Archive of Our Own ^beta

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i.

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“A call,” she says, and she shoves the papers inside her bag. There’s a growl in the way that she said the phrase that left her throat feeling slightly a tad sore, but she heeds it no mind as she looks at the wall clock above her. It’s almost a quarter past six, and she’s late for lasagna night, damn it. Taylor might sulk if she misses dinner. “Or, maybe, y’know, something? A letter’d be nice.”

She’s got thirty-seven seconds. She breathes as the guilt gnaws at her, and the anger she had felt is gone. “But, no, it’s alright. You’re busy with … and, I just--” Something wet comes in contact with her hand when she reaches for her keys, and a gentle honey scent coming from the inside of her bag smells suspiciously like her hand cream. She places her phone in between her cheek and shoulder, and mutters a curse under her breath as she reaches for a paper towel to wipe off the cream from her hand. “Sorry, wait, that’s not you. It’s, uhh--give me moment …”

When she finally screws the cap of hand cream on properly and looks at the timer on her phone, there’s sixteen seconds remaining. She exhales, “And, I’m sorry. I saw the news--err, well, Agent Burns told me everything--and I’m--I’m worried about you, Bee.” It’s not like it’s the first time he’s in a situation where Death is just a hair’s breadth away, and he usually comes out intact each time, but that doesn’t mean it gets easier for her to not worry about his well-being.

But, this time--this time, it’s not the Decepticons who wants them dead, and she isn’t sure if that’s better or worse. Burns had told her that there are those in the board who are against the operation and an investigation on the members who are in favour of Cemetery Wind’s operation will be established soon.

(“It’s difficult though,” he said, the lines in his face deepening as he shook his head, and he looks particularly old in that moment. “That Attinger was the one that had created Cemetery Wind; we can’t just move carelessly or he might catch wind of the investigation and put a stop on it before it could even start.”)

A message from Memo notified her that Taylor is indeed sulking, and she swipes the notification banner aside. Seven. She could reply to the message later. “Anyway. Call me when you’re safe, okay? Lo--” beep. Her one minute is up, and Charlie puts down her phone, her mouth crooked as she fights the want to scowl at the length limit of the voicemail.

There’s a knock on her door before it is opened, and it’s Megan from accountancy. “You’re normally out by now. Everything okay?” she asks as she peeks in. There are shadows under her eyes that makes her look ghastly, but it’s not like she doesn’t look ghastly herself. That’s the curse of working under the deadline. Well, at least they finished the project on time.

Charlie looks at her phone, and smiles. “Yeah, just got caught up talking to my … to my boyfriend.”

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ii.

--

“I still can’t believe she laughed at you when you told her that,” he laughs, static crackling as the signal dips and shifts, and she has to lower the volume on her phone from how loud it is. “But, then again, you’re forty-eight, and you’ve never talked about having a boyfriend before. She might be thinking that you’re just pulling on her leg.”

“I know you’re not wrong, but still.” Slowly, she lets her car stop in front of her house, and she fishes the garage keys from the glove compartment. “Hey, I’m outside my house now.”

There’s a shuffling on the other, and she could hear Taylor asking for the phone. She smiles at the indignant cries of the four-year old and the attempts of appeasement of his grandfather. Maybe, to have a grandchild of her own … (Silly, she should be thinking of bearing children of her own first before that.) She swats the thought away, and gets out of her car.

“Sorry, Taylor was being fussy,” Memo seems out of breath when he starts again, “Anyway, Otis isn’t at your home?”

“Nah, but I can manage,” she replies, her feet trudging on the pavement leading the way to her garage. “Memo, I gotta go now. I’ll call you guys if there’s anything up. And, oh! Thanks for calling me about my jacket, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it,” the other line crackles. “So, you’ll pick it up by Thursday, right? ”

She noticed it late. “Uhh. Yeah, yeah, Thursday. See you soon.” The phone call ends, and her eyebrows furrow.

The lights are on, and she crouches low. She might have forgotten to switch the lights off, but--no. There’s a faint sound somewhere, and she realizes it’s coming from her garage. Thieves? Adrenaline rushes through her, and it’s kinda like 1987 all over again, and she swallows the bile that’s slowly rising up her throat.

Somehow, she regrets refusing her brother’s “philanthropic act” of staying with poor ole her for a couple of days, in case she might get lonesome in her new house--or whatever it was that he had said. If only he hadn’t worded it out so weirdly (--like every other other statement that comes out of his mouth--), then she probably might not be in this situation. Or, she at least has someone who knows how to incapacitate a person with a karate-chop.

