Conceptions - 5
Title: Conceptions of the Self - Home - Mei's Fanfic Master List
FIC Summary: [2007, AU] Sore throats, nightmares, and the differences between organics and Cybertronians - something is terribly wrong with Sam. To live is to evolve, and shape alone is not enough; think of it as a mutual learning experience. (Bot!Sam, PTSD, Mech/mech)
1, 2, 2.b, 3, 4, 4.b, 5, 6, 7, 7.b
Ratchet has an intermission with plot-important details! PLZ TO CLICK "4.b" ABOVE
I lost sleep over this chapter. Both to write it, and then angsting over it, compared to chapter four (which will probably be my most awesome chapter until Sam becomes a mech.)
Chapter Five: The Calm ...
--
Most people would have been fairly distracted or even disturbed by a dream involving walking down the street with a highly desired and warred over ancient alien artifact of immense and unbelievable power, while being shadowed by an unseen mechanical alien, and walking forever down a street that only got closer in the barest of increments.
After a month of suffering through nearly twelve hours of horrific nightmares every night, Sam was not everyone. He was actually fairly thrilled to have woken up, cast the dream out of his head without the barest care, and proceeded to display very uncharacteristic morning cheer. As this was the first restful night of sleep that he had gotten since he had bout the yellow Camaro, he was so mentally rested that he exited the house with a bounce and a smile on his face.
Needless to say, Bumblebee had been somewhat unsettled.
Taking note of said unease, Sam figured (in his suddenly all-encompassing benign good humor) that he might as well explain. "Well, you know, since I drove you off that lot, I haven't had one good night's sleep. At first I thought someone was stealing you, then I couldn't sleep at all having seen my car turn into a robot and then getting arrested ... so on and so forth. I just had a ... really nice dream last night." He stroked the steering wheel and cast the speedometer speculative looks. "Can I drive?" Of its own accord, his other hand went to the gearshift and his fingers curled over it eagerly.
Obligingly, the engine turned over, and the tuner on the radio playfully slid all the way across even as a song was already playing: "When I'm a-walkin', I strut my stuff, and I'm so strung out! I'm high as a kite -- I just might stop to check you out!"
Pretty sure that Bumblebee wasn't kicking him out, but not as sure that the Autobot wasn't accusing him of being drugged out of his mind and not particularly caring, he grinned and slid into reverse. Sam started out fully intending to go to school -- he even chose to go the same way that Bumblebee took him, but then when he was going through a stop light (legally, on green, when it was his turn, of course), he accidentally pressed a little hard on the gas pedal. The engine thrummed with power even as he jerked his foot back like he thought he was setting it in a steel bar trap, and he stared down at the dash board.
That was when Sam first began to understand the universal male desire for a really powerful car. And ... well, he was pretty sure that they didn't come more powerful than an alien engine. And ... wow. He bit his lower lip.
"Sam," Bumblebee cut in, "I think that would probably be a bad idea --"
"Shush," he interrupted gently, looking over Bumblebee's interior with new eyes. "I'm driving."
"Sam?"
Mindful of the fact that this was a living organism, and one he was terribly fond of to begin with, Sam didn't do anything so crass as to 'put the pedal to the metal'. As a matter of fact, he was as gentle but firm as he had been when dealing with Mojo when he was just a pup. Grinning, heart pumping, he broke away from the normal going-to-school pattern and got them on a road that would accept a higher rate of speed, coaxing Bumblebee's engine to purr. He was just really getting into it when control was taken away and Bumblebee stopped responding to the wheel or the pedals.
Sam indignantly folded his arms as they coasted to a stop on the shoulder, glowering at the dashboard.
"If you persist," Bumblebee said dryly, "You'll be late for school."
"Forget school," he said, flopping back against the seat. "Com'n, Bee, I'm in too good of a mood to sit around and waste it."
"Unless your good mood is due to an illness -- which it isn't, I'm sure -- you should go to school."
"What are you, my mother?"
"Hardly. But you'll worry your friends and your parents will be upset. Which would cause more drama than you really want to deal with, yes?"
"W-well, screw you and your damn logic," he said petulantly. "Fine, take me to school, whatever."
Bumblebee's engine hummed thoughtfully even as he made the necessary adjustments to their course. "You aren't angry at me," he said confidently.
Sam gave the steering wheel an incredulous, acidic look. "You'd better be glad I'm in too good of a mood to get angry."
In a wondering way, Bumblebee added, "You're never angry at me."
"We can change that," Sam said, arching his eyebrows. "Right here, right now. Just keep -- doing what you're doing here. That'll do it really quick."
He had the distinct impression the car was laughing at him, even though Bee turned on the radio to one song and kept it there.
Though his good mood was slightly diminished by having to attend school, it was still such a large improvement over his recent attitude that Mikaela had been worried that he was sick until Miles assured her that it was much more 'Sam-like' behavior. Then everyone was unanimously pleased after Sam and Bumblebee's little talk, though only two people knew what the source of it might have been.
But then, after school, instead of taking Sam to the park, Bumblebee took him right back to the spot that he had stolen control back and idled on the side of the road. "I've spent the time during which you were in school locating ideal roads where there will be little interference from your law enforcers," Bumblebee informed him with a suspicious tone ... it sounded rather pleased.
Sam was grinning like a moron, his good mood firmly back in place. "Do Autobots like driving fast?" he asked.
His engine hummed for a moment, then he said, "Not alone -- well, some would, but most of us would find it more exciting to race with at least one other. Like a game of tag, only no one is 'it'."
Taking that in, he felt that strange warm sensation come back, soothing the aches from the tense muscles he'd only eased today. Sam apparently counted as 'at least one other', even if he was inside Bumblebee and human and therefore couldn't play Giant Alien Robot 'tag'. A sense of giddiness settled into his bones, making his heart flutter and his stomach become unsettled. He was going to go driving with a kick ass robot! An entirely different set of muscles tightened in his frame, which was a relief. He didn't think he could enjoy high speeds with his back in agony.
Taking his cue, he wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel and gripped the gearshift with a firm hand. "Then I'm driving," he said, maybe smiling and maybe baring his teeth.
The engine rumbled encouragingly, and he laughed a little giddily as he took control of several tons of alien robot. Just as he had previously, he was mindful that he was steering a living entity that was a friend of his, so he kept his moves smooth and none-too-rough, though he didn't let it discourage him from trying to test out just what giant alien robots could do on asphalt.
"Hey, Bee," Sam said, mind like quicksilver the faster his heart beat, "Do you know anything about Mikaela's deal with Ratchet?"
"Ratchet has agreed to 'show her the ropes'," Bumblebee replied. "Many of the things that need to be done to fix Cybertronian bodies is much too large and heavy for humans to do, however. It is still essential for her to learn everything."
"Really? How's that working out with her in school?"
"Sam," Bumblebee rumbled with amusement, "We surf the Internet from everywhere and anywhere. It isn't that hard."
"Ah -- right," he said, blushing slightly. "Sorry, I just thought some hands-on experience would be good."
" ... it may come to that. Sam, you are not allowed to volunteer me."
"What!" he squawked. "Like I would!" --laying there restrained and sososo panicked he went immediately into battle mode -- Sam swallowed hard and gripped the wheel for reassurance.
"I have also taken the opportunity to contact your parents and inform them that you won't be back at the usual hour."
Sam laughed again. "And how did they take that?"
"I believe I sent thirty two minutes reassuring them that as your guardian, I wouldn't let you come to harm." Bumblebee seemed rather baffled that Sam's parents hadn't just believed him the first time.
"I guess they kind of see you like ... I don't know, an older graduated friend," Sam said, puzzled. "They see the Camaro and automatically assign it to some twenty-three year old guy with no job who just wants to have fun."
Bumblebee considered that for a moment. "I don't understand. What sources I can find on such subjects usually implies that this 'older friend' is either using the younger or has bad intentions."
"Exactly," Sam said. "Now do you see why they're all worked up? I guess if you hadn't chosen such an awesome car as an alt mode, they might not think that."
"Human culture is exasperating and contradictory."
"I know, Bee. Trust me, I know."
--
He was walking down the street again, All Spark between his hands and nestled to his stomach. The night was dark and silent, alive, but the lights were off, the air was hot but moist. It was one of those prowling nights, when everyone who was still awake felt restless and wanted to go outside and take a walk. It was a night like that night he had turned to Mikaela and said: "Fifty years from now ..."
