Chapter Text
Bumblebee walked behind Smokescreen, the two Autobots patrolling in comfortable silence as Cybertron’s sun beat down on them with waves of heat. The Autobot warrior huffed, narrowing his optics to filter out the harsh light, his intake in a deep frown; Bumblebee was never a fan of how hot the sun could get during sunsets, but he managed. Cybertron’s atmosphere had repaired itself after the toxins from the war had subsided, so the heat wasn’t as bad as it had been, but it still heated the air around it, baking the Cybertronians who were out on patrols. Today it seemed especially bad; Bumblebee could see mirages appearing in the distance, dancing as lines of warmth escaped towards the sky.
He didn’t know why Ultra Magnus had assigned him and Smokescreen to patrol the edge of the Red Sea at this time of the day, especially since he knew Bumblebee didn’t like the heat.
“Sunsets on Earth are so much better,” Bumblebee mumbled, his servo coming up to provide shade for his optics as he looked around, surveying the rubble that he assumed used to be part of a small town. “They have prettier colors. And they aren’t as hot.”
Smokescreen chuckled, turning on his heel struts to look at Bumblebee, walking backwards as he thought. He flared out his doorwings, quickly checking the temperature and tilting his helm. “It isn’t that hot right now,” he said, shrugging.
Bumblebee’s glossa clicked against the roof of his intake, squinting his optics. “Su-re,” he responded, pausing when his voice box cracked on the word.
One of Smokescreen’s optical ridges started to rise. “You okay?” he asked, concern slowly crossing through his face as he stopped walking.
“Y-yee-ss,” he spoke, his voice box glitching even more. He swallowed, his throat cables suddenly dry as the heat around him got worse. “S-la-ag.” He cursed, bringing one of his servos to knock against the metal laying right over his voice box. “Pie-ce o-of s-craa-p.”
Bumblebee was used to that, though; right after he had gotten his voice box back, Ratchet had warned him that the coding would need time to get used to it, and to tell him if he had any trouble with it. He had heeded the medic’s warnings, but, well, he was excited, okay? He finally had his voice back after spending more than enough of his life without it. Even though he had some trouble accepting how different his current voice was at first, he still preferred it over being without it; he found himself talking out loud when no one else was around, giddy every time he heard words spoken in his Neocybex or English instead of binary Cybertronian. But, he quickly learned that he might’ve gone a little bit overboard because, a week after he got it back, his voice malfunctioned slightly. It cracked and glitched on words, leaving his throat feeling hotter to the touch; but, after he had lightly tapped it two or three times, it had returned to normal.
However, that was far from the only time this ended up happening; more glitches, followed by slight pain, would attack him every so often. He usually dismissed it, giving his voice box a couple of moments to recuperate as he lightly tapped it. That usually did the trick.
He knew he should’ve told Ratchet, but, after everything that happened with Unicron and Optimus, he seemed too busy getting communication between Cybertron and Earth up and running, so Bumblebee had kept it to himself. The other Autobots had bigger problems to worry about, like the grieving process of their greatest leader, than his slightly faulty voice box; he did too. And, eventually, once the internal coding in his systems got used to it, this would go away, right?
So, Bumblebee held a digit up to Smokescreen, signaling at him to give him a moment as he de-transformed the black metal around his throat and opened up his throat panel. He frowned as he flicked the metallic box several times, the pain shooting up to his processor every time he did.
Smokescreen cringed, his own servo subconsciously going to his throat to itch at the metal there. “Jeez, man,” he hissed, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Bumblebee made a face, glaring at the other Autobot as he closed his throat panel and transformed the metal back over his neck. He waited for a couple of seconds, rolling his helm around before checking his work by using the cables around his voice box, which made a clicking sound. His optics widened as pain exploded in his throat, hot fire spreading up and down his frame.
Smokescreen tilted his helm. “Dude, you sure you feel okay?”
Bumblebee felt the heat that was once around him start getting under his plating, making the fire spreading across his frame even more unbearable. His forehelm quickly started to pang with pain, a headache quickly starting to form. The mirages he saw started creeping closer to him, leaving him feeling dizzy, the world spiraling around him. He opened his intake to speak, to say something to reassure Smokescreen that he was okay, but all that came out was garbled static that reminded him a lot of a particular mission he couldn’t remember. His memory coding became nonexistent as he tried staying upright, but that sound that came from his throat seemed eerily familiar, and he didn’t like it, he didn’t like it at all; he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember why, and that started a loop through his systems. He felt like he was floating against a cliff, a servo against his throat as something sharp dug through his neck cables, his organs, his very being.
“Oh- oh my god, Bee,” he felt someone grab hold of his shoulders, the servos shaking as a blue, yellow and gray blob appeared in his swimming vision. “Uh? You aren’t looking too hot…um. Shit. I- uh, can you- okay.” A servo left his right shoulder as nausea started to crawl up his throat cables as he swallowed. “Are you okay?” Silence. “Dumbass question, Smokescreen. Of course he’s not,” the voice whispered, coughing once. “Can you- can you hear me?” More Silence. “...Bee, if this is a joke, it's really not funny......Oh. Shit. Shit.” Another beat of silence. “Um? Arcee? You there?” Silence. “Yeah, uh, hi. So, um, Bumblebee isn’t doing too good-…….what do you mean that doesn’t make sense?”
More nausea pushed against him as his helm lolled to the side as he started to slowly back up from the servo as multiple sensations attacked him at the same time. “Okay, okay, uh, something was wrong with his voice box, and he didn’t answer me, and then he just- started to get really pale?….Can we look pale?” Bumblebee felt his doorwings squish against something as his back hit a wall. “Or- or- uh, I dunno how else to describe it, I guess…frag. Um, he’s getting…worse?” Bumblebee kept swallowing down bile and trying to escape the voice and the servo on his shoulder and the heat and the pain, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. “Like- he’s getting worse really quickly!!” A finger touched his forehelm, making him flinch away from the movement. Someone hissed. “He’s burning up! Fuck, fuck, fuck- um, is it safe for him to travel through a ground bridge right now?! Uhhhh…..”
Before Bumblebee could swallow again, hot bile rose through his throat cables, searing his glossa; he pushed the servo off of him, making the voice yelp as he leaned to the side. He lurched forwards, gagging before the bile came out of his intake, and he was properly purging his guts out. He held onto the wall beside him as the irony-taste of energon fell out of him; his helm jerked to the side, aches rippling through-out his frame, an entity that wasn’t him forcing life-saving fuel out of him. After what felt like an eternity, the bile stopped coming. His frame was shaking, the plating trembling against bone structure.