Should she call the cops? The police station takes about fifteen-twenty minutes to get to on foot, and they could get here in even lesser time. … No. It’s not a smart move if she does. The Cemetery Wind might find her connection with the Autobots and use her to lure them out--or, at least, him out. Should she call the cops? Never, robbers be damned.

With her resolve strengthened, she grabs the nearest hard object she could find, and slowly walks up to the side of the garage to listen better. If it does turn out to be thieves, well, she could always hit them unexpectedly once they’r--wait.

She knows that song.

And, then she’s running, and running, and running--she doesn’t know how she had managed to unlock the front door with how her hands were trembling so much or how she had even thought to enter through the fire door in the chance that people might see inside if she opens the garage door, but she did, and now she’s trying to open it and--

Charlie hears him before anything else, and it’s garbled radio stations and static and buzzing, and for a moment, she’s confused. And, then he’s--he’s just there, sitting on the ground, his back facing hers and he’s covered in dust and dirt, chrome and yellow and golden, and--

“Bee?” The pregnant pause is deafening, but then he turns around to look at her, and he coos. Charlie doesn’t break down, because it’s been, how long? Twenty--no, thirty years? She isn’t certain. It feels as if it had been longer. It feels as if it had been shorter. She doesn’t know, but neither does she care, and now she’s wrapping her arms around him, golden and smelling like gasoline and smoke.

“Yooouuu--l--look--k old,” Bumblebee sings when she pulls away, the songs he had used distorted and crackling. He touches the side of her face with a hand, and she leans against it.

“You look different,” Charlie responds as she presses her mouth on his palm.

Sam Cooke sings about unchained melodies in the background as the light bulb above them flickers.

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iii.

--

Charlie gives him another once-over, and nods.

After she had finally composed herself last night, she set out trying to fix him as much as she can, one in particular had been a worrisome slash that ran from his side to his thigh. She was worried that it might have been a serious injury, however a closer inspection told her that it was not the case.

She nods once, a stray hair curling on the side of her face. “Okay, everything looks alright. Or, at least, you don’t look worse than last night.” The rubix cube in his hand has a few squares missing from when he had tried flicking it and it flew to the wall, and Charlie chuckles when he tries solving it the way she had shown minutes prior. He’s got one red row on the middle down.

Her watch ticks, nine o’ seven, and she knows she has to go now if she wants to gets home early. Shrugging a plaid button-up on, she reaches out to him, her fingertips meeting his face plate. It’s cool compared to her skin, and she smiles. “You gonna be okay on your own?”

He gives an affirmative response to her question: a catchy song she might have heard in passing in malls and markets. Good, the stereo is working well.

Her initial assessment of his state last night resulted to her also finding that his radio system wasn’t working well--well, not that she needed to properly look him over to notice. His garbled greeting was all she needed to know that something’s wrong with the it. Luckily, she was able to find a spare from her garage that she could replace his old and damaged one with.

Now that she thinks about it, this might be the reason why he hadn’t contacted her in a while now. (He had explained to her once that his ability to send her transmissions and vice versa had been thanks to an upgrade given to his then stereo system by an Autobot called Ratchet. The specifics about it aren’t important right now.)

Charlie pats him once. “Don’t go destroying my house now, okay, Bee? I just bought it.”

He chirps at her teasingly, his face plate slipping to imitate the playful look she’s giving him, and waves. Ah, there’s a blue column on the cube now, on the other side where the red row is.

It’s only when she’s finally locked the front door that something comes back to her. It’s bubbling in her belly, giddy and light, and the side of her mouth hurts. She can’t stop grinning. So, it really isn’t a dream, huh?

Still, she thinks as she treads towards her car (--she had thought better of putting it into her garage and had just left it where she had originally parked it after making sure everything is switched off and locked--) and the unusual cool morning breeze clears her mind, she might need to call Memo and Lieutenant Burns. Although she would rather have Bumblebee taking residence in her garage a secret, she had learned that it’s better to have someone she trusts know. She starts the car then drives off.

Another detail she had found from examining Bumblebee last night was how close he was to wearing out two of his tyres. She only had one spare in her car and since she needs another one, she might as well change all of it. Charlie eyes the last two in suspicion.

