Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Optimus became a soldier, he knew he would witness terrible things. Death, violence, and hatred became part of the horrors of war. But none of it prepared him for the nauseating and heartbreaking sight of entire communities reduced to nothing more than piles of bodies.

He let out a huff, dragging his pedes across the ground stained with the energon of fallen Cybertronians. The Decepticon attack had been too fast, unexpected, and cruel. The all-too-familiar feeling of helplessness made Optimus’s spark tighten within him, but there was no time to grieve when the search for survivors had to continue.

Megatron, even without being present, seemed to mock him. Dead Cybertronians were piled on top of each other, discarded like garbage, as if their lives were worth nothing.

A hopeful and somewhat naive part of him wished there was at least one survivor. There didn’t need to be many, just one would be enough. One would bring the peace Optimus so desperately craved after seeing this small village destroyed.

“Sir, any survivors?”

Optimus jumped at the sound of Ironhide’s voice coming through the communicator. He looked around for the gray bot, but the soldier’s voice rang out again only through the comm.

“Sir?”

“No, Ironhide,” Optimus sighed, rubbing his tired blue optics. “And you?”

“No, unfortunately none so far,” Ironhide’s usually confident voice was subdued, weighed down with the sorrow that always came with searches after a Decepticon attack.

No Autobot was free from this grief. All of them, without exception, carried ghosts that haunted them day after day without rest.

Ironhide was one of the few whose ghost wasn’t a soldier or an adult Cybertronian, but a sparkling. Optimus would never forget how the light in Ironhide’s optics had died the moment he found a small, lifeless sparkling discarded like refuse after an attack.

“I understand. Let’s keep looking,” Optimus said as gently as he could, stepping over wreckage on the ground. “We’ll check the homes before heading back to the ship.”

He heard a quiet “Yes” from Ironhide before the communication cut off. Refocusing on his own search, Optimus walked through streets stained with the energon of innocents, checking each house with a trembling spark and wide optics.

He found nothing but more and more bodies, entire families cruelly and brutally slain.

There was only one house left in the area, and unlike the others, this one had been destroyed. Not as a result of the attack, but intentionally. It looked deliberately torn apart.

Optimus narrowed his optics as he approached the building. The door gave way under his servo as he pushed, and the walls were scorched, ravaged by the attack. There wasn’t a single spot untouched, and he wondered how the structure was even still standing.

In the center of the wreckage, amidst the dirt and debris, a femme lay curled up in a fetal position. She trembled with pain and fear, and Optimus rushed toward her with raised servos, his spark threatening to burst inside his chassis.

Carefully, he pulled the debris away from the injured femme and tossed it aside. The floor beneath her was soaked in energon and shards of her own yellow armor. The femme’s blue optics widened as Optimus approached her wounded frame, and she curled up even more, almost forming a small ball in front of him.

“Easy,” Optimus whispered, dropping to his knees before her, hoping his size wouldn’t frighten the poor Cybertronian. “My name is Optimus Prime. My Autobots and I are here to help.”

The femme’s optics narrowed, and she looked at him with suspicion, scanning him as if searching for the slightest sign of a lie. Optimus met her gaze with the same intensity, horrified by the deep wounds covering her body.

She seemed to relax slightly when she saw the Autobot symbol on the Prime’s chest, and her defensive, frightened posture faded. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but only more energon escaped. She coughed, choking on her own fluids.

Optimus reached out to touch her, but she shook her helm weakly. Slowly, she extended her injured legs and opened her cut arms, moving so slowly that Optimus could only imagine the pain she felt with each motion.

There, nestled in her arms and pressed to her chassis, a sparkling recharged.

He was terrifyingly small, so small that Optimus was absolutely certain this little one should not have been out of the gestation chamber yet. The youngling had been born early, and judging by the femme’s torn chassis, he could guess why.

Disgust and fury welled up inside him at the realization that this femme had been attacked because she was carrying a sparkling.

Shaking his helm, he stepped closer and tried to lift the femme into his arms. If he hurried, maybe Ratchet could still save her. But the wounded Cybertronian pushed him away, hitting his servos with the last of her strength.

Optimus stared at her, confused and fearful, but the femme, her mouth shut tight and groaning in pain, stretched out her arms with the sparkling in her hands.