“Um,” the voice spoke again, but, this time, it was so soft and small, making Bumblebee think he was hallucinating it. “He just- um. He just threw up energon. Like. Energon from his cables, not his fuel tanks.”
Suddenly, the servos were back on his shoulders, making him gasp as he tried pulling away.
“Woah- okay, Bee, it’s okay! It’s me, y’know? Smokescreen?”
The warrior vented harshly, the designation sounding familiar to his audial receptors. He cringed slightly as the world became a little less dizzying, colors blending into something more manageable to understand. Moments passed, and he could finally make out the bot in front of him; an Autobot who had dark blue and yellow plating that clashed against the softness of the sky.
“Can you- can you walk?” the rookie blurted, his face an assortment of surprise, fear, and slight disgust, his em field more than a little chaotic.
Bumblebee grunted, his vents wheezing as they released air through his frame. “‘M fi— ine -ne,” he mumbled, his voice stretching and contorting as he gave a shaky thumbs up. “Ju- jusss t-t-” his frame lurched again, coughs wracking his vents and throat as he doubled over. His frame protested against the hacks, even though it had created them, but its anger still flared up, taking itself out on the processor that inhabited it. Finally, the fit subsided, allowing his watery optics to open and see the droplets of energon on his right servo. He cringed again, looking up at Smokescreen, whose optics were wide as his intake formed a perfect o.
“Dude,” he gaped, his intake opening and closing as his servos moved around wildly. “You- I’m- Dude!”
Smokescreen worked quickly, snapping himself out of his stupor before pulling Bumblebee’s right arm over his shoulders, wrapping his left arm around the warrior’s back. He kept the other Autobot steady, making sure to not overwork Bumblebee. Smokescreen lifted his right servo up to his audio receptor, clicking on and connecting back to the Nemesis. “Yeah, Arcee, about that ground bridge,” he spoke softly. “We’re gonna need it.” He paused. “And we’ll definitely need Knockout.” Another bout of silence. Bumblebee could hear someone responding through Smokescreen’s audial fin; they didn’t sound particularly happy. “Well- then get Ratchet! Bee needs a medic!”
Swiftly, a ground bridge appeared in front of them, the green-blue vortex swirling around like a whirlpool.
“Just- try not to purge again?” Smokescreen said, his optics wide.
Bumblebee chuckled slowly, his vision blurring as he nodded.
Smokescreen led him through it carefully, holding up his weight as the ground bridge pulled and pushed on his frame, turning his world upside down, inside and out, showing off the guts that thrummed inside his being. Suddenly, they were transported to the inside of the Nemesis, the dark walls foreboding and scarred. He heard quick pedesteps storm over towards them, and thin servos appeared on the side of his helm, squishing his cheeks as they brought his optics up to look at the bot that was in front of him.
Arcee’s face was dark, concern filling every wrinkle in her plating. “He’s really warm,” she noted, glancing at Smokescreen.
“Have you called Ratchet?” Smokescreen asked hurriedly, his plating shaking slightly. “Cus- cus- this could be the Rust, or the Cybonic Plague-!”
“‘M fi-fi-ne,” Bumblebee grumbled. “Do-on ’t w-wo-orrrry.”
“Stop talking,” Arcee chastised, her voice becoming more breathy; she softly pinched his cheek as a warning and turned to look at Smokescreen. “Did this come out of nowhere?”
“Well, I’m not entirely sure…but he did say something about how hot it was…”
Bumblebee swallowed, his processor wandering as voices collided around him, creating a cacophony of noises he couldn’t decipher; he vented slowly, leaning more against the frame next to him as the world whirled, changing into a portal, the groundbridge , green and blue and disorientating. He didn’t like how this sickness, this death that clinged to his frame, reminded him of a time he’d rather forget, a time where he was told not to speak for fear of making his situation worse, a time where he had to rely on others because he couldn’t rely on his worthless self, a time where he’d close his optics and hope he wouldn’t open them again. He shuddered slightly, swallowing down bile that was produced by something other than his current predicament, even though all this pain collided with the next to the point he couldn’t tell which pain was caused by which problem, an itch in his processor forming from the confusing thoughts, the confusing processes, telling him that he was running out of time, that he was dangling over a cliff, that claws were infecting him, just like this sickness, and it was all his fault, and now he was forced to rely on the others, the others who’s helms were filled with lies.
That moment in his life still scared him a little; those thoughts, the ones that told him to aim his guns at his helm, had never truly left, but they were so bad then, and maybe, they had just gotten worse over the years, forcing him to live with them. Maybe he had them his entire life, since he was never careful, and the thoughts of sacrifice had started after Pellechrome. But that time, that’s when he really noticed them, that’s when he started to wish those thoughts become reality; that’s when he cried at night, clutching his helm, the metal over his processor, wishing, hoping, that they’d take him when he inevitably fell asleep. He’d managed to get through it, and now, he just dealt with them when they came, letting them wash over him like a wave. The wave was deathly cold, an icy feeling he’d never get used to, and it always left his plating shaking against his frame. He reminded himself that this was something everyone had, that everyone dealt with, so there was no reason to alarm the others when they ebbed and flowed; these thoughts, they were normal, right? They had to be.
He vented again, listening to the drawl noises, the sounds of the ship's inner workings beneath him, the sounds of the stars, the sounds of the sky. He groaned, the languages of the inanimate objects becoming too much. Another voice joined the conversation, rougher servos touching his shoulder and his face, a greenish blob appearing in his blurred vision with a face full of fear, of knowing. He tried to say hi, tried to reassure the unknown newcomer, but all he could do was cough up more energon as they stood waiting for someone.
It felt like an eternity had passed before the swirling of green and blue appeared before him; he winced, the sound forcing his pounding helm to worsen. A white blob walked briskly through it, teleporting some sort of tool out of its arm. Bumblebee blinked slowly, his helm lolling to the side; something seemed familiar about it, his memory coding trying to bring up instances of the white blob. Instances of hugs, of learning, of safety. Maybe this was someone he knew, or maybe he was crazy.
More voices were speaking, but this time, they were louder, forcing themselves into Bumblebee’s audials. He wished he could tell them to be quieter, to speak in a language he could understand, but he felt like if he opened his intake, more bile would fall out of it, and it would be unstoppable this time, so he kept it shut. Suddenly, more servos were on his face, whispering nearing it. He grunted, pulling his helm away from the sensations. Something sharp was inserted into his neck cables, making him gasp, unable to keep his intake closed from the re-invigorated pain. His vents stuttered, confused H.U.D. warnings popping up, speaking about poison.
