Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They left the embassy at seven o’clock in the morning. Bumblebee took point, followed by Ratchet and Cliffjumper. His security detail, consisting of Agents Boynton and Simmons, brought up the rear in a dark-colored sports utility vehicle. Bumblebee navigated out of the ground bridge hangar, down the access tunnel, and into the desert. The sky was a perfect powder blue from horizon to horizon. They drove down the road, slowing long enough for the perimeter fence to rumble open, and then they accelerated towards the highway. Sam watched in the rearview mirror as the embassy fell away behind them. When it was no longer visible, he dropped his eyes to stare out the windshield. The road stretched out in front of them, its dark pavement contrasting against the red sand.

Bumblebee took the on-ramp towards the I-80 N and accelerated to sixty-five miles per hour. The highway was almost entirely devoid of traffic, except for the transport trucks and tractor-trailers that were common between Jasper and Reno. Sam turned his head, watching as the little town passed by on their right. The community stood out like an oasis in the barren desert that surrounded it. Still, he couldn’t prevent the way his heart sped up as they passed the exit that had taken them to the restaurant. Had it only been a week ago? He absently tugged on his shirtsleeves, pulling the cuffs down over his bruised wrists. It felt like another lifetime.

“Did you want to drive?” Bumblebee asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

Sam glanced at the dashboard in surprise. “Are you sure?”

Bumblebee’s engine revved loudly by way of answer, and Sam couldn’t help the grin that split his face. He sat up straighter in the seat, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gearshift. He could feel the moment that Bumblebee relinquished control, a subtle shiver running through his frame. As soon Sam pressed the gas pedal, the entertainment console lit up and navigated to Sirius XM radio. A moment later, Black Betty burst from the speakers at high volume. He laughed lightly, running his thumb over the steering wheel. It had been a long time since he and Bumblebee had gone driving together. Although he could still feel Ratchet and Cliffjumper traveling behind them, it was almost like old times.

They drove in companionable silence for the better part of two hours. Sam stayed in the right lane until they neared Reno, and then he moved into the middle lane to avoid the numerous on-ramps with too-short merges. Ratchet and Cliffjumper followed closely behind them, and the dark-colored SUV followed suit shortly thereafter. The traffic was heavier this close to the city, and Sam found himself behind a Winnebago with a COEXIST bumper sticker. The irony was not lost on him.

They drove for another twenty miles before Sam noticed the red and orange Lamborghini Centenario in the rearview mirror. The sleek sports car was trailing a dozen vehicles behind them, keeping a low profile. Sam turned his attention inwards, and it took him less than a second to find Hot Rod’s rose-gold spark signature on the neural network.

Sam sighed heavily. So much for just the two of us.

Bumblebee’s engine rumbled lowly.

“They’ll keep their distance.” He promised.

“It’s fine.” Sam replied, resignedly.

He had been briefed on the security details for his trip earlier that morning. Ratchet, Bumblebee, and Cliffjumper would stay on his grandmother’s property. A security detail, including Hot Rod, Bluestreak, Hound, Trailbreaker, and Mirage would be stationed in close proximity. When Sam had asked why they had been chosen, Ultra Magnus had explained, in his usual direct manner, that they had the necessary skills to protect him in the event of an attack. Agents Boynton and Simmons would be staying at a B&B down the road. They would only accompany him if he left the property, which he had no intentions of doing.

Their little convoy continued on until almost noon, when Sam’s stomach and his bladder were in need of a break. He ceded control back to Bumblebee, who navigated to the nearest rest station. The Camaro parked at the far end of the lot, and Ratchet, Cliffjumper, and Hot Rod pulled alongside him. The dark-colored SUV parked behind them a moment later. Sam pushed open the door, stretching his back with an audible groan. It had been a long time since he had driven for longer than an hour or two.

Boynton and Simmons climbed out of their SUV, slamming the doors behind them. The two agents were dressed in casual wear; the only clue that they were federal marshals were the dark sunglasses and coiled earpieces they wore.

“You good to go?” Boynton asked.

Sam nodded at the older man, who had the weathered face and general demeanor of a drill instructor. Ironhide would love him.

“Yeah, sure.” He replied.

As soon as the words left his mouth, Bumblebee’s holoform flickered to life beside him. Agent Boynton startled, swearing loudly in surprise. Bumblebee gave him an apologetic look, but the older man waved him off.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.” Boynton grumbled.  

They made their way across the parking lot and into the service station. It was busy, given the lunch hour, and Sam had to wait for a urinal. Boynton stood near the bathroom entrance as he relieved himself and washed his hands, earning more than a few strange looks.

When Sam finished, he made his way into the dining area. The space was bright and airy, with a domed glass ceiling and abundant seating. Bumblebee was waiting for him near the vending machines. Sam smiled at the holoform, and together they crossed the large atrium towards the fast-food counters along the opposite wall. Sam considered his choices, and then got in line at the Popeyes Chicken. He ordered a combo meal to go and paid with the credit card that Carter had given him that morning. He only had to wait a short while before the cashier called out his number. He stepped up to the counter, exchanging his receipt for a paper bag and a disposable cup, before walking over to the beverage dispenser. He half-filled his cup with diet soda, sealing it with a plastic lid, and then stuffed a handful of napkins and condiment packets into the bag.

When he turned around, both Agent Simmons and Agent Boynton were standing near the metal cordon that separated the fast food counters from the dining area. Sam made his way towards them, taking a drink of his soda.

“Are you guys getting anything to eat?” He asked.

“We have sandwiches in the car.” Boynton replied gruffly.

Sam shrugged, taking another drink. “Suit yourself, but takeout is half the fun of a road trip.”

Simmons grinned at him, causing dimples to appear in her cheeks. “Don’t mind Robert. He stopped having fun sometime after his balls dropped.”

The older agent gave Simmons a sharp look, which didn’t seem to affect her in the least.

They made their way through the dining area, stepping around tables full of road-weary parents and rambunctious children. When they approached the exit, Boynton strode forward and pulled open the door. Sam raised his soda in a silent thank-you and walked into the early afternoon sunlight. It was busier than it had been when they first arrived, and as a result, they were halfway across the parking lot before Sam noticed the crowd. He pulled up short, staring in dismay at the dozen or so people milling around the flashy alt modes.

Sam sighed heavily, before turning to look at Bumblebee. The holoform had an upbeat, almost cheerful expression on his face. It caused Sam to turn his attention inwards, and he was immediately met with a warm glow of satisfaction from the scout.

“You’re enjoying this?” He asked, disbelievingly.

Bumblebee grinned unabashedly in return. “It’s nice to be appreciated.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he was smiling despite himself. “You’re so vain. I swear, you’re worse than Hot Rod.”

Across the parking lot, the Lamborghini honked at him, causing the crowd of people to exclaim in surprise and delight. A younger guy wearing a v-neck tee-shirt and cargo shorts pulled out his phone and crouched down, taking a selfie with Cliffjumper in the background. Sam watched in a mixture of consternation and disbelief—the entire situation felt surreal.

Agent Boynton made an impatient sound in the back of his throat, before turning to look at him. “Stay here.”

The older man crossed the parking lot towards the onlookers, his back ramrod straight and shoulders squared. Agent Simmons moved to stand at Sam’s side. Her posture was relaxed, but Sam could tell that she was watching Boynton very closely.

“Alright, get going.” Boynton commanded briskly.

The guy who had taken the selfie stood up, watching Boynton with wide eyes. “Woah, it’s a Fed.”

“I told you it was them!” His companion said, tugging at his elbow enthusiastically.  

Boynton planted himself in front of the crowd, motioning in a move along gesture. “That’s enough, fellas. You had your fun. Step away from the vehicles, please.”

“It’s them though, right?” An older man asked, eyeing the alt modes speculatively, “I mean, a Camaro, a Bugatti, and a Lamborghini? It has to be them.”

A woman standing nearby crossed her arms. “What would the Autobots be doing thirty miles outside of Redding, California?”

“Their embassy’s not far.” The man replied, “Maybe they’re sightseeing.”

“At a rest stop in the middle of nowhere?” She countered sarcastically.  

“That is enough.” Boynton interrupted sharply, “Move along. Now.”

The people reluctantly dispersed, making their way back across the parking lot. The younger guy and his friend took a few more pictures of Cliffjumper, before trailing along behind them. When he passed by Sam, he did a double-take and then his eyes went as wide as saucers. Sam grimaced deeply, walking away before he had the chance to say anything. Bumblebee opened the door as he approached, and Sam climbed into the cab without a word. He set the disposable cup in the holder and fastened his seatbelt. By the time that he was settled, Bumblebee was already accelerating towards the rest stop exit. Sam pointedly did not look at the two guys as they drove past them.

He opened the take-out bag and pulled out the chicken sandwich. He unwrapped the foil, laying it in his lap, and began to eat. Bumblebee merged into traffic, changing lanes and accelerating to eighty miles per hour. Sam wiped his mouth with a napkin, and asked wryly, “In a hurry, speedracer?”

“Several people posted pictures to social media, and one of them geo-tagged the rest stop.” Bumblebee explained, changing lanes to pass a mini-van with a stickman family decal in the rear windshield, “We should put some distance between us.”

Sam took another bite of his sandwich and washed it down with Diet Coke, “Of course they did.”

“They were enthusiastic about Cliffjumper’s alt mode.” Bumblebee said dryly, before adding, “Hot Rod is very put out about it.”

Sam laughed, loud and genuine. “I can only imagine.”

He had Googled the price of their alt modes once, on a whim. A new Bugatti Chiron priced out at three million dollars, while the Lamborghini just topped 1.9 million. It ground Hot Rod’s gears that Cliff had the more coveted alt mode. Although, that was nothing compared to Roddy’s reaction when Knock Out had chosen the Aston Martin Valkyrie as his alt. The cavalier had bitched about it for days.

Sam worked his way through his meal, mindful of crumbs and grease. By the time that he was finished, the divided highway had transitioned to a three-lane city street as they made their way through the suburbs of Redding, California. Bumblebee changed lanes to take the exit to CA 299 W, and then the road narrowed into a two-lane highway. The city quickly fell away behind them, replaced with rolling hills and thick forests. The road curved around a corner and up a steep incline, and then Sam could see a long lake stretching across the valley below them. It followed the road for five or six miles, before disappearing behind a curtain of Douglas-firs and pine trees. The dense vegetation was a welcome change after two months in the hot, dusty desert. On a whim, Sam rolled down the windows. The warm, temperate air buffeted his face, and he closed his eyes. It smelled fresh and clean and organic, and he was thankful for it.

He sat like that for a long while, enjoying the fresh air and the rumble of Bumblebee’s engines. He might have dozed off, but when Bumblebee slowed down, he came back to himself. They were making their way down into the valley, and Sam could see the ocean in the distance. He sat up in his seat and directed a curious look at the dashboard.

“Where are we?” He asked.

“We’re twenty minutes outside of Eureka.” Bumblebee replied.

Sam sat up straighter, catching sight of the sprawling town nestled beside the water. Eureka was only half an hour from Ferndale and about forty minutes from his grandmother’s place. She used to take him into town whenever he visited her in the summer. He had vivid memories of shopping at the promenade and eating ice cream at the little place by the highway. For one brief moment, he could almost taste the soft serve—cold, and sweet, and melting over his fingers faster than he could eat it.

“There’s a coffee place coming up on the right. Can we stop?” Sam asked, “I need to use the bathroom.”

He felt the scout’s agreement through their bond, and he settled back against the leather seat. The coast was beautiful in the spring. It was sunny and warm, without the oppressive heat of the summer. It wasn’t long before Sam could smell salt water on the breeze, and it caused his throat to thicken with emotion. He had missed California so much.

Bumblebee pulled off the road, parking in front of the little café. The weathered, hand-painted sign over the door read Beanie’s Bistro. There were picnic tables under umbrellas set up out front and Adirondack chairs on the deck. Sam climbed out of the cab and made his way into the building. The smell of coffee and pastries was heavy in the air. He walked over to the counter, staring up at the chalkboard menu hanging on the wall. At the same time, an older woman with graying hair piled in a neat bun came out of the saloon-style doors from the kitchen.

“Good afternoon!” She greeted, “What can I getcha?”

Sam smiled at her. “Can I have a medium-sized light roast, two sugars and one milk, and a half a dozen scones to go, please?”

The woman rang up his items on the antiquated cash register. He glanced over his shoulder at Boynton and Simmons, who had entered the shop behind him. He knew that he wasn’t imagining the interested glint in the older man’s eyes.

“Can I get you guys something?” He asked, “My treat. Their coffee is good and their pastries are unreal.”

“Are you from around here?” The cashier asked curiously. She was looking at him closely now, “I don’t recognize you.”

Those words warmed him from the inside out, and a genuine smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “I used to come here with my grandmother when I was a kid. She lives outside of Ferndale.”

The woman clucked at him approvingly. “Bringing her a treat, are you? What a good boy.”  

Sam laughed lightly, before glancing at the two agents again. “C’mon, what can I get you guys?”

Boynton ended up ordering a tall double-double and a blueberry muffin, while Simmons got a chai tea and a scone. Sam paid for their food, accepting his card when the cashier handed it back to him, and then made his way to the bathroom. The little room was barely large enough for a toilet and a sink, but it was decorated in the same country-aesthetic as the rest of the café. When he finished, he opened the door to find Boynton standing in the hallway.

By the time that they got back to the counter, their orders were ready. The scones were tucked into a white box that was tied with a ribbon and sealed with a sticker that read Beanie’s Bistro in cursive font. Sam transferred the box to one hand and picked up his coffee with the other, before strolling outside. Boynton and Simmons followed closely behind him.

The late afternoon sky was a deep Persian blue, and fair weather clouds had begun gathering at the horizon. Sam glanced over at the parking lot, and he was relieved to find that the Autobots hadn’t attracted any curious onlookers while they had been inside. He made his way over to Bumblebee, who opened the driver’s side door for him. Sam put the coffee and scones on the roof of the Camaro, before leaning into the cab and grabbing his garbage. He tossed the bag into the tall metal barrel near the picnic tables, and then climbed into his seat. He put the coffee in the cup holder and the scones on the passenger seat. Bumblebee’s engine turned over, and his tires crunched over gravel as he pulled back onto the road.

The remainder of the drive was a strange mixture of pleasant and painful. Highway 101 travelled parallel to the coast, and the view was beautiful—rolling hills, abundant forests, and pristine oceanfront. As they neared Ferndale, however, Sam began recognizing things that left him feeling wistful and melancholy. They passed the church where his grandfather’s funeral had been held. It was an older building, standing alone on a hill overlooking the water. Nearer to town, they drove by Stonewall Park and the falls, two places that he had often visited with his grandmother.

Bumblebee slowed to thirty-five miles per hour as they crossed into Ferndale. It was a quaint little hamlet nestled between the Eel River and the Lost Coast. It had less than 1500 residents, most of whom lived on the aptly named Main Street, which was the main thoroughfare through town. Ferndale only had a handful of businesses to boast of, including two gas stations, a drugstore, a family-owned restaurant that his grandmother loved, and the smallest grocery store that Sam had ever seen. It was a pretty little town, with hanging flower baskets on the telephone poles and well-groomed lawns on either side of the street.

They drove down Main Street, past the post office and the library, turning the heads of passersby as they went. Sam took a drink of coffee to hide this grimace—their little convoy was about as inconspicuous as a tire fire. Thankfully, it took less than five minutes before they were turning down Sonora Road. Sam sat up straighter in his seat, his heart beating a little faster in his chest. He recognized everything on this road—every turn, every hill, every cove and inlet. He knew it by heart.

The sun was sinking towards the horizon by the time that his grandmother’s place came into view. It was a Cape Cod style house, with black shingles and snow-white siding. It stood alone on a little rise overlooking the ocean. The property itself was a sprawling half-mile, surrounded on two sides by water. The road crossed an isthmus, with the ocean on the right and a pond on the left, before ending at the bottom of his grandmother’s driveway. Bumblebee slowed as he drove up the long, gravel path towards the house.

“Watch the dog.” Sam said, absently.

Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, his grandmother opened the door and stepped onto the deck. Her old German Shepard bolted down the steps and over the lawn towards them, barking her head off. Sam grinned faintly as the dog darted from Bumblebee to Cliffjumper to Ratchet, ears perked up and tongue lolling out of her mouth. It was clear that she didn’t know what to make of these strangers trespassing on her property. It was only then that Sam realized that Hot Rod and the SUV were nowhere to be seen. They must have turned off at the B&B down the road.

Bumblebee pulled to a stop at the end of the driveway, popping open his door. Immediately, the dog rushed forward, crowding into Sam’s space. He held out his hand, palm up for her to smell, and then her tail started wagging fiercely.

“Hey Sheena.” He murmured, running his hands over her broad head, “How you doing, baby?”

“Sheena!” His grandmother called sharply, “Get up here.”

The German Shepard pivoted on her hind legs, rocketing over the stone path and up the stairs. She turned in a wide circle, before laying down against the railing in her spot. Sam picked up his coffee and the box of scones, before climbing out of the cab. His grandmother stood at the top of the stairs, watching him. She was a small woman, perhaps five-foot-five and a hundred pounds, but she had sharp eyes and a formidable presence. Sam smiled at her as he approached, setting his things down on the top step so that he could hug her.

“Hey Nanny.” He murmured.

She smiled at him, warm and fond, as she raised her hands to cup his face.

“Hello Chicken.” She said, thumbs stroking over his cheeks. “Just look at you. You’re all grown up.”

Sam’s smile softened as he gently grasped her hands. “Yeah, I guess so.”

His grandmother pulled him into a hug, and Sam wrapped his arms around her thin shoulders. She smelled exactly as he remembered, like lavender and laundry soap. His throat thickened unexpectedly with emotion, and Sam had to take a moment to compose himself before pulling away.

“Nanny, I’d like to introduce you to some people.” He said softly, glancing towards the Autobots.

His grandmother followed his gaze, smiling broadly. “Well, that would be lovely. Thank-you Samuel.”

They made their way down the steps and across the lawn. Bumblebee was parked nearest the house, with Cliffjumper and Ratchet further away. As they approached, the three Autobots began to transform. At once, Sheena started barking furiously from her spot on the deck. His grandmother half-turned, looking over her shoulder and whistling sharply. Sheena stopped mid-bark, head tilted in obvious puzzlement. By the time that his grandmother turned back around, the Autobot were standing in a loose semi-circle in front of them.

“Nan, this is Bumblebee, Ratchet, and Cliffjumper.” He said, gesturing to each of them in turn.

“Welcome to my home.” She said politely, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Sam resisted the urge to wince. He could only imagine what his mother had told his grandmother over the last four years. As though reading his thoughts, his grandmother directed him a wry look. “I watch the news, Samuel.”

They spent the next ten minutes introducing themselves to one another. Bumblebee and Ratchet were polite and direct, respectively, but Cliffjumper was unusually chatty. He crouched in front of his grandmother, answering questions and asking his own in turn. She seemed amused by his obvious interest, for she laughed jovially as she replied. It wasn’t until an alarm went off on her phone, and she pulled the device out of her pocket to check the time, that she clucked her tongue at him.