Seeing such a tiny being handed to him was terrifying, and if it weren’t for the femme’s frailty, he might have refused. But she could barely hold the little one, trembling just from the weight.

With a heavy sigh, he took the sparkling into his arms and pressed him against his own chassis. The little one chirped and whimpered weakly as he was taken from his caretaker but didn’t cry.

The femme, her mouth filled with energon and her frame trembling, smiled at Optimus. The trust in her optics choked him, and he instinctively cradled the sparkling more gently, pulling him closer to his spark, hoping the child would feel safe.

As if she had been waiting for this moment, waiting for someone to carry away her most precious treasure, the femme stopped moving.

.

Optimus doesn’t mind the stares he receives when entering the base.

Autobots of all kinds look at him with horror, fear, amazement, and joy. Most of them haven’t seen a sparkling since the beginning of this bloody war, and they all seem eager to hold the little one and spoil him. But none of them dare approach as Optimus, in complete silence, enters the medbay and locks himself inside with Ratchet.

“How...?” Jazz is the first to speak, one of the few brave enough to approach Optimus and enter the medbay with him. His antennae perk up when the sparkling lets out an annoyed chirp as Ratchet touches him, squirming in the Prime’s hold. “He’s so small.”

“He’s a newspark,” Ratchet mutters, opening the tiny servos of the sparkling to check for injuries. Fortunately, there are none. “But he looks strong.”

“His caretaker is dead. I think she was attacked by the Decepticons because she had a sparkling on the way,” Optimus says, looking down at the little one in his arms, noting how his round, soft helm and yellow paint are identical to his carrier’s, an almost exact copy.

He doesn’t miss the way Ratchet seems to growl in fury.

“He’s too small. Born too early,” Ratchet moves a servo to lift the sparkling’s tiny antennae, earning another irritated chirp. “Look, they shouldn’t be this small. Even for a minibot, he’s way too tiny.”

Jazz and Ironhide look at the sparkling with sympathy, something like fury and disgust gleaming in their optics. Nothing is more vile than the idea of harming a cybertronian with a sparkling on the way. And considering Ratchet’s words, it becomes clear the femme’s injuries forced this tiny life into being too soon. The fact that he’s alive at all is a miracle.

If Optimus hadn’t been in that house, the sparkling would probably be dead by now. His caretaker would’ve perished before him, and as a newspark, he would’ve starved.

“Monsters,” Ratchet mutters, pressing his digits to the sparkling’s tiny pede. The little one grumbles again, only stopping when Ratchet pulls away. “He’s healthy, thankfully. But he’s very young and not only needs a caretaker, he needs a bond.”

“A bond?” Optimus asks. The word sounds familiar, but his overwhelmed processor can’t quite place it.

Besides, he hasn’t been close to a sparkling in a very long time, and this part feels confusing.

“If he doesn’t bond with someone, he’ll die,” Ratchet’s blunt statement draws horrified gasps from the other bots in the room. Almost instinctively, Jazz and Ironhide seem to form a protective wall around Optimus and the little one in his arms. “All sparklings need a bond. And this one needs it even more. In the spark chamber, he would be bonding with his caretaker right now. So he could get sick if he doesn’t find a new one soon.”

“Optimus was the one who found him,” Ironhide says suddenly, watching Jazz gaze at the grumbling sparkling with an enchanted smile, more interested in admiring how adorable the little one is. “Maybe there’s already a bond.”

Optimus’s blue optics widen, and he stares at his soldiers in surprise and shock.

Most of them haven’t seen a sparkling in a very long time. Optimus himself never really bonded with one before. As Orion Pax, sparklings never showed interest in him, and he, busy with his responsibilities, merely observed them from afar with curiosity, and a bit of amusement at the messes they left behind.

Ratchet’s sharp gaze finds him, and somehow, he seems to read everything going on in Optimus’s processor. Without saying a word, he picks the sparkling up and walks away from the Prime, his back turned, as if ignoring him.

It doesn’t take long before Optimus watches, wide-eyed, as the sparkling squirms in Ratchet’s arms and starts to wail. The little one’s cry echoes through the medbay, devastated, flailing his tiny servos as if searching desperately for the Prime who held him minutes earlier.