The Cybertronian was walking behind him, keeping pace. The All Spark was hot against his hands, but comfortable. It was hot like the showers he took that nearly scalded him, burning skin red until steam rose from his arms. It was a good heat -- comfortable, and familiar. He wanted to wrap it around him.
The hand pushed against his lower back, urging him on. It was a surprisingly small hand, and he had the sense that the Autobot (it had to be an Autobot, because a Decepticon would have killed him and stolen the All Spark) was equally small. "Not yet," the Autobot bid him, and his voice sounded like --
But why his voice sounded familiar was not answered, because then he woke up.
--
"So, what's up," Sam inquired, flicking his hand to shake off the condensation from his soda. "What couldn't you say in front of Bee?"
"It's not that," Mikaela said as she relaxed against the picnic table, picking through the fries. "I just wanted this talk between the two of us."
Unconsciously, he glanced about. It wasn't exactly between the two of them -- they'd gone to the Mall, and ended up in the food court ... because Sam's improvement in temper didn't come coupled with any less of an appetite. Sure, no one was going to be paying attention to them, but it wasn't exactly where he'd chose to have some mysterious discussion. "Yeah, okay," he said.
"I've been thinking of testing out of high school and getting my GED," she said bluntly.
Sam tried to inhale his straw and ended up having a mild fit. "What?" he croaked when he could finally stop coughing over his knees.
Mikaela looked rather amused. "Listen, I've never been real interested in high school. I really only went to keep the truancy officers off my back and to have a little normalcy in my life -- but that's kinda hard to have when we're friends with walking super computers, and I'm learning to fix them. We're already their wards, and I've spoken to Ratchet about this. He wants me to finish school, of course, but he agreed that I'd make a lot better progress if I could move in with them and devote all of my time to learning how they work."
"But --" he said, but couldn't think of what he was going to say. "So ..."
"Eloquent as ever, Sam," she said with amusement. "I'm bringing this up for a reason, you know. You've got a lot more tying you to that school -- you have Miles, and you can't just drop out like I'm thinking of doing. But you might want to consider it. Your grades have been plunging, you have no interest in class, and you're bored with everyone there." She ticked off every point on a finger. "Sometimes I think you just go to humor your parents and to meet up with Miles and me. But I don't think I'm going to be there for long."
"Mikaela," he said reflexively, "I -- I don't have a job to look forward to. Even if I could test out for my GED, what would I do? Go and ... get in the way?"
"I'm sure they wouldn't mind," she said. "It's their fault -- they dragged you into it. Besides, I'm sure that Bumblebee would like to be around them again."
Which had been something on Sam's mind for a while now. Well, more specifically, it was how his Camaro had gone from being someone who chased him down while he peddled away frantically on a pink bike and did dance moves to the quietly responsible Autobot he appeared to be now. Did being separated from the others make him sad or something? He'd certainly been -- ah, mischievous enough when he knew that the others were coming.
"The thing is," she said softer, "I think he's really taking this 'guardian' thing seriously, so if you're going to talk to him about all of this, keep that in mind. Anyway," she leaned back in the chair with a sudden air of nonchalance, "summer's almost here, so there's no hurry. If you decide to test out, you can do it next year. Senior year's just for kicks, anyway, really."
"If I tried to test out for my GED, my parents would kill me," he said with disbelief.
"Like they killed you for owning an awesome car?"
"Ugh -- don't ... use logic on me."
"I know, it's so unfair. After all, you speak 'giant robot'."
"And you were afraid of Bumblebee."
"They'd just had a giant robot death match, forgive me for not having some weird mysterious bond with the Camaro-that-isn't!"
"Bumblebee, Mikaela. Bumblebee."
"Ugh. You are so lucky you were right about him."
"Yeah, well, I knew what he was before I pulled you into the car, you know. My reasoning was pretty secure."
"You ... are such a jerk! You knew before we had that day-long car chase what he was?"
"Um ... yeah, he kinda stole himself and was all ... E. T. phone home, you know?"
"God, I am so glad I'm not dating you right now."
"What?!"
"You pulled me into a giant robot!"
"I was pretty sure it was safe!"
"You didn't know!"
"Okay -- I didn't, but I was pretty sure it was safer than the demon cop from hell!"
" ... well, alright, I think I can understand that. Jesus. You never really told me about all of that."
"Ah -- well, it was a lot of running and screaming, and I was thrown on top of a car and screaming, and then more running and screaming, and then I clotheslined you off the vespa."
"That's it?"
"Yep. That's pretty much all I remember."
--
"How do you do it?"
"How do I do what, Bee?"
"Humans. You're all ... soft on the outside, and easily damaged, and instead of making your world safe, you make it more dangerous."
And a long thoughtful pause, because what could be said to that? "You're thinking about all the ways I can get hurt that you can't protect me from," finally, in a knowing tone. "I think my parents feel like that, too. I think we all do. We know the world is dangerous, and our lives are short and fragile. You could find gigabytes of information on the Internet about human mortality, philosophies, songs. We make a religion that became wildly popular because it promised us eternal life in a safe place that makes us happy. We use science to preserve our life and make us live longer -- devote decades of research to learning how to keep our bodies in as perfect health as possible ... put machines in our chests to do the work our heart couldn't do anymore."
"You have done your research on this as well, then."
"Don't have to. I read this phrase somewhere, that humans are born dying -- and I think we know it, too. But, yeah, I ... have done research. And I think that even though we're not strong or anything, or ... durable, you know, that we make our lives dangerous, or do things that shorten it because this is the only chance we have. It's ... like would you rather have seventy years of boredom, or fifty years of seeing incredible things, going places, doing and experiencing all kinds of stuff? And yeah, some humans decide to have the longer life -- but some of us chose to have the excitement. It's sorta like ... existing versus living."
"I ... see." Though it was clear he did not. "I suppose this is why humans also have a word for hope -- and optimism."
"And luck, for the things that should have killed us and didn't. Faith for when we can't make sure things will work out, but we trust they will, anyway. That and our really cruel tendency to compare everything. The Mayfly only lives for one day, you know. Compared to that, seventy or eighty years is forever."
"Compared to Cybertronians, it's not even a blink of an eye."
"And that, my friend, is why we have the expression 'making the best of things', you know. The here-and-now is pretty sweet; don't blink or you'll miss it."
" ... sometimes you have a really morbid sense of humor, Sam."
"It's part of being human, Bee."
--
It was Saturday, and he was sitting on the hot cement in front of his best friend's house because his mother's stove had a gas leak. Sam had been the one to notice (though he had to wonder how any didn't notice, the smell of gas was noxiously strong), but the repair man confirmed it, and Sam had been driven out by the sheer odor. So naturally, he'd gone to Miles, but Miles had to stay home because of his stupid dog, so there they were. In the drive way. In the sun. In the heat. He swore it was at least a hundred degrees, and he might just start melting.
"Do you really have to do that in my driveway?"
Sam stopped and shot Miles a politely patronizing look. "You're just jealous you don't have a bitchin' Camaro to wash."
Miles bounced the basketball off the cement a few times, eyeballing the yellow car suspiciously while Sam went back to working bug guts off the grill. "Whatever man. But why in my driveway?"
"You were the one who accused me of neglecting him, Miles. Don't complain now."
"Maybe we should go inside. Looks like you're getting sunburned." The thump-swoosh of another nothing-but-net shot.
Sam was actually not sunburned, but he was pretty sure Miles didn't know that. If he was red in the face at all, it was because apparently his car had not answered his real question about car washes. Bumblebee was doing that 'silent engine' thing, but Sam wasn't fooled. He could feel the frame vibrating under the well-worn plastifiber curlicues of the scrubber. He was pretty sure that Bumblebee knew someway of making him stop if it was making him uncomfortable, but ... well, he couldn't really think of a way to justify stopping himself. And it sort of made him envision Bumblebee as a big cat.
And then his mind made the actual imagery involved, and his brain tried to short-circuit on the picture of a small yellow and black kitten. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong! He'd leave the 'cartoon animal' versions of people/things/fictional characters to girls online, thank you anyway.
"Remember Susan?"
"Suzy-bee?" Miles asked, glancing over. "Dude, she's my ex, of course I remember her."
"Remember those cats she used to draw?"