The dizzying world he knew before started to calm him; his optics drooped, leaving his legs shaky as his frame forcibly shut down his systems. He almost welcomed it, though there was a tiny voice at the back of his processor that told him this was dangerous, that he was supposed to stay awake, that he knew he was falling into recharge; it seemed so scared, willing to fight off what it thought was death. But Bumblebee couldn’t bring himself to listen to it and fight. All of his motivation had been sapped from him, so slowly over time that he hadn’t noticed it. When did he start feeling this tired? He didn’t remember.
His vents shuttered, giant gulps of air permeating underneath his plating as he closed his optics, giving into whatever was taking him.
____
Bumblebee woke up quickly, leaning on his fore-arms as he vented harshly, his optics onlining; he felt slimy, snake-like things stuck into his cables that tried forcing him back down, making him feel confused. His eyesight trailed downwards towards the rest of his frame. His insides flipped once he saw the multiple medical wires trailing from him, the other ends inserted into different machines that beeped with his spark-beat, his vitals, showing him that he was alive; it reminded him of a time he would rather forget, and, if he wasn’t surrounded by the dark walls of the Nemesis, he would’ve thought he had been teleported back on that medical berth, the sentence, ‘your voice box couldn’t be recovered’, floating out of Ratchet’s intake.
Suddenly, he was pushed back there, to that fateful day; a blue explosion streaked through the sky, blending with the red-colored atmosphere created from all the fires that surrounded him. He had been injured, his left leg completely shattered down to the bone structure, the cables holding onto to his pede almost as thin as threads thanks to an explosion from Starscream. An intense euphoria blazed through his lines, and, to this day, he still didn’t know whether it was from energon loss or the Allspark being blasted into space, far, far away from him. But with that euphoria came a sense of loss that continued to grow bigger, making his processor overload with two completely different emotions. As his em field flashed out, his optics followed the blue line down to see a giant war-frame standing just kliks from the edge of a cliff near the scout. He quickly recognized it as Megatron, who was muttering something under his breath, despair leaking from him in waves. Despite Bumblebee’s better judgment, he had started to laugh.
The warlord quickly turned his attention to Bumblebee, his rage-infected em field flashing against the other’s as the Autobot scout mocked him, called him a failure, and revealed that he had beat Barricade, which had completely ruined Megatron’s plans in taking the Allspark. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed, completely ignorant to his own survival protocols that screamed at him to stop, to plead for forgiveness, to hope that the warlord would spare him. But Bumblebee just kept laughing . So, Megatron quickly retaliated, kicking the scout’s legs out from under him and picking him up from the energon infested ground, confident that the youngling couldn’t move.
Megatron saw the scout for what he was; cocky and young. And, in his processor, that was something to be fixed, something to be molded like clay. But this would be no slap on the wrist; Bumblebee had offended Megatron greatly, and that, in the warlord's mind, deserved a grand punishment. He decided to take something near and dear to the scout; it wasn’t his life. No, Megatron would’ve been sparing Bumblebee, and giving dear Orion Pax another martyr, if it was just his life.
Instead, it was his voice.
Bumblebee could still remember the feeling of the Decepticon’s clawed servos invading his frame, his em field full of unfiltered rage and greed and power. It was like Megatron knew Bumblebee would never be able to forget it, to forget what the almost numbing pain felt like, or forget the feeling of something foreign reaching to destroy him, or forget the feeling of absolute hatred the warlord felt for the scout because, in some twisted way, the child in Megatron’s servos reminded him of a miner named D-16 that had no scars, no battle wounds; a him that was all bark and no bite, and Megatron needed to teach that version of him a lesson just like all the others had taught him.
And, once the precious voice box laid in the Decepticon’s servo, Megatron had brought him over to the cliff, saying a sentence he would never be able to forget.
Let that be your story. Tell it how you may.
He was left for scrap; his frame was mangled beyond repair, his processor reeling as it shut off the systems that ran his body, his energon reserves dangerously low. The pain was agonizingly present, pushing against his nerves, his very being. His vents shuddered, the smoke from the air clogging them.
Then, he had woken up in Iacon’s med bay, a new vocalizer in his throat. Once he was conscious enough, Bumblebee was asked the dreaded question of what had happened, of how he ended up like this. Shame had hit him hard, the memories of what happened unbearably humiliating; he knew better, he should’ve known better. He had been taught to be quiet, to use his small stature to sneakily get information, to fight when he had to. And he was the best scout they had.
He knew he should’ve done, known, better. And he knew that they would’ve hated him if he told the truth.
So, he took Megatron’s advice, and he lied. He told them that he was interrogated, that he was brave until the end, and that, ultimately, he sacrificed himself, his treasured voice, for the greater good. And everyone believed him; who wouldn’t? It wasn’t like they were there, watching from the shadows. Nobody would defend Megatron, saying that he wasn’t evil enough to completely defile a youngling without a good reason.
It was wrong, he knew, he knew , but he’d rather lie to himself than be a complete and utter disappointment to others.
But still, no matter if it brought him pain, he couldn’t help but wonder what his life would’ve been like if he hadn’t lied; would Ratchet still be there to repair him after every battle? Would Bulkhead and Arcee still treat him like an equal? Would Smokescreen still call him a hero? Would Raf still be his friend?
Would Optimus still have taken him on as his iron apprentice? Would he still call him his son?
…
He hadn’t realized his plating had started to shake until he heard it clattering against the dark purple medical berth. He swallowed hard, his optics widening when he felt pain slowly form in his throat. His right servo flew to his neck, the digits trembling against the black metal covering it from the world's view. He waited, the air around him still as he slowly de-transformed the metal; he half expected to feel the scar reborn onto his neck, the Cybermatter’s work on his neck reversed, and for someone to walk in and tell him about how Predaking had found him and ripped into him for deceiving him back when he had told him he had the immobilizer, or how he had been captured by Starscream and Shockwave and they had reformed back into the Autobot he had been before, or that Megatron had a change of heart, forcibly starting the war again by clawing into his throat.
So, Bumblebee was confused when he touched the soldered metal and felt no scars, no lumps, no impurities; the only thing out of the ordinary was how hot it was, but he dismissed it, since he usually ran at a pretty high temperature. He remembered the first time Raf had ever touched him; it was a light tap on his arm, but the small human had jerked his hand away, his eyes wide.
“Are you okay? ” Bumblebee whirled softly, looking down at the human, dread starting to creep up in his fuel lines. Maybe the dark energon was still affecting him; you never knew with that stuff.
