Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Maccadam's was always busy on the day of the Iacon 5000.

Its bustling, cheering crowd and the smell of oil and energon sweets were enough to make any bot feel welcome—almost to the point of overwhelm.

Nonetheless, it was particularly packed with jittery racers, keen to find their place amongst the crowd of soon-to-be fans, pulling out their pens to sign servos and doorwings alike.

Roaring laughter erupted from spectators who were huddled around bright screens as racecars overtook each other and skidded around sharp turns, one after the other.

Flasks clinked and engex spilled as bets were placed on the race.
“Motormaster will win this year!”
“No, no, Blackeye will bring home the gold for sure, you know his tactics.”

The huddle of bots murmured in unison, servos wrapped around each other's shoulder plates, forming a sort of bundle of rowdy fans.

Most staff members didn't dare approach such a crowd—even Maccadam himself avoided orders on numerous occasions from the particularly passionate racing fans—excusing himself with an “I need more supplies” or even just an “I'll be back in a minute,” which, as much as he would've liked to believe, never fooled anyone.

So, to deal with those customers, a particularly sprightly yellow bot was usually assigned to serve their table.

“Alright…Engex double pump? Whose is that?”

Bumblebee bounced his way over to the table with two platters of drinks balanced on his right servo, a determined sparkle in his optics, which…didn't last long. He quickly lost hope in getting the group's attention as their optics remained transfixed, trailing the cars on screen. One or two of them even had coolant dripping down slowly from their open mouths.

Bumblebee's faceplate fell as his field was filled with annoyance—and a little disgust. After accepting the fact that his tactic wasn't going to work, he tried a different approach. He gently tapped one of the bots who swatted at his servo without looking back. Or, at least, he tried to, but Bumblebee was fast, and before the mech knew it his wrist had been gripped tightly and a drink placed in it. Only then did the bot tear his gaze away from the screen to thank Bumblebee and give him a small tip with a sheepish grin on his face.

“Sorry, bud—I'll handle getting the others’ attention. You do your job.”

Bumblebee forced a small smile…though he really was grateful. He was expecting something closer to a berating on why he would interrupt their entertainment, and was pleasantly surprised by this mech's manners.

“Don't worry about it. I'll just put the drinks on the side table, does that work?”

After receiving a nod of the helm and a little more focus from some of the other bots, Bumblebee tucked the two platters he used to transfer the drinks under his arm and made a beeline for the counter to prepare the next couple of orders.

That was one of the downsides of being many of the customers’ personal favourite bartender: constant work. Aside from that though, Bumblebee always enjoyed interacting with his customers. He had mastered the art of flattery and smooth conversation:

A small ‘Hey, how are you doing?’
followed by a comment on, say, a music band, or a question about who they were rooting for in the Iacon 5000. He was good at picking up on the small things.

What Bumblebee didn't know, however, was that a large number of tipsy cybertronians had collectively agreed that Bumblebee wasn't only the most talkative of the bar's staff, but also made the best drinks. Whether this was true or not didn't matter: the rumour spread throughout Cybertron like wildfire, and the bar quickly went from busy to packed.

Though Maccadam was a little annoyed that his own bar was getting recognition for a reason he didn't play a part in, he stated multiple times to Bumblebee that he was glad his place was getting recognition at all.

At first, Bumblebee was flattered, and put his all into every small detail of his drinks and customer service—though it wasn't always easy…

The yellow bot worked fast, muttering words at a speed that made them almost incomprehensible into his comn while shaking a drink (a little too aggressively) and pressing an ice pack to his shoulder plate with his tilted helm. It was the hot season after all—and numbers showed that. Big groups of overheating bots barged in, trying to do all they could to cool themselves down while other staff members plugged in fans nearby.

Bumblebee zoomed around the place trying to provide people with refreshments as soon as possible. Many mechs thanked him gratefully as they received their drinks and pressed them against their buzzing frames before downing them in a sparkbeat.

Finally, it was Bee's rest day—but it seemed to come and go in a breem and before he knew it, it was gone.

On his way to the bar, he tried to smarten himself up and dust himself off, though not to much avail. But hey, Bee thought to himself, at least we're less busy on weekends.

They were not less busy on the weekend. With even more popular demand for a certain yellow bot, everymech seemed to share the others’ idea and planned to go to the bar on the weekend in the hopes of managing to catch the poor bot when his timetable was freed up a little. Unfortunately for Bumblebee, not many of the other staff members were willing to lend much of a hand. Though Hot Rod and Arcee tried to pitch in, most of their efforts were in vain. They groaned and plugged their ears as the crowd seemed to collectively cheer for Bumblebee. They both gave up with their efforts in an embarrassingly short amount of time, and slinked away to prepare snacks instead, leaving Bumblebee alone to deal with…whatever was going on.

Of course, Bee's charming, chatty front never wavered, and neither did the quality of beverages he prepared—but deep down, he was keen to find peace in his apartment, even if it was rather small. It was home.

Ugh, he thought to himself. Some weeken—
Bee gasped softly as his thought was cut off and his attention was stolen by a particularly flashy racer; a white Pontiac Firebird Trans Am with red and blue details zipped across the 31st lap of the race that played on screen as a commentator's voice boomed.

“And here we have our newest addition to the high ranks, a young racer who goes by ‘Breakdown’! Could this be the newest addition to our hall of fame? Or, better yet, the infamous Stunticons?”

Bumblebee was used to all kinds of racers finding their way into the races that showed up on the screens scattered around the bar, but they were all the same. They all only cared about the prize, a plate of shiny metal, and nothing else.

In Bee's experience, they all looked prim and proper until they lost a race and began to throw tantrums like a spoiled child.

But this racer…this one was different. He found enjoyment in the race itself; savoured the feeling of adrenaline as he accelerated, the feeling of taking a risk as he threw himself around a sharp turn.

A pang of jealousy rippled through the yellow bot's frame. Jealousy of the bot's confidence…his ability to do and not overthink. It was captivating…mesmerising. It was—

Three quick taps on the solid wood of a table lurched him back down to reality.

“Excuse me, can we each get a refill of the Blue Engex cocktail? Thanks a bunch.”

Chapter Text

Three slow, begrudging weeks passed by, with Bumblebee absentmindedly turning a blind eye to the white blue and red racer who had been his fixation not even a week before, wasting his time scavenging for details in the most recent racers’ files…and then all the other files as well.

Bumblebee couldn't explain why he seemed to take such an interest in this bot. Both Arcee and Hot Rod had questioned him on numerous occasions about what he was doing whenever they stumbled across him flicking through pages amongst the oil and engex tanks down in Maccadam’s basement.

However, their conversations never lasted long and the ones that did were one sided and dry. Bumblebee would hardly pay them any mind, eyebrows furrowed and optics fixed as he responded to questions with nothing more than a grunt.

Only two whole weeks later did he finally, defeatedly, drop his research project with a sigh, returning to his repetitive routine of working as a bartender.

Chat, note, shake, serve, and repeat.

Since then, he lost complete interest in watching any of the races that were put on the screens around the bar, and even scowled whenever he caught a glimpse of any of the other racers who had accompanied the Pontiac in his race. His hope would shoot up before it plummeted back to reality.

Bee was sick of watching the same bots win; of watching the same recycled tactics play out, the same mindset towards winning or losing a race. It was just pure boring, and it annoyed him: he knew that the sport itself was so much more—had so much more potential that was wasted on contestants who were carbon copies of each other. It made him itch.

But that one white car…it was a relief.

