove to me that you were listening.”

“I was,” Bumblebee said.

“Likely story,” Blitzwing mused with irritating knowing. “Show me, then. My address is in the database, so—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that much,” Bumblebee grumbled, snatching the datapad away from Blitzwing and trying to remember his instructions. Had he really been staring at Blitzwing’s hands for five straight minutes? Bumblebee couldn’t remember the last time he’d focused on anything for that long.

“Tap ‘private,’” Blitzwing said, scooting just close enough to Bumblebee so that he could point at the screen. “Then send a message. Anything works.”

Bumblebee rolled his optic at the hint, his spark pounding as Blitzwing’s warm frame grew closer to his own. “Tap here, then ‘private,’” he droned. “Type a message: ‘Blitzwing is a stupidhead.’ Then send?”

“Then send,” Blitzwing reaffirmed, drawing his own datapad and proudly showing Bumblebee the notification. “Try deleting it. No hints this time.”

Bumblebee forced his attention away from Blitzwing and back onto his own datapad. “Delete button twice,” he said, glancing at Blitzwing for confirmation as he did so.

Blitzwing’s datapad went blank, and that faint smile passed over Blitzwing’s face once again. “Well done,” he said. “I told you it was easy.”

“Easy after I knew what to press, yeah,” Bumblebee muttered. “Fumbling in the dark with half a processor missing, not so much.”

A thick silence cascaded between them, one that seemed to last for hours instead of seconds. Bumblebee’s datapad flickered into sleep mode, and his optics swept across the ground, looking everywhere but at Blitzwing. Every inch of the Decepticon’s frame made his processor hurt more, some fractured memory tied to every part of him. It was unbearable and tempting all at once—a large part of Bumblebee ached to look, to understand a little more of what was missing from his memories, but another part of him was too terrified to do so.

“So,” he said, his tiny voice bursting through the tense silence. “So, um… this whole ‘you and me’ thing… it’s real? We’re a… thing?”

A few hydraulics in Blitzwing’s frame hissed. “Yes.”

“Really?” Bumblebee said, forcing himself to meet Blitzwing’s optics, his processor and spark drumming in time with one another. “You and me. An Autobot and a Decepticon. Thirty feet and twelve feet, four and—”

“Four and a quarter inches, yes,” Blitzwing said, clearly amused, his one working optic twinkling. “I know. You have always been quite adamant about including the quarter of an inch.”

“It’s important!” Bumblebee snapped. “That’s a quarter inch taller than—”

“Wasp, yes. I know.”

“Stop doing that!” Bumblebee squeaked, his spark doing a wild, excited backflip. “It’s creepy that you know all that, and I don’t know that you know that!”

Blitzwing smirked cruelly, a low chuckle rumbling deep in his frame.

Another silence fell over the island, less painful than the previous one, but equally pressing. Bumblebee was hyper aware of the leaves rustling in the breeze, the distant water slapping against rocks, the creaks and hums of Blitzwing’s frame and his own. He shuddered, gathering his knees to his chest.

“This is weird,” he said, more to himself than to Blitzwing.

“I understand,” Blitzwing said.

“And that’s even weirder,” Bumblebee mumbled. “You’re nice. To me. Words can’t even explain how weird that is for me. We were fighting, and you missed me on purpose, right? Didn’t you?”

“Of course,” Blitzwing said gently. “I swore to never hurt you, even if we did have to pretend. To keep up appearances.”

“That’s so lame,” Bumblebee said, unsure of what else to say.

Blitzwing’s frame moved slightly closer, his monocular telescoping in and out rapidly. Bumblebee wasn’t sure how he knew, but he was certain that Blitzwing was looking at him, watching for any signs of hesitance.

Weird.

“You remembered that?” Blitzwing asked, seeming satisfied that Bumblebee wasn’t skittering away.

Bumblebee shrugged. “Sort of,” he muttered. “That’s the only bit I, like, actually remember. The rest of it is kind of… smudged? It’s all criss crossed and confusing—I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. But I do remember it. Does that make any sense?”

Whirr. Bumblebee jumped as Blitzwing’s face spun from blue to black, a jagged smile cracking his faceplates in two. “Not really,” Blitzwing said with a snicker. “You can try to explain it, though! Promise I’ll shut up.”

Bumblebee shrugged, his head aching even more as he looked at Blitzwing’s face, his big scarlet optics wide and expectant.

“I guess… I remember what it was like, and how it felt,” Bumblebee said, shuttering his optics as he tried to put the sensation into words. “I told Sari it’s like trying to remember a dream that you forgot. I know it was a really hot day, and I was dying for some coolant, and you made really intense eye contact with me before firing off to the left. Then I did some insane overcomplicated dodge so I’d look like a badass. I know we did it on purpose—both of us. We orchestrated the whole thing. Then there was… something about Prime’s trailer. Then later in the day, something about the oil tasting funny, I don’t know. But the rest just isn’t there.”

Blitzwing’s face spun back to blue with a whirr, though he said nothing. Bumblebee bit his lip, rocking back and forth, drumming his digits against his knees.