“Oh- oh yeah, I’m fine, it’s just…” Raf chewed the insides of his cheeks, his eyebrows furrowing, “Your, uh…the metal. It’s pretty warm. I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”
Bumblebee had apologized, saying that he should’ve warned Raf, but he had been brushed off. Raf had very quickly gotten used to Bumblebee’s slightly abnormal high temperature, and they had barely talked about it, besides Raf asking why he was so warm compared to the others.
Once those memories faded away, all Bumblebee remembered was how his time on Earth was now part of his past; Raf was millions of light years away, and even if he was just one space bridge away, the Autobots had been so busy with repairing Cybertron that Bumblebee couldn’t visit him, no matter how much he wanted too. Earth had left a huge impact on the young scout, leaving him empty without its presence. The lifeforms, the environments, the sounds, and the feelings were all imprinted in his memory coding, and Bumblebee didn’t think he could ever forget about them; the sprawling green mountains that overlooked lakes of crystal-clear water, the cities that housed all sorts of colorful lights and different people, the deserts full of hypnotizing dunes, the crowded rainforests dripping with water. All of it was so beautiful and full of life that he knew he’d never be able to forget it.
Bumblebee huffed, a twisted mirth crawling up his fuel lines; at this point, he knew more about Earth and its abundant culture than he did about Cybertron and his people, and, even though Primus had been resurrected, the ache for his home away from home wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. Bumblebee would be surprised if it ever did.
He swallowed as he truly digested those thoughts; he knew more about Earth than he did about Cybertron. He knew more about an alien species’ culture than he did about his own. He was more connected to a far away planet than he was connected to the one he came from. Bumblebee felt himself lean back against his arms more as he stared at the wall in front of him. Was that messed up? Was it messed up that the only reason why he cared about saving Cybertron was because everyone else wanted to save it too? Everyone else cared about it because they had grown up with it, they had time to learn about it and love it. Bumblebee only knew it as a war zone. Yeah, maybe it was a little hypocritical because Earth was just another war zone for them, but Earth hadn’t been affected by the war like Cybertron had been. It was still standing up tall, minor scratches here and there, while they had to rebuild Cybertron from the ground up, the wounds deeper than just the crust.
And Earth didn’t have too many harsh memories; the worst ones were a small collection filled with his teammates getting hurt, being possessed by Megatron, and losing his T-cog. He could count all of those on his two servos. But Earth meant more to him than that; he couldn’t say the same for Cybertron. The memories of the war on his home planet would assault his dreams; he would either see the crumpled form of Tailgate leaking energon on the floor of Airachnid’s base, or the thousands of frames of the dead he walked through when he was just a youngling, or the screams of agony that came from the patients he helped with, or the pleading for mercy from the first Decepticon he had killed in a blind rage. Every time he would wake up, he would be venting harshly, a cry on his glossa as wild optics flew around the room. But those were the easier ones; the worst ones consistently plague his every waking thought, never leaving the back of his processor, always waiting to strike at the worst times. The sounds of his own sobs as his first set of caretakers died in front of him, and how those sobs turned into crushed gurgles as claws ripped his voice box straight out of his throat.
Bumblebee shuttered, his servos clenching into tightly wound balls. His helm was pounding, his own frame crying out as slow, searing pain worked its way through him. Heat pounded in his helm, quickly coloring his vision with a multitude of circles that danced around him. His vents cleared themselves of air, his denta grinding into one another and making an insufferable sound. His spark clambered against his chassis, beating so fast that Bumblebee thought it was about to break out of his chassis.
The door on the far side of the dark med-bay opened; Bumblebee jumped, completely sitting up, prepared to fight. But, a fight didn’t break out because it was Ratchet who stared back at him, a concerned expression crossing his face. Bumblebee winced, pain ebbing and flowing, his vents wheezing. Ratchet’s face grew stern, his facial features hardening.
Bumblebee didn’t know how he’d describe his relationship with Ratchet anymore. Ever since Optimus had…left, the two had been at each other’s throats. If it wasn’t about how to rebuild Cybertron, it was about how to organize certain parts of the file system. If it wasn’t about that, it was about how much energon should be rationed out (because, really, Bumblebee wasn’t growing anymore; he didn’t need the extra substance). And if it wasn’t about that, it was about how much patrols Bumblebee had been taking on. If an argument could happen around something, it had happened between them every time Ratchet had visited. It’s not like the two hadn’t argued before; they had, many times. But, recently, it felt like they’re just mad at each other for no reason, and their anger kept coming back for stupider and stupider reasons. Bumblebee knew the other’s on the team could feel it; their glances every time Ratchet and Bumblebee were in the same room as each other said enough.
“Lay back down,” the medic ordered, quickly stalking over towards the berth. Bumblebee did as he was told, his doorwings folding back against the comfortable metal. He felt Ratchet’s scanner pass over his frame as the medic muttered to himself. Bumblebee turned his helm, trying his best to look at Ratchet from where he lay.
“B-b-addd ne-ews?” Bumblebee asked expectantly; the words that had fallen out of his intake quickly enraged his voice box, and it let him know by making his throat go tight, pain clogging his cables as he started to cough loudly. Ratchet cursed, going over to Bumblebee and slowly helping him sit up a little as the warrior hacked up his vents. Finally, the coughing fit subsided, leaving Bumblebee winded as Ratchet laid him back down.
Ratchet glared at him, leaving what felt like visible marks against Bumblebee’s frame. “What were you thinking?!” he chided; the warrior could practically see the steam coming from his audials. “Speaking while your voice box is infected! How brain-dead can you possibly be?!”
Bumblebee looked away from the medic, taking the verbal beating in silence as he felt the world swim around him, rage pooling in his fuel lines. Then, the words registered in his processor, making him tilt his helm as he looked back to stare at Ratchet, trying to communicate with just his optics.
Ratchet sighed heavily as he turned around, fiddling with the computers set around Bumblebee. “Your voice box has a nasty infection. Obviously,” he scoffed at himself, “Since Knockout was on patrol, well, I was called when you first showed symptoms. You were a couple of steps away from the Allspark when I ground-bridged here.” His vents shuttered, his servos stopping over the machines. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Bumblebee’s optics widened as memories flipped in his processor like a picture book; he was on patrol with Smokescreen, then he was trying to fix his glitching voice box, and then he was bent over, purging out everything in his frame. Everything after that was extremely blurry. All he could decipher was the feelings of servos touching his forehelm and the feeling of weightlessness. Bumblebee clicked his glossa against the roof of his intake, re-gaining Ratchet’s attention.