Something in Optimus’s spark shatters into a thousand pieces at that sorrowful cry. The tiny, innocent creature sobs in fear, and Ratchet, with surprising gentleness, hands him back to Optimus.

The crying stops the instant he’s back in the Prime’s awkward embrace, replaced by soft sobs that make his small frame tremble. He snuggles against Optimus’s chest, his lips puckered in a pout, as if showing just how upset he is that the Prime left him.

“You’re already bonded,” Ratchet says simply, crossing his arms with a tired, yet concerned expression. “You have to take care of him, or he’ll die.”

Optimus opens and closes his mouth several times, searching for words that make sense—anything other than a high-pitched, “Are you insane?!”

But just the thought of being apart from the little one hurts like a stab, whether from the bond or simply Optimus’s natural instinct to protect such a fragile life.

“I… I’ve never taken care of a child before,” Optimus murmurs, his voice full of fear and worry. He ignores the shocked looks from Jazz and Ironhide. If they thought Orion Pax was good with children, he’s just shattered that illusion. “I don’t even know how.”

Ratchet’s optic-roll is practically that of a disappointed caretaker. Optimus, intimidated and a bit scared of the temperamental medic, shrinks back like he was the sparkling in the room.

“Are you stupid?” Ratchet’s look seems to say, and Optimus could swear he’d smack him on the helm if not for the tiny newspark in his arms.

“You really think I’m going to leave you alone?” the medic snaps, equal parts amused and irritated. “I’m the medic. It’s my duty to care for those in need, including that little one you’re holding.”

Jazz appears beside Optimus, nearly bumping into his shoulder as he flops onto the medbay berth next to him. The soldier’s helm is tilted, still watching the sparkling with joy and affection—a sparkle in his optics that Optimus hasn’t seen in ages.

“When you guys are busy, Ironhide and I can help!” Jazz offers cheerfully, pressing a digit to the sparkling’s soft yellow helm. The little one lets out a curious chirp, clearly intrigued by the touch and the sound of someone new.

The sturdy berth creaks as Ironhide positions himself on Optimus’s other side, arms crossed and leaning close, his gaze fixed on the newspark as though he were something rare and precious. He is—but the way Ironhide looks at him makes it even clearer.

“He’s the first sparkling to be born in a long time. And now, as your sparkling, he’s our responsibility,” Ironhide smiles, something Optimus hasn’t seen from him in so long. “And he’s adorable.”

That the sparkling is cute is obvious, but hearing Ironhide say it like that is almost funny. Optimus’s spark, tight and anxious at the thought of keeping this tiny life nearby, begins to relax. He lets out a soft snort of amusement when Ironhide pokes the sparkling’s pede just to hear another round of grumbling. Ratchet, now a little distance away, walks off to prepare energon for the youngling.

Ironhide grumbles as he’s pushed aside by Ratchet, who promptly takes his place beside Optimus and grumbles right back. Ironhide stays standing, optics fixed firmly on the sparkling between them.

Ratchet is patient, calmly correcting Optimus’s hold until the newspark is sitting up slightly. As soon as the first drop of energon touches his mouth, the little one chirps happily, clearly starving.

The improvised bottle isn’t perfect, but the sparkling doesn’t seem to mind and accepts the feed without fuss. His tiny digits latch onto Ratchet’s with all the strength he has, and the usually grumpy medic smiles, moved by the little one’s charm. Almost as if sensing that warmth, the sparkling lets out a sound similar to a clumsy laugh.

The bottle is quickly emptied, and the tiny one hiccups, full and content. He nestles against Optimus’s chest, helm pressed to where the Prime’s spark pulses. Surrounded by four adult bots, his optics open for the first time.

They’re blue.

Blue like the morning sky, and bright, innocent, unlike any other Optimus has ever seen, even among bots with blue optics.

They might be the most beautiful optics any of them have ever seen.

The sparkling gazes at Optimus, seeming curious and deeply fascinated with the Prime, even opening his small mouth to let out soft, surprised coos. His optics move between all four bots as if he wants to see everyone at once.

His tiny servos rise uncertainly, as though unsure who he wants to touch first. Jazz lets out a delighted squeal, looking at the tiny one with almost childlike wonder.