Unfortunately, it was a relief that was short lived.

Or, at least, so he thought.

Friday wound by like the cuckoo bird on a clockwork machine, inviting itself into Bumblebee's schedule with the sharp sound of a morning alarm.

A grunt from the yellow bot followed by a loud thud as he rolled onto the floor from his berth left the cuckoo satisfied, as the alarm let out its final shrill beep.

Bumblebee rubbed his optics as he recorded a particularly talkative table's requests. He shuffled his way through a packed crowd—or at least, tried to, before the mass of bots collectively shifted to each side of the bar and tripped Bumblebee over.

Huh, he thought.
That was odd.

He quickly pushed himself to his pedes, optics dashing around the place to find out whose entrance had caused such a commotion. Primus, Bee even caught sight of a number of bots bowing a little, while others fumbled for a pen.

So this is someone important… the yellow bot concluded. Still, his view was blocked by a couple of especially tall mechs (or rather, they weren't too far from average but Bumblebee insisted he wasn't short). Even while he was on his tiptoes and stretching his frame as far as he could, he still didn't manage to catch a glimpse of the bar celebrity.

Finally, after what felt like a millennium to the impatient yellow bot, the crowd near him parted to make way for a mech that…felt familiar. Bumblebee adjusted his serving plates under his arm before sidestepping out of the way, allowing the new bot to settle into a seat on a previously peacefully empty table.

From his little spot in the corner of the bar, Bee allowed himself to take in the newcomer's appearance. He had a broad, tall, strong build, painted red, blue and white—which somehow also managed to look sleek despite his blocky features. His faceplate had a cocky grin plastered on it in such a way that Bumblebee couldn't imagine how he'd look without it. Overall he was relatively good looking, as Bee's consciousness eventually concluded.

However, Bumblebee himself was appalled at the way his thoughts had run away with absurd fantasies, especially since the said bot's overall manner could easily be mistaken (and in Bumblebee's case, was) for being rude or disrespectful.

Bee hadn't noticed how long he had been staring until the popular bot looked around for a waiter and met his optics, lifting up his servo in a beckoning gesture - one Bee knew all too well from his experience.

The yellow bot blanched a little at the idea of being caught staring, before a faint expression of disgust snuck its way into his features at the idea of serving this…

self centered narcissist? another small voice in his processor offered. Bumblebee had to physically shake his helm to quickly expel the idea before he did - or said - something he would regret later to the newcomer.

After all, he thought to himself, I shouldn't make assumptions on this bot yet.

Bumblebee cringed slightly as he awkwardly cleared his throat to tear the bot's attention from his fans. Surprisingly, he was greeted with a smile that seemed a little more genuine than the one he had used previously, and even proceeded to ask for a drink recommendation that Bee thought would go well with the snacks he had ordered. However, he seemed to get more confident as the two exchanged words, slowly reverting back to his sly grin.

Eugh. Bee's door wings fell and his train of thought gradually trailed back to his first impression of the bot. Of course, he kept that opinion to himself—but that didn't stop him from slowly reversing away from the table in the hopes that he would assume Bee just had orders to prepare.

Bumblebee scuttled back to the area behind his cocktail bar as he tried to make desperate conversation with any one of his colleagues, painfully aware that the bot whose order he just took had kept his gaze on him since he left his table.

The yellow bot silently avoided the customer —and even went to the extreme of begging Arcee to serve him instead, which was a long stretch, even for him. Any other day he would've done all he could to avoid getting teased by the pink femme, but instead he willingly sacrificed his already low ego.

None of this ended well either, as Arcee later informed him with a smirk that the bot had constantly been inquiring about ‘a specific yellow bug’ before insisting he left a large tip—which Bee would've appreciated if he hadn't seen it as the bot flaunting his shanix.

Bee went home, exhausted and, frankly, slightly traumatised.

He was already dreading tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The next day on his way to work, Bumblebee mentally argued with himself the whole walk.

What if he's there again?

He's not going to come twice in a row.

You don't know that.

He's a racer, he's too busy to waste time at a bar.

But other racers show up all the time - we have at least three regulars who race competitively.

But that's only because they know our staff well - this guy is new.

Well what if he takes the time to get to know our staff next time he comes?

He probably won't.

…but that's still not definite.

Bumblebee dragged his servos down his faceplate as anticipation coursed through his system. Not much time passed before logic sprang to life, and he took a mental step back from the thousands of made-up scenarios he had made in his processor.

Why was he getting so worked up over some guy he met just a day before? He had dealt with many more difficult customers in the past, so why was this specific racer causing him so much…distress, for lack of a better word.

The yellow bot released a breath he didn't know he had been holding before letting out a short, incredulous laugh.

He quickly half-assured himself he would be fine as he stepped into the bar to prepare everything before they officially opened. Though Bumblebee despised having to wake up early, he enjoyed having the responsibility of readying Maccadam's for the customers before it was filled with noise.

It let him think clearly without interruptions—without being yelled at by impatient customers, or rushing to make drinks, or getting into a disagreement with the other staff members. It was just…welcome, quiet solitude.

Bumblebee sighed and put down the flasks he was cleaning, wiping a bead of coolant from his faceplate. He huffed disappointedly after spotting a piece of scrap paper on the floor, while grumpily muttering something that he knew would make Maccadam raise a judgemental eyebrow if he were there.

The yellow bot crouched to snatch the snippet from the freshly swept floor, snappishly straightening back to his full height. He began to unfold the slightly wrinkled piece of paper…that looked as though it had seen much better days.

Its corners were either frayed or torn, and it was worn down the creases where it had been folded so that black ink could be seen through the paper.

After inspecting his find for a couple of minutes, the yellow bot's door wings twitched as his curiosity got the better of him, and he quickly flattened the paper out on the table closest to him before switching on his headlights to see more clearly.

On the piece of paper was a single word, written in a messy scrawl: an autograph, probably from one of the racers that had recently showed up to buy a drink or two.

Breakdown, it said.

The ink itself, ironically, looked relatively fresh upon closer inspection - but that wasn't what was puzzling the yellow bot. He was sure he recognised that name from somewhere, but no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't match the name to a face. It was infuriating.

That evening, he returned home drained and unsatisfied with the lack of information he had obtained.

But then, another idea struck him. He could just - ask another staff member if they knew!
Bumblebee fumbled for his comn buttons and scrolled halfway down his list of contacts before landing on Arcee.

He was confident that this would get him somewhere.

“What do you mean you've never heard of this guy?!”

Bumblebee's foot tapped quickly against the floor as he crossed his arms.

Arcee flinched at the sudden shift in volume.

“I dunno what to tell ya Bee - I never got any orders from somebot who went by that name. Maybe it's old; left over from when Maccadam was running this place by himself?”

The yellow bot scrunched up his faceplate in annoyance.

“No, the ink is new. I just—I swear I've seen that name before. It feels familiar…”

The pink femme hummed in acknowledgement, though Bee could tell she wasn't really paying attention to what he was saying. Honestly, he didn't blame her.

A loud noise that resembled a half-woop half-cheer suddenly sounded from Arcee's side of the line. Bumblebee jumped.

“Ow—what? Ugh my poor audio receptors…”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry…you said you think that this guy who signed the autograph is a racer?”

Bumblebee blinked blankly a couple of times before replying.

“Uh…yeah? I mean I'm not 100 percent sure but it seems like the most likely possibility…what does that have to do with anything?”

There was a long silence, in which he could almost hear his friend's optics roll.