“Anyways,” he started, “You shouldn’t be talking right now.” Bumblebee glared at the back of Ratchet’s helm, opening his intake as he slowly sat up. Ratchet whipped around to glare back at him. “That is final. You will not speak until I deem it safe enough!” He stared at Bumblebee a little longer. “And lay back down!”
Bumblebee crossed his arms over his chassis as he moved to sit on the edge of the berth, trying to ignore how his frame protested. He let his em field flash against Ratchet’s, the mixed feelings of anger and a bit of gratitude pushing against Ratchet’s rage.
Ratchet rolled his optics, muttering to himself again.
As the medic walked around his berth, Bumblebee threw out his arms, signaling to his throat; how was he going to talk to them if he can’t, well, talk? He can’t go back to speaking binary Cybertronian since that solution had been overwritten when the Cybermatter brought back his old voice box.
As Bumblebee kept gesturing, Ratchet’s optics narrowed at the warrior, his optical ridges furrowed as he tried to decipher what Bumblebee was saying. “Calm down,” he said quietly. “You might hurt yourself.”
Bumblebee huffed, his vents starting to grow loud again as he touched his heated forehelm with his servo, his elbows against his knees. This wasn’t going to work; he couldn’t sign, couldn’t speak, and this was starting to feel too much like his healing process after what happened in Tyger Pax. He could feel Ratchet’s watchful optics stare at him, concern growing rapidly in his em field.
He huffed, deciding to give in to the only thing he could work with. Slowly, Bumblebee brought his servos up, his optics narrowing in concentration as he tried remembering the signs to certain words.
Speaking Hand, is what he eventually settled for.
Ratchet’s optical ridges rose, his optics widening slightly as he slowly walked over to the berth. “Don’t you remember Cybertronian sign language?”
Bumblebee leveled Ratchet with a stern glare, but it wasn’t filled with much malice. The medic chuckled, his rage from earlier simmering as he sat down next to the warrior, careful to move around the wires that connected to Bumblebee’s frame.
Bumblebee moved his servos in front of his chassis, looking between them and Ratchet; instead of moving to clasp their servos together, the medic gave him a stern look instead. “If, at any point, your servos or your arms or any part of your frame starts hurting, you stop immediately. Understood?”
Bumblebee’s face dropped into a scowl and he rolled his optics. Ratchet’s stern look turned into a glare again, and that made Bumblebee finally relent and nod, the small movement making his throat ache.
Now, Bumblebee hadn’t exactly spoken hand in a while. He remembered using it when he was small, fuzzy memories that felt like he was looking through a thin sheet of colored plastic permitting his processor. Other memories included Cliffjumper using it with him when he first got to Iacon, or watching Ratchet speak it with Jazz when they were around him, or the times after Tyger Pax happened where Optimus would speak it with him when he woke up from nightmares. Most of those memories included the dead, so, for the most part, he avoided using it, worried that it would somehow trigger the hallucinations that he was known for. Maybe it was why he had avoided practicing Cybertonian sign language; too many dead, and his imagination, though it had sharpened with age, still didn’t do well with containment.
Raf had asked about it once; he had seen some descriptions of it in the old Cybertronian files Ratchet had given to him. He asked about how you learn it, which Bumblebee had replied, saying how nobody really learned how to speak hand, they’re just born knowing it, like how most Cybertronians are born knowing how to walk, or knowing their role in life; the nerve circuits in servos have always been there, the coding for the language imbedded into their very beings. That’s just how Cybertronians were; they didn’t have the privilege of being born a completely clean slate like humans.
Ratchet’s servos grabbed his, pulling him from out of his helm and into the present; the medic gave him a weird look, his optics narrowed, but all Bumblebee gave in response was a sheepish smile.
I haven’t done this in a while, he spoke, the movement of servo against servo soft. It’s weird.
Ratchet grunted, tilting his helm to the side. “I remember how much you used it when you were younger,” he said, his optics glazing over with nostalgia.
Bumblebee didn’t know whether he should’ve smiled or cried.
Apparently, this silence didn’t sit well with Ratchet. “You wanted to say something?” he asked, though it was phrased more like an accusatory demand than anything else.
Bumblebee huffed, his vents clearing of air all at once. How am I going to talk? he asked slowly. One of Ratchet’s optical ridges rose, silently asking for further clarification. While I’m healing. How- he paused, his face morphing as his frown deepened. I can’t go back to before, with speaking Cybertronian, I don’t remember much of our sign language, and- this-
“This works just fine, for the most part,” Ratchet commented, breaking his chain of thought.
Bumblebee looked at the medic through hooded optics. It’s inconvenient, he noted solemnly. It’s degrading.
“It’s our culture,” Ratchet responded, his anger coming back and showing through the tone of his voice.
Bumblebee felt his denta grit together, frustration flowing through his fuel lines as cruel words and sentences directed towards him attacked his processor. He knew it would go like this; no one understands the pain of having one of the most basic forms of life ripped from you forcefully until it happens to them. No one understands the nightmares that make you jump up from your sleep, a scream on your glossa; no one understands the delusions that attack you during even the brightest of days; no one understands the embarrassment of needing someone to help you with something you should be able to do on your own; they definitely don’t understand the thoughts that come with it, the thoughts that scare you half to death until you’re kneeling on the ground, practically begging the gods above to relieve your pain. Instead, they give you looks filled with pity with underlying disgust, they whisper in others’ audials, saying how it’s such a shame, and you can feel their looks, you can hear their words. Their pity gets under your plating, it invades your organs, it makes you sick. You quickly learn that you’re different, that they will never get it, because they’ve shown you they never will. They create a circle around you, looking at you like you’re some kind of animal, and they isolate you, laughing behind your back as you try your hardest to live; it made the nightmares, the delusions, the embarrassment, and those thoughts so much worse.
It may be Bumblebee’s culture, but, to him, it’d been turned into something that proves that he was, at his core, fundamentally different.
It didn’t help that he lied about what happened in Tyger Pax. It didn’t help at all.
I knew you wouldn’t get it, he pushed, the movement of his servos getting more frantic as his vents stuttered. Uncomfortable heat returned in his throat and helm as he quickly blinked away tears born of anger. I knew it.
“Oh please. Don’t start!”
Don’t start what?!
Ratchet laughed harshly, the sound grating against Bumblebee’s audio receptors. “You are so stubborn!”