Now Miles was looking really worried. "I think so, yeah. Kinda my fault for showing her cat-macros."
"Just making sure I wasn't the only one," Sam said.
He laughed. "Dude, if that is still breaking your brain, remind me to show you to this web site --"
"Oh, hell no!" Sam barked, turning away from Bumblebee. "Don't mention that place around me ... ever. Seriously. Ugh."
"Trolled," Miles commented with humor, and shot another hoop. "One of these days, Sam, one of these days ... you'll lose the game."
"You just lost it," he retorted, rather familiar with that particular 'game', at least. For an entire month, Miles spammed his email just to say that he lost the game, and booby trapped his notebook with stickies of a similar nature.
"Ass." The rubber ball thumped against the cement driveway and clattered off the backboard. "Whoa -- Sam--!"
The basketball thumped off Bumblebee's hood, and the car gave a visible start as the alarm began wailing in startlement. "Jesus Christ, Miles!" Sam shouted over the noise, getting to his feet and snatching the ball away before passing it back to his friend -- a little roughly. Turning back to the Autobot, he patted the hood and the alarm cut off with a few chirrups.
"Sorry, man," Miles said sheepishly, biting his lip and standing stiffly.
"Christ," Sam repeated, dunking the scrub pad into the bucket of soapy water and running it gently over the invisible spot the ball hit. Bumblebee was no longer vibrating, and he seemed ... wary. "Watch it, dude. You dent him, you're paying for the repairs." He seriously doubted that anything Miles could do would actually dent the Autobot -- especially if Trent and his stupid keys would probably only chip the paint, but still. Sam sunk back to his knees and went back to work scrubbing dried bugs off the grill.
"Sorry," Miles said again, and he sounded relieved.
Sam grunted, working with dedication but also making soothing motions with the scrubber. It was a little too obvious that Bumblebee was not at all relaxed anymore. Thought the ... 'purring' had embarrassed him, he definitely preferred it to the wariness.
"So ..." Miles said, trailing off. "Dude. Mikaela."
The car actually nudged against him to restart his hand. It was such an infinitely small motion, because he'd been pressing against Bumblebee and therefore even the slightest shift was doomed to be noted, but it restarted his hand. "The three of us have been hanging out for nearly two months now, Miles," he said. "What about Mikaela?"
"Nothing," his friend said with entirely too much nonchalance, shooting another hoop.
"Right," Sam said with disbelief.
"It's just -- God, Sam, you were gaga over her since first grade. Now we all hang out and yeah you've got this weird friendship with her, and I can see why, now -- she's pretty awesome -- but ... what happened? You swore you'd marry her one day," Miles said, every ounce of bafflement and frustration evident in his voice. Apparently, he really was bothered by all of the inexplicable changes in Sam's priorities, but was going the 'get to know you again' route instead of shunning him.
"Yeah, well," he said after a long moment, "I'd never left Tranquility or almost gotten killed, before. Things like that make you see the world different and change your priorities in ways you can't imagine. Besides, in the third grade, I was pretty disgusted with her."
"That's just because she had a mad crush on a movie character you hated. I think you actually cried about it."
"Miles!" Sam squealed in embarrassment -- and was embarrassed by the pitches his own voice had reached. It was one thing to talk as if Bumblebee wasn't there, but Sam had no delusions about the Autobot not listening. "God, don't bring that up! I was furious!"
He appeared a little surprise at the vehemence of Sam's reaction, but then grinned in that way that boded nothing good for Sam's dignity. "You've always been a little over-sensitive that way, Sammy."
"Jesus Christ, I swear to God that I'm going to kill you ..."
"Bring it, dude, I'll kick your ass."
"No, I mean your school rep," Sam said. "I'll stop letting you get in this car. As a matter of fact, I think I can convince Satan's Camaro not to like you at all."
"Aw, come on ... you'll make me ride the bus?"
"It might convince you to get a car of your own, you know. Summer's almost here. I've been thinking, and if all precipitants are agreeable, I've been thinking about going on a road trip."
Miles perked up at that, jerking his head a little in a 'go on' motion. "Oh? Where to?"
"Don't know," Sam shrugged. "Places. I'll have to ask."
"And who are these so called precipitants?"
"Mikaela, if I can drag her off from her after school tutor. She's been taking extra classes, and I don't know if she can leave them behind. I was thinking about asking you, but if you're going to be an ass about it --"
"Hey, don't take it seriously, I was only joshin' you."
"Right," Sam drawled, then swiped the rag over the front of the Camaro and beamed at it. Good as new. Giving it a pat, he stood up. "Well, if you can change my mind, I'll think about it. Of course, my parents might get all nervous again, like they normally do. Dad might try to take some time off work and chaperone."
"Sucks."
"My Dad is a push over. If I went to Vegas, he might try to buy me a hooker."
"That's kind of awesome, in a creepy sort of way."
"I'm not going anywhere there are hookers. Do - not - want."
"Vegas is closed due to AIDS?"
"Right."
"So where are we going?"
Sam held up his hands and made 'wait' gestures. "Hold it, I still have to make sure who can come and can't. Besides, even if this looks like an '08, it's the same underneath, and if Bee doesn't want to go, we aren't going."
Miles dribbled the ball for a bit, eyeballing the Camaro. "'Bee', huh? I can see why, I guess. That short for Honeybee?" He waggled his eyebrows.
Apparently he was awesome enough to be able to choke on air. "No, Miles, it's short for Bumblebee."
They stared at each other for a moment. Slowly, Miles said, "... okay, care to explain?"
He shrugged, trying not to look shifty. "Sometimes you don't name the car, Miles. He came like that. Anyway, it's nearly supper time, I'll call you if my parents are cool with it."
"Yeah, whatever man, see you tomorrow."
Cleaning supplies were put away and then Sam was sliding into the Camaro, relaxing against the leather bucket seats. "Sorry about the basketball, Bee," he murmured as he pretended to back the Camaro out of Miles' driveway. He slid his hands over the wheel apologetically.
"I was only a little startled," Bumblebee said sheepishly.
"Yeah," Sam said, smirking a little, "you know, when I asked about car washes, I really did expect some sort of warning of any weird reactions."
"No humans had the chance to wash me before," he replied, sounding a little amused himself. "I didn't know what to expect."
Well, that made enough sense. If Bumblebee had been a rogue car for all the years he had been on Earth ... "Whoa, no wonder you were so dirty," he said, brushing his thumb over the Autobot symbol in the center of the steering wheel in nostalgia. Then he smiled. "Speaking of that day in the car lot, good job being sneaky and subtle, Bee."
Bumblebee channel surfed on the radio for a moment before he responded. "I was edgy," he said, repeating what he'd told Sam before. "Besides, I'd finally found you, was I supposed to let you walk off?"
"I guess not," Sam said, smoothing over the leather near his knee. "So, what about that road trip?"
"That would not be unpleasant. Optimus Prime might not like it, however, and it would be easiest if it were only the two of us, or with Mikaela. I do not require fuel, after all, and your friend Miles may notice."
"I guess road trips are a bad idea, then," he said thoughtfully, though there was a strange disappointed churning in his chest.
The volume knob spun just in time for that song that was pretty popular to come on, the guy singing: "and this crystal ball -- it's always cloudy except for (except for) when you look into the past!" and then the volume button spun down again. After a moment, Bumblebee admitted, "I can attempt to convince Optimus Prime, if that's what you wish."
It was like relief, uncoiling. "Nah, I wouldn't want to inconvenience everyone," he said with surprisingly truthfulness. "You're right, after all. Besides, it'll be summer. We could go down and see the others, right?"
"That would be ... nice."
And that made it even better than he'd expected.
--
" ... I read this phrase somewhere, that humans are born dying -- and I think we know it, too."
The average person doesn't think about it, though. From the moment that Sam truly comprehended that the beings he was looking at were possibly older than his entire civilization, and still considered young ... he really hadn't been able to think of anything else. Every beat of his heart was a promise of death, the ticking of a bomb, the undeniable drag of time, as he died a little bit more every second that passed.
Dying dying dying.
Sam was very aware of his own mortality. Grammy -- his mother's mother -- had died when he was nine. She'd been his favorite grandparent, very lively, very sweet. Actually, now that he was a teen, he thought she just liked to get him high on sugar before sending him back to Mom and Dad. But when he was a kid, he adored her, and when he was nine, she suddenly got very, very ill.
