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Bee wakes screaming from a nightmare.
Optimus tries to hold him, but he kicks and snarls, vocalizer catching on hiccuping static. Things only go downhill from that point on. Bee refuses to refuel, pushing his energon cube off the table edge and immediately shrinking away as if bracing for a blow. When Optimus just stands there, helpless and unsure, Bee’s whole face scrunches in upset and he yells, “I h-hate you!”
With this exclamation hanging in the air, Bee stares at Optimus, who stares at Bee, for a weighted klik. And then, seemingly apropos of nothing, Bee ducks under the table, retrieves the fallen energon cube, and scrambles back into his seat again. “U-Um… I eat it,” Bee mumbles, suddenly subdued. After a long stretch of silence, it occurs to Optimus that Bee is waiting for him to reply.
“Ah… yes. I’m relieved you’ve found your appetite.” Thankfully, Bee doesn’t seem bothered by the somewhat lame response. He sips at the energon cube and Optimus vents in relief.
That relief does not last for long.
“He’s seriously glitched, Prime,” Sideswipe says. Not for the first time, Optimus berates himself for thinking the twins would make passable sparkling-sitters. Then again, there hadn’t been a better option on this particular cycle.
For this particular mission, every available Autobot had been roped into visiting the colonies to provide medical aid and energon. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe are still young, though nowhere near as young as Bee, and therefore were assigned to stay behind for the duration. Since they’re just old enough to be considered ‘adult’ mech, Optimus reluctantly left Bee in their care. He hoped, since the trip to the colonies only takes about a joor at most, they would be able to handle it. And technically they had handled it, at least to the extent that Bee is unharmed.
Unfortunately the same cannot be said for Optimus’ habsuite, which is covered from ceiling to floor in paint splatters of various colors. Sunstreaker, at least, has the grace to look somewhat apologetic about the mess, but Sideswipe doesn’t seem bothered at all. In fact, he’s positively cheerful as he hands over an equally paint-covered Bee and says, “That was fun! But like I said, your sparkling is definitely glitched. Anyways, lets do this again sometime!”
Optimus spends a little too long taking calming in-and-out vents after the twins are gone. That exercise is one he repeats several times over the next joor, since Bee makes it very clear how unhappy he is about getting a solvent bath by loudly shrieking for the duration.
Optimus reminds himself that night, after tucking Bee into his berth for recharge, that not every solar cycle is like this. It’s just difficult to remember all of the wonderful cycles of the last half-vorn when bad ones do come around (and when several of them string together in an endless line). Much of Bee’s behavior is due to early trauma, according to Ratchet, but Optimus wonders if growing up here, under the umbrella of direct war effort, isn’t just making those issues worse. Then again, would the colonies be any better? Optimus might’ve thought so once, but lately it seems less plausible that any mech on Cybertron will be able to live a life of true neutrality and separation from the war.
All that said, there is no point in speculating about a hypothetical Bee untouched by war and trauma because he’s already been touched and affected by it. Optimus will just have to keep doing his best (and hopefully, Primus willing, his best will be good enough).
Jazz has always liked the Terran saying ‘jack of all trades, master of none’. It fits his role in Optimus’ inner circle better than any other descriptive Cybertronian equivalent. There aren’t many jobs he hasn’t done over the vorns — including ‘sparkling-sitter’, though it’s been a long, long time since he’s tried that particular hat on. Even so, it amuses him somewhat that Optimus doesn’t consider him for the roster of caregivers until Jazz is the only option left. Most likely, the Prime waited because, even if Optimus doesn’t want to admit it, the thought of Jazz (the most experienced assassin and intelligence officer in the Autobot forces) watching over his precious sparkling is not exactly ‘reassuring’ in the traditional sense.
And yet, here Optimus is, standing at the threshold of Jazz’s habsuite and cradling a recharging Bee against his chassis.
“Jazz,” Optimus says. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Nah, ‘course not.” Actually, Jazz has been expecting Optimus all day. Last night, over several rounds of high grade, Ironhide expressed his extreme reluctance to ever watch Optimus’ sparkling again. More specifically, he’d said he would ‘rather go head to head with Megatron himself than spend another joor wrangling Prime’s crazy bitlet’. Since Jazz has it on good authority that Ironhide was one of the last bots left in the inner circle tasked with watching Bee, there is quite literally no one else Optimus can reach out to besides Jazz for sparkling-duty. So when a missive came through earlier this morning on the private channel requesting Optimus travel to the nearby colonies as soon as possible, Jazz made sure to clear his schedule for this very possibility.