I wonder where I got it from! Bumblebee violently pulled his servos away from Ratchet’s, quickly cutting off contact from the other; the sudden burst of movement made more spots show up in his vision, his throat responding with pain. Everything started to move in a spiral, and he heard someone yell out to him, speaking incoherently as a servo seemed to magically teleport behind his helm. He felt himself be lowered down until his doorwings squished against the berth underneath him.
Slowly, after a couple beats of silence, Bumblebee’s vision cleared, revealing an extremely concerned-looking Ratchet above him. The medic’s servo let his helm fall to the berth as he got up, moving quickly as discomfort spread through Bumblebee’s wiring. The warrior cringed, swallowing down the bile that rose up from his fuel tanks.
“I don’t even know how it could get this bad,” Ratchet spoke more to himself than to Bumblebee. “I knew it wouldn’t have been an easy process, after you didn’t have it for so long, but…there were no signs! It’s like this came out of nowhere.”
Bumblebee’s optics widened as realization hit him like a truck; his fuel tanks flipped, his em field flashing with anxiety as his processor reeled from the fact that he was a complete idiot. He should’ve realized it before, but, here he was, with a completely avoidable infection in his throat that he practically caused.
Something about that seemed too familiar, and that made his plating crawl.
Ratchet noticed this immediately, turning on his heel struts and looking at Bumblebee with a needle in his servo. “What?” he asked incredulously, searching the warrior’s face for secrets. There was silence as Bumblebee mentally prepared for the verbal lashing he was about to get, the anxiety in his systems feeding into the infection. He watched as the medic’s optics widened, his intake opening before his face turned into something much, much angrier.
“I cannot believe you!” he yelled, his optics blazing as Bumblebee flinched. “You- you’ve had symptoms of infection this whole time, and you didn’t tell me?!”
Bumblebee looked away from the medic, more anxiety running through his frame.
A beat of silence before, “…Or were you trying to fix it yourself ?!”
The warrior cringed, his face sweating as his fever got worse.
“Of course you did!” he yelled. “And of course he covered for you. Of course!!”
Bumblebee turned his helm, looking at Ratchet to further elaborate.
Ratchet glared back with the power of a thousand suns. “Smokescreen said it came out of nowhere when I asked if you had done anything to cause this,” he growled, walking up to Bumblebee and inserting the needle underneath the armor in his shoulder. Bumblebee grunted, looking away from Ratchet again as the medic continued to fume.
All of the arguments they’ve been having flicked through Bumblebee’s processor, and that only made his guilt worse, the feeling of his sinking fuel tanks getting unbearable; he caused this, he always did. He caused Ratchet to worry, to work overtime, to fix him every time after he failed. It’s his fault; the infection, caused by him. The fights, usually caused by him. And losing his voice box was his fault, too. Optimus’ death happened because he couldn’t think fast enough. Ratchet would’ve been better off if the Autobots had never found him.
He reined his em field in, sick of feeling Ratchet’s anger against it. The medic seemed to notice, his optics flickering between Bumblebee and the now empty needle still inserted between armor; he pulled it out, quickly welding the new wound.
“I know this is hard,” Ratchet started, “Even if you don’t think I do, I know. And I know you don’t like us helping you.” He vented harshly after that sentence. “But we’re family. And we are here to help. So you have to talk to me, you have to tell me what’s wrong, or I…I won’t know.” The welding stopped, and Bumblebee could feel Ratchet’s eyes burning the side of his helm. Bumblebee turned his helm, wincing a little from the movement.
Silence. Neither of them moved for a long time.
Ratchet sighed, patting Bumblebee’s shoulder. “Rest,” he said, his voice commanding. Bumblebee could only nod, numbness making his frame tingle as he laid back on the berth, watching as Ratchet left the med bay for more supplies. His optics drooped, the uncomfortable feeling in his frame worsening until the darkness of sleep came to consume him, and the warrior let it, the thoughts in his helm disappearing.
____
“Kno-ockout, I-I’mmm fi-ne,” Bumblebee spoke, but, as always, his throat burned, and his voice glitched.
Knockout, who was checking the medical equipment that was still hooked up to Bumblebee, scoffed. “Oh, yes, you’re perfectly fine,” he shook his servos around in a mocking manner, “especially with that voice glitch you have.”
Bumblebee rolled his optics. “I’m get-tiing beett-er,” he argued. “A-and I st-iill ha-aa ve work to-o do.”
“You cannot do any work if you’re one with the Allspark, Bumblebee!” Knockout said exasperatedly, turning around to silence the warrior with his glare alone. “Now, sit back down; Ratchet would kill me if he found out I’m letting you talk, let alone stand up.”
Bumblebee vented harshly, sitting back down on the berth.
“Look at it this way,” the medic started, “You get to relax! It’s not going to help anyone if you work yourself into your own grave.”
“I-if I do-oo any-yymore sitti-t-ting, I mi-i-ighhtt just-t-t-t-” Bumblebee’s stuttering was quickly cut off by coughs, making him practically bend over on the berth.
“Scrap!” Knockout cursed, the coughing fit quickly setting him into motion. He ran over, standing over the warrior as he hit his back strut while pulling the plating apart to make it easier for Bumblebee to vent.
Bumblebee’s vision was swimming when he finally stopped coughing; he rubbed his extremely sore throat, cringing.
“That’s why you should rest. Primus knows you need it,” Knockout said, turning away from the scout and patting him on the shoulder a few times. “Plus, more and more bots are finally coming back to Cybertron. You don’t need to work so hard, yes?”
Bumblebee looked at Knockout from the side of his optics, a scowl on his face, but he nodded.
Knockout sighed, patting his shoulder once more before going over to one of the giant computers on the wall of the med-bay. “Just be careful,” he said as the sound of metal digits hitting a keyboard filled the room. “That’s all we want.”
More silence.
It had been a week since the infection had started, and, by each hour, Bumblebee was getting more and more antsy, his servos itching to get back to work. He hated recovering from illnesses, or injuries, or anything, even if it was as small as a bump on his leg. Everyone would treat him like he was made of glass, side-stepping around him and whispering like he couldn’t hear them. But he could. He always did.
Bumblebee grumbled, rubbing at his sore helm with his squared servos.
Soon after, Knockout left; the medic had told him to stay put, just like Ratchet. The warrior nodded, getting ready to be alone with his thoughts once again before he accidentally fell into a fitful recharge, or he scarred from how hard he was scratching his helm. He always hated being alone with his thoughts; drowning them out was easier than listening to their quiet whispers, their plans for him to join the Allspark, their sharp tongue and their incessant jabs. And, here they came, along with the memories of claws, of humans searching though his frame for a precious organ, of laughter that bounced around his helm as a warlord’s psyche infected him, of a plasma blast becoming one with his chassis, of screams as he shot at someone’s spark, of Optimus’ face as he looked back at the scout, his left pede on the edge of the Well of Allsparks as he prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice.