For months after her funeral, Sam had been terrified that his parents were going to die, too. He was tarried he was going to die. It possibly took him so long to get over it because he had never told anyone that he was suddenly scared everyone was going to die, but he did get over it. It took a lot of researching to convince himself that the chances of anything suddenly going very wrong was very low.
But he remembered. He remembered that just the month previous, Grammy had taken him swimming and rode bikes with him -- and then the next time he saw her, she was exhausted and pale and listless on a bed, unresponsive to the people around her except to turn away and close her eyes to sleep. He never forgot that.
So Sam had always know that would be him some day. But he always thought that all of his friends would either be old like him or already dead. The thought of leaving someone behind feeling like he felt when Grammy died was the very last thing he wanted.
He wasn't nearly so calm as he pretended.
"Okay, what the hell, guys?"
His parents looked up at him like the proverbial kids with their hands in the cookie jar. They were both huddled around some sort of user manual like it was the Lost Scriptures or a treasure map, and very clearly, there was a brand new computer set in a jumble behind them, plastic bags, instructions in foreign languages, and a few large discarded card board boxes.
"Oh, hi, honey!" his mom said, straightening and smiling sweetly at him. She quickly moved to her feet and came toward him. "You know, I baked some cookies, they're in the kitchen --"
"Oh, God, no," he groaned, sidestepping her attempt to redirect him. "Are you guys trying to use computers again? We tried this once, we already know you can't use computers --"
"Well, it can't be too hard," his father reasoned. "I see Tammy use one every day --"
"Miss Tammy is an escaped military experiment in disguise, I am telling you," Sam interrupted. "No real eighty year old woman knows how to use the Internet. What have you done to this poor thing?" He ran his hands over the plastic case protecting the tower and swept his fingers sympathetically over the back, where all the plugs were put into the wrong slots. "Oh, you poor, poor machine."
"Well," his mother said, folding her arms, "if you're so smart, Mr. Smarty-pants, you put it together."
He turned to gape at her in offense. "What?!"
"Oh, don't look at me like that," she scolded. "Do you honestly think your father could do it?"
"Hey!" Ron yelped in mild offense.
"Mom, stop being mean to Dad," he said, frowning slightly. "Why did you even buy a computer?"
"It's your fault," she informed him nonchalantly. "If you hadn't befriended alien machines, Ron wouldn't be jealous."
"What?"
"Judy!"
"What the hell."
"Don't listen to her, son."
"Mom?"
"Well, it's true," she sniffed. "Now, I'm going to check on supper."
"Jealous?!"
"It talks to you!"
"He talks to me, Dad! He! Bumblebee has feelings, you know!"
"Yeah -- well --!"
"Oh, my God, whatever! Give me those," he demanded, holding his hand out for the manual.
"I can do it," his father said sulkily.
"Which is why I've had to set up ever electronic system we've got that didn't come with a handy installer? And why the first computer you guys bought is now in my room?" Sam asked skeptically. Well, if that didn't earn him a dirty look. Right, no teasing the parents over their lack of technological knowledge. "Fine," he said, trying in vain to modulate his voice into a non confrontational tone. "Anyway, I'll be in my room if you need me."
Thirty minutes and a silent meal later, Ron moodily shoved the manual at Sam. Not rolling his eyes or anything inflammatory like that, he accepted the paper and moved to install their new computer. He couldn't fathom what was so difficult about plugging things in where they obviously needed to be plugged in, but it seemed to be a common ailment in the older generations. Sam was left to the computer, pretty much alone.
He rolled his eyes and set the manual aside before he began to adjust the computer's position, trying to be a little professional about it and bundling the cords up in a way that would keep them from being tripped over or caught by careless feet. Once he had things situated to his liking, he began to slide plugs into ports, effortlessly locating the partner hookups. It was practically color coordinated, after all. Satisfied when everything was plugged in properly, he went looking for a surge protector -- which, of course, neither of his parents had thought of. Luckily, he had an extra one laying around, from before he had to get another with more outlets for all of his electronics. After he plugged it into the wall and the computer into it, he flipped the red switch a few times (honestly not certain of its purpose) before he flopped back into the chair in front of the computer.
Easy, now. He just had to turn the computer on. The button on the monitor fooled him a bit, but he reasoned that he hadn't pushed hard enough and finally got a nice click, where upon the little light came on, orange to indicate that the tower it was hooked to wasn't giving it feed. "Patience, padawan," he bid with some amusement, punching the tower button.
It politely stayed off.
Sam frowned at it, punched the button again, then tried holding it, but the tower refused. "Aw, man, come on," he grumbled, idly scratching at one of the several stickers on the front, near the ear-phone sockets.
Damned if the thing didn't shock him!
Sam yelped and jammed his stung finger into his mouth, giving the tower wary looks. It continued to sit there innocently, politely not turning on. He didn't know how much he believed that, as it had just shocked him. He glared at it. It sat polite and innocently still. Sam glared some more. It still sat there. Polite. Still. Unlit.
Grudgingly, he reached out and poked the button again. This time it flickered green and a whirl of fans started on the inside, heralding the rest of the computer turning on. The light on the monitor turned green as well, and it flashed to life, playing the normal loading window.
"Thank you," Sam said, pulling the keyboard over. He spent some time filling in the normal user information, got to the name of the computer, and smiled slightly. "I dub thee Gateway, the Compubot," he said, a little too sincerely for the tease and mockery he was intending. Still, he fed it into the name field and waited for the normal desktop configuration to load. He clicked around curiously, checking out some of the standard programs that came pre-installed.
Nothing interesting. There rarely was, in his experience with computers. Miles was some sort of weird gremlin thing, and went through about one computer ever two years, the memory card overloaded with games and running all glitchy from all the things he downloaded online. Sam always got to be there when Miles was installing another new computer.
Running his hand absently over the tower, checking for heat and the temperature of the air coming out of the vent, Sam was satisfied when the brand new computer was cold to the touch. "Well," he said to it, standing up. "There you go. Up and running. Try to behave for my parents, and don't confuse them too badly, okay?"
Out of the corner of his eye as he turned, he thought the screen flickered. He turned back swiftly, but the empty Windows desktop beamed at him innocently, green grass and blue sky. "Okay," he said slowly, turning back away and shaking his head. "I must really be tired. This ... brain tumor is playing tricks on me."
Running a hand through his hair, he went back upstairs to sleep, forgetting about his parent's continued mid-life crisis in light of robot aliens and thinking instead of Bumblebee's isolation from his comrades.
--
He was walking through the night, All Spark in hand and pressed against his stomach, Autobot at his heels. The night was deep and secretive, hot and misty. The houses were silently and it was midnight -- the witching hour. At least, he was pretty sure it was the witching hour. It was special, anyway -- there was something in the air, a charge of sorts. He was alone, walking down the middle of the street past dark sleeping houses and silent non sentient cars, puddles of orange and blue splattered like the dedicated spray-shot of a dedicated graffiti artist. Everything glimmered a little, as if it were wet.
The All Spark was hot-shower warm and it felt good against his skin, and he wanted to wrap it around him like a blanket -- feel it all over and feel a bit more secure.
"Not yet," the Autobot said, steel (or whatever it was made of) fingers wrapping around his shoulders.
When the time comes, it assured him.
"How much further?" he asked.
"Not too much more."
Patience, Samuel James Witwicky. You have all the time you could want.
Oh. Right. Of course he did; he somehow forgot. So he walked, the electrifying blue shocks traveling over the hot cube in his hand, and the end of the street -- ever so slowly -- drew nearer. He couldn't see beyond it.-- To Be Continued --
- IF THE FIRST SCENE SOUNDED SEXIER THAN IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN (or not enough, as your mileage may vary), that's because it was! Sam wasn't meaning to come on to his car, and Bumblebee didn't notice (but I didn't change it either, did I? 8D ). On the other hand, in this chapter, it should fully come across that even if Sam doesn't know it, he has a MASSIVE crush on his car.
- No one has commented on it yet, but if you don't know Miles' favorite web site by THIS CHAPTER, you're a lost cause D:
- "Bumblebee has feelings, you know!" OH HO HO HO! I rofled so hard writing that.