“What do you me—urgh, well if he's a racer dummy, I'm sure if you look on the TVs you'll find him! You know we play all of the best races on those bad boys.”

Bumblebee furrowed his brow, still unsure.

“But how will I play them back to watch them? Don't we always have live cameras streaming the races onto the screens?”

“Yep, they're live when we play them for the customers but Maccadam almost always records them to watch later in peace. He says that he can't watch the races properly with so many people around, or something.”

Arcee's tone got lighter as she felt her friend relax with a sigh.

“Thanks Cee. I owe you one.”

She snickered cheekily.

“Oh, you owe me a lot more than that. Good luck finding this ‘Breakup’ guy. Bye Bee.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Two short beeps sounded as the call ended - with Bumblebee in high spirits. He pulled out the small sheet with the signature on it one last time to see if it would elicit any memories.

“Still nothing,” he defeatedly murmured to himself, before carefully folding the paper back up and placing it inside a box on his berthside table.

Chapter Text

Arcee and Hot Rod had simply stopped trying to get Bumblebee's attention when they realised that their efforts to pry his optics from the videos on the screen were in vain.

As a result of this, as Hot Rod and Arcee had later explained to Maccadam, he and his sister ‘just had to join in and help Bee look for someone’ and refused to do anymore work.

Of course, Maccadam didn't buy it—he knew his staff too well not to see what they had said for what it was: an excuse to slack off.

Nonetheless, all the bar owner did was narrow his optics before mumbling something about ‘irresponsible teenagers’ before shutting himself in his workspace and putting up a ‘closed’ sign.

As soon as their boss had left, it was like a flip was switched, and the three friends snapped back to what they were doing.

Arcee had her faceplate stuffed with energon sweets as she played a different race on every one of the bar's six TVs. She tried to be nonchalant while crunching her snacks to avoid having to share—but Hot Rod knew his sister's tactics well and soon caught on.

“Where did you put the energon sweets?”

“Mmmph”

“Arcee I swear to Primus.”

“Nnnomph”

“YES, NOW GIVE THEM TO ME—”

This back and forth continued for…a while. Even though the two had agreed to help Bumblebee with his search, they did practically nothing the rest of the day except lie sprawled on the only comfortable seats in the room while inhaling leftovers from the day before.

Bumblebee, however, never lost concentration (apart from the one time that the energon sweets looked particularly appealing) and tried hard not to let his hope falter, clinging to the fading possibility that the next clip would show him what he was looking for.

A couple of groons sped by as Bee's optics flickered between screens. Hot Rod lay in a starfish shape, seemingly taking up as much space as possible with a trail of coolant travelling down from his derma. He fell into recharge first, which was…probably not the best idea.

Not even ten breems had passed before Arcee was giggling and snapping unflattering photos of her brother.

When Arcee finally followed in her brother's steps, she had her limbs splayed out in a similar way… except that she would mumble something Bee was pretty sure had no meaning in any existing language from time to time, traumatising the yellow bot.

He would get startled half to death every 20 breems or so by a loud exclamation from the pink femme that would then trail off, leaving him with a servo clutched tightly over his spark and a slightly swaying chair.

Bumblebee rubbed and scrunched his faceplate as he stretched and yawned. He felt his back strut let out a gruesome ‘pop!’ and grimaced as a couple more pops followed.

He cast a disappointed glance towards the siblings that were sprawled across the furniture behind him as he turned up the volume of the screen in front of him. Hot Rod stirred as he stretched—or, tried to. But the way he had been laying didn't make it easy for him to keep his balance, and he soon fell to the floor with a thud.

Arcee awoke with a snort followed by an offended ‘hey, watch it loser!’

But Bumblebee quickly shushed her as he recognised a race that he remembered had caught his optic a few weeks ago.

This is the race with that racer…

Bumblebee's optics widened as memories of the race flooded his processor. Arcee and Hot Rod huddled around him as he gasped in realisation.

“And here we have our newest addition to the high ranks, a young racer who goes by ‘Breakdown’! Could this be the newest addition to our hall of fame? Or, better yet, the infamous Stunticons?”

The commentator's voice replayed in his memories over and over again, like an echo.

The siblings whooped in celebration, high fiving as Arcee finally offered to share the energon sweets she had tried to keep hidden under her arm.

“Mmh, you know,” she said thoughtfully while crunching, “that wasn't so hard. I was expecting to have to put in so much more effort.”

Bee snorted incredulously.

“Yeah, only because I did all the work. You two just raided our food supply and slept like sparklings.”

Hot Rod rubbed the back of his helm sheepishly with a grin on his faceplate. Arcee, however, playfully swung her arm around the shorter bot and laughed heartily.

“Oh, come on, you enjoyed our company.”

A comfortable silence fell over the group as they celebrated their success.

However, that silence didn't last long. Hot Rod let out a small confused huff.

“Wait—why were we even looking for this ‘Breakdown’ guy anyway? Do you know him?”

Bumblebee made an ‘o’ shape with his mouth as he remembered that Arcee had been the one who he had contacted for help…and knowing Arcee, she probably hadn't told her brother the whole story.

“No, no, I just—I was curious.”

The siblings blinked.

Arcee whined before rubbing her nosebridge.
“We just spent all day here because you were curious?”

“Didn't you say literally 5 breems ago that you were shocked how little you had to do? Don't suddenly flip the script to make yourself the victim,” Bumblebee snapped back.

Clearly, neither one of the other bots were expecting this response. They took a step back in unison and stared at their friend.

“I—uh—I'm sorry. I just…I've had this itching feeling for a while now, and now that I've finally figured this out, I think it was worth it.”

Bumblebee rambled as his door wings twitched in distress.

Arcee chuckled.

“Alright chill. We're gonna go home now, but good luck with finding this guy in real life. Just call if you need us.”

Though Arcee's words were supposed to be comforting, Bumblebee was hit with a new wave of anxiety at the responsibility. He internally slapped himself for his stupidity. If he really wanted to know about this ‘Breakdown’, he would've had to go out of his way and find him himself. Just being able to put an alt mode to a name wasn't enough…

Of course, he didn't need to, but the moment the words had left Arcee's mouth, Bumblebee's imagination was already leading his curiosity through a million possible outcomes. It was impossible for him not to accept this new challenge.

Before long, the yellow bot had his processor set, and felt giddy with excitement.

He would find this racer - no matter what it took.

Chapter Text

The next orn passed, and the hot season cycled back around. Bumblebee took up more shifts around the bar, which paid off a little.

He managed to catch a couple of streams on the screens where ‘Breakdown’ was racing, and overtime noticed a pattern in the races the mech competed in.

Almost all of them were local races, about a half a groon's drive to each location from the bar.

Hm, Bee thought to himself as he mentally noted the detail.

He must live nearby. That means he would be able to easily come to the bar. Maybe he will show up soon since the races have mostly finished? Especially if he does live close…

Bumblebee shook his helm to end his train of thought.

Ugh, no—that's stupid. Wishful thinking.

Two quick knocks on a wooden table elicited a little surprised hum from the bartender before he turned to face the direction of the sound. His optics widened as he recognised the visitor as the popular customer he had taken the order of a couple of solar cycles ago.

The bot definitely looked the same—he had the same features and colour scheme…but to Bumblebee he seemed like an entirely different bot.

Instead of his bratty smirk, his faceplate had a nervous expression. He was still just as tall of course, but he somehow seemed…smaller. Quieter.

Bumblebee grinned with relief and put the broom that had been previously clutched tightly between his servos against the wall. Well, he was willing to give the mech another shot.

“Hi there!”