Oh Primus, he can’t do this. Not now.
Bumblebee stood up quickly, stars growing in his wobbly vision as he ripped the wires out of his frame; he guessed he had an hour max before someone checked on him and noticed he was gone. Whatever; there was a lot he could do in an hour.
His servo slipped on the mechanism that opened doors in the Nemesis; once it opened, he looked out into the hallway, surveying his surroundings. Thankfully, it was completely empty, the only sounds coming from above him. He quickly slipped between the opening, letting the door close as he bolted to the exit, ready to get out into the world again.
____
He smelled the energon being burned in his systems as he patrolled around the Red Sea, carefully staying out of sight; Bumblebee wasn’t stupid enough to fight someone while he was like this. His stupidity maxed out at going on patrol in the first place. He huffed, the burn from driving settling into his systems. He just needed a little fresh air, a little exercise, that’s all. He needed to feel like he was doing something instead of just sitting around, waiting for something to happen.
The sun was setting once again, its hot rays almost overbearing, his vents forcing themselves to work overtime. His processor felt foggy, his vision blurring at the edges as he sped along the mostly flat ground. He tried focusing on dodging different pieces of rubble or parts of the ground that were uneven, but that almost caused him to crash into a wall, so trying to do everything at once was just what he had to do. Apparently, that was a lot harder when you were fighting a fever, delusions, trying to drive and not to get yourself killed by running into a ditch.
“Bumblebee!! ” An angry voice crackled over his comm, surprising him so much that one of his wheels hit a particularly big piece of rubble, forcing him to transform; he rolled multiple times before his backplates hit another piece of rubble, crushing his doorwings and making them flare up. He groaned, rubbing his optics before he recognized the voice.
“You imbecile!” Arcee screamed over the comm, her own voice crackling with static. “You are so dead, you hear? So fucking dead! ”
Bumblebee looked over the yellow landscape, the voice in his audio receptors turning into something incomprehensible. The haze at the corners of his vision started to constrict, making it feel like he was looking through a tube. His vents whirled. His optics widened; they searched the environment around him, looking for something that stretched beyond his imagination. They landed on a giant opening to a hole in front of him; that wasn’t there before, was it? No…he didn’t remember that. He would’ve remembered that, wouldn’t he?
He realized where he was a little too late.
The rubble of Tyger Pax stretched before him, creating hollow shadows that seemed to move with Bumblebee’s every breath. His helm moved side to side violently, his throat tingling with pain, cold air hitting his voice box like dry ice. His optics found new movements every time they dared to look away from all of the spots around him. The sky grew darker, the yellows from the sunset turning into dark reds, clouds of ash forming overhead. Fires roared all around him, clogging his vents with smoke. The ground beneath him shuddered, blue lines spreading from the hole and becoming one with his frame. He watched as the hole exploded with blue light, illuminating the air around him. It was so bright that his optics hurt watching it, but he couldn’t look away; something about it was so mesmerizing. The light commanded his every vent, his very being. It lived with him, it created him, it created everything . But, the light shuttered, hesitating for a couple of nano-cycles before running away, like it was afraid of leaving something behind, like it was sorry.
Laughter echoed from behind him; the voice, oh so familiar but somehow twisted. It seemed like it was his, it sounded like it was his before he had lost it, but there was something wrong, something oh so wrong. It wasn’t him, not anymore. That was him before it all happened, before he learned the lesson. But, he could only watch as the shadows constricted around him and revealed a yellow frame, a younger him, laughing in front of him, a limp in his left leg, his right arm barely holding together. A darker, taller, more imposing frame towered over the laughing him, the younger, stupider him, and Bumblebee choked when he saw claws come from the shadowy figure, encapsulating the younger him and lifting him above ground; the shadow sneered, its optics twisted. The other set of claws danced around the scouts throat, a warning before they plunged into the delicate metal. Laughter turned to screams, and soon, the shadow figure was smiling, all denta, no optics.
The shadows disappeared as something crawled out of the Well of Allsparks. His frame felt like stone as he watched frames of bots crackle and snap and break into standing positions, their faces morphed. He saw the frames of Autobots he watched die; Tailgate had a hole straight that ran straight through his chassis, small, lighting-looking scars stretching across his frame that connected up to his exposed, monstrous looking face. Cliffjumper had a slit the size of a servo right were his spark was supposed to be, a giant slash running straight through his torso, cutting off his left arm from his shoulders; the upper side of his frame that started at the slash looked like it had been blown to bits, completely destroying his face and neck. Optimus’ frame was completely gray; the most unnerving thing about him was there was no scarring besides his chassis being completely caved in, but it moved like he was still venting. Skyquake had been blown to bits, his neck forcefully tilted at an angle while his legs had been chewed into a mangled pile, Moonracer was missing her lower jaw and parts of her chassis, Seaspray’s organs weren’t in his torso, Breakdown was pulled apart, Dreadwing’s chassis was shrouded in a purple glow, the innards on full display, and Thundercracker was beyond recognizable. More bodies, more Cybertornians, pulling themselves out of the Well, all clambering towards him.
“Do you think you deserve your life more than we deserved ours?! ” Optimus’ voice boomed, but his intake didn’t move, his optics staring Bumblebee down. “I am your savior, I am the only reason you are alive, and I know you. I know what you’ve done.
“I know your lies, your mistakes, your life. I’ve seen it all. You must work it off, that is the only way you will deserve it.” Suddenly, the voice was in his audio receptor, unbearably loud. “Remember who was killed. Remember who was sacrificed for you. Remember them well.”
A face was close to his; it wasn’t Optimus’. He blinked and tried to move his arm to push it away, to fight, but his frame felt like lead, and the world was so bright now, like the sun had shown directly into his optics. He groaned, his face on fire as he tried to find some form of relief.
“Bumblebee!” Ratchet’s voice called out to him. “Can you hear me?”
He vented harshly, feeling squared digits dig into his shoulder plating. He nodded, swallowing down bile. “I-I hea-ar y-ooou.”
Ratchet sucked air between his denta. Bumblebee’s vision turned from stars and into something more bearable, and the face in front of him became Ratchet; he looked scared, more scared than Bumblebee had ever remembered him.
“Yooo u’ree sup-pos-ed to be-e on Eee-arthh,” he spoke, his processor pounding.
Ratchet’s face morphed into rage, his optics flashing red. “I had to be called here because of someone,” he said sarcastically. “What were you thinking?! Doing this?!”