“Supper’s almost ready. Go inside and get washed up.” She said.

Her voice was brisk and no-nonsense, and Sam replied without thinking. “Yes ma’am.”

She smiled warmly at him. “Was that a take-out box from Beanie’s I saw?”

Sam picked up his duffle bag from where Bumblebee had left it on the lawn, hefting it over his shoulder. “Yeah, it is. I got scones.”

“Well, isn’t that thoughtful?” His grandmother replied, making her way back towards the house, “That’ll be a lovely dessert.”

Behind him, the three Autobots transformed back into their alt modes. Sam looked over his shoulder, smiling faintly in their direction, before adjusting the bag and crossing the lawn. His grandmother climbed the steps and pulled open the front door, before turning to look at him.

“Will Bumblebee be staying with us?” She asked.

Sam glanced up at her in confusion. “Huh?”

His grandmother’s expression was knowing and exasperated and amused, all at once. Suddenly, Sam had a very good idea exactly what his mother had told her.

“Um, well, that’d be nice.” He stammered, trying to ignore the blush that was spreading across his face, “I mean, if that’s alright.”

She chuckled and stepped into the porch, letting the door bang shut behind her. Sam turned to look at Bumblebee, shrugging helplessly, and a moment later, his holoform shimmered to life beside the deck. Sam’s eyes were immediately drawn to his clothing, which was civilian style rather than military. His eyebrows drifted closer to his hairline at the sight of dark wash jeans, a cream-colored cable-knit sweater, and Blundstone boots. It gave the holoform an almost rustic appearance, like something out of an LL Bean advertisement.

“Blending in?” Sam asked dryly.

Bumblebee bent down, picking up the box of scones and Sam’s coffee, the latter of which he handed over with a cheeky grin.

“I’m an infiltrator.” He replied, “Blending in is what we do.”

Sam laughed, shaking his head in helpless affection. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Bumblebee’s grin deepened as he climbed the steps. Sheena’s tail thumped against the deck as they crossed towards the door. Sam couldn’t miss the curious look on the holoform’s face, so he crouched down, patting his knee.

“C’mere Sheen.” He said.

The old dog pushed up onto her feet, ambling over towards them. The gray on her muzzle was more pronounced than Sam remembered, but then, she was almost ten years old. He scratched her chest, before angling his head to look up at Bumblebee.

“Bee, this is Sheena. Sheena, this is Bumblebee.” He said, smiling, “My grandmother will be quick to tell you that she’s a guard dog, but she’s a sweetheart.”

The holoform stuck out his hand, which Sheena snuffled loudly. “She guards the property?”

Sam stood up, giving the German Shepard a farewell pat. “She does, and she’s a different dog when she’s on duty.”

Bumblebee looked intrigued by that, but before he could reply, his grandmother called out from the kitchen. “Samuel James Witwicky, didn’t I ask you to get washed up?”

Her tone was crisp and no-nonsense, and it triggered something in Sam’s hindbrain that made him straighten to attention. “Yes ma’am. I’m going.”

He pulled open the screen door, smiling at Bumblebee. “After you.”

The holoform smiled back and stepped into the house. Sam followed after him, pulling the door shut behind them.

Chapter Text

Sam toed off his shoes and made his way into the kitchen. Althea White was a frugal woman by nature, and she never replaced anything without good reason. As a result, the kitchen was almost exactly the same as he remembered it. The table was to the right as he entered, situated under the large picture window that overlooked the driveway. There was an electric stove against one wall, next to the counter, and a wrought-iron stove against the other. His grandmother burned wood on cold nights to keep the electric bill down.

Nan pulled a roaster out of the oven and set it on the stove, before glancing over at him.   

“Set your bag down anywhere.” She said.

Sam unshouldered his bag and dropped it in the armchair near the hallway, before walking over to the sink and washing his hands. His grandmother took dishes down from the cupboard and set them on the counter beside him.

“Set the table when you’ve finished, please.”

Sam dried his hands, and then he took the dishes over to the table. The Corelle plates were white with faded green ivy around the rim. He set them down at their usual spots—his near the stove, hers facing the window—and then he went back to get the cutlery. Bumblebee watched him from the doorway, something like curiosity playing over his face.

His grandmother glanced over at the holoform as she began mashing potatoes. Her eyes flitted up and down his body, as though in consideration, before turning back around.

“Do come in, dear.” She said as she continued mashing, “Have a seat.”

Bumblebee stepped into the kitchen, eyes roaming from the yellow gingham tablecloth, to the cake tins lined along the top of the cupboards, to the miniature spoon collection hanging near the fridge. Sam watched him taking everything in with a small smile. Some things never changed.

“You have a beautiful home, Mrs. White.” Bumblebee said.

His grandmother smiled wryly at him. “Please, call me Nanny. All of Sam’s friends do.”

Bumblebee glanced over at Sam, who raised his shoulders in a shrug.

//She’s not going to take no for an answer.// He said.

Bumblebee turned back to his grandmother, tipping his head in acquiescence. “Alright, I will. Thank-you.”

Nanny hummed at him approvingly as she strong-armed the potatoes into a smooth mash. Sam leaned against the counter, watching her. “Can I help with anything?”

“You can get the milk out of the fridge.” She said, banging the masher against the rim of the pot before putting it in the sink.

Sam pushed off the counter and ambled across the kitchen. He stopped in mid-stride, his eyes drawn to the newspaper clipping affixed to the fridge by a Golden Gate Bridge magnet. It held a position of honor, surrounded by postcards and receipts. The title read ‘American Ambassador Meets with Autobot Delegation’. The picture was a grainy black-and-white shot of him shaking hands with Ambassador Craft. He reached out, trailing his fingers over the faded newsprint. He hadn’t aged a single day, and somehow, he still looked so young.

“You are such a handsome boy.” His grandmother said.

He half-turned, glancing over his shoulder at her. She was standing in front of the stove, a dishtowel in her hands and a warm smile on her face. It made a lump rise up in his throat, and he swallowed against it before murmuring, softly, “Thanks.”

He turned back around, pulling open the fridge and grabbing the carton of milk. He shut the door and made his way across the kitchen without a backwards glance. He set the milk in the center of the table, near the platter of roast chicken and bowl of mashed potatoes. He was aware of his grandmother’s scrutiny, but she said nothing further on the subject. Instead, she brought the gravy boat over and set it down beside the platter.

“Be careful, sweetheart. It’s hot.” She warned, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

Sam sat down and poured himself a glass of milk. The sun was just beginning to set behind the trees on the other side of the narrow bay. It sent long shadows across the front lawn. Ratchet and Bumblebee were parked at the head of the driveway, a stark contrast to his grandmother’s ’98 Toyota Corolla parked beside the house.

The sound of cutlery caused him to glance down in time to see his grandmother putting chicken on his plate. He flushed, reaching for the carving knife.

“That’s alright, Nan. I can serve myself.”

She tutted at him disapprovingly, swatting his hand aside. “That’s just fine, Samuel.”

Sam sat there as she loaded his plate with mashed potatoes and green beans, before she served herself. He murmured his thanks, reaching for the gravy boat and pouring a generous serving over his food. His grandmother’s gravy was her best-kept secret—it was thick and creamy, and the smell reminded him of Christmas dinners as a child.

As he reached for his knife and fork, his grandmother looked at Bumblebee.

“My goodness, how rude of me.” She said, setting down her cutlery, “Do you eat? I never even thought to ask.”

Sam huffed a laugh, but Bumblebee just smiled at her.

“We consume a biofuel known as Energon.” He explained, “But thank-you for the consideration.”

“Energon.” His grandmother repeated thoughtfully, “Does that have anything to do with the trade deal you folks just signed with the Canadians?”

The holoform’s eyebrows drifted upwards in surprise, and Sam chuckled at him. “Nan’s a sharp lady. She used to be the top district attorney in the state.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” She replied, turning back to her meal, “I lost plenty of cases that I thought I should have won.”

Sam smiled across the table at Bumblebee “She’s being modest. She won the CLAY award two times.”

His grandmother gave him a look that was equal parts exasperated and fond. She reached out and gave his forearm a little squeeze. “That’s very sweet of you, Chicken.”

The corner of Bumblebee’s lips twitched up. “Chicken?”  

“Oh, it’s a nickname I’ve been calling Samuel since he was a baby.” She explained, “He was born prematurely by four weeks, and he had the skinniest little legs I ever laid eyes on. The name just kind of stuck.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he was smiling when he added, “Nan’s got a dozen nicknames for me and most of them are food-related. Chicken, sweetpea, pumpkin, sweet potato… am I missing any, Nan?”

She smiled at him indulgently. “Chickpea.”

Sam’s smile curled wider. “Oh yeah, that’s right.”

Bumblebee’s face softened with affection, and he brushed across Sam’s mind. The touch was mellow and warm and gentle, and Sam smiled back at him. All at once, it hit him that he was sitting in his grandmother’s kitchen for the first time in almost five years. So much had changed since then, but this was exactly the same. The thought caused something wound tight inside of him to relax minutely, and he leaned into Bumblebee’s winter-white glow in appreciation.

“Eat your food, Samuel.” His grandmother tutted, pulling him back to himself, “It’s getting cold.”

Sam murmured an apology as he picked up his cutlery. The chicken was tender and moist, and he tucked into it with vim. His grandmother re-filled his glass while he ate, and when he cleaned his plate, she added seconds. He tried to protest, but she silenced him with a single look. He made it halfway through his second helping before he threw in the towel. His grandmother stood up, taking his plate.

“I’ll put it in the microwave.” She said, stepping away from the table, “You can finish it later.”

Sam and Bumblebee climbed to their feet, and began clearing away the dishes. The chicken was shredded and put into one glassware container, while the potatoes went into another. There weren’t enough greens to save, so his grandmother added them to his plate before popping it into the microwave. Afterwards, his grandmother put the stopper in the sink and began filling it with soapy water.

Sam opened the drawer, pulling out a dishcloth. “We’ll wash up, Nan. You can go sit down.”

His grandmother looked at him speculatively, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” He said with a wry smile, “Go on with you.”

The skin around her eyes crinkled in a smile, and she reached out to pat him on the cheek. “You’re such a good boy.”

Sam shooed her away from the sink, and she obliged him. He watched her leave out of the corner of his eye, and he didn’t miss the stiffness to her step. He knew that her hip had been bothering her since last Thanksgiving, but it was a different thing to see it for himself. He swallowed against the sudden emotion that thickened his throat. She was seventy years old. How much longer did she have left? Ten years? Fifteen?

The holoform crossed the kitchen to stand beside him. His face was creased with concern. “Are you alright?”

Sam lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I’m fine.”

Bumblebee’s mouth thinned into an unhappy line. “It’s alright not to be alright, Sam.”

Sam reached out and turned off the tap, before picking up the nearest pot. “I’ll wash, you dry. The dishtowels are in the drawer.”

Bumblebee frowned faintly, but he pulled a dishtowel out of the drawer all the same. They stood side-by-side in silence as Sam washed the dishes. The pots and roaster were first, followed by the plates and cutlery. He was meticulous, making sure that every last trace of grease was scrubbed away. Bumblebee dried each item in turn, before setting it on the counter. Sam was aware of his quiet scrutiny, but neither of them said anything while they worked.

By the time that he finished, the sun had set and the sky had turned a dusky blue. He flicked on the overhead light and put the dishes away. Afterwards, he wiped down the table and the stove with hot soapy water.

“Come on, I’ll show you around.” Sam said, wringing out the dishcloth and hanging it over the faucet to dry.

The holoform followed behind him as he picked up his duffel bag and made his way into the hall. Sam took him through the downstairs first, showing him the sitting room, the dining room, and the wood room. The wood room had been one of Sam’s favorite places as a child. It was directly off the back porch, and it was small and cozy. There was a large wood-burning stove against one wall, next to the wood box, and four armchairs arranged in a semi-circle around it. The room smelled faintly of wood smoke and ripe apples.  

Sam smiled, glancing over his shoulder at Bumblebee.

“Nan and I used to sit in here when it got cold outside.” He said, “That stove can get piping hot when she gets it going.”

Bumblebee returned his smile. “I bet.”

Sam stepped back into the hallway and made his way up the stairs. The house was over one hundred years old, and the staircase was steep and narrow. The second storey was smaller than the ground floor, with only three bedrooms and a tiny two-piece bathroom. Sam turned down the hall, and stopped at the first door on the right. Stepping into his old bedroom was like stepping back in time. There were seashells and sand dollars on the dresser, treasures from his youth, and old posters on the walls. He unshouldered his duffel bag and dropped it onto the floor, before sitting on the bed. The nightstand still had a dozen Hardy Boys books lined neatly on the bottom shelf.

Bumblebee crossed over to the window and pushed aside the curtains. The bedroom faced the little bluff behind the house, with a clear view of the ocean. The holoform’s expression was very soft as he trailed his fingers over the windowsill. Sam knew what he was looking at—he had carved his name into the wood years ago.

“Nanny almost tanned my hide when she first saw that.” He said dryly.

The holoform glanced over at him. “How old were you?”

“Seven.” Sam replied wryly, “And I was lucky to make it to eight.”

Bumblebee chuckled, his fingertips lingering on the sill before turning around. “How often did you visit her?”

Sam shrugged his shoulders. “A few times a year. We came for a week over Christmas break, and I usually came for a week or two in the summer. Nan would visit us over Thanksgiving and Easter.”

Bumblebee’s eyes trailed over the room, lingering on the knickknacks and the mementos. It seemed as though he was trying to soak in the room and all of its evidence of Sam’s happy childhood. His eyes finally settled on Sam, where he was sitting on the bed. He crossed the space between them in three steps, clasping the sides of his face. The holoform stared down at him for a long moment, his expression emotive and intense, before he leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss against his mouth.

Sam understood the sentiment, which was conveyed as clearly through their bond as it was through the kiss. It was affection and concern and protectiveness, all at once. He leaned back until he was able to smile up at his bonded.

“Yeah, I love you too.”  He murmured.

Bumblebee’s grip tightened minutely, before he let him go.

“Did you want to go back down?” He asked, as though the question pained him.

Sam smiled wanly and gave the holoform’s hand a squeeze.

“Yeah, probably.” He said, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll show you the property tomorrow. Nan owns everything on this side of the pond.”

Together, they made their way back downstairs. Sam stopped in the kitchen to get the box of scones, before he ambled into the living room. His grandmother was sitting on the mustard-colored chesterfield, watching television. The room looked like something out of a 1970s issue of Good Housekeeping. The patterned wallpaper, the thick shag carpet, and the lace curtains all harkened back to an earlier time. Sam handed the box to his grandmother as he sat down on the opposite end of the couch.

“Thank-you, sweetheart.” She said, before plucking a scone from the box and handing it back to him.

Bumblebee hesitated in the doorway, as though uncertain whether he should enter. Sam smiled at him, tipping his head towards the armchair in the corner. The holoform stepped into the living room, causing his grandmother to startle in surprise.

“Good gracious!” She exclaimed with a light laugh, “You’re as silent as a ghost. You should wear a bell!”

The words were so close to what Sam had once said to Ratchet that it made him laugh. He could feel the medic’s cool regard across their bond, and he grinned unrepentantly.

“They can be quiet.” He agreed, pulling a scone out of the box. It was golden brown and dusted with icing sugar, and when he bit into it, he found that it was perfectly soft. He licked at the sugar on his lips as he added, wryly, “But Bee’s getting really good at blending in.”

The holoform tossed him a sardonic look, and Sam knew that he had caught the reference to their earlier conversation. His grin widened, and he took another bite of his scone.

“So, how many of you use holoforms?” His grandmother asked, directing her question to Bumblebee.

“Most of us have the ability to generate a holoform.” Bumblebee replied, “It is a manifestation of our extended sensory arrays. They are resource and processor-intensive, however, so only a handful of us actively use them.”

His grandmother’s brow furrowed in contemplation. “How do you mimic our micro-expressions so closely?” She asked, canting her head to the side, “Is it an affectation or does your species share similar mannerisms?”

At her words, Sam glanced over at Bumblebee. He was leaning forward slightly in his chair, resting his forearms on his knees. It gave him an open, attentive appearance. It was easy to forget sometimes that he had had to teach himself how to act so human.

Bumblebee’s gaze flitted to him for a nanosecond before returning to his grandmother. “Cybertronians and humans are similar in many respects, but we are not as visually expressive.” He explained, clasping his hands loosely as he continued, “Whereas humans rely heavily on posture, facial expressions, and micro-expressions for non-verbal communication, we rely more heavily on our electromagnetic fields.”

His grandmother pursed her lips, as though in thought. “So, you had to learn our mannerisms?”

Bumblebee inclined his head. “We did.”

“Are they genuine?” She asked bluntly, “Or are you applying stimulus to achieve a desired result?”

To Sam’s surprise, Bumblebee did not reply with an immediate negative. Instead, he cocked his head and seemed to consider the question seriously.

“Not in the way that you mean.” He replied, after a moment. “Our mimicry is not an affectation—my communications sub-routines have been re-coded to incorporate human mannerisms and speech. I laugh when I’m amused, and I raise my voice when I’m angry. Yet, it would be untrue to imply that we don’t use these mannerisms to put people at ease.”

The space between his grandmother’s eyebrows knitted with a faint frown. Sam leaned towards her and tried to explain. “It’s like translating a language. We use body posture for non-verbal communication, and they use electromagnetic fields. We can’t pick up on their EM fields, so they use our mannerisms to express themselves.”

“Ah.” His grandmother replied, understandingly, “What about verbal communication?”

Bumblebee’s answering smile was wry but genuine. “Cybertronian is a complex language. It’s glyph-based, and although it has only seven hundred logograms, it includes hundreds of modifiers. A single glyph can take on entirely different meanings, depending on the linguistic context.”

“It’s the worst.” Sam agreed around a mouthful of scone, “I’ve been trying to pick it up, but I’m awful at it.”

His grandmother gave him a disapproving look. “Don’t speak with your mouth full.”

“Sorry.” He mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  

Nan reached out and patted his knee, taking some of the sting out of her rebuke. She glanced across the room at Bumblebee, who was watching them closely.

“I understand that your civil war has been ongoing for a long time.” She said, directing him a thoughtful look, “How old are you, precisely?”

“Precisely?” Bumblebee asked, amused, “That’s not an easy question to answer, but I was on-lined around 3.1 million years ago.”

Nan’s eyebrows drew up in surprise. “My goodness, that long? How do you manage it?”

Bumblebee chuckled lightly. “We do not perceive the passage of time as humans do.”

Sam glanced up at him in surprise. First Aid had once commented about their different conceptualizations of time, but Sam hadn’t thought that he was being literal. He had assumed the medic was speaking in relativistic terms.

“What do you mean?” He asked, curiously. At his question, Bumblebee seemed to remember himself. His expression sobered, becoming almost guarded. It set Sam on alert, and he sat up straighter in his seat. “Bee?”

Bumblebee visibly hesitated before replying. “Humans perceive space-time in relativistic terms. We do not.”