The other mech opened and closed his derma a couple of times, struggling to get words out.

“Uh—hey. Are you guys open right now?”

“Uh…”

Bumblebee spared a glance towards his abandoned broom—but when he redirected his gaze back to the other mech, he was already backing out of the bar.

“Wait! Hold on. We are closed but I can always make you a drink. I'm basically done with everything I needed to do anyways. Here, have a seat.”

Bumblebee patted one of the bar stools as he walked over to his workspace, door wings fluttering as he grabbed different ingredients from shelves on his tiptoes.

To say he was shocked by his customer's change in character would have been an understatement. He even thanked Bumblebee a couple times for his drink before making polite conversation, which had the yellow bot struggling to keep concentration in his amazement.

“So, do you own this place? I've seen you around a lot more than all the other staff."

The customer sat with one servo propping up his faceplate, the other carefully lifting the flask of the oil he ordered to his derma every so often.

“Oh, no, actually it's a lot simpler than that. Maccadam owns this bar but he spends most of his time either writing out menus or coming up with new drink ideas. Or just…being grumpy,” Bumblebee added more quietly.

This caused the other bot to laugh a little, and his faceplate lit up with a smile that made Bee's spark flutter–

Wait, what?

The yellow bot's expression contorted with a mix of fear and disgust, before he scratched one side of his faceplate to shield his faint blush from the other mech—who stayed blissfully unaware of the internal turmoil the bot opposite him was going through.

Bumblebee quickly redirected the conversation.

“So, how about you? Do you work anywhere?”

The other bot shrugged.

“No, not at the moment. I'm mostly just roaming around.”

“Oh, cool! What places have you been?”

The customer chuckled at Bee's enthusiasm, but his servos were cupped against each other tightly.

“I was recently at the race in Polyhex. I went there in the hopes of meeting some bots I might be able to work with if an opportunity pops up.”

Bumblebee tilted his helm, interested piqued.

“Oh? Are they racers?”

“Yup.”

Bee's processor reminded him of the way the crowd had swarmed around the bot the last time he had seen him.

“Hold on…are you, like, a famous racer or something? Should I be bowing right now?”

He was mostly teasing, but he would be lying if he said that he didn't mean what he said at all.

Now he thought about it…he didn't know much about this bot. He could be some child prodigy or next generation Motormaster, for all he knew.

The mech chuckled again.

“No, no need for bowing. I do race but not super professionally. Not yet, anyway, but that sure is my goal for the future. Who knows, maybe I'll even make it into the Stunticons.”

Bumblebee hummed in understanding.

“Weren't they looking for someone to be the right pede of their combiner ‘Menasor’ or something?”

“I mean, when you put it like that it sounds a little underwhelming, but yeah. They do need one more member. Oh—sorry, I forgot to ask: did my tip find its way to you? I could tell I made you uncomfortable and wanted to…you know, apologise somehow.”

The yellow bot's optics widened with guilt and realisation.

“Oh…y—yeah, Arcee gave it to me. She's the pink femme who served you your drink. Thanks for that.”

The two chatted for a couple more breems until Bumblebee flipped a sign from ‘closed’ to ‘open’ and apologised to his new friend as bots flooded the bar, and the usual sound of laughing and shanix being slammed into servos filled the air.

As if on command, Hot Rod and Arcee emerged from the kitchen with plates and bowls stacked high. The pink femme gave Bee a suggestive wink before wiggling her eyebrows and flashing her optics between him and the bot he had been talking to before.

Even though he knew it was meant to be teasing, Bumblebee couldn't help but laugh at how ridiculous she looked.

Even so, he followed her gaze and looked up to see his friend surrounded by fans. He observed as a particularly dedicated fan begged to have his chest signed with a permanent marker.

“I need it to cover my whole chest plate!”

“Uh…you sure buddy?”

“...of course?!”

Bee rolled his optics at the young fan's behaviour. He used a green mech's order as. an excuse to get closer to his friend who was in the centre of the worship.

The poor bot's confident facade was cracking from nerves, and the loud yelling of the bots around him probably wasn't helping either.

Eventually, by Bumblebee's request, Maccadam trudged into the bar to shoo away the gaggle of bots, leaving his friend to himself.

The yellow bot stayed behind after he flipped the sign back to ‘closed’ in the bar window for a few breems, to make the taller bot one last drink, before going home with a smile on his faceplate.

Chapter Text

Breakdown slammed down on his gas pedal and accelerated, gritting his teeth as he screeched around a sharp turn. One side of his vehicle mode was lifted off of the track, leaving the car balancing precariously almost fully on its side.

However, the racer didn't even blink. In fact, he went faster. To Breakdown, speed was all that mattered. Sure, strength mattered too - but speed was so much more.

He let out a grunt as he began to lose control of his steering, still struggling to bring his left set of wheels back down to the tarmac.

“Argh!”

The white Pontiac went hurtling towards the stands as it flipped and crashed, its doors becoming smashed and dented, its paint clawed off.

Breakdown hissed like a wild animal. Yes, he was in pain - but he was disappointed more than anything. In himself, in his limits, in the numbers that flashed on his HUD, a constant reminder that he would never be good enough.

Motormaster's personal record burned brightly in his faceplate, showing itself off. Breakdown twitched then grimaced and clenched his jaw, slowly transforming into bot mode and limping over to a pillar he could lean against while he checked his injuries.

Breakdown knew he had potential. Anyone who saw him race would easily be able to see that, but for him that had never been enough: having potential and not being able to use it the way he wanted made the potential useless to him - not that he wasn't trying.

From the moment he had scanned his first alt mode, Breakdown would go racing every other day with his friends on abandoned trails or sand flats - anything that they could find, as long as it wasn't too far a drive for any of them to actually get there. But he always had an aching feeling of wanting more…a feeling that not many of his friends shared.

Most of them graduated and went to start successful businesses; others began to look for a family or a place to call home, hardly ever looking back at their trophies or racing habits.

But for Breakdown?
It was everything. He loved the adrenaline, the way he zipped past his competition. Being good at something…or at least, not the worst at something.

And for a while, that was enough for the racer…but not for long: constant danger and new challenges were his addiction, and he was always willing to gamble his chances.

Eventually, all he knew was how to push himself to the edge - it made him feel something that nothing else did. The risk, the game, were the only thing that fed his insatiable hunger.

He had to be the best at something.

This toxic mindset was only fed with the Stunticons’ announcement of looking for another member. Breakdown still remembered the day his optics scanned that news title and went wide with crackling excitement.

Ever since that day, he trained hard. He would spend hours with his optics glued to a screen, replaying Motormaster's legendary turn for the twenty-seventh time, and spent even longer writing out the perfect strategies for each of the main race courses he knew the Stunticons had their optic on, annotating maps and pictures.

He changed his alt mode over and over again, in the hopes of finding the best streamlined design to play out his tactics, to be the best.

He had long ago convinced himself that he wasn't worthy of people's attention unless he earned it through his fame - but that took a turning point one evening when he decided to try a bar that was recommended by an old friend of his.

‘Maccadam's’, it was.

Almost immediately, his focus became a short, yellow bot who buzzed around the place handing out drinks like someone would hand out candy to children.

Breakdown smiled a little to himself, distracted - before he watched as the yellow bot slipped and fell. He hesitantly tried to move towards the bot and help him back up, but soon realised that…he was quite stuck.

Suddenly, he redirected his focus towards his surroundings, only to hear bots begging for autographs and…bowing?