“Hey there, little one,” Optimus murmurs, and his deep voice pulls the sparkling’s attention back to him, optics wide. The soft laugh Optimus lets out shakes his frame against the youngling, drawing more surprised chirps and curious squeals.

And then the sparkling laughs.

It’s a clumsy, wheezing, slightly awkward laugh mixed with uneven puffs of air. That imperfect sound brings bright, delighted smiles from the bots around him, like this little one is their sun. Optimus lifts him until the sparkling is eye level, staring back with a wide smile

The little one stretches out his tiny arms and grabs the Prime’s helm with his small servos, squeezing it and letting out more funny and curious sounds, as if the leader of the Autobots were a very amusing toy.

Optimus feels his spark tremble with joy and affection, something warm that makes him relax and smile. He can feel the bond between them forming, new, fragile, and strange, but also full of warmth and bringing a peace he hasn't felt in a long time.

"What should we call him?"

Optimus looks at the sparkling. His yellow paint has small black details that highlight his round, adorable helm, as well as the small and charming winglets. It reminds him of an alien creature he once saw in a book—a creature that, strangely and amusingly, reminds him of this little one.

"Bumblebee."

.

Bumblebee has rather odd routines.

He’s the only sparkling in the base and is therefore very spoiled and showered with affection by the soldiers. But he usually chooses to recharge while everyone is awake, and becomes full of energy when everyone else is recharging.

Optimus knows that this is normal, but it's still odd, and a bit funny, to see him bouncing around like the ball of energy he is in the middle of the night.

Optimus doesn’t usually recharge properly (may Megatron strike him before Ratchet finds out), so he doesn't worry much about the little one’s sleep schedule since he's often awake with him anyway. But this has allowed him to observe his ward’s habits more closely, and many of them are a little different from what he thought was normal.

Bumblebee doesn’t play with the toys Jazz left in the crib. He just lies there with his optics staring up at the ceiling, still too young and small to sit or walk. Optimus can’t sense anything through the bond, as if Bumblebee’s tiny processor has nothing to focus on except the shifting patterns above his cradle.

Optimus approaches the crib and peers over the small bars that keep the little one safe, smiling when he sees him. Bumblebee giggles at the sight of his guardian and reaches up with his tiny arms, optics shining like the brightest star. His love is transmitted through the bond, and Optimus huffs, his spark trembling with emotion.

“You don’t like being away from me, do you?” he asks, pulling back his faceplate so Bee can see his smile, which earns a short laugh from the little one “Oh, little Bee, you really are one of a kind.”

Carefully, he lifts Bumblebee and holds him above his helm to make him laugh. The sparkling is small enough to be held effortlessly, cradled securely in his guardian’s strong servos.

“You’re adorable, and I’m sure you know it,” Optimus chuckles, as the little one grabs the antennae on his head like they’re the most fascinating toys ever, far better than the ones Jazz brought.
“I haven’t seen everyone this happy in a long time. You’re the joy we didn’t know we needed.”

Bumblebee lets his helm drop to the side, one hand in his mouth, his round optics blinking up at Optimus as if he doesn't understand anything being said. He doesn’t, but Optimus melts at how curious he looks just staring at him.

If there’s a reward for all the pain and despair caused by war, then that reward has come in the form of a tiny and adorable sparkling. Holding him gently against his shoulder, Optimus kisses his round helm and lets Bumblebee explore the red paint with wide-eyed wonder. The baby yawns, and Optimus lays him across one arm, pressing him gently against his chassis once more. He watches as the little one powers down his optics and curls up on the Prime’s arm, recharging with soft clicks and looking completely content with the attention he’s receiving.

Optimus glances between the pile of work on the desk and the crib beside him, but Bumblebee looks far too comfortable—and it almost feels like a crime to wake him, even by accident. With a sigh, he pulls away from the messy desk and settles back in the uncomfortable chair, cradling Bumblebee close.

Chapter Text

Ratchet knows he’s not the calmest bot.

He never was, and he has no intention of becoming that way. Before this war, his main sources of stress and anger,which made him so irritable, came from stubborn patients and the never ending work at the hospital. Still, it was his life, and despite the pressure, it was a good life.