(He told her he came from Washington DC, but just driving to San Fransisco Bay Area wouldn’t possibly cost him this much damage. He probably had a run-in with Cemetery Wind while trying to escape and had been driving all around the state to shake them off before arriving here. She curls her hand into a fist, white and pale.)

54 Wahlls Street. Reed Father and Son Auto Repair Shop. It’s the closest one to her home, perhaps a mere twenty minutes away on car, and a quick call regarding the prices of part-worn tyres assured her that they are affordable and in stock. Her budget isn’t exactly flexible at the moment, but Bumblebee hadn’t looked like he minded when she had asked him about the second-hand tyres.

The stoplight above her flashes red, and she slowly lets her car come to a halt. Another ten minutes and she’ll be arriving at the auto repair shop, and since there isn’t that much traffic, she might even be there earlier. Hmm. She wonders how Bumblebee is doing. Was he able to do another row on the rubix cube or did he grow bored of it and is now simply resting?

A car rolls to a stop beside her, and she blinks at it. Oh. She might have an idea.

The stoplight blinks green (--the same shade as the car that had rolled to a stop beside her).

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iv.

--

“Alright, Bee, it’s safe!” The sunlight is warm, and she rolls the sleeves of her tank top, a grey shirt that might have been owned by Otis at one point. Gathering her hair, she ties it into a ponytail, and she feels the wind flow through her top. She hadn’t expected it to be hot today, but hey, it’s not like she wasn’t expecting it. It’s summer after all.

She can see the rest of the city from here, and she takes a swig from the bottled water she took with her. There isn’t anyone here besides them, and though they’re on a cliff near Brighton Falls, they can’t easily be seen due to their elevated disposition. Good.

The sound of his transformation makes her pause, and she turns around to catch him staring at the view below. He looks … different, bulkier and has lost a lot of his roundness--sharp. It’s probably due to him taking the form of a Camaro that has resulted on the changes on his other form, but it isn’t just that that makes her realize how much has happened to him and how much time they had lost.

There’s a darkness in him. It’s cold and scathing, and although it is faint enough to warrant the belief of it being her imagination, she knows it’s real. After all, she had seen worse. (She remembers a towering silhouette surrounded by ash and fire and destruction, angry and red-eyed.)

His head suddenly jolts and he turns to look at her, apologetic that he might have been standing idly for too long. “It’s okay,” she reassures him, “I had to take a breather too. It’s gorgeous up here, isn’t it?”

And, this? This is not “worse”--not even remotely bad. This is her Bumblebee.

With a nod to herself, she finally straightens herself out and chucks the water bottle inside her backpack. “Alright, y’know the plan right?” Charlie asks, glancing at the travelling cars and vehicles. Yep, at this distance, it might work.

She hears him buzz in confirmation. “Find a--Disguise--To--Blend in.”

“Good.” A dot on the road below catches her eyes, and she points towards it. “Let’s try that one first, okay?” He gives her a thumbs up, and lets his visor cover his face. It takes him a moment until he shifts, the Camaro body folding into something new and the yellow colour she’s always known now gone.

He’s a Pontiac Firebird now--what generation, she isn’t exactly sure--with a glossy purple coat and a rather foul worded number plate at the back. In a way, it does look beautiful, but when he changes back and looks at himself, they both know it doesn’t suit him at all. “It’s okay,” she says, chuckling as he lowers the ridges above his optics in distaste. “It’s just a warm-up, anyway.”

The camera in her hand isn’t like her old Polaroid, but it does its job of taking his picture, and she smiles gently at the screen. “Wanna see how you look like, Bee?”

He mimics a gasp when he sees himself, and she laughs. “Right? Wanna try another one?”

Brighton Falls is a small city, and even if it is close to San Francisco which has more of a diversity when it comes to car paint job, most of the cars around here don’t have that kind of ambitious colour or print. The few that are aren’t that frequently seen being driven around at this time.

Still, when he changes, he’s turned into a Chevy in bright green with flames painted on the bonnet. Charlie tries not to break into laughter. “You look like you came out of a movie, Bee.” He ruffles her hair in response when he transforms to his non-vehicular form. “Wanna try again?”

It’s now two hours since they got there, and she stands, her knees creaking. She looks through her camera’s gallery.