They ushered him towards a table, and he tried his best to match his TV persona as well as possible, smiling his signature smile and being loud.

It was what they expected, so it was what he gave to them.

After a couple minutes of frankly boring conversation, the racer caught sight of the yellow bot again, accidentally meeting his optics.

Breakdown's spark suddenly felt heavier in his chest, and he heard it beating fast and loud, screaming into his audio receptors.

He felt his smile shift a little as he felt warmth creep onto his faceplate, which he excused to his fans for being a result of his high enjex intake.

Nevertheless, he pretended nothing had happened and quickly raised his arm to alert the bot that he wanted to order, before he went back to signing. Let's just say that the variety of items that fans thrust at him was…interesting.

One bot was so desperate for an autograph that he asked for his energon cube to be signed as he had nothing else on him. Another bot demanded he got a signature on every one of his thirteen prime figures that he just so happened to have at hand.

Breakdown was undeniably upset when the cute yellow bot wasn't the one who delivered him his drink.

Oh…did I freak him out? Maybe I shouldn't have come here at all…

His thoughts wandered before they screeched to a halt at the sound of a femmes voice.

He looked up to meet the owner of the voice, who was smirking at him.

“This is your drink, champ.”

Breakdown thanked her and cupped the flask with both servos. When she didn't budge, he quickly assured her that he would pay afterwards, and leave a tip. Still, the femme remained firmly rooted to the ground with that same smirk on her faceplate.

Finally, after a good couple of breems, she spoke.

“So, d'ya like my friend?”

Breakdown blinked dumbly as he tried to recall who she could've been talking about. The femme shoved her servos on her hips and shrugged her shoulders, waiting for a response.

“Uh…what?”

Her shoulders fell in disappointment, before she rolled her optics and tutted loudly.

“That bot who took your order - you know, small, yellow, single…”

Though she trailed off at the last part so Breakdown struggled to hear it, the suggestive look on her faceplate was enough to convey her intentions.

Breakdown huffed a laugh nervously.

“No, no I - uh, not like that -”

“Hup- up- up!”

Breakdown felt a digit press against his derma.

“Don't think you can fool me sonny. I've been watching you - don't think I don't know what you are.”

A fraud?

Breakdown's processor couldn't help but mumble in response.

Once again, he felt her digit come close to his faceplate, before she pressed - harder this time - on his forehelm. She inched closer to him, close enough to whisper something menacingly in his audio receptor.

“Homose-”

A loud yelp caused Breakdown to jump, as he saw the pink femme being dragged away by a taller red mech from one of the wheels on her back.

The bot muttered something to her about ‘assaulting customers’ before mouthing an apology on her behalf.

Breakdown tried to regain his composure, but it wasn't easy. The pink bot had scared him more than he liked to admit - and frankly, he felt as though when she spoke she could look right through him and see things even he couldn't about himself.

I mean, his consciousness reasoned, she wasn't wrong. You are gay. Maybe she really is psychic.

The racer’s servo shook a little as he brought his drink to his derma, and was eased back into conversation by fans who were slowly shuffling back towards him after they saw that the femme had left.

After finally mustering up the courage to approach the pink femme who had served him the drink, he paid and left a large tip, making himself as clear as he could who he wanted it to be given to.

“If you can, give this to your friend - the yellow bot.”

The femme only hummed solemnly in response - Breakdown could only assume that the red mech he had seen dragging her away earlier had given her a talking to.

For once in his life, Breakdown felt an odd sense of happiness - but not the kind he was familiar with. This happiness was different. It wasn't the same kind as when he won a race, or made a breakthrough in his training - it wasn't overwhelming. Instead, it resembled a kind of warm, fuzzy feeling in his spark.

It felt nice.

Chapter Text

Breakdown didn't really like quiet spaces. Especially when they were big and empty—they made him feel awkward and out of place. Still, when he strolled past Maccadam's while it was still early in the solar cycle, he seemed to walk into the bar almost by instinct.

Maybe he was thirsty? Or needed an energon refill? Or maybe a certain yellow bot had caught his optic…

Breakdown froze as he realised where he pedes had taken him, and internally groaned.

Urgh. Well, too late to back out now.

He knocked twice on the wooden table closest to him, flinching when the sound it made was sharper than he had intended.

The yellow bot swivelled around, broom clutched in his servos like a weapon. Thankfully, his optics crinkled and he smiled, causing Breakdown to let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding.

“Hi there!”

The bot's doorwings twitched, and Breakdown had to physically suppress himself from saying “awwww”. Instead, he croaked out a pathetic:

“Uh - hi. Are you guys open right now?”

He cringed at the way his voice sounded.

“Uh…”

The yellow bot turned his helm towards his broom which he had propped up against the wall after acknowledging Breakdown's entrance.

Breakdown swallowed the frog that was in his throat before backing away, prepared to apologise for wasting his time.

You're not welcome here, idiot. You never were. Get out and leave this bot alone in peace—

“Wait! Hold on. We are closed but I can always make you a drink. I'm basically done with everything I needed to do anyways. Here, have a seat.”

The yellow bot bounced over to the other side of the bar to prepare a drink and patted a stool as a motion for Breakdown to sit down.

The taller mech sheepishly maneuvered his way between tables to sit down, feeling a little less like an intruder thanks to the bartender's hospitality.

It only took a couple of breems to prepare the drink, and Breakdown's optics widened in awe at how the bot opposite him worked. He was efficient, but also enjoyed the process— every now and then Breakdown even saw his hip plates sway a little with the music.

The bartender let out a satisfied ‘humph' as he put the drink down on the table. Suddenly, Breakdown became hyper aware of the fact that he must seem at least a little rude for barging in, and quickly tried to strike up conversation; partially as an apology, and partially to make himself feel less guilty.

“So, do you own this place? I've seen you around a lot more than all the other staff.”

The bot across from him quickly shook and then tilted his helm.

“Oh, no, actually it's a lot simpler than that. Maccadam owns this bar but he spends most of his time either writing out menus or coming up with new drink ideas. Or just…being grumpy.”

Breakdown chuckled a bit at that last part. Though he had never met Maccadam, he had heard of his infamous grouchy temper from old friends. What he didn't know was that the Maccadam they had mentioned was actually the owner of the bar with the same name…

Breakdown mentally slapped himself at his inability to put two and two together.

Suddenly, the yellow bot seemed to have something bothering him on his faceplate, as one of his servos flew over to scratch something. After a few nanokliks, the bot cleared his throat and let his servo fall.

“So, how about you? Do you work anywhere?”

Breakdown panicked a little. Should he tell his new friend who he was and what he did? Or would that just completely alter the way he saw him and make their friendship take a turn for the worst?

Still, he kept his composure and shrugged instead.

“No, not at the moment I'm mostly just roaming around.”

To his surprise, the yellow bot showed genuine interest.

“Oh, cool! What places have you been?”

“I was recently at the race in Polyhex. I went there in the hopes of meeting some bots I might be able to work with if an opportunity pops up.”

Tread carefully Breakdown, his processor warned.

“Oh? Are they racers?”

“Yup.”

The bartender's optics widened.

“Hold on—are you, like, a famous racer or something? Should I be bowing right now?”

Breakdown laughed nervously, but tried his best to mask it with false confidence.

“No, no need for bowing. I do race but not super professionally. Not yet, anyway, but that sure is my goal for the future. Who knows, maybe I'll even make it into the Stunticons.”

Welp, there goes any hope of secrecy.

Breakdown quickly hushed his processor’s sarcastic rambling to give his friend his full attention, who thankfully seemed to know a little about his…fixation as well.