Then the war began.

Every day was filled with death, unbearably long and agonizing. It never gets easier, no matter how many friends he loses or how many patients die in his servos, the burden on his shoulders only grows heavier over time.

No matter how hard he tries, he cannot save them all.

Eventually, he got used to being constantly stained with energon, perpetually busy trying to save another life. Being surrounded by death became a routine part of his days, no matter how grim or suffocating it felt.

Nothing seems to get better, nothing changes, and Megatron only grows crueler with time. Watching so many friends die destroys any Cybertronian, and no matter how much Ratchet loves and cherishes those still alive, it does little to ease the pain. Lives have been lost, and nothing will ever bring them back.

Even Drift, his beloved partner, can’t make it all go away. Even though Drift tries to comfort him, nothing will ever change the fact that there are many he couldn’t save.

Then Bumblebee showed up.

That tiny, fragile, noisy sparkling appeared, and everything changed.

It was bizarre to see Optimus holding something so small and precious. It was even more shocking when they discovered Bumblebee was a premature newspark. That this child was alive and healthy was a miracle, something Ratchet hadn’t experienced in a very long time.

The idea of having someone so young and so protected by soldiers felt wrong, really wrong. None of them were prepared to care for such a delicate, tiny being, none of them even knew what it was like to have a sparkling that small around. Ratchet understood it in theory, not in practice.

His rational, concerned side screamed that they needed to find a way to keep the sparkling safe and away from them, all of this slaughter and the monsters surrounding the base. Having a newspark in a military facility was not a good idea.

But he couldn’t say any of that, not when he looked into those innocent, bright optics. The little one looked at him with innocence, seeking affection like any other child. He was innocent, Bumblebee was not to blame.

Ratchet is a bot who loses his temper easily, but he’s not a monster. He’s not cruel, and he would never separate that little one from Optimus, not when the bond between them was already clear, and Bumblebee looked at him with that innocent, adorable spark of trust.

Ratchet’s spark, hardened and broken by war, was soon embraced by those tiny, careful servos, the only ones among all living Cybertronians that would never dare to harm him.

If Drift is the one who won his spark, the one he loves and is loved back in return, Bumblebee is his little miracle, the treasure he values and never imagined needing. Together, they are all that Ratchet loves most, and even amidst this horrible war, they are his main source of happiness.

He’s seen that adorable little sparkling bring smiles to bots depressed and worn down by war. It has become a routine to stroll around the base with the little one in his arms, letting him play with the old soldiers, giving hugs, providing comfort when needed. Bumblebee is their sunshine, and Ratchet will forever be grateful to have him.

Still, that doesn’t change the fact that he’s Ratchet, the feared Autobot medic, and Bumblebee, in a funny way, is a mini-Optimus.

So he is absurdly stubborn.

That’s why, when he hears Bumblebee’s unmistakable voice calling for him, Ratchet knows it can’t be good.

“Ratchet!”

The medic sighs and counts to ten before turning around. There, standing before him, is the little sparkling Optimus brought in a while ag, looking guilty in his bright blue optics. His yellow paint on his arms and legs is scratched and dented, with chips around his servos.

The adorably guilty expression is partially hidden by the battle mask covering his mouth, but his optics are visible, his audio receptors glued to the helm by embarrassment.

Ratchet prays to Primus for patience so he doesn’t throttle Bumblebee. No, he’s going to throttle Optimus and make him understand how furious he is.

“Care to explain?” he asks, and the already-small bot shrinks back, aware of the guardian’s temper. The sight reminds Ratchet of the other caretakers who fear him just as much.

Ratchet’s spark softens just a little, touched by the adorable yet slightly sad image of the little one he loves so much. But even though Bumblebee is his life and joy, he still needs discipline.

“I was playing with my stinger,” Bumblebee admits, almost curling into a small ball of metal in front of the medic. Ratchet would find it adorable at any other time, but not now.

First, he’s going to make Optimus regret removing Bumblebee’s optics. Then he’ll make the kid listen to a lecture from each guardian separately until he falls asleep. Hopefully something gets through their stubborn processors like it did with Optimus, and maybe Bumblebee won’t be so reckless again.