Bumblebee’s frown deepened, his memory coding forcefully bringing him back to the present. “I-I n ne-eded to-o ge-et o-uut-”
“Stop talking!” Ratchet practically yelled. “We need to get you back on the Nemesis.”
This time, he had enough energy to push Ratchet off of him.
“Bumblebee-!”
He stood up suddenly, his vision swimming as he took one step to the side to balance himself.
“What are you doing?!” Ratchet asked, standing up from where he crouched to follow the warrior.
“I’m-I’m fi-ine!” Bumblebee yelled back, his frown twisting. “J-uss-t l-eave mee-e alone!”
Ratchet stood in silence for a couple of moments, just staring at Bumblebee, before he scoffed, throwing his arms out. “You- are you fragging serious?!” One of his servos flew up between the crease forming on his forehelm. “Bumblebee, this infection is serious! Why- why aren’t you treating it like- like you can just bounce back from it?!”
“B-because I ne-ed to!” Bumblebee screamed back, his vocal chords straining from overuse. “Bec-aause I neee-d to ma-ke it up! I neeed to sho-ww thaa-t I g-oot bet-t-ter! Th-at I’m-m not like hi-im anymore!” He huffed, glaring at Ratchet as the medic’s face got more and more confused. “Allll of the-em di-ed for me, t-oo mak-e-e it up, and, go-dd, I just- I n-nneed t-to d-oo thiss!” He vented heavily, his plating shaking as his throat protested. “Ple-eas-e.”
The medic’s optics were wide, the anger completely wiped clean from his face; it was replaced by something Bumblebee couldn’t decipher. Ratchet took one step forward, and Bumblebee mirrored him, taking one shaky step backward.
“Bumblebee…” he said softly, his frown deepening. “Your fever is getting worse.”
Bumblebee shook his helm violently. “I-I’ve do-one t-his too ma-an-ny tiiimes,” he stuttered, his world swaying like he was in a ship. “Y-yo-u go-tt-ta tr-us-tt m-e.”
Ratchet stood there, his knees bent in a way that made him seem like he was taming a feral dog. “We need to get you back in the med-bay.”
“N- o o !” Bumblebee yelled back. “I’ m - m no-o t go n-n a d o -o th- at again.”
“Jesus Christ,” Ratchet cursed under his breath. “You’ve done enough for the Autobot cause; some would say you’ve done far too much. So please, just let yourself heal!” He paused. “You sacrificed your voice to save us!”
“I- I -”
“Your T-cog, their deaths, the interrogation-”
“R- a atch -ch et-”
“-that wasn’t your fault!”
“It wa-sn ’t a-n inter-rro-ogat-t-tion!”
Ratchet paused, his optical ridges tight over his optics. “…What?”
Bumblebee felt dread flip his fuel lines upside down; he didn’t mean to say that, no, no, he was never meant to tell them, to reveal himself, because he was supposed to take that to the grave, and they’d think he was a hero, they’d bury him as a hero, because that’s what they thought he was, but now, now it was too late, they’d start questioning, and they’d figure it out, and they’d hate him, they’d push him out, he’d lose them all, and this would be for nothing, wouldn’t it? Where would he go? He wasn’t loved, not anywhere else. Him and his big mouth, why couldn’t he just-
“Bumblebee!” Ratchet shook him, and Bumblebee turned, and suddenly, the medic was face to face with him, his servos clutching both of Bumblebee’s shoulders. “Listen to me.”
The warrior swallowed, tears building behind his optics as he blinked.
“You deserve to be here with us,” he said harshly, “You, above all of us, deserve a good life. And- and you never got it! But you…you persisted. You stayed here, despite everything, because you believed this world could be saved. That’s what makes you an Autobot.” He took a sharp vent. “That’s what makes you my son.
“I don’t care about Megatron, or the Decepticons, not right now. They could be building a bomb, or bringing back Unicron, but I don’t. I don’t care if you think you have some debt you need to pay off for whatever stupid reason you’ve convinced yourself into believing, I don’t care. But I do care about you, especially right now. That’s not changing; we both know I’m too stubborn to let it.” He looked directly into the warrior’s optics. “I’m…I’ve only ever cared about two other people as much as I’ve cared about you. And that’s scary, sometimes. It scares me how much I’d grieve if you…” he trailed off. “I care about you, Bumblebee. I always have, always will.”
Bumblebee felt his face morph, scrunching up with grief he had kept deep inside him until now, and it was overflowing from his spark, coming out of his optics, into his servos, consuming him and changing him. He felt arms wrap around him, a soothing but worried voice in his audio receptors as everything around him exploded and reattached itself over and over again. His sobs wracked his frame, preparing to leave him hollow with no organs or thoughts, floating endlessly. And, after everything? That might be what he deserved.
But is life really just that? Taking and giving from people who do and don’t deserve it? Did Megatron deserve to be a slave because he was born? Did Optimus deserve to be a file clerk, sorting through data until his bones gave away because he dreamed too much? Did Arcee deserve losing two of her closest friends? Did Bulkhead deserve to be infected with that Tox-en? Did Smokescreen deserve their ire? Did Wheeljack deserve to hop from planet to planet, forever destined to be lonely? Did Ultra Magnus deserve to lose his servo?
Did Bumblebee deserve what happened to him? On that fateful day in Tyger Pax, on Earth at the hands of the humans, or in front of Megatron’s plasma cannon over a pool of Cybermatter? Maybe he did, maybe, but that didn’t dictate his life, his being. He wanted to be more than just that, to be more than what he does or doesn’t deserve. Fate is a weird system of checks and balances, and, a lot of the time, it chooses the wrong people to destroy.
None of this was fair. And maybe, maybe that isn’t entirely his fault.
“I-I-‘m s-rry,” he hiccuped, his words almost completely unrecognizable as his helm rested against Ratchet’s shoulder.
“Stop talking,” the medic chided again, slowly changing his grip on the warrior until one of his arms was over Bumblebee’s shoulder. Now, they were walking towards a ground bridge (had that been there the entire time?). “You need to rest. We’ll…talk more. Later. When you’re ready.”
Bumblebee nodded, closing his optics; recharge sounded really good right about now.
And, he’d tell them; he’d tell them the truth of what happened, of what he’d seen. He’d start talking to them this time, because hiding it was so much worse than admitting it, even if that scared him. It’s better to talk than to ruin yourself with guilt, with needing to pay back incomprehensible debts.
He just hoped they’d understand; and, knowing the team, they would, because they cared.