Chapter Text
Lazy days were some of Blitzwing’s favorite kind, especially when work was getting down without his need for intervention. Lugnut was on a mission with Megatron, doing something that Blitzwing hadn’t cared enough to listen to, leaving him alone in the base with nothing but the comforting draft and his own thoughts.
Fashioned from an old mine, the Decepticon base had always been chilly and dark, but Blitzwing never felt the need to complain. It was spacious and relaxing, and he could get lost in the surrounding tunnels for hours without seeing a single familiar path. The layout of the base practically begged for introspection, of which Blitzwing took full advantage.
Blitzwing had started wandering through the surrounding maze only a few minutes ago, yet somehow, his surroundings looked completely unfamiliar already. He relished the thought, gazing at the ceiling that loomed overhead, wondering if the echoing hiss was from rain, wind, or both.
He sighed and kicked at a rock, watching it disappear down the dark corridor for a few moments before he caught up to it again. He kicked it. It vanished. And then it reappeared.
So boring, Blitzwing thought contentedly.
He lifted his pede to kick once again when a notification appeared on his HUD: New message. From: Bumblebee.
Blitzwing wasn’t sure whether the bubble in his intake was one of suppressed laughter or irritation. Nonetheless, without hesitation, he grabbed his datapad, barely able to read the message before deleting it immediately:
you better not be screwing with me >:/
Blitzwing forced himself not to smile as he cleared the message data, hurriedly typing through a few programs before sending an encrypted message back to Bumblebee’s address.
All of our messages need to be encrypted. It’s far too risky to send them otherwise.
yeah, well, i dont know how to do that, soooo
Blitzwing couldn’t help but chuckle quietly. His hopes desperately tried to soar, but he crammed down his emotions, trying in vain to keep from getting ahead of himself. Just because Bumblebee was messaging him didn’t mean he remembered anything. In fact, it was unlikely that he did, given that he didn’t know how to encrypt his messages.
Though Blitzwing couldn’t help but feel immeasurable relief that Bumblebee had chosen to speak with him at all. He typed as fast as he could, leaning against the cool rock wall.
I’ll show you again. It’s not too hard.
Bumblebee’s speed faltered, and for a moment, Blitzwing feared he’d been too forward. He doesn’t know you, you fool, he thought, gritting his dentae. He’s not going to want to meet with you again—if he was smart, he’d run far, far away from you.
But Blitzwing’s spark did a backflip when he saw a new message on his screen.
whatever. i just need something from you
What would that be?
proof. i need real, solid proof. and like i said, u better not be screwing with me
Blitzwing’s back scraped against the wall loudly as he slid to the ground, his spark pounding so violently in his chest that he feared it may smash through his plating. All hopes of not getting overexcited disappeared, and Blitzwing found his digits trembling with joy as he replied.
Why?
Bumblebee took a long time to respond, and though his response was harsh and riddled with typos, Blitzwing felt a tidal wave of happiness pour over him as he read.
becuz i think i remembered something, u big stupid idiot! and it better not be what i thought it was. and if youo cant give me proof, that means it wasnt what i thought it was, and i can go bacjk to hating u like i should. so giove me proofnow or im gonna find u and call in an airstrike
Blitzwing knew he shouldn’t laugh, but he did anyway, his tanks twisting as though butterflies were fluttering against his every sensor. He quickly tapped into his gallery and selected his absolute favorite photo: a selfie Bumblebee had taken on Blitzwing’s datapad, a cheesy grin on his face and the faintest glimmer of a smirk on Blitzwing’s.
One simple photo seemed to capture everything Blitzwing loved so dearly about Bumblebee. His bright, beautiful optics, the smile he wore, the way he gazed at Blitzwing with so much love and admiration despite the faint grin he received in return. The photo was slightly blurry, and Blitzwing was certain that he’d protested against it, but Bumblebee had persevered regardless of his complaints.
The pesky Autobot always persevered.
