Chapter Text
Bumblebee is the Autobot scout and stealth operative, while Hook was an arrogant Decepticon, a constructicon, an elite surgical engineer. When both Autobot and Decepticons alike are trapped among the rubble surface that is earth, they meet, not with their frames but with their optics. They meet not in person but with a clash of gazes, their HUDs on alert but their spark in place.
[date: xx/xx/20xx planet: earth - battlefield]
Smoke chokes the air. Lasers marred the surface of the earth. Scarring it gingerly for the dirt does not show stone. A flash of yellow. Nimble but ever present as it streaks and bleeds into the feed of each withering optic. It’s a bot, an Autobot. A mech to be more precise. Bumblebee. He ducks beneath a falling metal structural beam. He rolls, coming up on one knee, blaster raised and at the ready. His skills honed despite his age.
Across the dented cratered surroundings that was the battlefield, there stands another, a mech. An ever present green that dyes his frame, toxic in the way it gleams and dulls, silver, clinical. Hook. He lowers a wielding torch, grasping it in his servos as if second nature. Stepping away from a smoking tank.
Megatron; whose massive, smoking tank tracts grind into the dirt as he prepares to shift forms. Continuing to fight amongst his fellows. Barrelling away from sight.
For a fraction of a second, their optics lock. In the battlefield this action could cause grave consequences, endangering not only oneself but also one’s allies. But… they still gaze. The molten fire fades into nothing but mere static
Bumblebee’s bright blue visor, cracked, revealing even deeper blue shades, similar to crystal energon, he meets Hook’s cold red shining visor but beneath, his optics burn with the precise super-heated living metal of a furnace liquefied.
It isn’t a glare of hatred. It isn’t a spark of romance. It is a sudden, heavy stillness. Two pairs of pointed awareness pinning each other down amidst the chaos. A silent acknowledgement that, out of everyone on this battlefield, they are looking directly at each other.
Waiting.
A stray missile detonates between them, throwing up a wall of dust and blazed fire.
The line of sight shatters.
Hook turns sharply, firing at an oncoming threat. Bumblebee dives behind a structure, his internal cooling fans kicking into overdrive. He presses his back against the cold stone, his spark thumping a strange, foreign rhythm against his chassis, chest plates vibrating.
The moment is gone, but the ghost of it remains and lingers within his processor, cycling.