His grandmother chuckled good-naturedly and folded her hands in her lap. “Relativity, hm? Does that explain why my days seem so short now?”

“Yes.” Bumblebee replied carefully, “It’s a concept referred to as time dilation.”

Sam gripped the arm of the chesterfield until his knuckles turned white. Bumblebee’s words had dredged up a long-forgotten memory from his Allspark-triggered meltdown in astronomy class. Time dilation referred to the differences in perceived time due to age and circumstance. Adults perceived the passage of time more quickly than children because each day was a progressively smaller fraction of their total lifespan.

Sam’s heart climbed into his throat as the possible implications unraveled before him. What would happen to his perception of time as the years turned to decades, and decades turned to centuries? Would his days seem to shorten, until they were fleeting and ephemeral, no more interesting or remarkable than grains of sand on a beach? Or would it seem as though he were suspended in time, like an insect trapped in resin, as the world passed by around him?

“Sam?” His grandmother asked, softly.

The question pulled him back to himself, all at once. He became aware of the sound of his breathing, raspy and frightened, and it took considerable effort to bring himself under control. When he managed to look at his grandmother, it was to find her staring back at him. The concern on her face made him flinch. His kneejerk reaction was to reassure her with a joke or an offhanded remark, but he couldn’t do it. He just didn’t have it in him.

“I’m going to bed.” He said abruptly, pushing himself to his feet, “Goodnight, Nan.”

The concern on her face deepened, and she stood up to draw him into a hug.

“Alright, sweetheart.” She murmured against his cheek, “I know you’ve had a long day. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Sam hugged her back, before pulling away and leaving the room. He could hear the murmur of hushed conversation behind him, and he quickened his step. He made his way through the kitchen and up the stairs, turning on the overhead light when he reached the landing. The hallway was long and narrow, ending in a stained glass window. The floors were dark wood, which contrasted against the white, floral-print wallpaper. He opened his bedroom door, shutting it behind him and leaning back against the wood. His bedroom was dark, lit only by the thin moonlight and the occasional flash from the buoy in the harbor.

He didn’t know for how long he stood there, wrestling with emotions that he’d rather not be feeling. Eventually, he pushed away from the door and padded over to his duffel bag. He rummaged around, pulling out a pair of sleep pants and a long-sleeved shirt. He avoided looking at the oval-shaped mirror hanging above the bureau until he was fully dressed. He didn’t want to see the evidence of his abuse, not even obscured by darkness.

Sam turned down the blankets and climbed into bed. The sheets had pilled after countless washes over the years, but they were soft and warm. He settled back against the pillow, arm under his head, and watched as the buoy’s light slid across his ceiling in steady intervals. It wasn’t long before he felt Bumblebee brush against him, and Sam turned his head in time to see the holoform materialize beside him. He was sitting on the floor, arm propped up against the mattress and his chin resting in his hand. Half of his face was illuminated by moonlight, the other half was cast in shadow.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Sam murmured, forestalling anything Bee might have said.

The holoform reached out, tucking an errant curl behind his ear.

“Alright.” He agreed quietly.

Sam rolled onto his side, pillowing his hands under his cheek. He was silent for a long moment, before glancing up at his bonded. “Are you staying?”

Bumblebee’s face softened in the moonlight. “Yeah, Sam. I’m staying.”

Sam nodded faintly and shifted backwards on the mattress. The holoform climbed into bed beside him, settling on the blankets and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Sam let his eyes drift closed, listening to the sounds of the house settling—creaking wood, dinging metal, and the occasional rush of water through pipes. It was so familiar, so homey, that he found himself relaxing, despite the tension in his shoulders. Bumblebee smoothed his palm down Sam’s spine, mindful of the bruises that still peppered his back. He murmured something too softly for Sam to hear, but the warm thrum of affection across their bond spoke volumes. Sam sighed softly and let himself drift to the feeling of Bumblebee’s hands on his body.

Sam woke sometime in the night, and he stumbled to the bathroom at the end of the hall. After he relieved himself, he washed his hands and shut off the light, before making his way back to his room. He walked carefully, mindful of creaky floorboards. His grandmother was a notoriously light sleeper, and he didn’t want to disturb her. Bumblebee made room for him as he climbed back into bed, and Sam quickly settled down. The blankets were still warm, a welcome change from the chilly air, and he was asleep again only moments later.

The next time that he awoke, bright sunshine was streaming through the window. He half-turned, glancing at the old radio alarm clock on the bedside table. He groaned, noting the early hour, and rolled back over, burrowing beneath the blankets.

He woke up again sometime later, blinking open his eyes to find himself alone in the bedroom. The sunshine had deepened, taking on a late-morning quality, and he was surprised to find it was just after ten o’clock. He stretched languidly, yawning until his jaw cracked, and turned his attention inwards. Bumblebee’s mental presence was focused, but it also had something of a harried quality to it. It woke Sam up immediately, and he sat up in bed as he brushed across the scout’s mind.

//What are you doing?// He asked.

//Good morning.// Bumblebee replied dryly, //You slept well.//

//I always do at Nan’s.// He replied, running a hand through his hair and bending to grab some socks, //Where are you?//

Bumblebee’s mental presence was at once exasperated and rueful. //We’re demolishing your grandmother’s barn.//

//Are you serious?// Sam asked, making his way across the room, //She usually saves the menial labor for me.//

His bonded chuckled wryly. //We volunteered.//

Sam pulled open the bedroom door and strode down the hall. The sun was catching the stained glass window just right, sending fractals of color across the hardwood floor. He took the stairs two at a time, and stepped into the kitchen. A griddle had been plugged into the outlet on the counter, and a full English breakfast had been left warming on it. Sam groaned in appreciation at the sight of the bacon, eggs, and hash browns.   

//No, you only think you volunteered.// Sam replied, once he remembered the thread of their conversation, //She’s a crafty old lady.//

Bumblebee’s amusement glowed across their bond, and Sam grinned as he pulled a plate out of the cupboard. He helped himself and then slid into his spot at the table. Nanny had put the salt, pepper, and ketchup out before she had left. Sam added a liberal amount to his food and began to eat. The bacon was exactly the way he liked it—crispy enough to shrivel the fat, without becoming crumbly. He didn’t know whether his grandmother remembered, or whether it was how she preferred her bacon as well. Either way, Sam ate enough cholesterol and sodium to give a cardiologist a conniption fit. When he finished, he put his dishes in the sink and hurried outside.

It was a beautiful morning, pleasant and warm with a refreshing breeze coming off the water. Sam walked down the stone path and turned the corner, before pulling up short. Bumblebee, Cliffjumper, and Hound stood in their bipedal modes, and they were systematically dismantling the run-down old barn that stood at the edge of the lawn. It was partially demolished already, and the rotted lumber was piled neatly at the end of the driveway. Ratchet was parked nearby, and his grandmother stood a short distance away, watching the goings-on with a sharp eye.  

“Nanny.” Sam groaned as he approached, “They’re not hired help.”

His grandmother turned around at the sound of his voice. Her eyes twinkled in amusement, and she tsked at him. “Nonsense. I was telling Ratchet about how Charles Frasier down the road wanted two thousand dollars to demolish it. The boys offered to help.”

Hound perked up at Sam’s appearance, and he waved one broad servo in greeting. Bumblebee and Cliffjumper, who were holding a massive support beam between them, could only nod in his direction. He waved at them, before sighing theatrically.

“Nanny—“

“Did you eat your breakfast?” She asked, interrupting him.

“Oh.” Sam said, blinking at her, “Yeah, I did. Thank-you. It was really good.”

“Did you clean up after yourself?” She asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Sam flushed hotly in response. “I put my dishes in the sink.”

Her expression was faintly skeptical. “Did you unplug the griddle?”

Sam’s flushed deepened, and he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I forgot. Sorry.”

“Well, you can march right back inside and go do that.” She said, although she was smiling, “And then you can get dressed. Wear something light—I need your help in the garden.”

Sam tipped his head back and sighed, but he turned around without complaint. His grandmother wasn’t as young as she used to be, and things tended to pile up around the house. He made his way up the steps and back into the kitchen. He paused long enough to unplug the griddle and wipe down the table, and then he went upstairs to change. He hesitated for a long moment when deciding what to wear. Gardening was hot, sweaty work, but he couldn’t bring himself to wear a t-shirt. It wasn’t possible to hide his wrists or the vivid bruises crisscrossing his forearms in short sleeves. Eventually, he pulled a pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeved shirt out of the bag, and took them to the bathroom to change.

By the time he made his way back outside, the sun had risen almost to its zenith. He slipped on his sunglasses and crossed the lawn towards the garden. The four-meter by ten-meter plot was surrounded by a makeshift fence made of wooden poles and chicken wire. His grandmother had put it up herself after the deer had gotten into her turnips.

Nanny was waiting for him next to a tall bucket and a variety of garden tools. She smiled at him as he approached, and waved a hand towards the neat rows of vegetables behind her. “Do you remember how to weed?”

Sam gave her a cheeky smile. “Yeah, I think I got it.”

She swatted at his elbow and handed him a pair of gardening gloves. “Mind the thistle. It’s a bad year for it.”

Sam pulled on the gloves as his grandmother headed back towards the barn. The sounds of deconstruction and Hound’s animated commentary carried on the wind. As he crouched down in the dirt, he made a mental note to introduce him to Sheena. The sentry was fascinated by all things organic, and he knew that he would love her. The thought cheered him, and he was smiling as he began weeding.    

Chapter Text

Sam spent the better part of two hours on his hands and knees, weeding the garden. He pulled the dandelions up by their roots and tossed them into the bucket. It was hot, dirty work. Although the breeze off the ocean was nice, it wasn’t long before he was sweating in earnest. He sat back on his heels, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. The sounds of demolition had waned over the last twenty minutes, but he could still hear his grandmother calling out instructions. As he bent back to task, Sam leaned into the winter-white glow at the edge of his mind.

//You guys finished?// He asked, yanking at a prickly thistle.

//Very nearly.// Bumblebee replied. //Apparently, your grandmother plans to build a greenhouse.//

Sam huffed a laugh as he tossed the thistle into the bucket. //I hope you didn’t volunteer.//

The scout’s mental presence turned wry. //I did not.//

Sam picked up the bucket and stepped over a tidy row of carrots to crouch in the dirt again. The sun was bearing down on his head and shoulders. He would have to go inside and get a hat soon, or he was going to burn.

//I thought we could check out the beach this afternoon.// Sam said, //It’s nice. The guys could come too.//

Bumblebee brushed across his mind, the mental equivalent of a cool hand on a warm brow. //I’d like that.//

Sam grinned to himself as he pulled the last weed from the dirt and tossed it into the bucket.

//It’s beautiful.// He said, pushing to his feet, //There’s a rocky beach on one side of the point, and a sandy beach on the other. If Hound’s interested, I can show him how to dig clams.//

Bumblebee’s mental presence was amused. //Clams?//

Sam chuckled as he considered the edges of the garden. The grass was beginning to encroach on the soil, blurring the usually tidy line between soil and lawn. He picked up the shovel, burying it deep into the ground along the edge of the garden. He jerked the handle, shearing off a chunk of sod and leaving a neat edge in its wake. It would take a while, but his grandmother would appreciate the effort.

//Oh yeah.// He agreed, his mental voice strained from exertion, //There’s a mudflat in the cove on the other side of the point. I used to dig clams all the time when I was a kid. Nan loves them.//

There was a momentary pause, and then Bumblebee wryly replied, //Hound is looking forward to it.//

Sam’s grin stretched from ear to ear. //Me too.//

He was halfway through edging the garden when he caught sight of Ratchet’s holoform striding across the lawn towards him. The grizzled old medic had a baseball cap in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Sam sunk the shovel deep into the dirt, leaning on it as the holoform approached.

“Hey Ratch.” Sam said, wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of his forearm, “Is that for me?”

The medic gave him a pointed look, one that said ‘Obviously’ as clearly as words. He handed Sam the baseball cap, and after he pulled it on, he handed him the glass of water. Sam took a long drink—it was cool and clean. His grandmother drew water from the well and stored it in gallon jugs in the pantry. She hated the taste of the municipal water.

“Thanks.” He said after he finished, “It’s hot.”

“I am aware.” Ratchet replied dryly.

Sam rolled his eyes, pulling the shovel from the dirt and edging the next section of garden. The bucket was quickly filling with pieces of sod, and Sam was satisified with the result. The shovel hit a large stone on his next thrust, so he dug it up and tossed it over the hill. He glanced over at the holoform, who was watching him work with an inscrutable expression on his face.  

“Can I help you?” He asked.  

Ratchet folded his arms over his chest. “Megatron’s sentence has been carried out.”

Sam froze, his foot on the blade of the shovel. “What?”

“You heard me.” Ratchet replied, not unkindly.

Sam opened his mouth and closed it again, unsure what to say. He had been told of Prime’s decision to commute Megatron’s sentence from execution to stasis-lock—and of Soundwave’s role in forcing Prime’s hand. He didn’t know how he felt about it. He was relieved, certainly, and a vicious part of him took great satisfaction in knowing the warlord was suffering through the same torment he had inflicted on Sam. Yet, despite that, Sam felt unsettled. Anxious. He couldn’t begin to process it all, so he didn’t even try.

“I didn’t expect it so soon.” He said, burying the shovel in the dirt. He was aware of Ratchet’s close scrutiny, so he forced himself to look at the holoform. “I guess that means I can go back to Diego Garcia.”

Ratchet’s lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. “The threat of Decepticon attack is still significant. You would not be safe.”

Sam threw the sod into the bucket with more force than necessary. “Yeah, I’m starting to understand that.”

Ratchet’s mouth tucked in at the corners, the way it did when he was restraining himself. Sam ignored him, stabbing the shovel into the soil and cutting the next portion of sod. To his surprise, the medic didn’t argue with him any further. Instead, he stood nearby, watching as Sam finished edging the garden. When he had tossed the last chunk of soil into the bucket, Sam pulled off his gloves and tucked them in his back pocket.

“I have to dump the sod.” He said, making to step around the holoform. Ratchet interceded, bending down to grab the bucket by its handle.

“Where?” He asked, gruffly.

Sam’s brow furrowed in surprise, but he tipped his head towards the bank without complaint. “Over the hill is fine, just not on the lawn.”

Ratchet carried the bucket out of the garden and over to the tall, reedy grasses that lined the hill. As he emptied the sod over the bank, Sam gathered up the gardening tools. The holoform strode back towards him, and together they made their way across the lawn. As the rounded the corner of the house, Sam saw that the barn had been fully demolished. In its place was a wide expanse of bare dirt surrounded by the edges of the old foundation.

“Watch out for nails.” His grandmother called from the back porch. She was hanging laundry on the line. “We tried to gather them all up, but heaven forbid you step on one.”

Sam huffed a dry laugh. A trip to the emergency room for a tetanus shot would really round out his week.

“I will.” He called back, “Where do you want this?” He raised the bucket, rattling it meaningfully.

“Oh, you can put it on the deck. Thank-you dear.” She said, tossing a bedsheet over the line and pinning it in place, “Take off your shoes and wash off before you go inside. I don’t want you tracking dirt all over the house.”

Sam walked around to the front lawn, swinging the bucket at his side. He dutifully set it on the deck, and then he made his way over to the garden hose. It hung from an aluminum rack attached to the side of the house. Bumblebee, Cliffjumper, and Ratchet were parked at the front of the driveway, and Hound was parked further away. Sam ran a hand over Bumblebee’s bonnet as he passed, and he was met with a swell of exasperation at the dirt he left behind.

He grinned unapologetically at the scout. “Vain.”

Bumblebee flashed his headlights, and Sam laughed lightly. He uncoiled the garden hose and turned it on, taking a deep drink from the nozzle. The water was metallic tasting and surprisingly cold, and Sam quickly sprayed off his hands and arms. He would need a shower when he went inside, but he had gotten the most of it.

“I’m going to change and grab something to eat.” He said, directing his words to no one in particular, “I’ll see you guys in a bit.”

He walked across the lawn and climbed the steps. He toed off his shoes, banging them together over the railing, and then made his way inside. He set the shoes on the rack near the door, before heading upstairs. The bedroom was the same as he had left it, so he took a moment to tidy up. He twitched the blankets back over the bed, smoothing them down, and then gathered up his dirty clothes. When he had finished, he pulled clean clothes out of his duffel bag, grabbed his toiletries, and then ambled back downstairs.  

The bathroom was located off the kitchen, across from the wood room. As with the rest of the house, it had last been redesigned sometime in the 1970s. It had bubblegum pink fixtures, and black and white subway tile. He set his things on the laundry hamper, and then he stripped out of his clothes. It took a while for the water to heat up, so he used the bathroom in the interim. By the time that he climbed into the bathtub, the water was comfortably warm. He squeezed a dollop of shampoo into his palm, working it into a later and scrubbing it through his hair. He was just about to rise the suds away when he felt a gentle nudge in his mind. He glanced over in time to see Bumblebee’s holoform materialize beside the tub.

“Hey.” Sam said, hands still in his hair.

“Hey yourself.” He murmured, “I thought I would join you.”

Sam quirked an eyebrow at him. “I am not having sex in my grandmother’s bathroom.”

“I know that.” Bumblebee said wryly, “I wanted to shower.”

Suds were beginning to slide down the sides of his face, getting into his ears. He stuck his head under the water, rinsing most of it off, before glancing back at his bonded.

“You want to shower.” He repeated, skeptically.

Bumblebee shifted his weight, and all at once, Sam realized that he was feeling tentative.

“I enjoyed bathing with you.” He said softly, “If it bothers you, I won’t mention it again.”

Sam knew that bathing was a communal experience for the Autobots. It took a great deal of trust to remove one’s armor and let someone scrub the grit out of their joints. As such, washing was a display of trust and affection among mechanoids. Bumblebee had invited him to the wash racks in the past, but Sam had always declined. At first, he had been embarrassed. He had been young, when he first arrived at Diego Garcia, and the prospect of seeing the Autobots in such an intimate setting had made him uncomfortable. Later, after Megatron and the Nemesis, he couldn’t stand the smell of solvent, and so he avoided the wash racks like the plague. Bumblebee had never pressured him, but Sam knew that he hoped. It seemed selfish to deny him now.

Sam nodded slowly, before stepping back to make room. Bumblebee’s expression morphed from surprise to appreciation in quick succession, and he climbed into the bathtub.

“I’ll stay clothed.” He murmured, running his hands across Sam’s shoulders.

Sam shivered despite the heat. “Do whatever you want.”

Bumblebee hummed at him, bending down to pick up the washcloth. He motioned meaningfully with the wet fabric. “Can I?”

Sam nodded, letting his eyes drift closed as Bumblebee drew the soapy cloth over his chest. The scout touched him as he worked—grasping a shoulder, trailing fingers across his ribs, squeezing a hip. The touches were gentle and intimate, but not the least bit sexual. Sam let himself be maneuvered without complaint, raising his arms and turning to allow the holoform better access. Bumblebee’s mental presence was quiet as he worked, almost meditative. When Bumblebee ghosted across the scarred flesh beneath his left clavicle, Sam grimaced deeply. The holoform stilled, his eyes flitting up to his face.