“Weren't they looking for someone to be the right pede of their combiner ‘Menasor’ or something?”

Breakdown's shoulder plates sagged a little.

“I mean, when you put it like that it sounds a little underwhelming, but yeah. They do need one more member. Oh—sorry, I forgot to ask: did my tip find its way to you? I could tell I made you uncomfortable and wanted to apologise somehow.”

The yellow bot's faceplate was painted with guilt - though Breakdown wasn't sure why.

“Oh—yeah, Arcee gave it to me. She's the pink femme who served you your drink.”

The taller mech couldn't help but shudder as he took another sip of his drink. This ‘Arcee’ had haunted his every move since his first time at the bar.

A few breems passed until the yellow bot warned Breakdown that he was going to open the bar, but Breakdown didn't mind. He was prepared to deal with rowdy fans. Well…he thought he was.

He couldn't help but be amazed at how he almost immediately had voices surrounding his audio receptors and items being shoved in his faceplate to sign. He was willing to bet shanix (not that that was unusual) that some of the bots that were swept into the commotion were only begging for an autograph because they saw others doing the same thing.

Breakdown felt his cocky mask come closer to the breaking point as requests got wilder.

Let's just say he was keen to get home that day.

Chapter Text

Bumblebee was glad to see that his friend found the time to come to Maccadam's more often. He knew that as a racer, the mech probably had much more important things he could've been doing than spending time with him. He was grateful that he had been considered a priority.

Solar cycles passed as the two grew closer, and Bumblebee learned more about racing as he grew more confident to ask questions.

He had always found it interesting, but for the bot it had seemed like an unachievable dream to even consider becoming involved with a sport that had status royalty competing: Motormaster, Wildrider, Dead End.

They seemed so much higher up, like gods, that Bumblebee had barely attempted to reach out and pursue what he wanted.

The racer had picked up on this, and encouraged his yellow friend as much as he could. He gave him a few of the locations of where he used to practise with his friends and would talk for groons on end about what tactics worked best and why.

Bumblebee felt flattered by the attention he was being given by the mech, and offered that they race together sometime next decacyle. The other mech was clearly delighted with the proposal, and the two shook hands, both of them beaming.

//

Customers had begun to calm down over time, as the mech (everyone but his friend knew as Breakdown) became a bar regular: fans no longer pressed themselves right up against his table, far less autographs were handed out, and even Arcee had apologised (not fully willingly of course) to him for her behaviour, giving him more space.

The point is, for a long while everything seemed to be going great. Not only did Breakdown feel more welcome, but he was also more than pleased with the way his friend's training had been coming along. The yellow bot's personal best had improved enormously, and wasn't too far off from Breakdown's own.

But, even with his encouragement, tbe yellow bot refused to race professionally.

“I don't know, I'd rather focus on improving than comparing myself to bots who have been training much longer than I have. I'm worried it'll just make my ego and ambition plummet.”

Breakdown understood. Well—sort of. He could relate to the pain of comparison, but not much else. His ambition was fueled by chance, by hopes and dreams that he prioritised above all else.

So, as a compromise, he countered with:

“I get where you're coming from, but you have some serious potential. Especially since you've improved so much over such a short amount of time. Just—consider it. You don't have to start racing now, but it could be useful to look into tracks near you for the future.”

Breakdown didn't get much in response, only a thoughtful hum and single nod from the bot, who had his optics unfocused and trained elsewhere.

The conversations that followed were similar—excluding a couple of them that branched off randomly, leaving Breakdown with only the information that his friend's favourite animals were cyberdeer, his favourite band was (ironically) a rock band, and his favourite flowers were…unsurprisingly, anything yellow.

Breakdown pinched his nosebridge.

“I'm sorry, but remind me why you wouldn't want to at least try joining the Stunticons? You're practically as good as me now and would have a good shot at it if you tried. I'm sure you could!”

His yellow friend rolled his optics, but the smile on his faceplate betrayed what he was feeling.

“I could try…but I know how much you'd love to be part of the Stunticons. You deserve it more than I do. I guess, yeah, it would be cool to join them but I'm honestly happy as is. Racing with you is fun, and I don't want that to change just because of a shiny trophy.”

But, even as he said that, he doubted his own words.

Breakdown's brow furrowed. As he tapped the table.

Tak. Tak. Tak.

“What if we both put our names down for the same races? If there's one that catches your optic just let me know.”

And without waiting for an answer, Breakdown picked himself up onto his pedes and practically skipped home, unable to contain his excitement.

Breakdown was having a…crisis. He had never felt this way before. He had always gagged in disgust at just the idea of liking someone—until that yellow bartender had crashed into his life. Or, more the other way around.

With this bot though, Breakdown felt free of expectations—but that wasn't all. He would be lying if he said he didn't admire his friend— whether it was just admiration he was feeling was a different story.

Breakdown didn't know how to explain it, but whenever the yellow bot's optics lit up or door wings fluttered, he felt his spark somersault until he almost felt sick. Almost.

It was a kind of giddy excitement he could get drunk on…and he didn't even know his name.

Clearly it hadn't seemed like a necessity to Breakdown at any time, but when this random realisation crossed his processor, he was determined to set it right. If his anxiety didn't betray him, that is—which it had a high chance of doing.

After solar cycles of mental back and forth, of impatiently chewing on a decision, he finally managed to strike up conversation.

Be subtle, he sternly reminded himself.

Breakdown cleared his throat as soon as his friend had stopped describing to him how he should go about making a particular drink called ‘Magma Volcano’. Apparently it was the bar's bestseller for the longest time in its history, but not just because of its delicious taste.

The drink was renowned for its visual appeal too, the way the colours blended together to resemble flames…but Breakdown didn't catch any of this.

He was preoccupied with admiring the way his friend talked, how he carried himself, how his engine whirred when he was surprised. He had heard other bots complaining about how much he spoke, but Breakdown didn't mind. He was perfectly content with sitting at that same stool all solar cycle.

Maybe I could even ask him out—

Breakdown mentally smacked himself to stop his train of thought. He had decided long ago that his processor was not his friend.

Finally, he saw a gap in the conversation which he wormed himself into.

“You know…I realised I never caught your name.”

The yellow bot opposite him was crouched, reaching for drink ingredients - but brought himself to his full (but still adorably short) height at the sound of his friend's voice. He grinned brightly.

“It's Bumblebee.”

Chapter Text

Bumblebee was starting to worry. He had taken a day off from his job at the bar for a well deserved break, but when he had returned there was no sign of his friend. He spent his free time looking wistfully at the bar windows, hoping he would show up…but to no avail.

Breems passed, and those breems turned into groons, those groons into solar cycles, until the bot could hardly feel time passing anymore—until everything merged together in one, never-ending loop.

His processor felt sluggish and hollow. He wasn't alone: he still had Arcee, Hot Rod and the same bots who he had known from almost the first day he had been online…so why did he feel so empty?

Bumblebee would try to convince himself that the only reason he felt this way was because he was concerned for his friend—which he was, but what he was feeling was different…and unexplainable.

He had tried to get advice from the bots around him, but they never helped much. Nearly all of them gave him a half hearted ‘oh, I'm sure he'll turn up’, and the ones that didn't did even less.

Though, one day, Hot Rod caved into his friend's constant nagging and suggested an idea while rubbing his tired optics.

“I'm sure he's preparing for a race. Racers take lots of time to train, even for tracks that they've put their names down for decacycles in advance.”