“How did this even start?” he asked, unsure if he was ready for the answer. “Us, being a—a thing. How does that even happen?”

Blitzwing shrugged, his gaze shifting toward the horizon, an oddly wistful expression taking over his face. “It was quite a process on both of our parts, if you must know,” he said, uncrossing his legs and stretching out, his wings twitching as his frame unfurled to its full size. “In April, I believe, we were on patrol at the same time and happened to bump into one another. We started arguing about something—Primus only knows what, probably something foolish—and I dared you to shoot me. We ended up laughing more than arguing, and I personally recall returning to base and thinking that it had been my favorite patrol route in months.”

Bumblebee’s processor splintered a few times, shards of memory flickering into the front of his thoughts before vanishing. He swallowed, fidgeting with his fingers, his alert lowering by the second as he watched Blitzwing settle into a more comfortable position against a tree trunk.

“Eventually, we both started requesting similar patrol shifts, because we enjoyed seeing one another,” Blitzwing continued. “We saw one another almost daily, but I eventually admitted having feelings for you in… late June, I believe it was. You laughed at me, and I was crushed until you said the same. Though it wasn’t until mid-August that we… what was the term you used… ‘made it official.’ Created ground rules, established times outside of patrol to spend with one another, and so on.”

Bumblebee jumped into Blitzwing’s arms, smiling so widely that his face hurt, smashing his lips against Blitzwing’s— Static. Blitzwing’s digits were trembling as he gripped Bumblebee’s waist, so large yet so gentle, holding him close as thought he’d never let go—

“I… kinda remember that, yeah,” Bumblebee said, his knees suddenly feeling rather weak.

Blitzwing’s features quirked into a brief smile, but the happiness quickly vanished, something much more dark and melancholy flooding his optics. “Good,” he said. “We continued to go on dates for a month or so, and in late September, we confessed love for one another. You said it first, and I was quick to follow suit.”

Blitzwing’s tone was frank, but his gaze was hollow, cold, sad. Bumblebee’s spark sank uncomfortably.

“Just a few weeks before I lost my memories,” he said, his voice incredibly small.

Blitzwing nodded, momentarily seeming as though he wanted to say something else, but he fell silent. Bumblebee stared in awe—it was odd to see such a range of emotions on Blitzwing, of all mechs. The triple changer certainly wasn’t known for being stoic, but Bumblebee never imagined that he’d see such expression pass over just one of his faces. The changes were small but dynamic, and they made Bumblebee’s helm ache even more, fragments of memories flashing through him at speeds too quick to understand.

“Sorry,” Bumblebee said awkwardly.

To his surprise, Blitzwing laughed, though it was a sad, pitying laugh. “Don’t be,” he said, shaking his helm. “Hardware is fickle. If you damaged yourself enough to get processor damage, you should be grateful to be alive.”

Bumblebee shrugged uncomfortably. “Still,” he mumbled. “I mean—I keep getting chunks. Not everything, not even close to everything, but chunks. It’s just this big mess of corrupted data. But I mean, I’m still sitting here next to you, and something… I don’t know. Something’s telling me to stay. It feels like a safe spot here.”

Blitzwing sighed heavily, and Bumblebee was oddly relieved to see a smile on his face once again. “We met on this island every weekend or so,” he explained when he saw Bumblebee staring. “You told me everything about the week. Everything. You’re quite the motormouth.”

Bumblebee rolled his optics, sighing pointedly, and Blitzwing reached out to take his hand. Bumblebee didn’t stop him, letting Blitzwing weave their digits together slowly.

“You told me that you loved me here, as well,” Blitzwing said. “And I told you that I loved you too.”

Bumblebee watched his digits intertwine with Blitzwing’s, just barely recalling the familiar weight of Blitzwing’s servos, the roughness of his digits. “I don’t really remember that,” he said guiltily.

“That’s alright,” Blitzwing said, his voice barely a breath, a low hum over the combined whirring of their vents. “You’ll get there. Again. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

Bumblebee squeezed Blitzwing’s servo, though he didn’t quite know why. “Why?” he asked. “Why do I even trust you? Why do you trust me?”

Blitzwing chuckled airily. “We never did figure that one out. Not quite. We simply did.”

Blitzwing edged ever closer to Bumblebee, and Bumblebee’s spark thudded in his chest, excitement and nervousness washing over him in a painful wave. He bit his lip, watching the grass bow under Blitzwing’s weight, the distance between them closing inch by inch.

“We were, um…” Bumblebee hesitated, certain that if he didn’t take a few deep breaths, his spark would shoot right out of his plating. “In one of those pictures you sent me, we were, um… kissing.”

“Yes, we were.”

Bumblebee chewed at his lip harder. “That picture sort of made me remember, uh—it kinds reminded me what you, um, what it feels like to kiss you. Sort of.”

Blitzwing’s face was just inches from his own. “May I refresh your memory?”

It was embarrassing to have his frame shaking like this. Bumblebee felt like every gear in his body was spinning and vibrating, his plating clattering against itself at a deafening volume. He stared into Blitzwing’s optic, then at his monocular, trying to decide which to look at, painfully aware of how long he’d been sitting in complete silence.