“Did that hurt?” He asked softly.

Sam shook his head faintly. “No. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

He didn’t explain that he hated the scar, but he was sure that Bumblebee knew it anyway. The pale, twisted flesh was a constant reminder of Ripcord’s betrayal and of his changed nature. He tried not to dwell on it, but sometimes it was impossible to avoid—an ugly souvenir of an ugly experience. 

Sam jerked in surprise as the holoform leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss against the marred flesh.

“It’s not ugly.” He said, and Sam was taken aback by his tone—it was fierce and sincere and reverential, all at once. “It’s a part of you, and you’re beautiful.”

Sam snorted inelegantly, but he didn’t step back or push the holoform away. Bumblebee leaned into his personal space, crowding him into the corner beneath the showerhead. He bracketed Sam’s body with his own, cupping the sides of his face in his hands.

“I wish I could tear Ripcord apart for the pain that he caused you.” He murmured softly, “And yet, were it not for his actions, we never would have found one another. I look at that scar and see the moment that we bonded.”  

Sam swallowed against the lump in his throat. He supposed that was true—if Ripcord hadn’t killed him, then he never would have on-lined, and they never would have bonded. The thought was abhorrent in the extreme, and Sam raised his hands to grip Bumblebee’s wrists. The touch was to steady himself as much as it was to reassure his bonded.

They stood beneath the drumming water for a long while, leaning into each other in body and mind. When Sam felt a little steadier, Bumblebee pulled back. “Do you want to get out?”

Sam shook his head. “No. I’m fine right where I am.”

Bumblebee’s lips curved up in a smile. “Do you want to finish? Or shall I?”

He punctuated his question by raising the washcloth, and Sam returned his smile.

“You can go ahead.” He murmured, bending down to turn up the hot water.

Bumblebee made an approving sound, and began drawing the cloth across Sam’s skin. As he washed away the last traces of sweat and grime and dirt, Sam was struck with a fierce swell of affection. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the holoform’s shoulder.

“I’m going to return the favor when we get back to Diego Garcia.” He promised, his voice muffled by the water.

Bumblebee bumped against his mind, fond and appreciative. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.” Sam said, raising his head to meet the holoform’s eyes, “I really do.”

Bumblebee smiled softly. “Well, then. I look forward to it.”  

They finished the shower in comfortable silence. There was nothing more that needed to be said.

Sam was washed, dressed, and well fed by the time that he stepped onto the back deck. He held the door for Bumblebee, and then let it bang shut behind them as they made their way down the steps. Bumblebee, Cliffjumper, and Hound were standing in their bipedal modes near the foundation of the old barn. Their armor gleamed in the bright afternoon sun. Sam stopped a short distance away, grinning up at them.

“Hey guys. Ready to go?” He asked.

The shower with Bumblebee and the news about Megatron had put him in a jovial mood.

Hound chirruped at him expressively, a sound that Sam had come to interpret as an affirmation. The sentry was practically vibrating with restrained excitement, a stark contrast to Cliffjumper’s usual stoicism. The scout had the same calm demeanor of a Tibetan monk.   

“Great.” Sam replied, “I don’t know how close you’ll get. You guys must weigh a metric fuck-ton between the three of you, but we’ll see how far we can go.”

His grandmother’s backyard extended from the house to the waist-high grasses that surrounded the property.  As soon as he set off across the lawn, Bumblebee and Hound activated their holoforms. They had almost made it to the narrow path that led down over the hill when he stopped mid-stride.

“Wait.” He said, half-turning to look back at the house. He licked his lips, put two fingers in his mouth, and whistled sharply.

Bumblebee’s eyebrows drifted closer to his hairline. “I’ve never seen you do that before.”

Sam grinned at him. “No? It comes in handy whenever I need to hail a cab.”

Before Bumblebee could reply, Sheena came careening around the side of the house. She ran towards them, a brown and black blur, barking excitedly. She came to heel in front of Sam, ears perked up and panting. He crouched down, scratching her furry chest, before glancing up at Hound.

“Have you met Sheena yet?” He asked.

The holoform looked openly intrigued. “I have not.”

Sam grinned broadly. “Nan’s had her since she was a puppy. She’s a big ol’ sweetheart.”  

Hound’s holoform crouched down beside him. He extended a hand towards her, as Sam showed him, and looked delighted when she nosed at his fingers.

“She is marvelous.” Hound said, running a hand over her head, “Human ingenuity never ceases to amaze me.”

Sam chuckled as he straightened up. “I thought you might like her.”

Sheena trotted circles around them as they made their way across the lawn. Hound watched her with unwavering focus, his plating tucked tightly to his frame in order to appear less threatening. He used to do the same thing around Sam, before they had gotten to know one another. Whenever Sheena approached, the sentry would extend an arm towards her. The German Shepard darted away each time, watching him with perked ears and a flagged tail. Hound didn’t seem to mind her wariness.  

Sam and the two holoforms walked single-file down the narrow path, making their way down the hill. His grandmother’s house was on a point, surrounded on two sides by water. The beach near the harbor was rocky, with a bream made of small- to medium-sized pieces granite and shale. The rocks extended into the water in a narrow wedge for about fifty feet.

Sam pointed at the rocky protrusion as they walked. “At low tide, that creates a kind of land bridge. You can go all the way out. You have to be careful not to get stuck when the tide comes in, though.”

The ground had transitioned from solid earth to sloping sand. He glanced over his shoulder at the three mechanoids, who were making their way down the hill. Their every step seemed to be carefully considered and placed.

“It’s loose here, but it’ll firm up on the beach.” He said, stepping over the minor scarp where the hillside had given way. This side of the point was lovely—a long, narrow crescent of golden sand. The bream was made up of baseball to basketball-sized rocks, all weathered into smooth ovals. Behind the bream was more waist-high grass, which transitioned to scrubby woodland further back.

“I used to love it here when I was a kid.” Sam said, jogging the last few meters down to the beach.

“Did you swim?” Hound asked, finally turning his attention away from Sheena.   

“Yeah, of course.” Sam replied, “The harbor is a better swimming spot, but it’s not bad here either.”  

Hound seemed intrigued. “What makes for a good… swimming spot?”

There was something about his inflection that suggested he had just Googled the term. Sam felt a rush of affection for the exuberant mechanoid.

“The waves are better in the harbor.” He said, before adding dryly, “Though you have to watch the rocks. I’ve skinned my shins to ribbons more than once.” He bent down, grabbing a rubbery piece of kelp, and held it up for Hound’s inspection. “And this side is full of seaweed. I hate seaweed.”

Hound took the piece of kelp, staring at it with an intensity that would have suited Beachcomber. He turned it over, trailing his fingers over its slimy surface.

“Why so?” He asked, curiously.  

Sam shrugged, pushing his hands into his pockets. “It creeps me out. It feels like there’s something brushing past you—something that could bite. There are sharks, scorpionfish, jellyfish, eels… you have to be careful.”

Hound looked poleaxed by this information. He turned to regard the ocean, his optics roving from one side of the beach to the other. After a minute, he whistled expressively.

“I do not detect anything.” He said, but he still sounded concerned.

Sam patted him on the shoulder. “It’s alright. I don’t think we’ve ever had a shark here.”

Bumblebee gave him an exasperated look. “I can’t believe this is your idea of recreation.”

Sam shrugged good-naturedly as he continued down the beach. “It’s fun.”

The holoforms followed behind him, and the bipedal modes trailed after them. Sheena ran back and forth between the two groups, stopping periodically to nose at the ground. They made their way down the beach and around the point. The cove was wide and deep, with a mudflat that extended from one rocky outcrop to another.

“Don’t go onto the flats.” He warned, stepping up onto the bream, “You’ll get stuck. The mud is deep.”

“Your propensity for risk-taking is impressive.” Hound murmured, following behind him.

Sam laughed lightly. “It’s not that bad.”

“Agree to disagree.” Cliffjumper muttered, stepping into the tall grasses.

They made their way into the cove, spending a risk-averse half hour digging for clams. Predictably, the process fascinated Hound. He crouched inches away, leaning completely into Sam’s space as he demonstrated how to identify air holes and dig into the fine-grained sand to find the clams. The sentry clambered into the cove, sinking up past his pedes in the soft silt, and tried for himself. When he plucked a single clam out of a bathtub-sized servo full of sand, Sam gave him two thumbs-up.

When they finished digging for clams, leaving the cove looking like it had been pot-marked with mortar rounds, Sam showed Hound how to play fetch. He picked up a piece of driftwood about the size of his forearm, and tossed it into the water. Sheena was off like a shot, landing with a splash and paddling to where the stick bobbed in the water. When she brought it back for him, he handed the stick to Hound. The sentry’s optics brightened to off-white, and then he hurled the stick almost halfway across the harbor. Sheena ran several feet into the water before stopping, tilting her head in confusion.

“You can’t throw it that far.” Sam laughed, “She’s almost ten years old.”

Hound whistled apologetically, causing Sheena to perk up. He made it up to her by tossing another stick into the water until she stopped bringing it back to him. The message was clear: I’m all done.  

By the time they made their way back to the house, it was almost dinnertime. Ratchet took one look at Hound—who had mud caked in every joint and crevice of his leg struts—and transformed, unleashing a blistering diatribe right there on his grandmother’s front lawn. Hound weathered Ratchet’s temper with good-natured acceptance, and when it was over, Sam helped the three mechanoids hose off. It wasn’t until he was wrist-deep in Hound’s knee joint, trying to pry a stone out of the sensitive components, that he realized what he was doing. He froze, glancing up at the sentry uncertainly.

“Is this…” He fumbled for his words, “Is this alright?”

Hound seemed confused for a scant second, before understanding dawned across his face.

“Yes, Sam. It’s alright.” He replied, reassuringly.

Sam glanced under his elbow at Bumblebee, who was standing patiently while Cliffjumper hosed him down. The garden hose looked comically small in Cliff’s huge servo. Bumblebee glanced in his direction, seemingly aware of his scrutiny, and chirped at him encouragingly. It made Sam relax all over, and he turned back to the task at hand. When he finished removing the larger pieces of detritus, he accepted the hose from Cliffjumper and washed Hound off. Ratchet had resumed his spot at the head of the driveway, once again in his alt mode. Sam’s hand tightened on the nozzle, a grin slowly spreading across his face.

“I would strongly advise against it.” Ratchet rumbled.

The medic’s tone was impassive, but Sam knew a warning when he heard one. He sighed heavily, but he was smiling as he finished washing away the muck from Hound’s leg struts. He gave the sentry an affectionate pat, and then went over to help Bumblebee with Cliffjumper. It was short work between the two of them, and by the time that his grandmother called him to supper, all three mechanoids were back in the alt modes. Sam coiled the hose on the rack, and made his way into the house for supper.

The smell of pizza hit him full in the face as soon as he stepped into the kitchen. He groaned appreciatively at the sight of Nanny’s pan made pepperoni pizza in a skillet on the stove. The table had already been set, and his grandmother was in the process of plating up two slices. She looked over her shoulder in his direction, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“You’re not sitting at my table looking like that.” She said, “Go upstairs and change.”

Sam glanced down at himself, only to realize that his clothes were damp and streaked with mud. He tossed an apologetic smile in his grandmother’s direction, before hurrying to comply with her instructions. He changed into a pair of distressed jeans and a band shirt, and made his way back downstairs. By the time that he slid into his spot at the table, his grandmother was already eating.

“It smells amazing, Nan.” He said, picking up his knife and fork. His grandmother’s deep-dish pizza was too thick and saucy to eat by hand.  

“Thank-you, Chicken.” She said, after she had swallowed her bite of food, “I thought tomorrow I would make meatcakes.”

Sam grinned at her. “That would be awesome.”  

Meatcakes had been his favorite meal as a child. It was simple comfort food—ground beef, onions, and mashed potatoes, mixed into patties and fried in bacon grease. They were incredible, and although his mother tried her best to make them, they just weren’t the same as Nan’s.

She hummed at him approvingly, and they finished their meals in companionable silence. When his grandmother pressed him for seconds, Sam was all too happy to oblige her. Afterwards, they cleaned the kitchen together and then made their way into the living room. His grandmother took her customary spot on the couch, and Sam sat on the floor beside her. They watched television as the sun went down, his grandmother occasionally patting his shoulder or running her fingers through his hair. By the time that nine o’clock rolled around, his grandmother excused herself and went to bed. Sam was still wide awake, so he shut the living room door and flopped onto the couch. He wasn’t the least bit surprised when Bumblebee’s holoform materialized by his side a moment later.

“Hey.” He said, sitting up long enough to snag the tasseled throw blanket and pull it over his legs, “I was wondering where you were.”

Bumblebee’s mouth turned up in a fond smile. “You seemed to be enjoying the time alone. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Sam tucked an arm behind his head, smiling up at him. “Thanks Bee.”

The holoform pushed his hands into his pockets, making a slow circuit around the room. He stopped in front of a framed picture on the mantelpiece. He reached out a hand, tracing the grainy photograph with his fingertips, before looking at Sam.

“Is this you?” He asked softly.

Sam knew that he was looking at the photograph his mother had taken in the NICU. He had been in an incubator, wearing a little wool cap and covered in wires. The picture had been taken mid-yawn, but Sam thought he looked like he was squalling his head off.

“Yeah, that’s me.” He said. “I was like, two hours old in that picture.”

Bumblebee picked the picture off the mantle, cradling it in his hands. “You were so small.”

Sam chuckled lightly. “19 inches long, five and a half pounds. Ma had it embroidered on a baby blanket.”

Bumblebee stared at the picture for a long moment, before placing it back on the mantle. He turned to look at the next picture, and Sam preemptively explained, “Christmas concert at Nan’s church. I was five.”

The holoform’s lips quirked in a smile. “What are you dressed as?”

“Good King Wenceslas.” Sam replied, pushing himself to his feet, “They already had three wise men and two shepherds, so they improvised.”  

Bumblebee chuckled quietly, and Sam wandered over to stand by his side. He explained each picture in turn, first on the mantel and then on the walls. There were wedding photographs, graduation portraits, vacation pictures, and more. It was a visual slideshow of his grandmother’s life and, by extension, Sam’s part in it. When he finished, Sam made his way back to the couch. Bumblebee lingered behind, staring at the picture on the mantelpiece. His expression was quiet and reflective, and Sam let him have his moment of introspection.

He picked up the remote, and drew the throw blanket up to his shoulders. Bumblebee joined him eventually, sliding beneath the afghan to curl against his side. Sam shifted, making room for him, and then he turned off the side lamp. The room was dark, lit only by the warm glow of the television. Sam was suddenly struck by the domesticity of it all, and he chuckled quietly to himself. Bumblebee gave him a curious look, but Sam shook his head faintly. He couldn’t have explained the warm, comfortable feeling in his chest even if he had tried.

They lay there together, quiet and companionable, until Sam fell asleep two sitcoms later.

Chapter Text

Sam blinked open his eyes, peering blearily around the room. It took a moment before he recognized where he was—the television had been turned off, plunging the living room in shadow. He pushed up onto an elbow and scrubbed a hand over his face. The house was still and quiet; he couldn’t hear a thing from upstairs. He briefly debated spending the night on the couch, but his bed was far more comfortable. He pushed the afghan aside, climbing to his feet with a groan. He felt stiff and heavy-limbed, as though he had been asleep for days.

He made his way out of the living room and down the hall on autopilot. When he stepped into the kitchen, he ambled over towards the window, looking for Bumblebee. It was perfectly dark outside, as though someone drawn a shroud across the glass. He frowned faintly, stepping towards the counter and squinting into the dark. He couldn’t see anything—not the lawn, not the ocean, not even the stars. His frown deepened, and he reached out a hand to press against the glass. It was frigidly cold, like a sheet of ice, and he jerked away in surprise.  

Before he could turn around or back up, a pinprick of color blossomed to life in the darkness. It was small and faint, flickering like a candle flame in the breeze. He leaned towards the window again. The light swayed back and forth, as though beckoning him. He felt an answering pull inside his chest, like a thread going taut, and he was across the kitchen without conscious thought. He opened the door and stepped outside—

—before pulling up short. The landscape in front of him was unrecognizable. He was standing in the middle of a road that stretched almost to the horizon. In the distance, he could see a city rising out of the craggy landscape. Its buildings were tall and dark and monolithic. The sky was a dull pre-dawn gray, which revealed the smoke from dozens of fires billowing into the early morning air.

“This isn’t real.” He whispered disbelievingly, “I’m dreaming.”

“Yes, you are.”  

Sam startled in surprise, only to realize that Ravage was walking by his side. The cyber cat’s head was low to the ground, her tail slowly lashing back and forth. Sam frowned faintly. He couldn’t remember when they had started walking towards the city.

“Where am I?” He asked softly, “What is this?”

“I cannot remember.” Ravage rumbled in reply, “I have been asleep for too long.”  

They passed between two massive piles of rubble that had once been buildings. A thick support beam had fallen across the road, propped up on one side by a piece of concrete larger than the Trion. Sam picked his way beneath it easily enough—it was at least twenty feet above him. When he emerged on the other side, he could hear the distant sounds of combat. He recognized the high-pitched whine of charging capacitators and the thuoom of fusion canons being fired. He planted his feet on the ground, resisting the strange pull inside his chest.

“I want to wake up.” He said, suddenly afraid.

Ravage tilted her helm at him. “Then wake up. These are your dreams, not mine.”

The sounds of battle were drawing nearer and more violent, as shouts and explosions carried on the wind. His stomach sank with dread, like a stone dropping into a pond.

“Wake up.” He whispered to himself, “Wake up.”

“Do not be afraid, little Prime.” Ravage murmured, “No harm will come to us.”  

A long, high-pitched whine began building in the distance. Sam watched as pebbles and chunks of concrete began rolling down the road towards the city. The pull inside his chest became stronger, and he stumbled forward against his will. The sound continued to build, growing to a dull roar, and Sam slapped his hands over his ears to block out the noise. It seemed to suffuse every atom in his body, crowding out all rational thought.

“Wake up!” He screamed, screwing his eyes shut, “Someone wake me—!“

Sam jerked awake, jackknifing into a sitting position as he heaved great, gasping breaths. Bumblebee made a surprised sound, and he shifted over to accommodate him. Sam twisted, looking wildly around the room. Everything was exactly the same as it had been when he had fallen asleep. Bumblebee was on the couch beside him, and the television was playing on low volume. Otherwise, the room was dark and quiet. He lurched to his feet and stumbled over to the window, pulling the curtains aside. He went weak with relief at the sight of the backyard, bathed in moonlight.

“Sam?” Bumblebee asked concernedly, “What’s wrong?”

Sam sighed deeply, pressing his forehead against the glass. “Nothing. It was just a nightmare.”

Bumblebee didn’t reply, but he could feel the scout’s concern deepen to something else, something uneasy. Sam glanced over his shoulder at him.