Bumblebee had considered that as a possibility already, but hearing it come from someone else's processor was reassuring—even though he understood that Hot Rod had probably only spoken to shut him up.

Eventually, he had given up hope on his exhausting search for his friend and forced himself to be patient - though it was difficult.

He slowly but awkwardly attempted to slide himself back into his previous routine of taking orders, shaking up drinks and serving them on the same platters he had used for decacycles.

And for a while, it worked! Not as well as it used to, but not badly either. Customers would watch sadly as the once lively bot's servos shook while preparing a drink. Others joked that the two had ‘broken up’, but even they were sympathetic.

Arcee was worried for her friend as well, even if the way she showed it was…odd. It seemed as though she had doubled her amount of energy to make up for his loss of it, leaving their conversations along the lines of:

“Heyy Bee! So, you know how the Magma Volcano was our best seller for ages??!”

“Why are you yelling…?”

“Well, I was hoping we could bring that back! Maybe, you and I could come up with a different BUT similar drink we could say was inspired by it and then…tah dah! We profit! What do ya say?!”

“Arcee, you're still yelling.”

“ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO WHAT
I'M SAYING?”

Bumblebee winced. “Ow.”

The thing is, Arcee couldn't help it. She saw her friend was upset and reacted in the only way she knew how - by trying to actively go out of her way to fix his mood. If she could, she would've fixed the entire situation and shown the mech who had left her friend this way why she had the title of best friend and he didn't. But, because she had no clue where he was, she had to settle for less.

Maccadam wasn't sure how to cope with his employee's troubles either - but he still tried. He invited Bumblebee to his private section of the bar to watch the races he had recorded from the live TVs - but the yellow bot wasn't interested, except for the few times a white Pontiac flew across the screen.

Still, Maccadam was keen to find a way to cheer Bumblebee up, if at least a little, and was hit with the realisation that one of the biggest races on Cybertron had been livestreamed the day the yellow bot had off work. Unless he had a TV at home - which Maccadam highly doubted, since those things were expensive - he probably wouldn't have been able to watch it. The bar owner humphed in satisfaction and pride at his genius.

“Hey kid,” he called, leaning against the open door to his workspace.

“Why don't you come in here for a minute, there's a race I want to show you. It was on during your day off, so it'll be new.”

At that, Bumblebee's doorwings perked up a little. Not much, but it was still something.

“Sure.”

He made his way over to the room as Arcee and Hot Rod stood with their mouths agape.

Arcee stammered.

“Whuh- wh- what? So that's what you've been doing, watching TV with the boss? While we do all the hard work? Roddy and I aren't even allowed in your room, Macca! How come he gets to go…”

Her voice quickly went from incredulous to a jealous whine.

Her brother, however, had quickly accepted his friend's privilege.

“Come on, Cee, give him a break. He needs it.”

That last part was quiet, but just loud enough for Bumblebee to hear it and muster a small smile in thanks.

Maccadam closed the door behind them as they entered, Bee plopping himself down on the floor.

The bar owner squinted his optics disapprovingly.

“Sit down on a chair, kid. No need to give yourself aft pain for no reason.”

Bumblebee obliged, an embarrassed blue flush on his faceplate.

Maccadam groaned as he sat down next to him, stretching his legs, and snatched up the remote.

He fiddled for a while with the buttons—grumbling that Arcee usually helped him with ‘the techy stuff’. Finally, the screen flickered to life, before Maccadam tried to find the saved programmes. After a couple of breems of struggling, Bumblebee meekly volunteered to help.

You see, Bee isn't a shy bot—but he knew that Maccadam's temper was disturbingly short, and was treading as carefully as he could. He had heard bots compare having a conversation with him to walking through a field of landmines…and some of the stories people told of the mech made Bee shudder.

Eventually, Bumblebee managed to find the programme and pressed play. After a couple of excruciatingly long adverts that had the yellow bot's optics twitching in anticipation, the race finally started.

Bumblebee immediately felt a weight lift off his chest. Not only did the cars look pristine and perfectly maintained, but he also recognised a couple of the racers as previous Iacon 5000 champions. Not yet Stunticon level, but very close. Bumblebee's respect for the bots skyrocketed as a camera showed a bird's eye view of the racetrack.

It was massive.

Both bots watching gasped as a commentator described the length and width of the track, even having the confidence to nickname it ‘Iacon 2.0’. Each racer down below looked like a tiny speck of paint, which caused Maccadam to huff a short laugh.

“They look so stupid from this angle, when they're so small. And then they start racing and boom.”

Bumblebee nodded in agreement, optics still fixed on the screen.

The whole race was 60 laps, which…normally wouldn't be a large amount. Then again, almost nothing about this race they had seen so far was normal, and it hadn't even started yet.

Maccadam grumbled for Bumblebee to ‘skip past that idiot's yapping’ so that they could watch the race. He did as he was told, carefully fasting forward before replaying it just as the racers were lining up.

But, just as it looked as though everybot was ready to start, one last car rumbled towards the starting line. Bumblebee stifled a gasp as he recognised it. The colour scheme of white, blue and red, the confident roar of the engine. The Pontiac Firebird he had spotted so long ago was right there in front of him, on the screen—and this time, it wasn't just a nanoklik's glance that he got of the racer.

He stared and stared, his pede tapping against the floor as his excitement climbed:

Tak. Tak. Tak.

“Ready—GO!”

A gunshot echoed, and they were off.

Cars accelerated, pushing others out of the way. What Bumblebee quickly learned was that this wasn't a race; it was a battle. Sparks flew, tires skidded around turns, racers yelled and grunted in pain as their sides got dented and scratched.

Maccadam had a grimace on his face.

“You know, back in my day racing wasn't all this,” he gestured to the screen abstractly.

“Everyone played fairly and if you were the fastest, you won. Simple as that.”

Bumblebee hummed in response.

Though he was interested in the race itself, he spent most of his time watching it taking mental notes on racing techniques and tactics that worked (or didn't) for his own use. As Breakdown had once told him, “Learn using others’ mistakes.”

“Lap 48,” boomed a robotic voice.

Maccadam spoke again. He was clearly trying his best to hide his boredom.

“You know, this race has been pretty consistent. I'm sure we wouldn't miss anything major if we just skipped to the end to see who won—”

But just as the words left his derma, a piercing sound flooded their audio receptors.

“SCREEEEEEECHH”

At first, no one could comprehend what had happened—until Bumblebee covered his derma with his servos in horror.

He watched his white Pontiac get slammed off of the track by a metallic blue racer next to him—and the car went tumbling. It smashed into the concrete that held up the arena's seats on the left side, and then…

It went still.

// (injury description starts here)

For a breem, nothing happened. All the other racecars had stopped so that they wouldn't crash into the car that lay dented before them. The Pontiac stayed there, smoke pouring out of its engine with its wheels slashed and ruined. The whole arena held its breath.

Finally, excruciatingly slowly, the injured car transformed into—

Wait, what?

Bumblebee blinked quickly in disbelief. The racer—Breakdown—his friend, who was also Breakdown, was right there on the screen.

Suddenly, the yellow bot felt the sound of his spark beating get louder, until it pounded in his helm.

So that's why he hasn't shown up for so long, his processor mumbled solemnly.

Maccadam also seemed to catch on.

“Hold on, isn't that poor dented up mech your friend? The one who was coming to the bar super often a couple of solar cycles ago?”

Bumblebee didn't respond to correct the bar owner and say that it had been much longer than just a couple of solar cycles since he last saw his friend. He couldn't. He just stared at the screen with wide, glassy optics.

