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A slow day it had been for team Prime, all Autobots secured in their mountain base deep in the Nevada desert. The children had gone home long before sunset when the three realized that a failed scouting mission would be the height of the evening. A much-needed recharge would be necessary for them all.
Except for one bot.
“Where is Bumblebee?” Asks Arcee to Ratchet, who busies himself in a private messaging server with Agent Fowler. “He isn’t in his berth, and he won’t answer my pings.”
“He’s probably off racing again. That Darby boy got him addicted to the juvenile game. What a waste of Energon...” The old bot grumbled the last part to himself, leaving Arcee to take a brief scan over the foyer of the base.
“…third night this week. He waits until Raf leaves before going. It hasn’t even been a full cycle!”
“He’s still young, probably itching to get out of this stuffy camp, and I don’t blame him.” Bulkhead chimes quietly from the hall, likely hearing the conversation and eager to escape the looming threat of recharge. He did not enjoy wasting time when he could be doing anything else, such as Bumblebee.
“He is out all the time for missions; I don’t see why he has to go out and frag up his tires every night,” Arcee mutters, both bots keeping their voices low in fear of alerting their leader of the youngest bot’s secret hobby.
“Well, I’ve had enough of it. He isn’t slick at all, and it’s quite obvious where he goes and why he does it. Scouts must be disciplined for disobedience!” Ratchet pipes up, finally shutting down his program for the night. Bulkhead rolls his optics.
“No one said he couldn’t go racing.”
“You know Optimus would not approve,” Ratchet whispers. The three bots go silent and carefully look down the hall that leads to their private chambers, knowing that the Prime resides in one of them.
“He would freak if he knew Bee had been doing this for so long without his knowing,” Arcee warns Ratchet, a subtle plea for him not to tell Optimus. Bulkhead nods in agreement. “He would feel like a failure or something.”
Ratchet buzzes in thought, considering the two younger bot’s input. But he dully shoves their logic to the side and into scrap.
“Bumblebee is his sparkling. He deserves to know where he is after hours. If Bumblebee did not want him to find out, he wouldn’t have made it so obvious.” The medic bites and turns towards the hall, disappearing into the corridor. Arcee shuts her optics and rubs her metallic temples out of frustration.
“Bee is going to hate me.”
Bulkhead chuckles and pats her shoulder plate with a large servo. “The kid has gotta learn. Don’t worry; Optimus wouldn’t kill him.”
Speaking of the Prime, within moments, the Autobot leader emerges into the hearth, seemingly exhausted.
“Where is he?” He asks in a calm tone. Eerie.
Arcee and Bulkhead both shrug. Optimus narrows his optical ridge at both the smaller mechs. Bulkhead gives in first, shoulders slumping as he confesses.
“By the bridge outside Jasper. Nearest highway outta town…if you smell burnt rubber, you found him.”
Optimus says nothing as he leaves via the ground bridge.
—-
As Bulkhead directed, the Prime finds Bumblebee’s yellow Camaro zipping down the highway at one hundred twenty miles per hour, smoking two other vehicles that could hardly be identified in the Autobot’s dust.
Bumblebee wishes he could laugh during times like these; the feeling of the wind slamming against his hood while he pushes forward toward the horizon makes him feel more alive than any Decepticon who threatens his life could.
He turns sharply, losing the two nameless vehicles, and charges into the desert. Carefully, Bee slows down and turns his race into a leisurely seventy-five miles per hour, soaking up the cool Nevada air after dark.
Until bright high beams blind his path, he swerves into a nearby rock formation.
“Bumblebee, get up.”
Instant dread pools into Bumblebee’s tank as the Prime transforms from a truck to his complete Autobot form. He quickly follows suit, turning back into his true character.
“It has come to my attention that this is not the first time you have left base to do this?” He questions rather than accuses. It makes Bee feel even worse.
“I was just…!” Scrap, nothing comes to mind.
“Just…what, Bumblebee?” Optimus gets down onto a knee so he is face to face with his Scout. His voice synthesizer restarts quickly as he lowers an octave, the Prime truly unhappy with what he has witnessed. Bumblebee backs up, digits intertwining nervously.