“I was playing with your stinger after Ironhide told you that you were too young to handle a weapon,” Ratchet huffs, imagining how upset Optimus will be when he finds out about the little one’s new escapade, “So you came up with this brilliant idea.”

Hearing how idiotic—and ironically childish—the idea was, Bumblebee seems to want to run away. If the battle mask could retract, Ratchet is sure he’d see a fully blue-blushed face behind it.

“…yes.”

“And you also seem unable to retract your battle mask.”

The little one shrinks further, and his wings, which are always raised in joy and near-infinite energy, are drooped in shame. Ratchet narrows his optics at the child, and Bumblebee, perhaps out of embarrassment, avoids the accusatory stare.

“That’s right.”

“Bumblebee…” the medic sighs, rubbing his optics, tired from the night and the little one’s awful idea. Still, he steps closer, lifts Bumblebee onto the nearest medbay bed, and sits him down—examining the dents and scratches he caused.

“How many times have I told you it’s dangerous to play with your stinger? And how many times has Ironhide scolded you for training without supervision?”

“…many.”

“Exactly. But you don’t seem to listen,” he huffs. Bumblebee’s dents are light, but some scratches need welding, and he knows Bumblebee will complain until everyone goes crazy. “You keep putting yourself in danger with these stupid ideas of yours, maybe Jazz’s influence has its downsides.”

That phrase draws a little giggle from the yellow spark, and Ratchet has to tilt his helmet down, hiding the smile forming on his mouth to keep a serious expression. Kneeling before the little one, he gently touches the leg with the most scratches.

Bumblebee hisses but doesn’t move the injured leg while Ratchet holds him. Whether out of fear or respect, Ratchet still feels relieved that he’s not making the examination difficult.

“Are you talking about me?” Jazz questions in their private comms, almost making Ratchet jump in surprise. Ratchet rolls his optics, imagining Jazz narrowing his own optics suspiciously.

How Jazz knows about his criticism is a mystery.

“I was talking about how Bumblebee inherited your digit-sized processor,” he says out loud for Bumblebee to hear, and the little one shyly smiles.

He ends the comm as soon as he hears the indignant huff of his colleague and friend, ready to take care of Bumblebee and let Jazz complain to any poor soul nearby.

Some of the little one’s injuries stand out with a very noticeable gray color amid Bumblebee’s yellow, and as much as Ratchet wants to cover these flaws, it’s not worth it. Bumblebee is getting older, and as he ages, the yellow paint starts to change. Ratchet will have to wait until the little one goes through the full change before fixing the mess.

He watches how small shiny yellow spots begin to stand out amid the golden yellow he’s had since he was a newspark.

My little spark is growing, he thinks fondly, with a touch of sadness in his spark. He really wishes he could keep Bumblebee like this: small, cute, and restless. But no one stays young forever, and Bumblebee won’t be spared from aging for Ratchet’s whims. Unfortunately.

He tries to communicate with Optimus, but there’s no answer. Ratchet then knows that the Prime is simply recharging in his office as he always does after a particularly long night. He’ll give the leader a scolding later, when Optimus can tell Bumblebee apart from an energon cube.

Bumblebee, to his credit, stays quiet and doesn’t try to pull away from Ratchet’s touches when he works on deeper wounds. He only moves when Ratchet finishes his work, strangely similar to Optimus.

Seeing how much this little one resembles Optimus is both scary and strangely funny. The stubbornness of both and how they hate asking for help worries not only Ratchet but everyone at the base.

The realization that this adorably stubborn bot trusts him enough to set aside his stubbornness and pride is comforting. He smiles discreetly, hoping the little troublemaker doesn’t notice.

The little one then screams, and Ratchet lifts his helmet just in time to see the pup’s face. Bumblebee feels his own faceplates in shock, optics wide with fright, without the battle mask hiding his adorable expression, he can easily touch his faceplates and seems to enjoy the change.

Ratchet can’t help but laugh this time.

“Your mask activated because it sensed imminent danger,” he points to the now-treated wounds on his armor, caused by himself. “It was an involuntary reaction. You’ll learn to control it over time. Your battle mask retracted because you felt safe.”

“That’s because I’m with you!”