- Songs, in order of appearance: ("Blister in the Sun" - Violent Femmes) ("Thnks Fr Th Mmrs" - Fall Out Boy)
FIC Summary: [2007, AU] Sore throats, nightmares, and the differences between organics and Cybertronians - something is terribly wrong with Sam. To live is to evolve, and shape alone is not enough; think of it as a mutual learning experience. (Bot!Sam, PTSD, Mech/mech)
1, 2, 2.b, 3, 4, 4.b, 5, 6, 7, 7.b
Ratchet has an intermission with plot-important details! PLZ TO CLICK "4.b" ABOVE
I lost sleep over this chapter. Both to write it, and then angsting over it, compared to chapter four (which will probably be my most awesome chapter until Sam becomes a mech.)
Chapter Five: The Calm ...
--
Most people would have been fairly distracted or even disturbed by a dream involving walking down the street with a highly desired and warred over ancient alien artifact of immense and unbelievable power, while being shadowed by an unseen mechanical alien, and walking forever down a street that only got closer in the barest of increments.
After a month of suffering through nearly twelve hours of horrific nightmares every night, Sam was not everyone. He was actually fairly thrilled to have woken up, cast the dream out of his head without the barest care, and proceeded to display very uncharacteristic morning cheer. As this was the first restful night of sleep that he had gotten since he had bout the yellow Camaro, he was so mentally rested that he exited the house with a bounce and a smile on his face.
Needless to say, Bumblebee had been somewhat unsettled.
Taking note of said unease, Sam figured (in his suddenly all-encompassing benign good humor) that he might as well explain. "Well, you know, since I drove you off that lot, I haven't had one good night's sleep. At first I thought someone was stealing you, then I couldn't sleep at all having seen my car turn into a robot and then getting arrested ... so on and so forth. I just had a ... really nice dream last night." He stroked the steering wheel and cast the speedometer speculative looks. "Can I drive?" Of its own accord, his other hand went to the gearshift and his fingers curled over it eagerly.
Obligingly, the engine turned over, and the tuner on the radio playfully slid all the way across even as a song was already playing: "When I'm a-walkin', I strut my stuff, and I'm so strung out! I'm high as a kite -- I just might stop to check you out!"
Pretty sure that Bumblebee wasn't kicking him out, but not as sure that the Autobot wasn't accusing him of being drugged out of his mind and not particularly caring, he grinned and slid into reverse. Sam started out fully intending to go to school -- he even chose to go the same way that Bumblebee took him, but then when he was going through a stop light (legally, on green, when it was his turn, of course), he accidentally pressed a little hard on the gas pedal. The engine thrummed with power even as he jerked his foot back like he thought he was setting it in a steel bar trap, and he stared down at the dash board.
That was when Sam first began to understand the universal male desire for a really powerful car. And ... well, he was pretty sure that they didn't come more powerful than an alien engine. And ... wow. He bit his lower lip.
"Sam," Bumblebee cut in, "I think that would probably be a bad idea --"
"Shush," he interrupted gently, looking over Bumblebee's interior with new eyes. "I'm driving."
"Sam?"
Mindful of the fact that this was a living organism, and one he was terribly fond of to begin with, Sam didn't do anything so crass as to 'put the pedal to the metal'. As a matter of fact, he was as gentle but firm as he had been when dealing with Mojo when he was just a pup. Grinning, heart pumping, he broke away from the normal going-to-school pattern and got them on a road that would accept a higher rate of speed, coaxing Bumblebee's engine to purr. He was just really getting into it when control was taken away and Bumblebee stopped responding to the wheel or the pedals.
Sam indignantly folded his arms as they coasted to a stop on the shoulder, glowering at the dashboard.
"If you persist," Bumblebee said dryly, "You'll be late for school."
"Forget school," he said, flopping back against the seat. "Com'n, Bee, I'm in too good of a mood to sit around and waste it."
"Unless your good mood is due to an illness -- which it isn't, I'm sure -- you should go to school."
"What are you, my mother?"
"Hardly. But you'll worry your friends and your parents will be upset. Which would cause more drama than you really want to deal with, yes?"
"W-well, screw you and your damn logic," he said petulantly. "Fine, take me to school, whatever."
Bumblebee's engine hummed thoughtfully even as he made the necessary adjustments to their course. "You aren't angry at me," he said confidently.
Sam gave the steering wheel an incredulous, acidic look. "You'd better be glad I'm in too good of a mood to get angry."
In a wondering way, Bumblebee added, "You're never angry at me."
"We can change that," Sam said, arching his eyebrows. "Right here, right now. Just keep -- doing what you're doing here. That'll do it really quick."
He had the distinct impression the car was laughing at him, even though Bee turned on the radio to one song and kept it there.
Though his good mood was slightly diminished by having to attend school, it was still such a large improvement over his recent attitude that Mikaela had been worried that he was sick until Miles assured her that it was much more 'Sam-like' behavior. Then everyone was unanimously pleased after Sam and Bumblebee's little talk, though only two people knew what the source of it might have been.
But then, after school, instead of taking Sam to the park, Bumblebee took him right back to the spot that he had stolen control back and idled on the side of the road. "I've spent the time during which you were in school locating ideal roads where there will be little interference from your law enforcers," Bumblebee informed him with a suspicious tone ... it sounded rather pleased.
Sam was grinning like a moron, his good mood firmly back in place. "Do Autobots like driving fast?" he asked.
His engine hummed for a moment, then he said, "Not alone -- well, some would, but most of us would find it more exciting to race with at least one other. Like a game of tag, only no one is 'it'."
Taking that in, he felt that strange warm sensation come back, soothing the aches from the tense muscles he'd only eased today. Sam apparently counted as 'at least one other', even if he was inside Bumblebee and human and therefore couldn't play Giant Alien Robot 'tag'. A sense of giddiness settled into his bones, making his heart flutter and his stomach become unsettled. He was going to go driving with a kick ass robot! An entirely different set of muscles tightened in his frame, which was a relief. He didn't think he could enjoy high speeds with his back in agony.
Taking his cue, he wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel and gripped the gearshift with a firm hand. "Then I'm driving," he said, maybe smiling and maybe baring his teeth.
The engine rumbled encouragingly, and he laughed a little giddily as he took control of several tons of alien robot. Just as he had previously, he was mindful that he was steering a living entity that was a friend of his, so he kept his moves smooth and none-too-rough, though he didn't let it discourage him from trying to test out just what giant alien robots could do on asphalt.
"Hey, Bee," Sam said, mind like quicksilver the faster his heart beat, "Do you know anything about Mikaela's deal with Ratchet?"
"Ratchet has agreed to 'show her the ropes'," Bumblebee replied. "Many of the things that need to be done to fix Cybertronian bodies is much too large and heavy for humans to do, however. It is still essential for her to learn everything."
"Really? How's that working out with her in school?"
"Sam," Bumblebee rumbled with amusement, "We surf the Internet from everywhere and anywhere. It isn't that hard."
"Ah -- right," he said, blushing slightly. "Sorry, I just thought some hands-on experience would be good."
" ... it may come to that. Sam, you are not allowed to volunteer me."
"What!" he squawked. "Like I would!" --laying there restrained and sososo panicked he went immediately into battle mode -- Sam swallowed hard and gripped the wheel for reassurance.
"I have also taken the opportunity to contact your parents and inform them that you won't be back at the usual hour."
Sam laughed again. "And how did they take that?"
"I believe I sent thirty two minutes reassuring them that as your guardian, I wouldn't let you come to harm." Bumblebee seemed rather baffled that Sam's parents hadn't just believed him the first time.
"I guess they kind of see you like ... I don't know, an older graduated friend," Sam said, puzzled. "They see the Camaro and automatically assign it to some twenty-three year old guy with no job who just wants to have fun."
Bumblebee considered that for a moment. "I don't understand. What sources I can find on such subjects usually implies that this 'older friend' is either using the younger or has bad intentions."
"Exactly," Sam said. "Now do you see why they're all worked up? I guess if you hadn't chosen such an awesome car as an alt mode, they might not think that."
"Human culture is exasperating and contradictory."
"I know, Bee. Trust me, I know."
--
He was walking down the street again, All Spark between his hands and nestled to his stomach. The night was dark and silent, alive, but the lights were off, the air was hot but moist. It was one of those prowling nights, when everyone who was still awake felt restless and wanted to go outside and take a walk. It was a night like that night he had turned to Mikaela and said: "Fifty years from now ..."