Blitzwing sent the photo and waited with bated breath, his spark thudding as he watched the read receipt appear without response. Every second was agonizing, knowing that Bumblebee was looking at that photo, doing Primus knows what with it. Blitzwing hadn’t even stopped to consider how stupid it had been to send that image—what if the Autobot leader was over Bumblebee’s shoulder right now, using Blitzwing for information?
No, Blitzwing told himself firmly. Bumblebee wouldn’t do that. Trust him.
Nearly five minutes passed before Bumblebee responded, though it felt like an hour. And the reply was certainly not worth the wait.
that looks fake. the lighting is all wrong
“Are you joking?” Blitzwing hissed, gripping his datapad with crushing strength as his vision went red. “You took this photo, idiot, how could it be fake?”
No, it’s not, stupid.
give me real proof or im telling optimus about this. u have 10 seconds!!!!!!!!!
Blitzwing growled and navigated back to his gallery, selecting every photo he had with Bumblebee in it. “Oh, I’ll give you real proof,” he glowered, tapping through the photos regardless of how embarrassing they were. Shaky selfies, images of Blitzwing’s blurred faces as Bumblebee screamed at the camera, candids of Bumblebee when he’d looked particularly wonderful against the sunset. Even the one Blitzwing hated, where they both smiled into a shared kiss, Bumblebee’s arm outstretched as he stole a snapshot of their private, intimate moments.
Blitzwing sent them all out of spite, temporarily unconcerned by how overwhelming it may be to see one hundred and seventeen photos of a forgotten life. But it was also strangely cathartic, and Blitzwing’s rage soon gave way to heavy breathing, his vents labored as he tried to calm himself down.
The mountain of messages was opened, and Blitzwing stared with a heaving chest, waiting for a response. The ground against his back felt infinitely colder as he stared at Bumblebee’s icon, waiting for something, anything that would serve as comfort.
And without warning, Bumblebee went offline.
Blitzwing sighed, dropping his datapad into his lap and rubbing his faceplates. Frustration washed over him, and he slammed a fist into the ground, trying to keep himself calm.
“Frag,” he mumbled to no one in particular, closing his optics and letting his helm drop against the wall behind him.
At least Bumblebee had the proof he wanted.
Bumblebee’s frame audibly clattered as he trembled, staring at the datapad that he’d gracelessly hurled across the room. Despite his best efforts, it hadn’t shattered to pieces, and glowing on the floor was the image of himself with his lips pressed against Blitzwing’s.
“No,” Bumblebee whispered, his optics widening as he stared at it, unable to peel his gaze away. “No, no, no, no, no way.”
It was unmistakable. Bumblebee had never seen an expression like that on himself before, but he knew he was capable of it. As much as he wanted to look away, all Bumblebee could do was stare, his processor flooding with jagged images and feelings that he barely recognized. Flashes of crimson that solidified into Blitzwing’s optics, smudges of black against yellow that twisted into Bumblebee’s hand intertwined with Blitzwing’s, dark smears of purple reforming into Blitzwing’s plating in the moonlight.
“No,” Bumblebee said again. “That’s not possible.”
He knew his words were empty. The more he stared, the more he felt. He could taste gunpowder on his lips, could feel a set much larger than his own against them. He could feel a gentle touch on his horns, sliding down to caress the back of his helm. He could feel his spark thumping harder and harder in his chest—he could see Blitzwing rolling his optics as Bumblebee’s own servos outstretched, silently begging for an embrace.
Bumblebee rolled off the berth and slammed into the ground, too weak and confused to think straight. His helm felt like it was splitting in half as splintered memories rained against the circuitry, so powerful and overwhelming that his tanks heaved and he purged on the floor.
This can’t be happening, Bumblebee thought in a frenzy, wiping his mouth and crawling toward the datapad, his limbs moving of their own accord. Those aren’t real. They can’t be!