The sincerity in the little pup’s cheerful, childish voice hits Ratchet like a slap. That joy and love can bring light to the darkest nights, and no matter how stubborn and grumpy Ratchet is, he can’t hold back a smile.

This little brat has me in his servos.

Unaware of the caregiver’s joy, Bumblebee touches his own helmet with his tiny servos, smiling goofily. His admiration for adults has always been obvious, and he always seemed enchanted watching Optimus prepare for battle. Not just Optimus, but all four caregivers.

Four examples of strength and protection that Bumblebee idolizes with all his innocent, dream-filled spark.

An admirer. Like many his age would be.

Ratchet picks him up again and now sits on the stretcher with Bumblebee on his lap. The little one looks at him with the same innocent smile and spark-filled eyes that make him want to hug him, but he resists that urge.

He needs to talk to Bumblebee, a talk that doesn’t involve yelling or shouting. Bumblebee doesn’t need a war medic or a soldier, he needs his guardian, the gentle and loving caretaker he’s known since he was brought to this base.

“Bumblebee, why do you want so badly to use a weapon? Ironhide already told you you’re too young for that.”

It’s not exactly his gentlest tone, but it’s still better than shouting or scolding with a rude voice. Bumblebee is a pup, not a war veteran, even if he causes more trouble than five soldiers combined.

Bumblebee’s cheerful expression shifts to something serious, something more like Optimus’s focused look and Ironhide’s angry gaze. The mix surprises him a bit, but the surprise quickly fades when the little one grabs the guardian’s helmet.

His weight makes Ratchet lean toward the pup, keeping him balanced with a secure grip around his little armor.

“I want to go to the battlefield.”

Ratchet’s optics widen, his spark chills, and an uncomfortable shiver pierces through every strand of his armor almost painfully. With wide optics and slightly trembling servos, he presses the tiny servos on his helmet to tighten the grip.

Maybe it’s a bit childish, but the gentle touch of the little one calms the growing fear in his spark a bit.

For many days and nights he waited and feared this. When Bumblebee was younger, he used to hold him tightly against his chassis and pray that that innocent, pure being would stay away from all the slaughter of war. Maybe it’s selfish, but having Bumblebee with him in the medbay was a kind of dream that kept him sane during the scariest nights, imagining the future of his little one.

Now Bumblebee, his small, sweet, shining sun, says he wants to throw himself into the middle of battle.

The very idea of having the pup he loves and has raised since he was a new spark under the barrel of a weapon is nauseating. There is no scarier nightmare, no more frightening enemies.

It is Bumblebee who makes everyone’s days brighter. It’s his laughter, innocence, and endless energy that make this war bearable and prevent everyone from drowning in sadness.

Imagining a life without Bumblebee, lost among soldiers killed by Megatron... that is too much to bear.

Ratchet doesn’t want to have his little one’s energon on his servos; he doesn’t want to look into the optics of Jazz, Ironhide, and Optimus and say that Bumblebee is one of the fallen soldiers, his spark lost forever.

Without Bumblebee, nothing is worth it.

Bumblebee is the light of their lives, the reason they keep fighting. Losing him would be too much to endure.

A part of him, the part that desperately wanted to deny reality, really believed Bumblebee only wanted to learn to fight and use a weapon to imitate the adults around him. But no, here is the pup he cares for and loves saying he wants to be on the battlefield. Alongside the Autobots.

Against the Decepticons.

Against Megatron.

“You know you don’t have to,” he murmurs in a trembling voice, carefully holding the tiny digits. They are so fragile, so easy to break. “There are many Autobots. You can stay here, caring for the wounded, far from the battle.”

Far from everyone who won’t hesitate to shoot at you.

But Bumblebee shakes his helmet from side to side and looks at Ratchet once more. He doesn’t know if this is normal in pups, but the strength and determination in those blue lenses match those of adult soldiers ready to fight.

Ratchet has lost many friends. All with a determination as solid and with more experience than the mech in his arms.

That shouldn’t be normal for a pup who barely reaches his caretakers’ knees. It shouldn’t be normal for someone so young.

“I saw Cliffjumper.”

Frag.