“What is it?” He rasped. Bumblebee’s brow furrowed deeply, as though he was unsure how to answer. Sam frowned, turning around to look at him. “Bee, what is it?”

“You… weren’t asleep.” The holoform slowly replied.

Sam’s frown deepened. “What do you mean? What time is it?”

Without waiting for a reply, he crossed the room to look at the clock on the side table. It read 10:47 PM. He stared at the time in confusion—it felt like he had been asleep for hours, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. He twisted around, looking at the television. Last Week Tonight was still playing on low volume.  

Sam stared at the television, fear skittering up his spine. “I don’t understand.” He stammered, “I was asleep—I was dreaming. I was.”

“Alright.” Bumblebee soothed, crossing the room to grasp Sam by the elbows, “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not alright!” Sam snapped, yanking his arms away as he began to pace. The dream was already fading from memory. He could only recall a few fragments of imagery and emotion, nothing that he could understand. Sam’s chest suddenly felt too tight, and he gripped his hair until his scalp ached.

“Are you sure I wasn’t sleeping?” He asked in desperation, “Bumblebee, are you sure?”

Bumblebee approached him slowly, hands up, palm first, as one might approach a wild animal. “Breathe, Sam. You’re hyperventilating.”

He was, he realized distantly. His breath was coming in short, sharp pants, and it was making him lightheaded. He screwed his eyes shut, sucking a harsh breath in through his nose and out through his mouth.

“Was… I… sleeping?” Sam gritted out.

Bumblebee smoothed his hands up Sam’s arms to squeeze his shoulders. “Perhaps you fell asleep after my last sensor sweep. They occur in four minute intervals.”

Sam knew the words were baseless reassurance. Bumblebee would have known if he had fallen asleep—he always did. He made a wounded sound in the back of his throat, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars. The last time that he had received cryptic visions from the Allspark, he had resurrected Jazz from the dead—like some kind of alien fucking Lazarus.

The thought sent a shudder of revulsion down his spine. Bumblebee’s mental presence brightened with concern, but Sam stumbled away, wrenching open the door with such force that it banged against the wall. He rushed down the hallway and through the kitchen, aware of Bumblebee following behind him. His bonded’s mental presence was apprehensive, and Sam leaned away from it as far as he could. He didn’t want concern or pity—he didn’t want any of this.

As Sam made to step into the porch, his grandmother’s voice called down from the top of the stairs. “Samuel? I heard a crash. Is everything alright?”

Sam froze like a deer in the headlights, and he had to swallow thickly before he could reply. “Everything’s fine, Nan. I just need some fresh air. Go back to sleep.”

His voice was strained-sounding, even to his own ears. He cursed himself internally, hurrying out the door before she could question him further. The night air was chilly, raising goosebumps across his arms. He jogged down the front steps, making his way across the lawn. He wasn’t even sure where he was going until he found himself standing in front of Ratchet’s alt mode. The medic opened his driver’s side door in a silent invitation. Sam murmured his thanks, grasping the handlebar and climbing into the cabin. Ratchet pulled the door shut behind him as soon as he settled into the seat.  

Sam gripped the steering wheel with both hands, pressing his forehead against the Autobot emblem on the airbag module. He was trembling like an adrenaline junkie coming down off a high. After a moment, the driver’s seat reclined fractionally. He took the hint, uncurling his fingers from the steering wheel and leaning back against the seat. The Hummer was parked facing the harbor, and Sam stared out over the water as his heartbeat slowly evened out.

Ratchet’s mental presence was reserved, almost subdued. The thought made Sam glance at the dashboard, only to notice that the lights and entertainment console were dark. The sight caused a swell of chagrin, swift and hot, and he blurted abruptly, “Were you in recharge?”

He could feel the medic’s wry exasperation across their bond space. “I was.”

Sam winced in apology, but before he could move, the seat reclined several more inches.

“Your presence is not an imposition.” Ratchet rumbled.

Although the reassurance was delivered with the medic’s usual gruffness, Sam was unexpectedly touched by the sentiment. He let himself settle down against the seat, enjoying the feeling of warm leather. They sat in mutual silence for a long while—Ratchet languorous, Sam pensive. Eventually, the uncertainty and anxiety churning in his gut could no longer be ignored.  

“How much of that did you follow?” He asked softly.

Ratchet did not pretend to misunderstand him. “Bumblebee assessed me of the situation shortly before you left the house.”

Sam stared at the roof of the cab, wrestling with conflicting impulses. A part of him wanted to talk about it, but another part of him never wanted to mention it again. He sighed, softly.

“What’s happening to me, Ratch?”

Ratchet was silent for a beat, before he replied, “I do not know.”

The words were gentle, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut against the sting of sudden tears.

“This is bullshit.” He said, his voice catching, “I’ve done enough—I’ve changed enough.”

Ratchet’s mental presence shifted forward, gathering him close. “You have.”

“It’s not fair.” He whispered, thunking his head against the seat. “First, I was made a ward of Cybertron without my consent. After that, I was an Ambassador, then a newspark, then a Prime, now… what? A conduit for an ancient alien artifact that can give me visions but not a fucking clue? Goddammit!”  

By the time that he finished speaking, Sam’s voice was choked with tears. He angrily thumbed the incriminating moisture away. Ratchet was quiet for a long while, and Sam could feel him considering his response.

“Did I ever tell you why I became a surgeon?” He asked eventually.

Sam glanced as the dashboard, taken by surprise. “No. Well, I know you used to be a Senator, but that’s it.”

Ratchet’s dry chuckle ghosted through the cab. “My Creator was a well-respected bioethics researcher from Praxus. He had hoped, in sparking me, that I would demonstrate an affinity for his research.” His voice turned wry as he continued, “I did not, much to his irritation and disappointment.”

Sam listened with no small degree of interest. Ratchet was an intensely private person, and he did not know very much about him.  

“My foray into politics was an act of youthful rebellion, I suppose.” Ratchet continued, “But as it turned out, I was good at it. I enjoyed the challenge. I began my career as a lobbyist, and I worked my way up the power structure until I was invited to join the Senate.” 

Sam knew that he was being distracted, but he found that he didn’t care. “You were invited?”

“The Cybertronian Senate was far different than the American Senate. Its members were appointed at the discretion of the Prime or, in my case, the Speaker. You would know him as Ratbat.”

“Ratbat?” Sam echoed in surprise, “Soundwave’s cassette?”

He had never met Ratbat, but he knew of him. Ravage had occasionally spoken of the mini-cassette with no small amount of distaste.

Ratchet rumbled at him agreeably. “The very same. He was an excellent orator and remarkably efficient, but he was ruthless. I didn’t realize just how ruthless until much later.”

By the time that he finished speaking, Ratchet’s tone had turned recriminatory and self-deprecating. Sam shifted against the seat. He was curious to know what happened, but he didn’t dare pry. The medic was being unusually forthcoming as it was.

As though sensing his thoughts, and of course he probably was, Ratchet snorted. “It’s no secret. After an assassination attempt on Nominus Prime, Ratbat and the other Senators implemented martial law. It placed Cybertron in a state of lock-down, under the guise of heightened security measures. In fact, it was a means to increase the power of the Senate.”

Sam frowned faintly, wracking his memory. “Nominus Prime. That was the Prime before Sentinel, right?”

Ratchet made a derisive sound deep in his intakes. “He was, and Cybertron under his rule was full of corruption, social apartheid, and oppression.”  

“Sounds like an asshole.” Sam commented, mildly.

“That is an apt characterization.” Ratchet replied.

Sam huffed a laugh at the medic’s wry tone, before he sobered up. “So, what happened?”

Ratchet was silent for so long that Sam regretted asking the question. Eventually, he replied, “I protested against the Clampdown, as it came to be called, and I was systematically ostracized. I resigned from the Senate in disgust. It wasn’t until I left Iacon that I came to understand just how pervasive the suffering had become.”

“So that’s why you became a surgeon, then? To help people?” Sam asked curiously.

“Yes, but not right away.” Ratchet replied, “I spent some time assisting my Creator with his research. I had no patience for it, nor he with me. I left soon after, and that’s when I met Megatronus.”

Sam’s head came up, and he stared at the dashboard in disbelief. “What?”

“Megatronus was speaking against the caste system, even then. I found his ideals appealing.” Ratchet said, his voice oddly ruminative, “We spoke at length about corruption in the Senate.”

Sam knew that Optimus had not met Megatron until the fête of the Primes, and that wasn’t until Sentinel Prime had assumed control of the Senate. He stared at the dashboard, disbelievingly, “You knew Megatron before you knew Optimus?”

“Yes, I did.” Ratchet replied, “I did not meet Orion Pax until much later.”

“What was he like?” Sam blurted without thinking, “Optimus, I mean. Before.”

Ratchet chuckled softly. “He did not make a good first impression. Orion Pax was a wide-eyed idealist, but he obeyed the whims of Alpha Trion without question. I took him for a flunky at best and a double-agent at worst.”

“Are you serious?” Sam asked, “You thought Optimus might be a spy?”

“I did indeed.” Ratchet rumbled, “I would put nothing past the Senate. Megatronus had already begun making waves, and they were not above cold-blooded murder.”  

“So what changed?” Sam asked, “How did you become friends?”

Ratchet hesitated, and Sam had the impression that he was choosing his words carefully. “Orion Pax became a vocal supporter of Megatronus’ cause. We came to know each other, over time, and eventually, we became close.”

Sam was quiet for a moment, mulling over what he had been told.

“So when did you become a surgeon?” He asked at last.

Ratchet rumbled lowly, and Sam could feel it down to his bones. He shivered at the ominous sound, and a moment later, the vents turned on. Warm air wafted through the cabin, but it did little to chase away the chill.

“There was an attempt on Megatronus’ life after he published his first critical précis on the caste system.” Ratchet replied tightly, “Although I could not prove it, I was certain the Senate was behind the attack. I knew things would get far worse before they would get better, so I used my Creator’s reputation, and all the favors that I had accumulated over my political career, to gain entry to the Protihex Medical Mechanics University. I was redesigned as a medical build, and I studied to become a surgeon.”

“You became a surgeon for Megatron?” Sam asked, disbelievingly.

“No.” Ratchet corrected him, an edge in his voice, “I became a surgeon for Megatronus, and for Orion Pax, and for Ironhide, and for the thousands of other mechanoids that had flocked to the cause.”

Sam stared at the roof of the cab, reeling with all that he had learned. He hardly knew which part to address first, which was probably why he blurted, without thinking, “Is that why you hate Megatron so much?”

Ratchet’s mental presence became very still, almost statuesque, and Sam flushed in mortification at his tactlessness.

“Ratch, I’m sorry—“ He stammered, but Ratchet cut him off.

“I hate Megatron because he destroyed the last hope of a free Cybertron.” He replied tightly, his voice turning midnight black as he continued, “And I hate him for making me an oathbreaker, and a hypocrite, and a murderer.”

Sam flinched at the cold anger in his voice. Suddenly desperate to reassure, he reached out, pressing his hand against the steering wheel.

“You did what you had to do, Ratch.” He said softly, “You save people.”

Ratchet sighed. “Perhaps, but I have killed a great many as well, both in self-defense and out of mercy.”

Sam didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Instead, he stroked his thumb over the Autobot emblem set on the airbag module, and pushed comfort and affection at the medic as carefully as he could. Ratchet harrumphed at him, but there was no heat in it. The medic gathered him up once again, tucking him close to his spark. The wizened glow in his mind was mellow and warm, and Sam found himself relaxing into it. They stayed like that for a long while, neither of them speaking but each saying volumes. Sam watched the gibbous moon as it rose over the harbor, sending silvery light across dark water. The sight made him smile faintly, and it was with him as he drifted off a short while later.

“Sam, wake up.”

He squinted open his eyes, staring blearily around the cabin. The sky had lightened to navy blue, and he knew that dawn was not far off. He sat up, causing the blanket drawn up to his shoulders to pool in his lap. He stared down at the yellow fabric in confusion. He did not remember getting a blanket before he had fallen asleep.

“Your grandmother is awake.” Ratchet informed him, popping open the driver’s side door, “You should go inside.”

San scrubbed a hand across his face, knuckling the sleep out of his eyes.

“Yeah, okay.” He rasped, bundling up the blanket and tossing it into the passenger seat. He climbed out of the Hummer and shut the door behind him. The grass was wet and cold against his bare feet. He hesitated for a long moment, before murmuring softly, “Thanks Ratch.”

The medic’s mental presence nudged him meaningfully. “Go on with you.”

Sam gave the medic a tilted half-smile, before making his way towards the house. He trailed his fingertips over Bumblebee’s dewy hood as he passed. His bonded brushed across his mind, a familiar greeting, and Sam returned it in kind. He was aware of the scout’s scrutiny, but it had lost the concerned edge of the night before.

He took the deck stairs two at a time, before pulling open the door and stepping into the porch. The downstairs was dark and quiet, but he could hear his grandmother moving around in her bedroom. He glanced at the clock on the wall—it was just after six o’clock in the morning. Sam took a moment to turn on the coffee percolator, and then he made his way upstairs. As he stepped onto the landing, his grandmother’s bedroom door cracked open, spilling mellow light into the hall.

“Samuel?” She called softly.

Sam turned, padding over to the doorway.

“Hey Nan. Sorry if I worried you.” He murmured.

His grandmother smiled wanly at him. She was wearing her rose-colored housecoat, and her graying hair fell loose around her shoulders. Sam almost never saw her with her hair down.

“Were you out all night?” She asked concernedly, “I didn’t hear you come back in.”

“Yeah, I was.” Sam said softly, “I hope I didn’t keep you up.”

She clucked her tongue at him. “Oh, don’t you worry about me. Are you heading to bed?”

Sam shook his head faintly. “No, I just woke up. I was going to get changed and make some breakfast.”

His grandmother raised a thin, wrinkled hand to pat him gently on the cheek. “Oh, go on. I’ll get breakfast started, and you can join me when you’re ready.”

Sam’s lips curved up in a faint smile, and he leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. She smelled like baby powder and lavender. He turned, making his way down the hall and into his bedroom. He grabbed a change of clothes and his toiletries bag, before making his way to the little bathroom at the end of the hall. He used the toilet and washed his hands, and then stripped out of his rumpled things. He studiously ignored his reflection in the oval-shaped mirror above the sink as he dressed. Afterwards, he washed his face and brushed his teeth, and then made his way back downstairs. His grandmother was bustling around the kitchen, putting pans on the stove and pulling things out of the fridge. She had turned the radio on, and the sound of Billie Holiday’s smooth jazz filled the air.

“How can I help?” Sam asked, peering at the mixing bowls on the counter.

“Never you mind.” She said briskly, “I’ve got this handled here. Go have a seat and enjoy your coffee.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind.” He said.

She dipped her head so that she could look at him over the rim of her reading glasses. “Yes, I’m sure. Sit, sit. Your coffee is getting cold.”

His coffee was still steaming hot as he slid into his seat at the table. The mug had a faded Christmas print on it, complete with cartoon Santa and tree. He added two sugars and some milk, stirring until the coffee turned golden brown. He sipped at the creamy liquid, his elbow propped on the table, as he stared out over the front lawn. The sky was beginning to lighten at the horizon—it looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.

His grandmother hummed along to the radio as she cracked an egg into the pan. It was followed by four others, and then a half a slab of bacon. The smells of frying food quickly filled the kitchen.

“I thought I might get your help with some chores today.” His grandmother said, pulling Sam out of his woolgathering, “There’s laundry to hang, and the gutters need to be cleaned out.”

“Yeah, sure.” Sam said, setting his coffee mug on the table, “I’m happy to.”

His grandmother hummed at him approvingly. “You’ll have to go into town as well. I need some things at the store.”

Sam’s heart skipped a beat, and then it picked up in double time. His grandmother continued on, oblivious to his sudden anxiety. “I’ve already spoken with Agents Boyton and Simmons. They’ll be here later this morning. They seem like a nice sort.”

“Nan, I can’t just waltz into town.” He managed, “Someone might recognize me.”

She glanced over at him, as though in surprise. “Why would that matter?”

Sam stared at her disbelievingly. “What do you mean why would that matter? It could be dangerous.”

“You think Ferndale could be dangerous?” She asked skeptically, “Samuel, sweetheart, I’ve seen cornfields that are more dangerous than Ferndale.”

Sam’s heart was beating faster now, and he didn’t know what to say. It was true that Ferndale was probably safe—it was a small town, just over a thousand people, and its crime rate was effectively zero. In the off chance that he or Bumblebee was recognized, they were more likely to be an object of curiosity than hostility. Still, that did nothing to ease his burgeoning anxiety. Something of it must have shown on his face, for his grandmother’s expression softened.

“I’m sorry, pumpkin.” She said, setting the spatula on the counter, “I didn’t mean to upset you. Don’t fret, I’ll go.”

The quiet regret in her voice made Sam’s throat constrict with shame. The idea of making his seventy year old grandmother with a bad hip drive into town because he was too chickenshit to do it himself was awful. The fact that he had made her feel guilty on top of everything else made it so much worse.

“No, it’s fine Nan. I don’t mind.” He managed, taking another drink of coffee to wash away the lump in his throat, “I need to get used to being in public sooner or later.” He set down the mug and flashed her a lopsided smile, “I’m an Ambassador, after all.”

He hoped that his excuse didn’t sound as flimsy as it felt. Judging by her scrutinizing expression, it probably had.

“Samuel, you don’t need to prove—“ She began, but he cut her off before she could finish.

“No, really. It’s alright.” He said, amping up the wattage of his smile, “I wanted to show Bumblebee around anyway.”

He and Bumblebee had already seen all there was to see on their drive through town, but his grandmother didn’t know that. Her expression turned skeptical as she stirred the eggs.

“Well, if you’re sure…” She said, and Sam nodded emphatically.

“Totally. Absolutely.” He agreed, “Just write out a list. I’m happy to do it.”

He was aware that he was rambling, so he shut himself up with another drink of coffee. He turned his attention inwards and nudged at the wizened glow at the edge of his mind.

//Did you sign off on this?// He asked.

His question was met with a swell of exasperation.

//It managed to pass muster after a comprehensive risk assessment.// Ratchet replied dryly.

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. //A simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed.//

//Then yes.//

Sam shook his head, taking another drink of coffee. Ratchet’s sarcasm served to ease some of the anxious tension twisting up his insides, and by the time he poured himself another cup, he was feeling much better.

His grandmother joined him a few minutes later, handing him a plate loaded with bacon, eggs, and toast. They ate together as the sun came up, watching the sky change from navy to cornflower blue. When they finished, Sam took their dishes to the sink. He began washing up as his grandmother went upstairs to change. He wasn’t the least bit surprised when hands came down on his hips, squeezing him gently.

“Good morning.” Sam said with a smile.

“Morning.” Bumblebee replied, pressing against Sam’s back and resting his chin on his shoulder, “Do you need any help?”

Sam ran the plate that he was washing under the tap. “No, I’m fine. There’s not much to do.”

Bumblebee’s hands slid over his sides to splay across his belly, just above the waistband of his pants. Sam’s breath hitched in his throat, and he half-turned his head to look his bonded in the face. “What’re you doing?”