The Cybertronian was walking behind him, keeping pace. The All Spark was hot against his hands, but comfortable. It was hot like the showers he took that nearly scalded him, burning skin red until steam rose from his arms. It was a good heat -- comfortable, and familiar. He wanted to wrap it around him.
The hand pushed against his lower back, urging him on. It was a surprisingly small hand, and he had the sense that the Autobot (it had to be an Autobot, because a Decepticon would have killed him and stolen the All Spark) was equally small. "Not yet," the Autobot bid him, and his voice sounded like --
But why his voice sounded familiar was not answered, because then he woke up.
--
"So, what's up," Sam inquired, flicking his hand to shake off the condensation from his soda. "What couldn't you say in front of Bee?"
"It's not that," Mikaela said as she relaxed against the picnic table, picking through the fries. "I just wanted this talk between the two of us."
Unconsciously, he glanced about. It wasn't exactly between the two of them -- they'd gone to the Mall, and ended up in the food court ... because Sam's improvement in temper didn't come coupled with any less of an appetite. Sure, no one was going to be paying attention to them, but it wasn't exactly where he'd chose to have some mysterious discussion. "Yeah, okay," he said.
"I've been thinking of testing out of high school and getting my GED," she said bluntly.
Sam tried to inhale his straw and ended up having a mild fit. "What?" he croaked when he could finally stop coughing over his knees.
Mikaela looked rather amused. "Listen, I've never been real interested in high school. I really only went to keep the truancy officers off my back and to have a little normalcy in my life -- but that's kinda hard to have when we're friends with walking super computers, and I'm learning to fix them. We're already their wards, and I've spoken to Ratchet about this. He wants me to finish school, of course, but he agreed that I'd make a lot better progress if I could move in with them and devote all of my time to learning how they work."
"But --" he said, but couldn't think of what he was going to say. "So ..."
"Eloquent as ever, Sam," she said with amusement. "I'm bringing this up for a reason, you know. You've got a lot more tying you to that school -- you have Miles, and you can't just drop out like I'm thinking of doing. But you might want to consider it. Your grades have been plunging, you have no interest in class, and you're bored with everyone there." She ticked off every point on a finger. "Sometimes I think you just go to humor your parents and to meet up with Miles and me. But I don't think I'm going to be there for long."
"Mikaela," he said reflexively, "I -- I don't have a job to look forward to. Even if I could test out for my GED, what would I do? Go and ... get in the way?"
"I'm sure they wouldn't mind," she said. "It's their fault -- they dragged you into it. Besides, I'm sure that Bumblebee would like to be around them again."
Which had been something on Sam's mind for a while now. Well, more specifically, it was how his Camaro had gone from being someone who chased him down while he peddled away frantically on a pink bike and did dance moves to the quietly responsible Autobot he appeared to be now. Did being separated from the others make him sad or something? He'd certainly been -- ah, mischievous enough when he knew that the others were coming.
"The thing is," she said softer, "I think he's really taking this 'guardian' thing seriously, so if you're going to talk to him about all of this, keep that in mind. Anyway," she leaned back in the chair with a sudden air of nonchalance, "summer's almost here, so there's no hurry. If you decide to test out, you can do it next year. Senior year's just for kicks, anyway, really."
"If I tried to test out for my GED, my parents would kill me," he said with disbelief.
"Like they killed you for owning an awesome car?"
"Ugh -- don't ... use logic on me."
"I know, it's so unfair. After all, you speak 'giant robot'."
"And you were afraid of Bumblebee."
"They'd just had a giant robot death match, forgive me for not having some weird mysterious bond with the Camaro-that-isn't!"
"Bumblebee, Mikaela. Bumblebee."
"Ugh. You are so lucky you were right about him."
"Yeah, well, I knew what he was before I pulled you into the car, you know. My reasoning was pretty secure."
"You ... are such a jerk! You knew before we had that day-long car chase what he was?"
"Um ... yeah, he kinda stole himself and was all ... E. T. phone home, you know?"
"God, I am so glad I'm not dating you right now."
"What?!"
"You pulled me into a giant robot!"
"I was pretty sure it was safe!"
"You didn't know!"
"Okay -- I didn't, but I was pretty sure it was safer than the demon cop from hell!"
" ... well, alright, I think I can understand that. Jesus. You never really told me about all of that."
"Ah -- well, it was a lot of running and screaming, and I was thrown on top of a car and screaming, and then more running and screaming, and then I clotheslined you off the vespa."
"That's it?"
"Yep. That's pretty much all I remember."
--
"How do you do it?"
"How do I do what, Bee?"
"Humans. You're all ... soft on the outside, and easily damaged, and instead of making your world safe, you make it more dangerous."
And a long thoughtful pause, because what could be said to that? "You're thinking about all the ways I can get hurt that you can't protect me from," finally, in a knowing tone. "I think my parents feel like that, too. I think we all do. We know the world is dangerous, and our lives are short and fragile. You could find gigabytes of information on the Internet about human mortality, philosophies, songs. We make a religion that became wildly popular because it promised us eternal life in a safe place that makes us happy. We use science to preserve our life and make us live longer -- devote decades of research to learning how to keep our bodies in as perfect health as possible ... put machines in our chests to do the work our heart couldn't do anymore."
"You have done your research on this as well, then."
"Don't have to. I read this phrase somewhere, that humans are born dying -- and I think we know it, too. But, yeah, I ... have done research. And I think that even though we're not strong or anything, or ... durable, you know, that we make our lives dangerous, or do things that shorten it because this is the only chance we have. It's ... like would you rather have seventy years of boredom, or fifty years of seeing incredible things, going places, doing and experiencing all kinds of stuff? And yeah, some humans decide to have the longer life -- but some of us chose to have the excitement. It's sorta like ... existing versus living."
"I ... see." Though it was clear he did not. "I suppose this is why humans also have a word for hope -- and optimism."
"And luck, for the things that should have killed us and didn't. Faith for when we can't make sure things will work out, but we trust they will, anyway. That and our really cruel tendency to compare everything. The Mayfly only lives for one day, you know. Compared to that, seventy or eighty years is forever."
"Compared to Cybertronians, it's not even a blink of an eye."
"And that, my friend, is why we have the expression 'making the best of things', you know. The here-and-now is pretty sweet; don't blink or you'll miss it."
" ... sometimes you have a really morbid sense of humor, Sam."
"It's part of being human, Bee."
--
It was Saturday, and he was sitting on the hot cement in front of his best friend's house because his mother's stove had a gas leak. Sam had been the one to notice (though he had to wonder how any didn't notice, the smell of gas was noxiously strong), but the repair man confirmed it, and Sam had been driven out by the sheer odor. So naturally, he'd gone to Miles, but Miles had to stay home because of his stupid dog, so there they were. In the drive way. In the sun. In the heat. He swore it was at least a hundred degrees, and he might just start melting.
"Do you really have to do that in my driveway?"
Sam stopped and shot Miles a politely patronizing look. "You're just jealous you don't have a bitchin' Camaro to wash."
Miles bounced the basketball off the cement a few times, eyeballing the yellow car suspiciously while Sam went back to working bug guts off the grill. "Whatever man. But why in my driveway?"
"You were the one who accused me of neglecting him, Miles. Don't complain now."
"Maybe we should go inside. Looks like you're getting sunburned." The thump-swoosh of another nothing-but-net shot.
Sam was actually not sunburned, but he was pretty sure Miles didn't know that. If he was red in the face at all, it was because apparently his car had not answered his real question about car washes. Bumblebee was doing that 'silent engine' thing, but Sam wasn't fooled. He could feel the frame vibrating under the well-worn plastifiber curlicues of the scrubber. He was pretty sure that Bumblebee knew someway of making him stop if it was making him uncomfortable, but ... well, he couldn't really think of a way to justify stopping himself. And it sort of made him envision Bumblebee as a big cat.
And then his mind made the actual imagery involved, and his brain tried to short-circuit on the picture of a small yellow and black kitten. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong! He'd leave the 'cartoon animal' versions of people/things/fictional characters to girls online, thank you anyway.
"Remember Susan?"
"Suzy-bee?" Miles asked, glancing over. "Dude, she's my ex, of course I remember her."
"Remember those cats she used to draw?"