He didn’t want to pick up the datapad, and it proved difficult given how immensely he was quivering. But he summoned the last of his strength to scroll through the pictures yet again, groaning aloud as invisible railroad spikes drove through his helm.
He couldn’t remember any of these moments—not in his processor. But his spark reacted, and Bumblebee suddenly understood the uncomfortable disconnect that he’d experienced when running away from Blitzwing. His processor forgot everything, but the spark could never forget. It had known all along.
“No way,” Bumblebee breathed, still unable to wrap his mind around it, ignoring another set of purge protocols. “This isn’t…”
He scrolled to the next image, one that Blitzwing must have taken since only Bumblebee was in frame. His optics were sparkling even through the camera lens, a butterfly balanced on the very tip of his digit, its wings slightly blurred mid-flap as Bumblebee watched it with awe written in every inch of his smile.
“I don’t remember this,” Bumblebee whispered aloud. “I didn’t do this.”
But he knew he did. His spark twitched and his processor cleaved in two as it tried to piece together the broken shards of his memory. Bumblebee closed his optics and grabbed his helm, fearing the pain may make it explode, the sound of Blitzwing’s wheezing laugh reverberating from somewhere deep in his processor.
This couldn’t be possible. But Bumblebee knew it was.
His legs shook so badly that he worried he may not be able to stand, but after some struggling, Bumblebee managed to stagger to his feet and sway toward the door. As the faint, impossible smell of pine needles and wet leaves filled Bumblebee’s mind, he set his jaw and threw his door open.
He’d asked for proof, but he’d never anticipated getting any. And now, he was more determined than ever, setting his jaw as he made his way toward Bulkhead’s room.
“Bulkhead!” he called out in a voice like rusty nails. “Bulkhead!”
He stumbled against the door and slammed his fists into it, beating against the metal. “Bulkhead! Get the frag out here!”
The door slipped open, and Bumblebee would have fallen over if Bulkhead hadn’t caught him, concern etched into his features.
“Whoa, slow down, little buddy,” Bulkhead said, teetering Bumblebee back upright. “What’s wrong? You look—”
“Awful, I know,” Bumblebee panted, pushing past Bulkhead and strolling right into his room. “Pictures.”
Bulkhead stared blankly as Bumblebee began rifling through his drawers.
“Um, I’m sorry… what?” Bulkhead said.
“Pictures!” Bumblebee yelled, wincing as he looked at a painting in the corner of Bulkhead’s room. “Photos! Images! Whatever you wanna call them! I need pictures of stuff, it’ll help, I know it will!”
“Are you okay?” Bulkhead asked tensely. “You—”
“Get me pictures before I turn your room upside down!” Bumblebee shouted.
Bulkhead straightened and nodded. “Uh—yeah! Okay! Just sit down for a second, alright? Sari takes a ton on her little phone thing, I’ll just—let me call her and we can all look together, okay? But sit down for now, you look like you’re about to faint.”
Bumblebee tore open another drawer and frowned as he rifled through it, irritated at the lack of photos. Why did no one take pictures of things anymore? He made a mental note to start keeping a photo diary or something, grinning to himself at the irony.
“Yeah,” he said, walking backwards and sitting dizzily against Bulkhead’s berth. “Yeah, just—tell her to hurry, okay?”
“Will do,” Bulkhead said, nodding as he rushed from the room.
Bumblebee took a deep breath, his spark dancing in his chest with feverish excitement. Every time he closed his optics, he could see images of himself with Blitzwing, and every single one made him feel lighter than air and more confused than ever.
Best of all, he saw moments that hadn’t been captured on film, brief and splintered though they were, but it was something. He couldn’t fight away the intense denial that filled his thoughts, but he knew that those photos had been real even if he couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Every flash of color made a little more sense, every untraceable scent, every glimmer of unrecognizable emotion.
Worst of all, Bumblebee realized the increasingly heavy ache of longing in his spark may not be for his memories at all: it was Blitzwing that he missed more than anything.