The holoform smiled at him. “Nothing.”

Sam’s expression turned wry. “It doesn’t feel like nothing.”

Bumblebee chuckled, planting a chaste kiss below Sam’s ear. “It can be whatever you like, but I’m to understand we have things to do today.”

Sam groaned at the reminder. “Yeah, we do. Raincheck?”

“Of course.” Bumblebee agreed, an impish grin crossing his face, “You certainly enjoyed cashing in your last one.”

Sam groaned again, and Bumblebee laughed as he stepped aside to grab a hand towel. “Give me that. You wash, I’ll dry.”

They made quick work of the dishes, and then Sam wiped down the counter, the table, and the stove. By the time he finished, his grandmother had made her way back downstairs. Her expression warmed when she saw Bumblebee, and she patted him on the cheek as she passed. Sam caught the holoform’s eye and raised an inquiring eyebrow. Before Bumblebee could say anything, however, his grandmother gave them their marching orders. First, they hauled two laundry baskets filled with freshly washed linens to the clothesline. The bedsheets billowed and snapped in the breeze that came off the harbor. Sheena ran back and forth across the lawn, driven into a frenzy at the high-pitched squeaking from the pulley. After that was finished, they spent an hour cleaning out the gutters. It was smelly, dirty work, but it had to be done. Bumblebee removed the bulk of the rotting detritus, and then Sam scrubbed the mildew away with a wire brush. Since he was gross anyway, Sam took the opportunity to haul the garbage and the recyclables to the shed. The hornets were out in full force, so he gladly surrendered the bags to Bumblebee, who threw them in the bin.  

It was almost ten o’clock by the time he went back inside to shower. Sam washed quickly, changing into clean clothes and tossing his dirty things directly into the washing machine. He stepped into the kitchen just as a familiar-looking SUV pulled into the driveway. Sam grimaced faintly, but he quickly schooled his expression when his grandmother handed him a grocery list and fifty dollars. He pocketed the money with absolutely no intention of spending it—that’s what his government issued credit card was for. He kissed his grandmother good-bye, before toeing on his shoes and making his way outside.

He ambled over to Bumblebee’s alt mode, trailing his hand over the hood as he walked around to the driver’s side door. He nodded to Simmons and Boynton, who were parked a short distance away, and then he slid into his seat. Bumblebee pulled the door shut behind him, and then the lights on the dash lit up as his engine turned over.

“Who’s all coming?” Sam asked, fastening his seatbelt.

“Hound and Bluestreak.” Bumblebee answered, executing a tight three-point turn and driving towards the road. The dark-colored SUV fell into place behind them.

“Oh, that’s good.” Sam replied, grasping the steering wheel in one hand to maintain appearances, “They aren’t likely to draw much attention in town.”

Hound’s alt mode was a Jeep Wrangler, and Bluestreak transformed into a Nissan Fairlady. They were arguably the least flashy alt modes of the group, excepting Kup’s rundown pickup truck.

They crossed the isthmus, with the ocean on one side and the pond on the other, and then Bumblebee accelerated to thirty-five miles an hour. Acting on a sudden impulse, Sam rolled down the driver’s side window and took a deep breath. The air buffeted his face and body—it was comfortably warm and smelled like salt water. He glanced down at the entertainment console, and navigated to Sirius XM Radio. The drove another five miles listening to Johnny Cash and Bruce Springsteen, before Hound and Bluestreak pulled out of an old access road and fell into place behind them.

The little convoy made its way along the coast, before crossing the river into town. It was relatively quiet, with only a few other cars on the road. They drove past children playing on their front lawns and pedestrians ambling down the sidewalk. No one so much as glanced at them. Bumblebee turned onto Main Street, slowing down as both vehicle and pedestrian traffic increased. They passed the bank, the library, and the post office, before Bumblebee pulled into the parking lot next to the grocery store. The SUV parked beside them, while Hound and Bluestreak parked on the road. Bumblebee turned off his engine, but Sam made no move to exit the car.

“You don’t have to go inside.” Bumblebee said, brushing across his mind, “I can do it for you.”

Sam grimaced faintly. “Let’s just get this over with.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Bumblebee’s holoform materialized in the passenger seat. He subspaced a pair of aviator sunglasses and handed them to Sam.

“You can be my wingman any time.” Bumblebee deadpanned with a cheeky grin.

Sam rolled his eyes, but he slipped the sunglasses on all the same. He was thankful for the modest amount of anonymity they provided.

“That movie’s like forty years old.” He replied as he climbed out of the cab, “Get with the times, old man.”

Bumblebee laughed as he walked around the car to join him. Together, they made their way across the lot and into the grocery store. Boynton and Simmons trailed silently behind them.

Chapter Text

Sam pushed open the heavy doors and stepped inside the grocery store. He was met immediately with a wall of refrigerated air and the sound of music coming from the speaker system. He made his way over to the cart corral near the storefront windows and, after a quick glance at his shopping list, opted for a basket instead. The grocery store was small and locally owned, with four narrow aisles and a modest freezer section. The checkouts were located near the entrance, which meant that the cashiers had a clear view of Boynton and Simmons as they entered the store. The agents were dressed in business casual wear, but their sunglasses and service pistols set them apart as objects of curiosity.

Sam turned, glancing down at his list as he made his way down the aisle. Russet potatoes was written at the top of the page in his grandmother’s neat cursive. The produce section was a single shelf along the back of the store that included both fruit and vegetables. He waited while an elderly woman rummaged through the cucumbers, and after she moved on, he picked out a bag of potatoes and put it in his basket. The second item on his list was one large onion, so he tore a produce bag off the roll and shook it open.

“Bananas! How marvelous.” Hound exclaimed, causing Sam to startle, “Can we get some?”

Sam turned to look at the holoform, who had materialized at the other end of the counter. He was almost unrecognizable. In place of his usual slacks and long-sleeved shirt, Hound was wearing a button-up plaid, dark wash jeans, and a cable-knit beanie. Sam stared at him incredulously, still holding an onion in one hand and the produce bag in the other.

“What are you doing?” He spluttered, “Someone could have seen you!”

Hound picked up a bunch of bananas, turning them over in his hands. “I made sure no one was within eyesight.”

Sam bit back a groan as he dropped the onion in the bag and tied it off. When he was done, he looked back at Hound who seemed to be comparing his bananas with those still on the stand. “What are you wearing?”

The holoform glanced down at himself, as though in surprise. “I’m blending in. Do you like it?”

Sam’s lips quirked up despite himself. “Blending in where, exactly? A hipster convention?”

Hound tipped his head in a manner that suggested he was researching the phrase. A moment later, a pleased smile spread across his face.

“Ferndale is located in the Emerald Triangle.” He replied, holding the bananas out towards Sam, “Cannabis production, hiking, and counter-culture are popular here. I did my research.”  

Sam rolled his eyes, but the accepted the bananas all the same. He put them in the basket, and then glanced at the next item on his list. 3lbs Ground Beef. He started off towards the meat counter, which was located near the freezer section. Bumblebee followed at his side, but Hound trailed behind them. The holoform stared at the fruits and vegetables with naked longing on his face.  

“There is so much variety to what you eat.” He said, picking up a package to demonstrate his point, “Why do you need three different kinds of peppers?”  

Sam huffed a laugh. “They taste different. The red ones are sweeter.”  

Hound looked intrigued, and he held out the package insistently. “Show me.”

Sam was confused for a scant second, before he understood the sentry’s meaning. He flushed deeply, glancing around them. Boynton and Simmons were standing at the other end of the produce section, but otherwise they were alone. He turned back around to find Bumblebee glaring daggers at the taller holoform. Hound looked abashed, and he slowly put the peppers back on the shelf.

“My apologies, Sam. That was thoughtless.” He murmured.

The sentry sounded so contrite that Sam felt a pang of sympathy for him. It served to soften his irritation, and he reached out to pick up the package.

“It’s alright. I’ll show you later.” He promised, putting the peppers in his basket.

“That’s kind of you.” Hound replied, but he was lacking his earlier enthusiasm.

“Hey, c’mon.” Sam said, bumping shoulders with him, “I’ll show you the candy aisle. You’ll love it.”

Hound canted his head to the side, and Sam could tell by the interested glint in his eye that he had taken the bait. “There’s an entire aisle for confectionary?”

“There are entire stores for candy.” Sam said, walking towards the meat counter. “There’s this place at the Hollywood and Highland Center in LA that’s insane. My parents took me when I was a kid. They had everything—I spent all of my birthday money.”

Hound looked taken aback. “Birthday money?”

Sam laughed good-naturedly as he stopped in front of the meat cooler. His grandmother hadn’t stipulated what kind she wanted, so he picked out a package of medium ground beef and added it to his basket.

“Yeah, sure.” He said with a lopsided grin, “Birthdays are a big deal for us, even adults. Google ‘birthday party’ and you’ll see what I mean.”

Hound’s eyes went faraway for a moment, and then they lit up with delight. “Birthday parties—what a charming custom.”

Sam chuckled as he switched the basket to his other hand—it was getting heavy. “I’m glad you think so.” He said, pulling the list out of his pocket. One dozen eggs. “Come on, this way.”

They made their way over to the refrigerated section. It was busier in this part of the store, with several older women pushing their carts and one young child crying in the arms of a harried-looking man. Sam stepped up to the freezer and pulled open the doors. There was only one carton of eggs left, so he grabbed it. When he turned back around, Hound was holding a jar of strawberry jam with a hopeful look on his face.

Sam heaved a put-upon sigh, but he was smiling when he said, “Yeah, alright. Put it in the basket.”

Hound’s face lit up, and Bumblebee leaned forward to murmur, “It puts the lotion in the basket, or else it gets the hose again.”

Sam chuckled as he accepted the jam. “Well, that’s about twenty years better than your Top Gun reference.”

“Top Gun is a classic.” Bumblebee returned primly. “It was one of the first movies I saw at the drive-in.”

“Classic is just another word for old.” Sam retorted, stepping around a shopping cart that was parked in the center of the aisle.

“No it’s not.” Boynton disagreed as he came up behind them. “My car’s a classic—I’m old.”  

The senior agent was standing with his hands in his pockets, his posture alert but relaxed. Simmons was standing behind him, her arms folded over her chest and an amused expression on her face.

“You’re the next youngest person here.” Sam said, directing his words at the blonde, “Help me out.”

“Top Gun or Silence of the Lambs?” Simmons asked, pulling her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose so she could pin him with a disbelieving look, “Get real, Sam. It’s Top Gun all the way.”

Hound made a confused-sounding chirrup. “You enjoy a film about a cannibalistic serial killer?”

“Sure.” Sam said, grinning at the sentry’s obvious consternation, “Hannibal the Cannibal. What’s not to like?”

The look of consternation on Hound’s face deepened, much to Simmons’ obvious amusement. Before either of them could reply, however, a soft voice interrupted them.

“Sam? Sam Witwicky? Is that you?”

Sam’s smile disappeared as he turned towards the voice. It belonged to an elderly woman, perhaps sixty or seventy years old, with graying hair piled on top of her head. Her back was stooped, giving her a hunched appearance. She was staring at him curiously, almost expectantly.

“Can—can I help you?” He managed to reply.

The woman’s face split in a smile. “I thought it was you. My, how you’ve grown. Do you remember me?”

He didn’t remember her at all, but it seemed rude to say so. He felt Bumblebee shift forward, brushing against his mind.

//Her name is Beverly Graham.// He supplied. //She lives on Lark Street.//

The name was distantly familiar, but it did nothing to jog his memory. He pushed appreciation at Bumblebee as he smiled at the older woman.  

“Of course, Mrs. Graham.” He lied, “How are you?”

She pressed a thin hand against her chest, laughing lightly. “Oh my! You do remember. I saw you come into the store, and I said to myself that must be Althea’s grandson. You’re the spitting image of your grandfather. What are you doing in Ferndale?”

Sam was aware of Boynton and Simmons watching the exchange. The two agents were staring at the older woman, as though measuring her up. The thought made Sam smile inwardly. He was pretty sure that he could take her.

“I’m just visiting.” He replied, shifting the basket to his other arm, “I’m here for the week.”

Bumblebee reached out, slipping his hand around the handle and pulling the basket away. Sam let it go without protest.

“Isn’t that lovely? Althea must be so happy you’re home.” Mrs. Graham replied.

Sam rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Yeah, sure. It’s good to be back.”

The older woman’s face creased with sympathy, and she reached out to pat him on the elbow. “I imagine so, after… well. After everything that happened. We followed the news religiously after you were taken. I wasn’t sure whether they were ever going to find you.”

Sam stiffened, both at the reminder of his imprisonment onboard the Nemesis and at her pitying tone. He could feel the flush that was spreading across his face, betraying his discomfort. As his side, Bumblebee’s expression noticeably cooled.

“Well, like I said, it’s good to be back.” He managed, forcing a thin-lipped smile, “If you’ll excuse me, my grandmother’s expecting us.”

“Oh, of course.” Mrs. Graham said, but she didn’t move out of his way. “It’s only, well, I was wondering—we all were, really, however you survived it. Just awful business.”   

Sam’s flush deepened at her cajoling, wheedling tone. It was obvious that she was fishing for something to sink her teeth into. The reminder that he was an object of curiosity, a subject for idle gossip, was degrading.  

“Excuse me.” Sam ground out, stepping around the older woman.

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Graham murmured, pressing a hand against her mouth, “I do apologize if I upset you.”  

Sam didn’t trust himself to reply, so he said nothing at all. Instead, he made his way down the aisle without a backwards glance. He tried his best to ignore the curious looks that were directed his way from the other shoppers. Evidentially, Mrs. Graham’s voice had carried. Bumblebee walked at his side, close enough to touch. His mental presence was reserved but calm, and Sam was quietly thankful for it. They made their way to the front of the store, stopping long enough for Sam to grab a six-pack of craft beer from the display at the end of the aisle, before getting in line at the nearest checkout. He was aware of the others trailing behind him, but he studiously ignored them. He and Bumblebee unloaded the basket, and then he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. It was thin, containing only his diplomatic identification card, a credit card, and half a dozen business cards.  He drummed his fingers restlessly against the counter as his groceries were scanned and bagged.

If Hound was tempted by the brightly colored candy on display, he never said anything about it.

He handed the credit card to the cashier, who slid it through the scanner on the register. The machine beeped its approval as the receipt started printing, and Sam accepted the card back with murmured thanks. He made to grab the bags at the end of the checkout, but Bumblebee was faster. The holoform picked them up, giving Sam a tilted half-smile.

“I got it.” He murmured.

“Thanks.” Sam replied.

Bumblebee walked ahead, pushing open the door for him. It was busier than it had been when they first arrived, with a dozen vehicles parked along the street. Sam made his way down the ramp and over towards the parking lot. He reached out as he passed Hound, giving the Jeep Wrangler a pat on the hood. The side lot was similarly crowded, with a beat-up truck parked just inches away from Bumblebee. Sam squeezed between the truck and the Camaro, popping the driver’s side door just wide enough to slide into the seat. He heard the sound of the trunk being closed, and then the holoform was climbing into the passenger seat beside him.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’re really committing to the bit, huh?”

Bumblebee grinned at him as he made a show of pulling the seatbelt across his chest. “I’m method acting.”

The smile was on Sam’s face before he could stop it. “Uh huh.”

He fastened his own seatbelt and, when it was obvious that Bumblebee wasn’t driving, he pushed the ignition button. The engine rumbled to life, and Sam put the Camaro in reverse.

“You can commit to it all you like.” Sam said mildly, checking his mirrors, “But I’m guessing you’re not going to let me scrape the shit out of your fender on this guy’s truck.”

Bumblebee grinned at him and Sam backed out of the parking spot. It was a tight fit, but he managed to exit the lot without incident. He glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see Bluestreak and Hound pull onto the road behind them. Their little convoy made its way down Main Street, slowing near the post office to let a group of pedestrians cross the road. One of them, a teenaged guy in Bermuda shorts, stared at the Camaro as they passed. Sam tried his best to ignore the naked reverence on his face.

He slowed again as they crossed the bridge, and then he turned onto Centerville Road and accelerated to thirty-five miles per hour. Bumblebee watched him drive, an elbow propped up on the door.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked, apropos of nothing.

Sam tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “Nope.”

“Alright.” Bumblebee replied.

The road meandered along the coast, with sloping hills on one side and ocean on the other. The sun glinted off the water as seabirds flew in lazy circles above the beach. There were fewer houses the further they drove—most of the properties had long since been abandoned. They passed an overgrown baseball field next to a community center with only two cars parked out front. Sam had played ball there once, when he was younger. The horseflies had chewed him to pieces.  

They drove the rest of the way in silence. Hound and Bluesteak turned off as they passed the access road near the harbor, and the SUV was nowhere to be seen. Sam felt a warm swell of emotion as he turned the corner and his grandmother’s property came into sight. The little house stood out against the backdrop of blue sky and dark water. Sam slowed as he crossed the isthmus and started up the gravel driveway. His grandmother was sitting on the deck, Sheena laying at her feet. He parked next to Cliffjumper, who was resting in his alt mode near the lawn.

“How was the drive?” His grandmother asked as Sam climbed out of the car.

“It was good.” Sam replied, shutting the door and walking around to the trunk. Bumblebee’s holoform joined him, and together they grabbed the groceries.

“Was it busy in town?” Nan asked.

Sam crossed the lawn and climbed the steps. “Yeah, it was getting busy. The parking lot was pretty crowded when we left. No, don’t stand up. I’ll put these away.”

His grandmother had started to rise out of her chair, but she sat back down at Sam’s words. “Are you sure, Chicken?”

Sam smiled at her as he pulled open the screen door. “Yeah, Nan. I’m sure.”

“Well, thank-you dear. Leave the hamburger in the fridge.” She called after him.

Bumblebee followed him into the porch, waiting patiently as Sam took off his shoes. Then, they carried the groceries into the kitchen and set the bags on the counter. The ground beef, eggs, peppers, and onion went into the fridge, the potatoes went into the bucket under the sink, and bananas went on top of the microwave. Sam stared at the jar of strawberry jam for a long moment, before he left it on the counter. He’d have some toast later. When he finished, he put the fifty-dollar bill back in his grandmother’s purse, and put the purse back in its spot in the cupboard by the sink.

“I’m going to put this in the back fridge.” Sam said, grabbing the six-pack off the counter, “I’ll meet you outside, yeah?”

“Alright.” Bumblebee agreed.

Sam headed towards the wood room as Bumblebee made his way onto the deck. The back fridge was an old Northstar model with faded off-white paint. His grandmother used it to store leftovers from large family dinners, and it smelled faintly of old gravy. Sam put the six-pack on the shelf next to an opened bottle of Cold Duck wine, before pushing the door shut with his hip. He left the wood room, turning down the hall towards the kitchen, when he pulled up short. The door to his grandfather’s study was ajar, spilling warm light into the hallway. He stared at the doorway, hesitating for a long moment. His grandmother had refused to change the room after his grandfather had died. It was a memorial, of sorts, to a man that Sam barely remembered—a man who was his namesake. It was that thought that spurred him forward, bare feet padding across the hardwood floor to push open the door.