Once, he had turned into a silver sedan that looked suspiciously like her next door neighbour. Another is a pale yellow Volkswagen Polo that reminds her a little bit too much of her Beetle. There was one time where he both had red and white tones. The next one is a red Ford Fiesta that had a dent mark on the side. He quickly changed out of that with a blue version of the Fiesta, and so forth. She turns her camera off.

It’s his fourteenth attempt now (--he’s a hot pink convertible, and she’s pretty sure she had seen it several times before--), and she wipes her face with her shirt, the sweat that had been accumulating on her skin finally dried. The day is beginning to be quite a bit hot now as the sun peaks high above them, and she thinks they should stop finding for his new disguise for now and call it a day. They could try tomorrow or the day after that anyway.

In the middle of her thoughts, she doesn’t see Bumblebee tilt his head and touch her side, and Charlie jumps, startled at the sudden cold bite of metal. He flinches back but and retracts his hand from her skin, before he points towards it. Still reeling from the shock of coldness, she slowly looks down and reaches at the spot he’s pointing at.

Hmm? Oh. “You mean this one?” she gathers the lower hem of her shirt and lifts it slightly higher in order for him to see the curious image of a bee on her skin just above her hip-bone properly. “You might have seen them on lots of people before--a tattoo? Do you like it?”

A sudden loud music rang through the cliff as he keeps repeating “I like, I like, I like” from a song that’s difficult to determine due to his eager clapping. Charlie smiles and closes her eyes as the memories pull her in, “I got it when I was nineteen while I was looking after a neighbour’s garden. I saw this yellow bee come in and it reminded me of you, so I wondered, why not just get it inked on me? Mom got angry at me when she found out though, but y’know, it felt like you were with me again.”

And, she felt, what? Whole again? No, it’d would be wrong to say it like that since she had plenty of time to heal her broken heart and she had plenty emotional support from the people who love her, but she would be lying if she didn’t say that something definitely came back to her when she saw that small tattoo on her skin.

“Anyway,” Charlie changes subject with a sheepish wave of her hand, as she slings her bag over her shoulder, “I think we should call it a day. You might overheat if we stay here any longer, and--Bee?”

He might have done a scan while she was talking, because he’s transforming now, his body folding and refitting until he isn’t the bright neon ride anymore. A 1967 Camaro that’s more black than yellow, and she whistles appreciatively. “I never took you as someone who likes black, Bee. Nice.”

There’s a moment where he looks like he’s disgruntled at how he turned out to be, and she reassures him, “We could always do this tomorrow if you want.”

“I apologize.” He whirs, the knobs on his radio twisting and turning, and he shakes his head. “It isn’t as--Yellow--As I thought--It’d--Be.”

“Yellow?”

“Yeah!” Bumblebee starts as the disgruntled look fades away to a certain sort of eagerness only he could convey, “Yellow. It makes us--Look like a--Couple--Dont’cha think?” He points at her where her tattoo is.

If it had been another time, she would have marveled at his ingenuity of using what he has in order to communicate, but as it stands, she blinks.

Couple? Her tattoo and yellow? Sure, it somehow matches in terms of theme, but it doesn’t look like any of the matching things she has seen a lot of pairs wore. So, why is she blushing? “Well, when you put it that way, I guess you could call yellow our complimentary look.”

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v.

--

News about three Transfomers who had been found in locations near San Fransisco and “sent to the Sanctuary” reaches them five days later, and now they’re watching the Golden Gate Bridge together again. It’s like 1987 all over again, huh? The sunset looks majestic, if only it didn’t feel like it wants to burn her. She sighs.

Bumblebee looks at her, still more black than yellow in his 1967 Camaro coat, and she gives him a loose smile. (They never really had the time to continue searching for his new disguise.) She knows what’s going to happen. It’s a given really, because they both know he can’t stay with her--not now, not when they’re still at war.

He nudges her head with his own, “I’ll--Write you--A letter.” Her voice sounded desperate at the last two words, and maybe that’s what he is right now. Desperate.

She bumps her forehead against his own. “That’d be nice.”

When he goes, she feels like she’s eighteen again, small and little compared to the large world. But, this time, as she watches him roll down the same path he took that day thirty years ago, she decides. Maybe it is like 1987 all over again and she is small and little and the world is large, but it has always been that way since the beginning of time, and she breathes.

But, this time? This time she doesn’t let him go. Who knows, maybe the next time she meets him in her garage, he finally stays more than a week. Third time’s the charm, right?

Charlie drives back home.

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fin.

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