“I…was racing, Optimus. I’m sorry.” He beeps and clicks his no-good response. He can feel his spark sink as he communicates it, and his optics dilate when they meet his senior’s own—tired, angry, or sad? He can’t tell, but all possibilities alert the processor that he’s overheating. Embarrassingly enough, his cooling vents turn on, loudly at that.
“You will lead me back to base.” Prime orders, standing up slower than he had lowered himself to the ground. Bumblebee notices how his guardian has gotten slower with age…the gears that keep Optimus going grind ever so slightly that it makes Bee’s audials ring.
“I will not ask you again, Bumblebee.” Optimus rumbles, alerting the scout that he had been zoning out for too long. “Drive.”
Bumblebee quickly transforms into his vehicle form and books it towards the base, Optimus following close behind. In his rearview, Bee can see the brights of the truck beaming into his mirrors and nearly blinding him. Screwed. Absolutely screwed.
Both bots return to base, Bumblebee hurrying inside to keep a far enough distance between himself and the Prime. Arcee and Bulkhead had already abandoned the hearth leaving only Ratchet to witness the youngest’s demise.
“I am disappointed in you, Bumblebee. Think of the example you are setting for the children?” Ratchet hisses from the medical table, seemingly organizing the contents underneath the berths. Bumblebee lowers his door wings in shame; Rafael would be upset if he learned about his guardian’s racing habits. He could never let the boy find out; it would ruin Raf’s trust in him. His vents kick on again.
“Cool down, Bumblebee,” Optimus says calmly without the eerily familiar tone from before. The Autobot rests his servo just between the scout's wings, carefully massaging the area to comfort him. He had always done the same when he was a sparkling, and the thought of it hurt Bee’s spark.
“Are you hurt?” Ratchet chimes in, dropping the snide attitude, and approaches the scout with worry. Bumblebee quickly shakes his head no, accidentally backing himself into Optimus. His optics dart from the medic to the prime as he quickly ignores an alert on his processor about low tire pressure, a dent, and a cracked frame, all from his smashing introduction into a Nevada mountainside.
“Speak up, boy.” Optimus orders, lightly pushing Bumblebee in the direction of Ratchet. He feels like the equivalent of a human pet, the way the two older bots now refer to him. Bumblebee beeps out a response.
“Tire pressure…dent…my frame is cracked.”
“All cosmetic. Does it hurt?” Ratchet sighs in relief. Bee shakes his head no.
“Then it will wait until morning. Get some rest, old friend.” Optimus nods to Ratchet, who waves him off. He goes to leave but stops in his tracks just before entering the hall.
“If he were my sparkling, I would have left him parked in his chambers for a solar cycle.” He barks, always needing to get in a last word. It hits Bumblebee the wrong way, already fired up from his short-lived race; he revs his engines and struggles to beep in the most menacing way he can muster.
“I’m not a sparkling, especially not his!”
It did not hold the intended effect on the medic, who smirks and turns around towards the chambers. “Exactly what a sparkling would say,” he jeers just before leaving the room.
The servo from between his wings had been removed.
Bumblebee turns around and looks up at the Autobot leader, who stares at the spot where Ratchet has just been standing. It was impossible to read his face, he never was Bee good at that anyway, but the consequences of his outburst were catching up to him.
“Optimus-“
“To your berth, Bumblebee. We will debrief in the morning. I expect you to be recharging.”
The way he says it makes his spark tremble, and he quickly makes his way to his room, sure to lock it before curling up into his berth. It is hard not to say everything swirling through his sensors when his vocalizer has no interest in cooperation. How does he apologize? Should he? What’s the point? I’m in trouble either way, he processes.
Are autobots capable of crying? He’s seen Raf do it after a terrible grade he received in gym class. Whatever the reason it may be, Bumblebee wishes he could right now.
“Arcee to Bumblebee. Come in, Bumblebee.” The soothing voice of Arcee connects to his comms. His vents finally shut off, and he shivers away the anxiety as he tunes into his comm.
“Bumblebee, over. Arcee?”