Now Miles was looking really worried. "I think so, yeah. Kinda my fault for showing her cat-macros."
"Just making sure I wasn't the only one," Sam said.
He laughed. "Dude, if that is still breaking your brain, remind me to show you to this web site --"
"Oh, hell no!" Sam barked, turning away from Bumblebee. "Don't mention that place around me ... ever. Seriously. Ugh."
"Trolled," Miles commented with humor, and shot another hoop. "One of these days, Sam, one of these days ... you'll lose the game."
"You just lost it," he retorted, rather familiar with that particular 'game', at least. For an entire month, Miles spammed his email just to say that he lost the game, and booby trapped his notebook with stickies of a similar nature.
"Ass." The rubber ball thumped against the cement driveway and clattered off the backboard. "Whoa -- Sam--!"
The basketball thumped off Bumblebee's hood, and the car gave a visible start as the alarm began wailing in startlement. "Jesus Christ, Miles!" Sam shouted over the noise, getting to his feet and snatching the ball away before passing it back to his friend -- a little roughly. Turning back to the Autobot, he patted the hood and the alarm cut off with a few chirrups.
"Sorry, man," Miles said sheepishly, biting his lip and standing stiffly.
"Christ," Sam repeated, dunking the scrub pad into the bucket of soapy water and running it gently over the invisible spot the ball hit. Bumblebee was no longer vibrating, and he seemed ... wary. "Watch it, dude. You dent him, you're paying for the repairs." He seriously doubted that anything Miles could do would actually dent the Autobot -- especially if Trent and his stupid keys would probably only chip the paint, but still. Sam sunk back to his knees and went back to work scrubbing dried bugs off the grill.
"Sorry," Miles said again, and he sounded relieved.
Sam grunted, working with dedication but also making soothing motions with the scrubber. It was a little too obvious that Bumblebee was not at all relaxed anymore. Thought the ... 'purring' had embarrassed him, he definitely preferred it to the wariness.
"So ..." Miles said, trailing off. "Dude. Mikaela."
The car actually nudged against him to restart his hand. It was such an infinitely small motion, because he'd been pressing against Bumblebee and therefore even the slightest shift was doomed to be noted, but it restarted his hand. "The three of us have been hanging out for nearly two months now, Miles," he said. "What about Mikaela?"
"Nothing," his friend said with entirely too much nonchalance, shooting another hoop.
"Right," Sam said with disbelief.
"It's just -- God, Sam, you were gaga over her since first grade. Now we all hang out and yeah you've got this weird friendship with her, and I can see why, now -- she's pretty awesome -- but ... what happened? You swore you'd marry her one day," Miles said, every ounce of bafflement and frustration evident in his voice. Apparently, he really was bothered by all of the inexplicable changes in Sam's priorities, but was going the 'get to know you again' route instead of shunning him.
"Yeah, well," he said after a long moment, "I'd never left Tranquility or almost gotten killed, before. Things like that make you see the world different and change your priorities in ways you can't imagine. Besides, in the third grade, I was pretty disgusted with her."
"That's just because she had a mad crush on a movie character you hated. I think you actually cried about it."
"Miles!" Sam squealed in embarrassment -- and was embarrassed by the pitches his own voice had reached. It was one thing to talk as if Bumblebee wasn't there, but Sam had no delusions about the Autobot not listening. "God, don't bring that up! I was furious!"
He appeared a little surprise at the vehemence of Sam's reaction, but then grinned in that way that boded nothing good for Sam's dignity. "You've always been a little over-sensitive that way, Sammy."
"Jesus Christ, I swear to God that I'm going to kill you ..."
"Bring it, dude, I'll kick your ass."
"No, I mean your school rep," Sam said. "I'll stop letting you get in this car. As a matter of fact, I think I can convince Satan's Camaro not to like you at all."
"Aw, come on ... you'll make me ride the bus?"
"It might convince you to get a car of your own, you know. Summer's almost here. I've been thinking, and if all precipitants are agreeable, I've been thinking about going on a road trip."
Miles perked up at that, jerking his head a little in a 'go on' motion. "Oh? Where to?"
"Don't know," Sam shrugged. "Places. I'll have to ask."
"And who are these so called precipitants?"
"Mikaela, if I can drag her off from her after school tutor. She's been taking extra classes, and I don't know if she can leave them behind. I was thinking about asking you, but if you're going to be an ass about it --"
"Hey, don't take it seriously, I was only joshin' you."
"Right," Sam drawled, then swiped the rag over the front of the Camaro and beamed at it. Good as new. Giving it a pat, he stood up. "Well, if you can change my mind, I'll think about it. Of course, my parents might get all nervous again, like they normally do. Dad might try to take some time off work and chaperone."
"Sucks."
"My Dad is a push over. If I went to Vegas, he might try to buy me a hooker."
"That's kind of awesome, in a creepy sort of way."
"I'm not going anywhere there are hookers. Do - not - want."
"Vegas is closed due to AIDS?"
"Right."
"So where are we going?"
Sam held up his hands and made 'wait' gestures. "Hold it, I still have to make sure who can come and can't. Besides, even if this looks like an '08, it's the same underneath, and if Bee doesn't want to go, we aren't going."
Miles dribbled the ball for a bit, eyeballing the Camaro. "'Bee', huh? I can see why, I guess. That short for Honeybee?" He waggled his eyebrows.
Apparently he was awesome enough to be able to choke on air. "No, Miles, it's short for Bumblebee."
They stared at each other for a moment. Slowly, Miles said, "... okay, care to explain?"
He shrugged, trying not to look shifty. "Sometimes you don't name the car, Miles. He came like that. Anyway, it's nearly supper time, I'll call you if my parents are cool with it."
"Yeah, whatever man, see you tomorrow."
Cleaning supplies were put away and then Sam was sliding into the Camaro, relaxing against the leather bucket seats. "Sorry about the basketball, Bee," he murmured as he pretended to back the Camaro out of Miles' driveway. He slid his hands over the wheel apologetically.
"I was only a little startled," Bumblebee said sheepishly.
"Yeah," Sam said, smirking a little, "you know, when I asked about car washes, I really did expect some sort of warning of any weird reactions."
"No humans had the chance to wash me before," he replied, sounding a little amused himself. "I didn't know what to expect."
Well, that made enough sense. If Bumblebee had been a rogue car for all the years he had been on Earth ... "Whoa, no wonder you were so dirty," he said, brushing his thumb over the Autobot symbol in the center of the steering wheel in nostalgia. Then he smiled. "Speaking of that day in the car lot, good job being sneaky and subtle, Bee."
Bumblebee channel surfed on the radio for a moment before he responded. "I was edgy," he said, repeating what he'd told Sam before. "Besides, I'd finally found you, was I supposed to let you walk off?"
"I guess not," Sam said, smoothing over the leather near his knee. "So, what about that road trip?"
"That would not be unpleasant. Optimus Prime might not like it, however, and it would be easiest if it were only the two of us, or with Mikaela. I do not require fuel, after all, and your friend Miles may notice."
"I guess road trips are a bad idea, then," he said thoughtfully, though there was a strange disappointed churning in his chest.
The volume knob spun just in time for that song that was pretty popular to come on, the guy singing: "and this crystal ball -- it's always cloudy except for (except for) when you look into the past!" and then the volume button spun down again. After a moment, Bumblebee admitted, "I can attempt to convince Optimus Prime, if that's what you wish."
It was like relief, uncoiling. "Nah, I wouldn't want to inconvenience everyone," he said with surprisingly truthfulness. "You're right, after all. Besides, it'll be summer. We could go down and see the others, right?"
"That would be ... nice."
And that made it even better than he'd expected.
--
" ... I read this phrase somewhere, that humans are born dying -- and I think we know it, too."
The average person doesn't think about it, though. From the moment that Sam truly comprehended that the beings he was looking at were possibly older than his entire civilization, and still considered young ... he really hadn't been able to think of anything else. Every beat of his heart was a promise of death, the ticking of a bomb, the undeniable drag of time, as he died a little bit more every second that passed.
Dying dying dying.
Sam was very aware of his own mortality. Grammy -- his mother's mother -- had died when he was nine. She'd been his favorite grandparent, very lively, very sweet. Actually, now that he was a teen, he thought she just liked to get him high on sugar before sending him back to Mom and Dad. But when he was a kid, he adored her, and when he was nine, she suddenly got very, very ill.