“Uh—yeah,” he stammered, his tanks filling with invisible butterflies.

“You’re certain? I don’t want to pressure—”

“No—I mean, yeah. Yes. Yeah. Go for it.”

There was but a brief moment of silence between them before Blitzwing bridged the gap, pressing his lips against Bumblebee’s, and the kiss sent fireworks from Bumblebee’s spark straight to his processor.

A rush of memories crashed over Bumblebee with such power that his optics whited out, his entire frame sizzling with violent charge that made all of his pistons seize and his processor burst with incomprehensible static. Hundreds, maybe thousands of forgotten shared kisses smashed into Bumblebee’s helm with agonizing force, as though he was kissing Blitzwing for the first time and the millionth time all at once. Bumblebee shuddered all over, his frame burning as memories arched through him, frying his processor until he could only think about one thing—Blitzwing.

Bumblebee knew he was clumsy, and for a brief moment, he was ashamed that he was apparently so bad at kissing. But Blitzwing’s surprisingly soft lips claimed that shame and whisked it away, making all of the right moments, his thick servos wrapping around Bumblebee’s waist with alien familiarity. He knew exactly how to lean into Bumblebee, how to absorb all of his anxiety and take it away, every movement practiced and perfect. Bumblebee couldn’t help but let out a tiny gasp of surprise, but Blitzwing silenced him by sliding a servo up to his helm, caressing the minibot with firm delicacy.

Bumblebee tried to reciprocate, but nothing could match the months of rehearsals that Blitzwing had over him. After a few seconds, he simply allowed himself to melt into Blitzwing’s touch, into the barbs of memory that assaulted his processor, the damaged recollections that were so foreign, yet somehow felt like home.

Their first kiss, inept and lacking in all grace, their frames tangled in hiding under a bridge. The brief pecks they managed to catch at the ends of their shared patrol shifts. Kisses blown across a battlefield, sent flying with sly winks. Fully embracing one another in the moonlight, in this very spot, minutes turning into hours as they studied each other’s lips. The struggle of sharing a kiss while smiling, their sparks full to bursting, the word love echoing through the trees—

Bumblebee lurched back with a gasp, and Blitzwing abruptly pulled away, looking alarmed.

“Are you alright?” he said, seeming surprised when Bumblebee fell against his cockpit, spark pounding wildly.

“Yeah,” Bumblebee said, his voice rusty, blinking rapidly as he tried to regain his vision. “That—uh—I got some, uh—”

“Memories?” Blitzwing asked.

Bumblebee nodded weakly. “Lots of ‘em. Frag. Still kind of—chunky. I mean, not chunky, more like busted, but uh—”

“Bumblebee.”

Bumblebee glanced up, mildly surprised to see how frantically he was clinging to Blitzwing’s frame. It was as though they were sinking and the Decepticon was a life raft, and Bumblebee had no intentions of letting go. Instinct had taken over once again, but instead of feeling the need to run away, he knew that he needed to be right here.

“I understand that this is a lot,” Blitzwing said, his servo gliding freely up Bumblebee’s back, tracing against plating with such care and knowing that Bumblebee started shivering all over again. “But if you will let me, I would like very much to earn your trust once again. However long it may take. We can work toward getting your memories back, or making new ones—whichever you prefer.”

Bumblebee closed his optics, arching into Blitzwing’s touch without even realizing he was doing so. “Yeah,” he said stupidly, not sure what else to say. “Yeah. Weird as this is, I… yeah. Definitely. If anyone can help, it’s you. Optimus is giving me the downlow on everything, but I mean…”

“Not quite everything,” Blitzwing said, his voice somewhere between snide and amused.

Bumblebee snorted. “Shut up.”

Blitzwing let out a low, deep sigh, one that made his entire frame rumble, his plating settling as though every cord and line had come unraveled in sync—Bumblebee hadn’t even realized it, but the triple changer had been on battle-ready alert, fully prepared to jump away should Bumblebee show any sign of fear or resistance.

But instead, Bumblebee lay against his chest, his vents redlining as he picked through the static-coated blips of memory. “Thanks,” he said, the phrase sticky and unfitting in his intake. “Um… would it be totally dumb of me to ask for another memory refresh?”

Blitzwing chuckled, gliding a servo protectively over Bumblebee’s frame, his digits scratching at an unreachable spot under Bumblebee’s kibble—frag, that felt good. Blitzwing was a wizard, Bumblebee decided, a wizard who knew exactly how to hold him, where to touch, where to itch.

“I would be happy to,” Blitzwing said, his voice warmer than Bumblebee would have ever expected, his face spinning suddenly with a whirr. “But we should wait first, ‘cause if we don’t, your processor might pop! Your engine redlined! Am I that good of a kisser?”

Bumblebee knocked his knuckles irritably against Blitzwing’s chest—an odd thing to do, but it felt right. “Can it, loser.”

He may not have remembered falling for Blitzwing at all, let alone falling in love with him. But he knew for sure that this feeling, this comfort, this warmth and trust—this was, without a doubt, love. And if this was just the beginning, Bumblebee couldn’t wait to see how much better it could get.