The room within was cluttered and masculine. There was a reading chair near the fireplace, which had been grated and swept clean. A row of bookshelves took up one entire wall, spanning from floor to ceiling, while a large picture window took up the opposite wall. The two remaining walls were lined with oil paintings, commendations, plaques, and diplomas. The air smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, just as he remembered.

Sam made his way into the room, feeling like an interloper. Sunlight was streaming through the window, warming the hardwood floor. He ran his fingers over the globe that stood beside the door, and then, acting on impulse, spun it on its axis. He ambled across the room before it had stopped spinning, coming to a stop in front of the fireplace. The mantel was lined with framed photographs. Most of them were of his grandfather fishing or boating, but there was one picture of his grandparents when they were younger. His grandmother was fresh-faced and beautiful, and his grandfather had his arm around her shoulders. They were both smiling widely at the camera.

All at once, Mrs. Graham’s words came back to him. Sam reached out, picking the frame off the shelf and staring at the picture. He didn’t see the resemblance between them. His grandfather had been tall and broad shouldered, with dark hair that curled around his ears. He had looked like a man’s man, which Sam certainly did not. They had the same eyes, though—almond-shaped and brown. His grandfather’s eyes had crinkled when he smiled. Sam supposed that his did too.

He set the picture back on the shelf and picked up the next one. It was a portrait of his grandfather, taken sometime near the end of his life. He was thinner and pale, and his hair was shot through with gray. Sam barely recognized him—the man in the picture looked nothing like the person he remembered. The thought made his throat thicken with emotion. It had only been, what, fifteen years since he had died?

Sam slowly sat on the window bench as he stared at the grainy photograph. He gripped the picture frame until his hands ached, struggling to remember the person staring back at him. His grandfather was like a ghost—immortalized on glossy filament, but gone forever.

He didn’t realize that he was crying until he heard the floorboards creak in the hallway. He stood quickly, turning around to dash the moisture away with the heel of his hand. The door opened, and then his grandmother softly asked, “Samuel? What are you doing in here?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Nothing. I’m just taking a look around.”

He heard his grandmother’s footsteps behind him. “Oh? Were you looking for anything in particular?”

Sam glanced down at the picture frame in his hands, shaking his head faintly. “No, not really.”

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Nan asked gently, “What’s got you so upset?”

He didn’t turn around to look at her—he didn’t dare. “Nothing’s wrong, Nan.”

His voice didn’t waver, but only just. His grandmother stopped behind him, squeezing his arm. “Oh, don’t you fib to me, Samuel James. You know I can tell a falsehood from a mile away.”

Her voice was very gentle, and it made Sam’s eyes sting against sudden tears. His grandmother turned him around by the shoulders, tucking a finger under his chin and raising his head. He forced himself to meet her eyes, which immediately softened with sympathy.

“Oh, sweetheart. Come here.” She murmured, gathering him up in her arms. There was no judgement in her voice—no judgment or pity or disappointment—there was only unwavering affection. It eroded his defenses, and he was mortified when he started crying in earnest. His grandmother shushed him, patting him on the back and rocking him. He wrapped his arms around her thin shoulders, hugging her back with everything he had left.

Eventually, when the storm of Sam’s crying had abated, she guided them to sit on the window seat. Sam rubbed the sleeve of his shirt across his face, blotting away the worst of the tears. His grandmother took the picture frame from his hands, running her fingertips over the grainy photograph.

“Is this what’s upset you so?” She asked, angling her head to look at him.

Sam’s breath shuddered out of him. “Yeah. I guess.”

“I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong.” She murmured, setting the photograph aside.  

Sam propped his elbows on his knees and rested his face in his hands. “I don’t want to worry you.”

His grandmother rubbed a hand across his back. “Oh, sweetheart. I’ve been worried about you since the day you were born. It’s what grandmothers do.”

Sam lowered his hands, staring resolutely at the floor. “Not like this, Nan.”

“There’s nothing you could say that will make me feel any differently about you.” She said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Do you understand?” She seemed to be waiting for an answer, so Sam nodded faintly. She squeezed him approvingly. “Alright then, that’s settled.”

Sam reached out, picking up the picture frame from where she had set it on the table. He stared at it for a long while, gathering his thoughts. His grandmother waited him out, quiet and patient and supportive.

“I don’t recognize him anymore.” He said at last, breaking the silence.

“Oh?” She asked, as though in surprise, “Well, that’s not unusual. You were very young when he died.”

Sam shook his head. “No, I mean I can’t remember his face.”

His grandmother seemed confused by his explanation. “Sweetheart, that’s alright. Do you think he would be upset? Is that it?”

Sam shook his head again, his throat constricting with emotion.

“What did mom tell you?” He asked softly, “About me?”

His grandmother’s eyebrows knit together in consternation. “What do you mean?”

Sam raised his head to pin her with a flat look. “I think you know what I mean.”

The look that she gave him in return was decidedly unimpressed. “Your mother hasn’t told me much that I hadn’t already read about in the newspapers. Well, except the fact that you’re in a relationship with your car. She thought I should know, since he was coming with you.”

Sam sighed softly. “Of course she did.”

“Sweetheart, what’s this all about?” She asked gently.  

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s a long story, Nan.”

His grandmother’s face creased with a wan smile. “I love stories.”

He told her about everything—the Allspark energy in his body, his on-lining, the spark bond, the Nemesis, Novo, MECH… everything. His grandmother listened to it all without flinching or balking. By the time that he had finished speaking, his voice was hoarse and his head was pounding. She excused herself long enough to make them both a cup of tea, and then she was back, sitting at his side as she waited for him to continue.

“That’s it, really.” He said, wrapping his hands around the warm ceramic mug, “Not even my parents know about the spark bond.”

“So why were you in here by yourself?” She asked, “Why does the picture upset you so much?”

Sam stared at his reflection in the tea. “Nan, I can’t remember him.”

Her eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Sweetheart, you were so young—“

“You don’t get it.” He interrupted, turning to look at her, “I don’t remember him. It’s been fifteen years and the man in the picture might as well be a stranger. How long will it take me to forget you? Or mom and dad? How long until I can’t even remember what you looked like?”

Compassion spread across his grandmother’s face. “Oh, pumpkin. Is that it?”

Sam set his jaw, staring resolutely at the floor. His grandmother set her tea on the side table, and grasped him by the shoulders.

“Now you listen to me, Samuel James Witwicky.” She began, giving him a little shake to emphasize her words, “It doesn’t matter one whit if you remember the color of my eyes or the sound of my voice. Do you understand me? The only thing that matters—the only thing—is that you remember how much I loved you.”

Tears pricked the back of Sam’s eyes again, and he swallowed against the lump in his throat.

“You don’t get it, Nan.” He replied tremulously, “I might live for thousands of years, maybe even longer. What if I forget all of this?”

His grandmother took the teacup from his hands and set it on the table. “Sweetheart, none of this matters. The house, the knickknacks, the mementos, they’re all just things.”

“It matters to me.” Sam murmured softly.

“Pumpkin, look at me.” She said, squeezing his knee to get his attention. Sam turned his head, troubled brown eyes meeting hazel green, “It doesn’t matter if you live to a hundred or a hundred thousand. If the world is kind, then your parents and I will predecease you. It doesn’t matter if you remember what we look like, or the things we did, or the things we said. All that matters is you know, in your heart, that you are loved.”  

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping away the tears before they could fall.

“You’ve been blessed with a long life, Sam.” She murmured, squeezing his knee again, “I know it’s daunting, but you have the chance to do great things.”

Sam laughed morosely. “Nan, people are going to look at me like I’m a freak of nature.”

“Some of them will, yes.” She agreed, causing Sam to flinch, “People are always afraid of the things they don’t understand. It’s up to you to rise above all that.”

“I don’t know if I can.” He admitted quietly.

“Samuel James Witwicky, you’ve saved the world… twice.” She admonished dryly, “Don’t let the likes of Beverly Graham make you feel inferior. She doesn’t deserve you.”

Sam laughed quietly, and his grandmother patted him affectionately.  

“Other doesn’t mean less than, Sam.” She murmured, “It just means different. Remember that.”

Sam took her hands in his own, and leaned forward to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks Nan.”

“You’re welcome, Chicken.” She replied, “Now how about we go start supper? I have a bag of potatoes that need peeling.”

Sam huffed another laugh as he climbed to his feet. As he picked up their teacups, a thought occurred to him and he turned to look at his grandmother. “How did you know about Mrs. Graham?”

She turned a knowing smile on him. “Bumblebee told me.”

“Oh, did he?” Sam asked, making his way across the room.

“He did.” She agreed, following behind him. “He’s a good boy.”

Sam paused on the threshold, glancing at her uncertainly. “He is, you know. Good. To me and for me.”

His grandmother’s face creased with a fond smile. “Yes, Sam. I can see that.”

The sincerity in her voice warmed him all over, and he held the door as she stepped into the hallway. They made their way towards the kitchen together, leaving the den behind them.

Chapter Text

The rest of the week passed by far too quickly.

The day after their heart-to-heart, his grandmother started baking. Sam came downstairs that morning to find cookies on nearly every available surface, cooling on little metal racks. There were chocolate chip, oatmeal, ginger sparklers, and shortbreads. He stared, mouth agape, as his grandmother smiled at him fondly.

“They say that taste is the sense most closely associated with memory.” She said, sliding another baking sheet into the oven. “You’ll remember this for the rest of your days.”

Sam spent the mornings helping his grandmother around the house. There was no end to the chores that had piled up over the last four years. He raked the lawn, re-mulched the flowerbeds, cleaned out the shed, and hauled the trash down to the end of the driveway. By the time that afternoon rolled around, he was physically exhausted. He spent lazy hours relaxing in the hammock in the backyard or reading on the porch. His grandmother brought him lemonade, admonishing him to stay hydrated. It was sharp and sweet—Hound loved it.

The evenings were a relaxed affair. Sam and his grandmother had dinner together, and then he cleaned the kitchen. Bumblebee often joined him after his grandmother had gone to sit down. They washed dishes, side by side, as the sun sank towards the horizon. It was domestic in a way that made Sam feel warm and content. Afterwards, they would make their way into the living room. Sam curled up on the couch, and the three of them watched television until his grandmother excused herself for the night. Bumblebee would join him then, sliding next to him on the couch as Sam found something besides Jeopardy to watch. They watched late night television until Sam got drowsy, and then Bumblebee would follow him upstairs to bed.

The day before they were scheduled to leave was Independence Day. It gave Sam a funny turn to hang the American flag from the pole attached to the side of the house. That evening, Sam and Bumblebee made their way down to the shore. It was warm outside, and the fading sunset had turned the sky a golden orange. Sam settled in the sand near the bream, putting the six-pack on the ground beside him. Bumblebee’s holoform sat next to him, clasping his arms around his legs. Sam pulled off his shoes and socks, burrowing his toes in the sand as he opened a bottle of beer. The waves lapped serenely at the beach, a steady hiss-hush of water against sand.

It was very peaceful.

Sam took a sip of his drink, drawing his legs up to rest his arms over his knees. The beer was cold and crisp, with a citrus aftertaste. He glanced down at the label on the bottle—he would buy it again.

“They’re on their way.” Bumblebee suddenly announced.  

Sam glanced over at him. The holoform’s face was cast in shadow, but his profile was still visible in the fading light. He was watching Sam nurse his drink with a fond expression on his face. Sam turned his attention inwards, bumping against him affectionately.

“That’s good.” He said dryly, “I wouldn’t want Hound to miss it.”  

Bumblebee’s lips quirked up in a half-smile. “Bluestreak is coming too.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose of their own accord. He hadn’t spent much time with the gunner—he knew him only in passing. “Oh?”

“It was Cliff’s idea.” Bumblebee replied, “They grew close on the Trion.”

Sam took another sip of his drink. “Oh, yeah? Did they work together?”

Bumblebee chuckled quietly. “Not many can work with Bluestreak for any length of time. Cliffjumper is more tolerant than most.”

“That’s an understatement.” Sam returned wryly.

Sam had finished another third of his drink by the time he heard voices on the wind. He half-turned, glancing up at the bluff as Hot Rod, Cliffjumper, Hound, Trailbreaker, and Bluestreak came into view. The mechanoids were in their bipedal modes, and together they made their way down over the hill. Bumblebee followed behind them, carefully picking his way down the bluff. As soon as Hot Rod stepped onto the beach, he jogged over to where Sam was sitting. The impact of his footfalls caused the beer bottles to rattle together in the six-pack.

“Evening Sam. Nice little place you’ve got here.” Roddy said, propping his servos on his hip struts as he looked around.

The corner of Sam’s mouth curled up in a smile. “Thanks Hot Rod.”

“It is very private, very secluded. I suppose I can see the appeal.” Bluestreak chirped, coming to a stop beside Roddy, “With that being said, there doesn’t seem like there is much to do. Well, maybe for a maintenance drone—they never stop, do they? But certainly not for a gunner. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. I was stationed on a satellite moon once—very remote, very dusty. It’s a little bit like that, I think.”

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Bluestreak just kept right on talking. Bumblebee gave him a wry look as he settled directly behind Sam in his bipedal mode.

“Well, it’s not exactly like Telus IV.” Bluestreak continued, “There aren’t any Decepticons to shoot, but it’s similar. Cliffjumper, do you think it’s similar?” He asked, turning to look at the scout beseechingly.

Cliffjumper folded his arms across his chest, lifting his pauldrons in a shrug. “It’s not dissimilar.”

“Yes, see? Cliffjumper agrees with me.” Bluestreak said triumphantly, although no one had disagreed with him, “He was there with me, so he would know. We were stationed there for over a meta-cycle, and trust me, I was happy when the relief ship finally arrived. Of course, that was right before the ambush, so maybe—“

Bluestreak stopped speaking abruptly as Cliffjumper placed a restraining servo on his arm. The gunner shuttered his optics, as though in surprise, before he chirruped something in Cliff’s direction. The scout patted him on the shoulder, before moving to sit on the beach a short distance away. Sam tipped his beer bottle in Cliffjumper’s direction, and then he took another drink.

“Is that alcohol?” Hound asked curiously, although Sam was certain he already knew the answer.

“Yes, it is.” He replied.  

The sentry crouched down beside him, canting his head to the side. “I was informed of your tendency to imbibe. First Aid has a great deal to say on the subject.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Oh, he does, does he?”

“Certainly.” Hound easily agreed.

Sam felt a flash of annoyance as he recalled First Aid’s reaction when he had gotten drunk with Carter. He took another drink of his beer, as though to assuage himself, before he replied.

“It’s a social custom, and one that I happen to enjoy.” He said, before adding, “Especially since I don’t need to worry about hangovers.”

The sentry made a considerate noise, deep inside his intakes. “That is fortunate. The aftereffects of intoxicants can be most unpleasant.”

There was something knowing about his tone that made Sam glance up in surprise. “What do you mean by that?”

Hot Rod sprawled onto the beach beside Cliffjumper, kicking up a cloud of sand with his pedes. “Oh come on, Sam. Do you really think that humans were the first species to develop recreational substances?”

Sam gave the cavalier a half-hearted glare as he brushed sand off his clothes. “Thanks Roddy.”

Bluestreak sighed wistfully. “Oh, I miss Engex.”

“Engex is practically paint thinner.” Trailbreaker replied dryly, “I preferred Visco myself.”

Roddy flashed him a sharp grin. “Only when you weren’t tanked on Nightmare Fuel.”

Trailbreaker gave the cavalier a decidedly cool look, and Sam blinked, taken aback by their banter. “Ratchet told me that energon could be refined into candies, but I didn’t realize that you had intoxicants.”

The neural-net brightened with amusement at his words.

“Ratchet wouldn’t approve of us corrupting you, I’m sure.” Bumblebee replied wryly.

“Oh, Hatchet was plenty fond of high-grade himself, if I recall correctly.” Hot Rod smirked.  

Sam laughed and finished his drink. It was gritty from sand at the bottom, and he grimaced as he placed the empty bottle back in the carton. “I can’t believe I’m just learning about this now.”  

Bumblebee raised his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. “It’s not something we often talk about.”

There was something quiet and regretful in his voice, and Sam was suddenly mortified by his tactlessness. “I’m sorry, guys.”

Bumblebee whistled at him as he shifted forward, bracketing Sam’s body with his leg struts. “You’ve done nothing to give offense.”

“Don’t worry about it, Sam.” Hot Rod agreed, waving his servo dismissively, “It’s nice to reminiscence.”

Sam cracked open another bottle of beer, tossing the cap into the carton. “Yeah, I could understand that.”

“Do you remember Polonium spritzer? Or sulfide crystals?” Bluestreak asked, something longing in his tone, “I used to love sulfide crystals. My Creator gave them to us all the time, back before… well, before. It was one of the first things I bought after I left the crèche. I think I miss them the most. The sulfide crystals, I mean, not the crèche, although the crèche was nice enough, I suppose.”

His words were met with a flurry of whistles and chirrups in reponse. Sam brought the bottle to his lips, taking a slow drink. After he swallowed, Sam half-turned, glancing up at Bumblebee. “What was your favorite?”

The scout’s optics brightened to pale blue, a complicated mixture of amusement and nostalgia swelling across their bond. “I enjoyed sulfide crystals a great deal, but rust sticks were my favorite.”

Sam grinned at him, delighted. “Rust sticks?”

“A slang term for crystalized energon cut with iron sulfide.” Bumblebee replied. “They were good.”

Sam tipped his head and asked, curiously, “Can you show me?”

Bumblebee chirruped at him, his wing flaps drawing up and spreading out. A moment later, Sam felt a shift inside his head as a vague memory-but-not-memory was pressed to the forefront of his mind. It was the oddest thing—he could almost taste the flavor, but it wasn’t a flavor at all. It was more of a sensation, brittle and sharp and satisfying. Sam’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline as the strange feeling faded away.

“That was beyond weird.” He said, working his tongue around his mouth. “Thanks.”

Bumblebee whistled at him amusedly, and Hot Rod leaned into his personal space. “We showed you ours, now you show us yours.”

Sam huffed at him, but he lowered his firewalls and raised the bottle to his lips. He was aware of their keen stares as he took a drink, and the malty, citrus flavor lingered after he had swallowed.

“That’s… bitter?” Hound guessed.

“Yeah, I suppose it is.” Sam agreed, pulling his firewalls back into place.

“I liked the lemonade better.” He replied matter-of-factly.    

Sam chuckled at him good-naturedly. “Beer is an acquired taste.”

They sat together as the sunlight faded, the sky turning from burnt umber to navy blue. They talked about nothing in particular—Cybertron and duty rosters and plans for the following week. By the time that it was full dark, Sam had finished his third beer and, as a result, he was feeling cheerful and relaxed. He leaned back against Bumblebee’s chassis, laughing at Hot Rod’s exaggerated re-telling of a story he had heard a dozen times, when the first fireworks exploded above the harbor. They all turned, staring up at the sky as bursts of light and color spread across firmament. It wasn’t an elaborate display—Ferndale wasn’t exactly a metropolis—but it lasted a while. The display culminated in a rapid-fire burst of light and sound, a grand finale, and then the night faded to black.