“Are you stuck to Groundbridge manager for the rest of your life?” She jokes through the comms. Bumblebee can’t bring himself to laugh.
“He hasn’t given me any punishment yet. He barely spoke to me. He just sent me to recharge. It’s scarier than just being told I will be sold for scrap.” He pulls his knees to his chassis and tucks in the door wings for a smaller and safer position.
“I think I hurt his feelings.”
“How? He’s a prime; he doesn’t have feelings.” Arcee disagrees.
“Ratchet called me “his sparkling,” and I said I wasn’t his sparkling…then he got quiet and sent me away.” He struggles to keep the comm open as his optic sensors ping that they want to be shut, queuing a recharge.
“Oh…that’ll do it. I can definitely see him getting hurt over that. Geez, Bee, you’re mean.”
“Please…cut the scrap. I’m tired, and I don’t want to process this anymore.”
“Ping if you need me.” She leaves the connection, and Bumblebee closes his comm channel for the night.
Bumblebee wakes to a knocking on his locked door. He scrambles onto his peds and opens the doors. He is treated to an exhausted Optimus.
“I apologize for waking you up so early.” He rumbles, Bee, checking the time to be well before six am when he left to pick up Raf for school. Nevertheless, Bumblebee invites the Prime into his berth without question because he is his guardian, after all.
Optimus carefully steps inside, uninterested in sitting down or parking. The older bot just sways somewhat nervously. It’s almost uncharacteristic for him. Bee clicks with concern, but Optimus just nods his way.
“Do not be concerned, little one. I want to debrief.”
The term of endearment hits Bee like a Decepticon starship. The old bot must’ve been screwed up by what he had dared to utter hours before if he reverted to old sayings for nostalgia. Bee sits at the end of his berth to keep his chambers from feeling too crowded.
“I have considered your punishment, and I have decided not to grant you any form of discipline. You have presented stress with your outburst, and I understand that it is hard to find forms of entertainment in this camp when our human companions are not around.”
No way was this real, Bee thought. But Optimus continued to vocalize as if he were reciting some script. He most likely was.
“But this is not without concerns for your recent behavior. I question your…intended goal with this…hobby.” He moves about the room, scanning over Bumblebee’s collection of human trinkets, toys, and trash that he has found interesting over the years of being parked on this planet. Bumblebee doesn’t miss the slight smile that forms on Prime’s face.
“It’s more freeing than being stuck in my berth.” He beeps, his wings fluttering at the thought of racing again through the desert. Optimus nods at the notion.
“I can understand that.” Is all he says before standing at his full height again, no longer distracted by the scout's collection. “I do not want to spoil your means of enjoyment, but this planet is not safe, especially for a young scout with no backup. You put the humans you race in danger every time you go out onto those tracks. The Decepticons know you, Bumblebee.”
“I never thought of it like that. I’m really sorry, Optimus.” Only the weakest of binary escapes his processor as he struggles to keep up communication, the guilt already nestled uncomfortably in his spark.
“You are forgiven, Bumblebee.” The Prime goes to leave but stops just as Ratchet did last night. Hesitating, Optimus restarts his vocalizer and darts his optics to the floor.
“Do you feel as if I suffocate you?”
Alarm bells go off in Bumblebee’s sensors.
“No! Not at all!” He quickly comforts his leader, getting up from the berth and going to the older mech’s side. He places a much smaller servo onto Optimus’s ginormous one. He really did hurt his feelings, dammit! Arcee was right, he is mean.
“I do not…I-” Optimus struggles to respond, “I do not ever want you to fear me…or question my motives towards you, Bumblebee. You are no longer a sparkling, and I hope your impression of me is not that of an overwhelming caregiver.”
Optimus covers the sadness well, but Bumblebee can tell that it pains the Prime to utter those words. Even with the Prime programming overwhelming his initial autobot emotions, Optimus can’t contain everything.
“You’re not overwhelming, boss bot. I was just mad at…Ratchet.” Bee clicks out softly, resting his helm on Optimus’s upper appendage. He can feel the low rumbling of the Prime’s internal workings, his spark beat slowing by the comfort it brings him to be around his caregiver.
He will have to be more careful when he sneaks out next time.