“I wondered if… since you won’t be joining the colony mission, that is… I thought perhaps…”
Jazz takes pity on him and interrupts, “I’d be happy to watch the bitlet for ya’, Prime.”
As expected, Bee is not at all impressed by Optimus’ decision to leave him behind. When the door to Jazz’s suite slides shut, Bee slumps to the floor with an audial-splitting shriek. He kicks his tiny pedes, servos scrunching into fists and coolant quickly making a mess of his faceplates and protoform. Jazz crouches next to him and waits until Bee’s screeching and kicking die down to pitiful sniffles.
“Lots’a big feelings, eh, kiddo?”
Bee hiccups, then scrubs one pudgy servo over his leaking optics. “W-Want Op’us.”
“I know, bud. But Prime - uh, Optimus - has a lot of work he’s gotta do today.”
“Work?”
“Yeah, people need his help. But he’ll be back before ya’ know it.”
The bitlet’s brow ridges crease and he spends a long klik with an expression somewhere between constipation and consideration. Finally, he nods, and reaches his servos in the air towards Jazz. “Up, p’ease.”
Jazz snorts in amusement. “Alright, I guess I can’t turn ya’ down when you’re askin’ so politely.”
Bee doesn’t seem to catch onto the sarcasm, or maybe just doesn’t care since he’s getting what wants regardless. He snuggles up against Jazz’s chassis, chirping contentedly.
Truth be told, Jazz isn’t sure what to think of the kid. He wasn’t exactly happy when Prime told everyone he’d be keeping Bee. In fact, Jazz had argued vehemently against the idea. He made a lot of points about how unsuited their lifestyle is, how dangerous it can be, and etcetera. And so he hadn’t understood it when Prime insisted on keeping the sparkling (and had privately come to the conclusion that even Primes were not immune to making reckless, stupid decisions every now and then).
Jazz hasn’t changed his mind. It’s just harder to be angry about it with his caretaker protocols onlining in response to the sparkling’s watery optics and quiet hiccups.
A flew kliks later, those caretaker protocols are also the only reason he doesn’t fling the little scraplet across the room when he feels tiny (but sharp) denta lodge themselves in his chassis. Jazz tries tugging Bee away, which doesn’t work (and also cranks up the pain by about a hundred percent). Still, he definitely isn’t about to give the little pitspawn the satisfaction of a reaction.
Honestly he should have been prepared for this, because he’s pretty sure Ironhide mentioned a similar thing happening when he'd been on sparkling-duty. Jazz had zoned out by that point, so he can’t remember how Ironhide managed it. Knowing Ironhide, ‘managing it’ probably involved a lot of shouting, which is (at least in Jazz’s experience) the least effective method of dealing with upset sparklings.
Jazz decides defaulting to the basics can’t hurt, so he goes for the tried and true ‘distraction’ method.
“Hey, kid… you ever pranked anyone before?”
For a moment Jazz isn’t sure the kid will take the bait. And then Bee’s fangs detach from his chassis (thank Prime) and the sparkling wrinkles his olfactory in confusion. “…P’ank?”
Jazz grins. “Oh boy, are you in for a treat.”
A quick check into the base’s security cameras confirms Ironhide is still passed out in the break room from his over-consumption of high-grade the night before, which means Jazz doesn’t even have to be sneaky when he gives Bee a lesson on hacking into someone’s habsuite.
“Now, don’t go usin’ this for anythin’ crazy, a’right?” Jazz says. The lock clicks and the door to Ironhide’s suite slides open. “Only for emergencies and… well, pranks.”
“Yeah! P’anks!” Bee repeats, clapping his servos together.
“Supervised pranks,” Jazz corrects.