Things were quiet for a long while, and then Hot Rod murmured, “Do you remember Iacon?”

It was a redundant question—their memories were flawless.

Sam could feel Bumblebee’s melancholy, a sensation so sharp that it took his breath away.

“Bee told me all about Iacon.” He said, artificial cheer in his voice, “Well, all about Cliffjumper’s frag-up at Iacon, anyway.”

The four mechanoids turned to look at him in comically perfect unison, before Cliffjumper directed a pointed look at Bumblebee.

“Is that so?” He drawled. Bumblebee held up his servos in a gesture of wry apology, but Cliffjumper just shook his head. “Let me set the record straight. It wasn’t my frag-up—it was your bonded’s frag-up. I was just the fall guy.”

Bumblebee whistled indignantly, and then they started arguing with one another in Cybertronian. Sam laughed as he cracked open another beer, his mission accomplished.

They stayed on the beach long after Sam had finished the six-pack. It was only after he started nodding off, nestled in the protective cage of Bumblebee’s limbs, that they stood up and began to disperse. Bumblebee helped him to his feet, and then Sam stumbled after them. The sound of katydids and crickets followed them all the way back to the house. Ratchet and Mirage were parked in the driveway, and the others joined them one by one. Bumblebee was the last in bipedal mode—he waited to activate his holoform before initiating his transformation sequence. As soon as his tires touched the ground, Sam smoothed a hand over his hood before making his way inside.

The house was dark and quiet, his grandmother long since gone to bed. Sam took off his shoes and tiptoed upstairs. The floorboards creaked under his weight, but his grandmother’s bedroom light didn’t turn on. Sam shut his door behind them, making quick work of stripping out of his clothes. Bumblebee crossed the room, sitting on the bed as Sam picked up his lounge pants off the floor and put them on.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” He asked in a whisper as he crawled into bed.

Bumblebee made a considerate sound as he pulled the blankets around them. “I did.”

Sam made a contented noise, snuggling closer to the holoform. “Me too.”

Bumblebee wrapped an arm around his shoulders and Sam threw a leg over his thighs. The motion caused his groin to press against the holoform’s hip, and Sam’s dick gave an interested little twitch. He pressed against him again, more purposefully this time, and nuzzled into the holoform’s neck.

“Sam, what are you doing?” Bee asked mildly.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” He asked, mouthing at the spot below the holoform’s ear.

Bumblebee’s mental presence brightened with fond exasperation. “You’re drunk and you’re tired. Go to sleep.”

Sam made a sound in protest. “No, I’m not. C’mon.”

The holoform pulled back, giving him a wry look. “Sam, your firewalls are in tatters and your grandmother’s down the hall. I’m doing you a favor.”

Sam rolled onto his back with a huff, and Bumblebee chuckled at him. The holoform leaned down, pressing a chaste kiss against his mouth. “If you go to sleep right now, we can have sex in the morning.”

Sam threw an arm over his face, grumbling, “We’re leaving in the morning.”

Bumblebee pulled the blankets around them both, before settling down beside him. He leaned over, pressing a chaste kiss against Sam’s wind blown curls.

“Good-night, Sam.” He murmured softly.

There was no reply—Sam was already asleep.

Sam woke to mid-morning sun streaming through the windows. He groaned to himself, rolling over and burrowing beneath the blankets. He laid there for a long while, drifting in the liminal space between fully awake and fully asleep, when he felt the mattress dip beside him.

“It’s time to get up.” Bumblebee said, giving him a little shake.

“I’m tired.” Sam complained, pulling the pillow over his head.

Bumblebee’s amusement was bright across their bond space. “Yeah, probably. You were up until after midnight.”

Sam groaned again. “Whose bright idea was that?”

“That was all you.” Bumblebee replied, dragging the pillow away, “Come on, get up. We have a long drive ahead of us.”

Sam raised his head, giving the holoform a baleful look. “What kind of bait-n-switch is this? I was promised morning sex.”

Bumblebee bent down to grab a bundle of clothes, which he promptly threw in Sam’s direction. “Whose fault is that? You slept two hours past our scheduled departure time. Red Alert is beside himself.”

Sam sat up, glancing at the bedside clock. It was just after nine o’clock in the morning. He scrubbed a hand over his face, before tossing back the blankets. His duffel bag was already packed and waiting beside the door.

“Yeah, alright. I’m going. Do I have time to shower?” He asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“If you hurry.” Bumblebee agreed.

Sam stood up with a groan, taking the clothes with him as he made his way downstairs. Bumblebee followed behind him, carrying the duffel bag. His grandmother wasn’t in the kitchen, but there was a Tupperware container and a filing box on the counter. Sam glanced at them as he passed, but he didn’t stop to investigate. He made quick work of his morning routine—using the toilet, showering, and brushing his teeth in record time. When he made his way back into the kitchen, his grandmother was sitting at the table.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” She greeted, “How was your sleep?”

“Too short.” He replied wryly, bending down to kiss her on the cheek.

“Well, you should have thought of that before staying out all night drinking with your friends.” She returned.

“It wasn’t all night.” Sam replied defensively, “I was back by midnight.”

His grandmother chuckled at him. “Ah, the joys of youth.”

She turned to pick up the Tupperware container sitting on the counter, which she promptly handed to him. The plastic was warm to the touch.

“I made you breakfast to go.” She said, before nodding her head towards the filing box, “And I’ve packed up your cookies.”

Sam’s face softened with appreciation. “Aw, Nan. You didn’t have to do that.”

Bumblebee’s holoform was suddenly there, and he pulled the box off the counter with both hands. His grandmother smiled at him affectionately.

“Of course I did.” She replied, “Ratchet told me they can preserve anything I bake, so I have a busy few months ahead of me.”

Sam was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her and tucking his chin into her shoulder.

“I love you.” He mumbled, squeezing her tightly.

His grandmother patted him on the back. “I love you too, Chicken.”

Sam stood there for an interminable time, trying to memorize the smell of lavender and soap, the feel of her in his arms, before she gave him a little squeeze and pulled away slightly.

“You need to go, sweetheart.” She murmured, “Everyone is waiting on you.”

Sam’s eyes fell to the floor, and it took a great deal of effort to step away from her.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back.” He replied softly. “It could be awhile.”

“Well then, I’ll just have to come to you, won’t I?” She asked good-naturedly, causing Sam’s head to come up.

“Really?” He asked, hope and surprise and relief blooming in his chest, “Will you?”

“Of course I will.” She promised, before tucking him under the chin, “But I’m not flying across the Pacific. We’ll have to meet in Nevada.”

The warmth that Sam had been feeling flashed into ice-cold anxiety. “I’m not going back to the embassy.”

His grandmother took him by the shoulders, squeezing gently. “You’re their Ambassador, Sam. The embassy is part and parcel with your role.”

Sam’s anxiety sharpened, and she must have felt it in the sudden tension in his shoulders, for her expression became firm. “You remember what I told you, Sam Witwicky. You are going to do great things—this isn’t going to stop you.”

Sam’s throat constricted with emotion, but before he could reply, Ratchet’s holoform knocked on the doorframe. They both turned to look at him, and he inclined his head as though in apology.

“I am sorry to interrupt, but we have to go.” He said gruffly, “Our Security Director is insisting.”

Sam rolled his eyes at the understatement. Red Alert was probably apoplectic by now.

“Sorry to cut and run, Nan.” He apologized, giving her another hug, “I’ll call when I get there.”

“Of course.” She said, stepping aside, “I’ll walk you out.”

They made their way into the porch together. Sam stopped long enough to pull on his shoes, and then he shouldered his way outside. He held the screen door for the others to step through, and then he let it bang shut behind him. Bumblebee took the steps two at a time, carrying the filing box full of cookies over to his trunk. Sam followed him more slowly, walking in step with his grandmother. He patted Cliffjumper’s gleaming hood as he passed, before stopping in front of Bumblebee.

“Drive safely.” His grandmother said.

“We will.” Sam promised, hesitating as he opened the door. “Nan…” He trailed off, unsure how to tell her everything that he wanted to say.

“It’s alright, Samuel.” She reassured him, “I understand. I love you too.”

Sam smiled faintly, before leaning over and giving her a peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon, sweetheart.” She said, stepping back as Sam slid into the driver’s seat.

He waved, shutting the door behind him. At the same time, Bumblebee’s engine rolled over and his dashboard came to life. Mirage took point, followed by Bumblebee and Ratchet, while the others fell into place behind them. Sam glanced in the rearview as his grandmother climbed onto the porch. Sheena sat next to her, head tipped to the side and tongue lolling out of her mouth. As they made to turn onto the road, she raised her hand in farewell. Sam pressed the horn twice, two short, sharp honks, and then they were accelerating across the isthmus. He watched in silence as the little house fell away behind them, and then it was gone, disappearing around a bend in the road.

He sighed heavily, reaching out to grasp the steering wheel with both hands.

“Are you alright?” Bumblebee asked quietly.

Sam stroked a thumb over the smooth leather. “Yeah, I think so. Thanks for asking.”

Bumblebee brushed against his mind, warm and familiar and affectionate. “Always.”  

They slowed near the Bed and Breakfast, allowing Boynton and Simmons to pull onto the road behind them. Sam waved at them as he passed, before turning his attention to the container on the passenger seat.

“Do you mind if I eat?” He asked, “I’m starving.”

“Of course.” Bumblebee replied, before his voice turned dry, “It’s greasy. Watch the leather.”

Sam chuckled, reaching over to grab the Tupperware container. He pulled the lid off with a twist of his wrist and groaned in appreciation as the smell of fried bacon filled the cabin. His grandmother had made a breakfast burrito, and it was stuffed full to bursting. He held the container under his chin as he ate, using it to catch the excess food. When he finished, he pressed the lid back to the container, and then sat back with a contented sigh.

The drive was beautiful and uneventful, two things for which Sam was thankful. The silence was occasionally interrupted with good-natured chatter from the comms channel. He came to learn that Mirage was reserved with a dry sense of humor, while Bluestreak readily agreed with anything that Cliffjumper said. It was only after they turned onto the highway, and Hot Rod was arguing with Cliffjumper about engine specifications, that Sam realized just how much space they had given him on their drive to California. The thought touched him deeply, and he reached out to press his fingertips against the dashboard.

“Thanks guys.” He murmured.  

//No problem, Sammy.// Hot Rod quipped immediately.  

Sam rolled his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

//Sorry, Samuel, my bad.//

“That's not better.” He replied dryly.

//No? How about Hoss? Top Gun? Half Pint?// Roddy asked, throwing out suggestions.

“I will murder you in your sleep if you start calling me half-pint.” Sam warned.

//Ten-four, Short Stack.//

“Someone brake-check him for me.” He said, exasperatedly.

A moment later, there was a cacophony of affronted honking from somewhere near the back of the convoy.

//Happy to help.// Cliffjumper cut in dryly.

Sam grinned from ear to ear. “You’re such a bro, Cliff.”

They made their way down Highway 36 towards the state line. The breakfast burrito had been salty, and it wasn’t long before Sam asked to pull over at the next rest stop so he could get something to drink. Mirage navigated the next exit, turning left at the lights and pulling into a large service station. The convoy parked in a row next to the restaurant, and Sam jogged into the convenience store. An old country song was playing on the overhead speakers as he made his way to the coolers at the back of the store. He pulled out two bottles of soda, shutting the cooler with his hip, and then he walked back to the counter. Sam put the bottles next to the cash register, before adding a package of beef jerky and a chocolate bar to the mix. It was a road trip, after all.

The cashier was staring out the window at the flashy sports cars, his mouth agape in disbelief. Sam followed his line of sight as he pulled the wallet out of his back pocket.

“Are those— Are they… Autobots?” The cashier asked, stammering out the words.

Sam was surprised when the question made him feel amused, rather than anxious.

“Yeah, they are.” He replied, tapping his credit card against the counter to get the cashier’s attention, “I’m sorry, but we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

The cashier turned to look at him, recognition lighting up his face. “It’s you. I mean, you’re him. Right? The kid who made first contact?”

Sam shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t make first contact. Not really. They were here for a while before I met them.”

The cashier’s eyes went as round as saucers. “Oh my God.”

Sam glanced meaningfully at the items on the counter. The cashier blinked, coming back to himself all at once, and then he started stuffing things into a plastic bag. “No one’s going to believe me. Oh my God, this is the best day of my life. Here.”

He thrust the bag at Sam, who stared at him in confusion. “I didn’t pay for—“

“Your money’s no good here, man.” The cashier rambled, “Can I take a picture of them?”

“You… want to take a picture?” Sam asked, slowly.

“Can I? Do you think they’d mind?” The cashier asked hopefully.

“I mean… probably not?” Sam replied, glancing out the window.

The cashier dashed out from behind the counter as soon as the words had left his mouth. Sam watched as he pushed open the doors and jogged across the parking lot. He picked the plastic bag off the counter and followed behind him. The cashier had stopped a half a dozen meters away, and he was taking pictures with his cell phone camera. Sam walked passed him, and Bumblebee popped open his driver’s side door as he approached.

“Holy shit.” The cashier breathed, watching as Sam put the plastic bag on the passenger seat, “This is the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Sam straightened up, leaning against the doorframe. “I know the feeling.”

“What are their names?” The cashier asked, catching him by surprise.

“You want to know their names?” Sam asked, genuinely curious.

The cashier nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, absolutely.”

Something warm and pleasant blossomed in Sam’s chest, and he shut the door as he patted the Camaro on the hood. “This is Bumblebee. The Bugatti is Cliffjumper, the Lamborghini is Hot Rod. That’s Ratchet, Bluestreak, Trailbreaker, Hound, and the Ferrari is Mirage.”  

“And the SUV?” The cashier asked.

Sam glanced over at the vehicle with the government-issued plates. “Well, that’s a Toyota. It’s my security detail.”

If the cashier was embarrassed by his mistake, he certainly didn’t show it.

“This is amazing, man.” He said, glancing back at the convenience store, “I wish I could stay and talk.”

“It was nice to meet you.” Sam said, and he meant it, “What’s your name?”

“Jonathon. Jonathon Parker.” He replied, “It was nice to meet you too. All of you.”

Sam nodded in farewell, pulling open the driver’s side door. At the same time, the cashier took a hesitant step towards him. “Can I take your picture?”

Sam froze in the process of climbing into the cab. “Who, me?”  

“Well, yeah. Of course. I mean… you’re famous.” The cashier replied.

Sam gave him a skeptical look. “Well, I guess. I mean, if you want to.”

The cashier’s face split with a wide smile. “Awesome, okay, just a sec, lemme back up.” He glanced behind him as he jogged backwards a few paces, and then he raised his phone. “Okay. One, two, three.” There was a camera flash, and then the cashier lowered the phone again. “Thanks so much. No one would have believed me!”

Sam couldn’t prevent his huff of laughter. “No problem. Have a good day, Jonathon.”

The cashier waved good-bye as Sam climbed into the driver’s seat. Bumblebee closed the door behind him, and then they were accelerating towards the road. He glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see the cashier showing his phone to an older man in a gas station uniform.

“That’s going to be on social media before we hit the highway.” Bumblebee said dryly. “The Instagram post from Redding went viral.”

Sam fished one of the sodas out of the plastic bag, opening the bottle with a twist of his wrist. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, it did.” Bumblebee replied, “The hashtag AutobotBugatti trended on Twitter. Hot Rod has been complaining about it ever since.”

Sam tipped his head to the side, staring at the dashboard in consideration. “What’d they say?”

“The poster or the commenters?” Bumblebee asked, slowing down as he turned onto the on-ramp.

“Either or.” Sam replied, taking a drink of soda.

“The comments were generally positive.” Bumblebee said, accelerating to fifty-five miles an hour as they merged with traffic. “There was curiosity, some suspicion, some condemnation, and a great deal of interest.”

Sam considered his response for a long while, staring sightlessly out the windshield.

“Do we have an official social media presence?” He asked eventually.

Bumblebee’s mental presence brightened with mild surprise.

“Not an official presence, no, but most of us have social media accounts.”

Sam propped an elbow against the doorframe, resting his head on his hand. “We should. I think it would help humanize us.”

“Are you volunteering?” Bumblebee asked dryly.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Sam replied, “I used to like social media.”

Bumblebee hesitated for a long moment.

“Some of the content is… vitriolic.” He hedged carefully, “There’s a lot of anger and fear out there.”

Sam hummed at him. “Yeah, I know, but maybe that’s the point.”

Bumblebee chirruped thoughtfully in response. Sam settled back against the driver’s seat, reaching out a hand to press against the Autobot emblem on the steering wheel.

“I want them to know you, as I know you.” He murmured, more to himself than to Bumblebee. “I couldn’t think of a better way to stick it to Leland Bishop.”

Bumblebee’s mental presence shifted forward, pressing against his mind. It was fierce and protective and loving, and Sam bumped back against him affectionately.

The pictures from the service station were on social media before they left the city limits. Sam surprised himself by asking Bumblebee to read the comments as they were posted. As he predicted, there was a great deal of interest and enthusiasm alongside the animosity and threats of violence. Sam made himself listen to it all, and by the time they pulled into the embassy, he had made up his mind.

“I’ll stay.” He said, directing his words to no one in particular. “If Optimus thinks I should stay, then I’ll stay.”

Bumblebee slowed to a stop, but he didn’t open the door.

“Are you sure?” He asked uncertainly, “You don’t have to prove anything, Sam.”

Sam smiled wanly at the dashboard. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Bumblebee’s mental presence was skeptical and concerned, but he opened the driver’s side door without protest. Sam climbed out of the cab as Ratchet pulled to a stop beside them. He walked around to Bumblebee’s trunk, thumping it with the flat of his hand. Bumblebee obliged him by popping it open, and Sam pulled his duffel bag and the box of cookies out, setting them on the ground.

“What’s brought this on?” Ratchet asked.

Sam shrugged as he slung the duffel bag over his shoulder. “I don’t know. I guess I just needed some time away.”

Ratchet snorted inelegantly. “Relieved though I am to hear it, you won’t be staying at the embassy indefinitely. I’m to understand that Lennox has plans for you that involve the island.”

Sam glanced over at him curiously. “What does that mean?”

“I suppose that’s for you to find out.” Ratchet replied enigmatically.    

“Well, am I finding out tonight?” Sam asked dryly. The drive had been almost ten hours long, all told, and he was exhausted. “If not, then I’ll go upstairs.”

Ratchet ex-vented another snort. “Go on with you then.”

Sam picked up the box of cookies and glanced at the Camaro. “Will I see you inside?”

“Of course.” Bumblebee replied, like a promise.

Sam murmured his farewells, before climbing the narrow steps towards the embassy entrance. The two NEST soldiers stationed on either side of the entryway nodded to him in greeting. Sam nodded back and stepped into the antechamber, leaving the ground bridge hangar behind him.