For months after her funeral, Sam had been terrified that his parents were going to die, too. He was tarried he was going to die. It possibly took him so long to get over it because he had never told anyone that he was suddenly scared everyone was going to die, but he did get over it. It took a lot of researching to convince himself that the chances of anything suddenly going very wrong was very low.
But he remembered. He remembered that just the month previous, Grammy had taken him swimming and rode bikes with him -- and then the next time he saw her, she was exhausted and pale and listless on a bed, unresponsive to the people around her except to turn away and close her eyes to sleep. He never forgot that.
So Sam had always know that would be him some day. But he always thought that all of his friends would either be old like him or already dead. The thought of leaving someone behind feeling like he felt when Grammy died was the very last thing he wanted.
He wasn't nearly so calm as he pretended.
"Okay, what the hell, guys?"
His parents looked up at him like the proverbial kids with their hands in the cookie jar. They were both huddled around some sort of user manual like it was the Lost Scriptures or a treasure map, and very clearly, there was a brand new computer set in a jumble behind them, plastic bags, instructions in foreign languages, and a few large discarded card board boxes.
"Oh, hi, honey!" his mom said, straightening and smiling sweetly at him. She quickly moved to her feet and came toward him. "You know, I baked some cookies, they're in the kitchen --"
"Oh, God, no," he groaned, sidestepping her attempt to redirect him. "Are you guys trying to use computers again? We tried this once, we already know you can't use computers --"
"Well, it can't be too hard," his father reasoned. "I see Tammy use one every day --"
"Miss Tammy is an escaped military experiment in disguise, I am telling you," Sam interrupted. "No real eighty year old woman knows how to use the Internet. What have you done to this poor thing?" He ran his hands over the plastic case protecting the tower and swept his fingers sympathetically over the back, where all the plugs were put into the wrong slots. "Oh, you poor, poor machine."
"Well," his mother said, folding her arms, "if you're so smart, Mr. Smarty-pants, you put it together."
He turned to gape at her in offense. "What?!"
"Oh, don't look at me like that," she scolded. "Do you honestly think your father could do it?"
"Hey!" Ron yelped in mild offense.
"Mom, stop being mean to Dad," he said, frowning slightly. "Why did you even buy a computer?"
"It's your fault," she informed him nonchalantly. "If you hadn't befriended alien machines, Ron wouldn't be jealous."
"What?"
"Judy!"
"What the hell."
"Don't listen to her, son."
"Mom?"
"Well, it's true," she sniffed. "Now, I'm going to check on supper."
"Jealous?!"
"It talks to you!"
"He talks to me, Dad! He! Bumblebee has feelings, you know!"
"Yeah -- well --!"
"Oh, my God, whatever! Give me those," he demanded, holding his hand out for the manual.
"I can do it," his father said sulkily.
"Which is why I've had to set up ever electronic system we've got that didn't come with a handy installer? And why the first computer you guys bought is now in my room?" Sam asked skeptically. Well, if that didn't earn him a dirty look. Right, no teasing the parents over their lack of technological knowledge. "Fine," he said, trying in vain to modulate his voice into a non confrontational tone. "Anyway, I'll be in my room if you need me."
Thirty minutes and a silent meal later, Ron moodily shoved the manual at Sam. Not rolling his eyes or anything inflammatory like that, he accepted the paper and moved to install their new computer. He couldn't fathom what was so difficult about plugging things in where they obviously needed to be plugged in, but it seemed to be a common ailment in the older generations. Sam was left to the computer, pretty much alone.
He rolled his eyes and set the manual aside before he began to adjust the computer's position, trying to be a little professional about it and bundling the cords up in a way that would keep them from being tripped over or caught by careless feet. Once he had things situated to his liking, he began to slide plugs into ports, effortlessly locating the partner hookups. It was practically color coordinated, after all. Satisfied when everything was plugged in properly, he went looking for a surge protector -- which, of course, neither of his parents had thought of. Luckily, he had an extra one laying around, from before he had to get another with more outlets for all of his electronics. After he plugged it into the wall and the computer into it, he flipped the red switch a few times (honestly not certain of its purpose) before he flopped back into the chair in front of the computer.
Easy, now. He just had to turn the computer on. The button on the monitor fooled him a bit, but he reasoned that he hadn't pushed hard enough and finally got a nice click, where upon the little light came on, orange to indicate that the tower it was hooked to wasn't giving it feed. "Patience, padawan," he bid with some amusement, punching the tower button.
It politely stayed off.
Sam frowned at it, punched the button again, then tried holding it, but the tower refused. "Aw, man, come on," he grumbled, idly scratching at one of the several stickers on the front, near the ear-phone sockets.
Damned if the thing didn't shock him!
Sam yelped and jammed his stung finger into his mouth, giving the tower wary looks. It continued to sit there innocently, politely not turning on. He didn't know how much he believed that, as it had just shocked him. He glared at it. It sat polite and innocently still. Sam glared some more. It still sat there. Polite. Still. Unlit.
Grudgingly, he reached out and poked the button again. This time it flickered green and a whirl of fans started on the inside, heralding the rest of the computer turning on. The light on the monitor turned green as well, and it flashed to life, playing the normal loading window.
"Thank you," Sam said, pulling the keyboard over. He spent some time filling in the normal user information, got to the name of the computer, and smiled slightly. "I dub thee Gateway, the Compubot," he said, a little too sincerely for the tease and mockery he was intending. Still, he fed it into the name field and waited for the normal desktop configuration to load. He clicked around curiously, checking out some of the standard programs that came pre-installed.
Nothing interesting. There rarely was, in his experience with computers. Miles was some sort of weird gremlin thing, and went through about one computer ever two years, the memory card overloaded with games and running all glitchy from all the things he downloaded online. Sam always got to be there when Miles was installing another new computer.
Running his hand absently over the tower, checking for heat and the temperature of the air coming out of the vent, Sam was satisfied when the brand new computer was cold to the touch. "Well," he said to it, standing up. "There you go. Up and running. Try to behave for my parents, and don't confuse them too badly, okay?"
Out of the corner of his eye as he turned, he thought the screen flickered. He turned back swiftly, but the empty Windows desktop beamed at him innocently, green grass and blue sky. "Okay," he said slowly, turning back away and shaking his head. "I must really be tired. This ... brain tumor is playing tricks on me."
Running a hand through his hair, he went back upstairs to sleep, forgetting about his parent's continued mid-life crisis in light of robot aliens and thinking instead of Bumblebee's isolation from his comrades.
--
He was walking through the night, All Spark in hand and pressed against his stomach, Autobot at his heels. The night was deep and secretive, hot and misty. The houses were silently and it was midnight -- the witching hour. At least, he was pretty sure it was the witching hour. It was special, anyway -- there was something in the air, a charge of sorts. He was alone, walking down the middle of the street past dark sleeping houses and silent non sentient cars, puddles of orange and blue splattered like the dedicated spray-shot of a dedicated graffiti artist. Everything glimmered a little, as if it were wet.
The All Spark was hot-shower warm and it felt good against his skin, and he wanted to wrap it around him like a blanket -- feel it all over and feel a bit more secure.
"Not yet," the Autobot said, steel (or whatever it was made of) fingers wrapping around his shoulders.
When the time comes, it assured him.
"How much further?" he asked.
"Not too much more."
Patience, Samuel James Witwicky. You have all the time you could want.
Oh. Right. Of course he did; he somehow forgot. So he walked, the electrifying blue shocks traveling over the hot cube in his hand, and the end of the street -- ever so slowly -- drew nearer. He couldn't see beyond it.-- To Be Continued --
- IF THE FIRST SCENE SOUNDED SEXIER THAN IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN (or not enough, as your mileage may vary), that's because it was! Sam wasn't meaning to come on to his car, and Bumblebee didn't notice (but I didn't change it either, did I? 8D ). On the other hand, in this chapter, it should fully come across that even if Sam doesn't know it, he has a MASSIVE crush on his car.
- No one has commented on it yet, but if you don't know Miles' favorite web site by THIS CHAPTER, you're a lost cause D:
- "Bumblebee has feelings, you know!" OH HO HO HO! I rofled so hard writing that.
- Songs, in order of appearance: ("Blister in the Sun" - Violent Femmes) ("Thnks Fr Th Mmrs" - Fall Out Boy)