He’s decided to keep it simple for Bee’s sake: flipping every piece of furniture in Ironhide’s suite upside down. It would usually take very little time, but he lets it drag out for a bit in hopes of keeping Bee in a good mood for as long as possible. He does most of the heavy lifting, of course, but tasks Bee with re-positioning any nick-knacks or other personal items laying around on top of the flipped furniture. In the end, it has the exact effect Jazz hoped for — that is, he gets to witness Bee giggling at the finished result and in much higher spirits than earlier.
“This is awesome, bud! We make a pretty great team, eh?”
“G’eat team!” Bee says, rocking back and forth on his tiny pedes with happy energy. “Funny!”
“Oh it’ll be funny alright,” Jazz says. “For us.”
He makes sure to place a small recording device in the perfect position to capture Ironhide’s reaction whenever he walks in later. As Jazz finishes resetting the lock to the door outside, Bee says, “Up, p’ease?”
Jazz’s raised optic ridge is hidden behind his visor, but he’s sure his tone conveys his skepticism well enough when he replies, “Oh? I dunno, bitlet… not really in the mood to be used as a chew toy again.”
“W-Won’t bite!” Bee opens and closes his servos in the air pleadingly.
“Promise?”
Bee nods, making little sparkling chirps that pull at Jazz’s caretaker protocols. With a sigh, he scoops Bee up. Instead of resorting to violence again, Bee just flops against Jazz’s chassis with a happy trill and closes his optics. By the time they’re back in Jazz’s suite, he’s completely in recharge, one servo resting over Jazz’s spark chamber while he sucks on the thumb-digit of the other.
“Geez. You’re kinda cute when you’re not bein’ a little monster, huh?” Jazz sits down on the couch, careful not to jostle Bee. The ceiling lights dim to a warm glow seemingly of their own accord, and Jazz huffs a quiet laugh. Closing his eyes, he activates the private comm channel that’s always pinned at the top of his processor’s list of contacts. <Seriously, Prowler? How long have you been watching?>
Prowl’s response comes through immediately. <Since Prime informed me this morning he was going to ask for your assistance. There was a 97.4% chance the sparkling would experience distress due to separation anxiety>
<Aww, so what, you didn’t think I could handle it?> Jazz makes sure to add a ‘pouting’ emphasis to the tonal glyphs sent back through the communication line.
<I had no doubts in your caretaking abilities> There’s a lengthy pause, and then, <However, my tacnet calculations suggested an 84% chance that your solution to the sparkling’s distress would be… disruptive>
Jazz sends over the equivalent of a dramatic gasp. <Why, Prowler, you’re gonna hurt my feelings, talkin’ like that! I would never dream of causin’ trouble. Bee and I just did a little re-decoratin’ for old Ironhide outta the goodness of our sparks>
<Interesting perspective> Prowl’s tonal glyphs through the line are, as always, devoid of emotion — though Jazz likes to think he detects some amusement. <The likelihood of Ironhide expressing gratitude in regards to your ‘good deed’ is 0.05%. Regardless, my purpose in controlling your habsuite lights was to assist in keeping the sparkling in recharge. It is best he remain so, as Prime is returning and has requested a meeting with all high-ranking Autobot personnel. Therefore, your presence will be required. Sideswipe has agreed to take over care of the sparkling in your absence>
<Prime is on his way back already?> Jazz frowns. The mission should have taken all day, not scarcely a couple of joors.
<There was a Decepticon attack on the colony> A somber note enters Prime’s line, and Jazz’s mood drops into seriousness.
<Casualties?>
<Most of their population was destroyed when Prime and the others arrived. The few that survived were gravely injured and… did not last long>
<Frag> Jazz sighs. <Well, thanks for the heads-up. I’ll meet you at the command center as soon as Sideswipe gets here>
Prowl ends the call and Jazz spends a while staring down at the bitlet in his lap.
He can’t remember the last time he was able to rest as deeply as Bee is now. So much of Jazz’s life has become this unending fight, this war, that any memories of the time ‘before’ seem hazy, like a corrupted holo-image. Every now and then Prowl will let him crash in his quarters and, on the best cycles, he’ll join Jazz in recharge. And even then, it’s never perfect, never what Jazz really needs, which is peace in his processor and in his spark; something he’s sure he’ll never have again.
Even as young as he is, Bee has already lost so much — but for now, he’s still able to trust, still able to recharge under the comfortable promise of safety and security.
Jazz wonders how long it’ll be before that changes.