Maccadam looked down, dejected, as his optics dimmed in understanding.

“I'm sorry kid. I hope he's OK.”

Sirens sounded on screen as medics appeared to tend to his wounds–which were worse than Bumblebee first thought. His left leg was twisted at an unnatural angle and had energon dripping down it. His servos were scratched and so were his pedes and faceplate, his arms both smeared with energon stains and peppered with dents.

// (injury description ends here)

The blue bot who had sent him flying shuffled over to see if he could help. Bumblebee felt bad for him: he had obviously not meant to inflict this level of damage, and wanted to do all he could to help the racer that Bee now knew was his friend, Breakdown.

Bumblebee shakily reached for the TV remote, and turned it off. He turned as Maccadam's worried gaze met his.

“I'm sorry Bumblebee,” the older mech said again.

“Your friend seems like a good guy. Maybe tomorrow we can even try to go and visit him, once I find out where the medics are keeping him.

Bumblebee had barely moved. His breathing was quick and shallow. He didn't respond. He just gulped as he closed his optics and replayed the race in his processor.

All for a stupid shiny plate, his consciousness spat bitterly.

He stayed like that for the following three groons, and everybot knew better than to bother him.

Chapter Text

Malto Family Game Night was always packed with a flurry of different emotions.

This week, Thrash was yelling at Nightshade who was flaunting their twenty five properties in monopoly, Twitch and Jawbreaker were babbling away to Spitfire and Aftermath who shared a confused expression, and Hashtag was screaming with what she called ‘cute aggression’ while showing animal videos to the Malto kids.

Alex and Dot were both listening carefully as Bumblebee gave them a report on how the Terrans’ training was coming along - but they both had very different approaches towards the conversation.

“So far, their strength is collaboration. It's what has gotten them through all the stuff they've had to face so far - and while that's great and it's important to know your allies’ strengths, I think that it would do them some good to do some training that'll make each of the kids more well rounded.”

Alex nodded enthusiastically, clapping and humming in approval.

Dot, on the other hand, nodded curtly before she spoke.

“Alright, I trust your judgement Bumblebee. Just don't push them too hard…they've been through a lot recently, especially with the whole Mandroid situation. Ah, another thing,”

Dot closed her eyes briefly before smiling warmly at him.

“Don't forget to make time for yourself. Don't assume I've forgotten the night that you had a pretty severe loss of energon at the Bot Brawl.”

Bumblebee hunched his shoulder plates guiltily.

“Not that you should feel bad about it,” Dot clarified. “I just want to make sure you know your limits, and that you're always free to ask for a day off.”

Alex chuckled.

“Dottie and I both know how much of a handful the kids can be.”

Bumblebee thanked them gratefully, and the whole family began a round of twenty questions—Bumblebee's…least favourite game.

He had tried a couple of times before to make an excuse to skip it, but Alex never caught on. He would somehow always be armed with a list of reasons for him to stay.

Bumblebee braced himself.

“What's a conjunx?”

He blinked.

What?

Where had they learnt that…

The scout swallowed.

“Uh…well it's like the Cybertronian equivalent to a partner, I guess.”

The terrans blinked in unison, as Jawbreaker sounded out the word ‘equivalent’ to Aftermath.

Hashtag spoke up.

“Oh, I get it. A romantic partner. Like a boyfriend or something.”

Bumblebee was about to nod in agreement, until he realised…that everyone in the room was staring at him. And no one else looked as though they were going to ask another question, either.

So, instead, he checked to see if he had something on his faceplate, before feebly asking:

“Uh…what?”

The terrans smirked in unison, as Aftermath giggled. To be fair, it sounded more like grunting than giggling, like he knew a secret no one else did. Or maybe that was just the way he laughed—Bumblebee wasn't sure.

Dot pursed her lips, clearly trying to restrain the small smile that was creeping onto her face.

“So, Breakdown, huh?”

Aftermath quickly joined in.

“Da- uhh, Breakdown told me that he wishes he had you as a conjunx.”

Somehow, the Terrans’ smirks became even more mischievous than before, and Dot and Alex were trying their best—and failing —to hide their smiles.

Bumblebee looked down as his blush spread on his faceplate, burned bright and stayed there.

A pathetic sound warbled from his throat.

“Oh.”

The room filled with snickering as the yellow bot tried his best to hide his faceplate without bringing too much attention to himself.

After what felt like hours of humiliation, Alex and Dot finally told the kids to start getting ready to go bed. Not that that was what bothered Bumblebee: he and Breakdown hadn't exactly left each other on the best note, but the two had been close for a while - and he would've been lying if he said he wasn't a little disappointed that he got this news through a child.

Still, that wasn't even the worst part! Now all of the terrans and the parents of the children he taught also knew about his and Breakdown's…complicated history - or at least had their suspicions.

The way Aftermath looked at him made Bumblebee felt like he was being stared right through. However, the scout couldn't say the same for himself, and could never have guessed what the Terrans were planning down in the dugout.

Twitch, of course, was the first to speak.

“Everybody, I introduce you to our plan to bring Bee and Breakdown together to live happily ever after. All in favour say I.”

A chorus of ‘I’’s echoed around the room.

Twitch, satisfied, continued.

“OK, so this is what I'm thinking: Aftermath, you will bring Breakdown to this specific point in the woods. I asked Mom, and she said it was super romantic.”

The other terrans bobbed their helms along as Twitch shared her ideas, pointing at a hand drawn map.

“Then, we'll bring Bee to the same spot and then they'll have a super duper magical date night!”

The red drone bowed as bots clapped.

“Thank you, thank you, it's genius, I know.”

Nightshade looked as though they were about to object, until Aftermath spoke instead.

“Wait, how will I bring Breakdown over here without it being supsi- wait, that's not the right word…sussipi- urgh hold on-”

“Suspicious?”

Nightshade gently offered assistance and Aftermath snapped his digits.

“Yeah!”

Twitch thought for a moment, before a lightbulb went off in her processor.

“Aha! I’ve got it! Breakdown likes racing right? So why don't you pretend that you're taking him to a racetrack you found! Or - or maybe that's too obvious…don't say racetrack, just say that you think you found a good place for racing. Yeah, that's better.”

Aftermath nodded.

The terrans schemed for hours, completely unaware that the two bots they were talking about had…similar plans.

“Reminds me of Iacon a little,” Breakdown whispered breathlessly as he stared out at Philadelphia city.

Bumblebee leaned comfortably against his friend's chassis, legs dangling from over the tall building they were sitting on. Or - could he still call him just a friend? He wasn't sure…still, he played it safe.

“Yeah. The stars are pretty tonight. It's so much better here where you can see them.”

Bumblebee gazed upwards.

Breakdown hummed in agreement, before chuckling quietly.

“Remember Maccadam's?”

Bumblebee snorted incredulously, old memories flooding back.

“Uh, remember your horrifying injury? Hello? I think that's a little more important than me being a bartender.”

He heard a disbelieving whistle from next to him.

“Primus, you still remember that? I'd forgotten.”

Bumblebee gave him a look…but both he and Breakdown knew that he didn't really mean it.

The scout sighed as he settled himself closer to the other mech.

A comfortable silence passed between them - a silence that was later interrupted, causing the yellow bot to groan and shift his position.

“Sorry, sorry - but this just crossed my processor: we're gonna have to tell your family about us soon, before they find out.”

Bumblebee responded with a cheerful hum as Breakdown froze. His shoulder plates sagged defeatedly.

“They, uh - already know, don't they.”