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Letting out a throaty hum, his neck cabling vibrated with the low timbre of his vocoder as Breakdown hooked his chin guard into the crook of Bee's neck. He felt his scout start to rouse, shifting slightly so as to leave the comfort of their berth—he held on tighter in result.
With a chuckle, he asked, "Going somewhere?"
"It's late." Bumblebee's optics onlined slowly, a flicker of lights before they solidified into the bright blue screens so different from his own. "We should've been up hmm… an hour ago."
Nuzzling his helm adoringly, Breakdown let him untangle the mess of their legs. Resting together with their clunky frames never worked out how one might expect or imagine through a rose tinted romantic lens. But they made it work, their parts and plates clinking together as they slotted together.
During the day, they pretended as though they were rivals—friends turned enemies, drawn apart by faction lines—and nothing more. But at night? The night belonged to them, secreting away moments of solace and intimacy.
Breakdown dreaded the dawn, knowing that of the two of them it was always Bumblebee who broke away fastest. Returning back to his Prime and those kids the Autobots saddled him with. If it were up to Breakdown, they'd sleep in until someone called for either of them. Hell, maybe not even then as Starscream could squawk all he liked in Breakdown's audio feed—he'd put their so-called leader on mute if it meant more time with Bumblebee.
"Come on, stay," voice husky, Breakdown smirked at Bee. The scout turned over, their helms knocking together and their facial sculpts ever so close. If he wasn't careful, a big, bad Decepticon might steal a kiss or two. "Optimus won't notice if you're late." Or gone at all…
"Breakdown," Bumblebee sighed. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Keeping you here with me," he leaned closer, "thought that was obvious, slowpoke."
"Excuse me?"
Breakdown pulled away, a frown marring his features. Bumblebee sounded affronted, almost repulsed by his words. Confusion echoed across his spark as his chest tightened–
And woke up to Bumblebee curling his lips, looking down at him as though he were nothing more than an irritating pebble caught in his undercarriage.
Except, as his computer caught up to his waking persona subroutine, it wasn't his Bee standing hands akimbo. The childish, bulky curve to his frame and the unmarred facial sculpt echoed youth in a way that hadn't touched either of them in years. Bumblebee hadn't worn that alt mode in decades, pushed to change himself over and over for a Prime who never even noticed with the metal shifted and stretched out to achieve an unnatural height all for the sake of orders.
Right. Right. He recalled now. Those singing blades, the yell of his designation, and the servo that pushed him out of the way…
His Bumblebee was dead, gone from history all for him. And in his place… he was left with this guy.
Huffing, Bumblebee kicked at Breakdown's shins urging him to get up. "I can't believe you were resting on the job. Did you even bother to search the hideout for Megatron before getting down on your lazy aft and kicking back?"
"Sure didn't," he grumbled, wishing more than anything that he could have chased after the wisps of fond memories of his scout.
If only Breakdown had known that those quiet mornings and solitary nights filled with nothing put passion wouldn't have lasted forever, he would have savored them—held on tighter, taken more, greedily so. Every klik of every cycle, from sunrise to sunset, Breakdown would have indulged in Bumblebee at every possible moment and now he couldn't.
That was the worst part, knowing that he had wasted his chance and that he would never get it back.
Bumblebee stared at him for a moment before throwing up his servos and exclaiming, "This is ridiculous! Why did you even bother to volunteer for this mission if you don't actually care about it?"
"It's like I told you, Bee," pushing against the ground, Breakdown rose from his rest against the random tree perched outside an abandoned Decepticon base from the war. "I'm sticking around whether you like it or not, you need me here to guide you."
He reached out and placed a servo against his pauldron—a friendly gesture and nothing more, even if his digits caressed and lingered longer than they should have. Bumblebee swatted it off, turning on his wheeled heel with a huff.
"Whatever you say, Con," he threw a glare over his shoulder. "Well, if you're going to 'guide' me how about you take the lead going through this hideout? I–" With an uncertain furrow of his brow ridge, he admitted, "I'm not exactly sure if the codes that I remember…" Have any relevance in this age.
His servo stung, the touch—aggressive as it was—burned even as Breakdown dropped it down to his side from the phantom touch of his scout's lips against his knuckles. "Alright, alright, don't get your wires in a twist."
More often than not, Breakdown wished that he had died that day. The agony of retaining all these memories, unable to fondly look back at them without a spark splintering pain lacing across his chassis was crueler than any crime committed during the war.
Walking past Bumblebee, who dutifully followed in his shadow. Breakdown found no joy or amusement at how easily he assumed the former role of his scout, dread building within his laser core at the silent steps. Were this his Bumblebee, he would have jogged beside him—kept pace, interlocked their digits together with a self-satisfied grin. Scouting the hideout would have been a game, playful and an excuse to get away from the kids, the Autobots and the Decepticons both as they pretended they were back on Cybertron before the world grew complicated and messy.
Instead, Bumblebee laced his arms behind his back, helm held up high as he not so subtly watched Breakdown's movements with the intent of a hound ready to strike. He wanted Breakdown to slip up, to turn coat, so that he could prove his old-founded bias about his badge.
Breakdown wouldn't give it to him. Because he owed his scout that much.