Ratchet was careful. He swears he was careful to keep Bumblebee from seeing, but the sneaky pup somehow managed to catch a glimpse of Cliffjumper injured. He saw Cliffjumper fall to the ground, losing so much energon that a sticky trail formed behind him. He saw Cliffjumper weakly cling to him searching for some anchor while Ratchet tried to save his life.

That is not something a pup should see.

“Bumblebee—”

“I saw everything. And I want to help.” Bumblebee’s servos drop beside his small body and he lets Ratchet hold him, sitting on the larger mech’s crossed arms. “I want to help, I want to be with my friends and caretakers in battle. I want to be there to save as many bots as possible. I want to be an Autobot.”

Nothing could prepare Ratchet for this.

Nothing can prepare him for the plea in Bee’s optics or the trust placed in him. He holds the little one’s round helmet with his servos, almost fully enveloping it and lifting it to look into the blue of those innocent, yet brave optics.

Looking at Bumblebee, he sees the fury and protection of a soldier. The spirit of a warrior ready for battle begging for his caretaker’s permission. He begs for a chance, a single chance to prove his worth.

Ratchet can’t bear it anymore and hugs Bumblebee so tightly that the pup lets out a frightened squeal but does not complain about the squeeze. He just snuggles against Ratchet’s throat and sinks into his embrace, surrounded by the familiar and loving warmth only caretakers can bring.

Bumblebee, his pup, is right here saying he wants to take the risk. He wants to protect, he wants to stand by them in the most dangerous and frightening moments of their lives to support them. Imagining this scenario terrifies him, and he trembles against the confused pup in his arms, their helmets resting against each other.

The bond between them, formed when Bee was younger, does nothing to ease the anguish inside him. Pride and fear mingle in a confusing mess and Ratchet can do nothing but accept all these crazy feelings and let Bumblebee nestle into his hug. Bumblebee feels the anguish through their connection and hugs him tighter.

“Ratch?”

“I’m fine.” He lies, gently stroking the little one’s audio receptors. “I’m fine, my little one.”

Bumblebee knows he’s lying but says nothing. Ratchet knows he can’t protect him forever and that a decision must be made, a hard decision that will change Bee’s life forever. A decision not only his but of all four who care for and love Bumblebee.

Ratchet has seen mutilated bots. He has seen dead sparks tossed in piles like garbage. He has seen soldiers’ determination fade. Frag, he’s even seen Optimus falter.

But never in all his existence has he felt this much fear.

Never, in his centuries of life, has he felt so much fear and anguish. Is this what it means to be a caretaker? To fear for your pup and dread all the dangers in the world? To know that one day, they will be gone and nothing can be done to protect them?

He realizes he can’t protect him forever. But if there is something he can do, it’s to guide Bee. He can be the one to advise and teach him to walk the right path.

And as much as it hurts, he must accept that this pup is close to no longer being the pup Ratchet knows. He will always see him as such, but Bumblebee will change Ratchet, like it or not. He will become a soldier, a soldier ready to fight and defend the Autobot cause.

He can only be there for him. He can fix Bumblebee when he inevitably returns with scars he doesn’t have now. He can comfort Bumblebee when he’s afraid, and he can be with him whenever the pup needs.

Primus. I swear, you can take everything from me, but you will not take this pup.

“Bumblebee,” he murmurs, pulling away from the pup and holding the little one’s servos gently. “I can’t say I agree with your decision. I would love to have you here with me, safe and far from the battles.”

He releases one of the pup’s servos and touches Bee’s round, cute helmet with his digits, scarred from centuries of work. Servos made to heal and save. The pup leans into the touch and looks at Ratchet attentively with his round, blue optics.

“But I love you.” Bumblebee smiles. It’s not common to hear the doctor say such things so openly, but this little pup manages to bring out a side of Ratchet he didn’t even know existed. “And that’s why no matter what you choose, I’ll be by your side and support you in everything you decide to do.”

Bumblebee’s optics shine as if a thousand stars were before Ratchet, and the pup jumps to hug the doctor once again. Ratchet laughs, supporting the pup with a servo at his waist and another at his helmet, holding Bumblebee as when he was still unable to walk.

Again, memories of a tiny, helpless Bumblebee tear Ratchet apart inside. He focuses on the Bumblebee now—the wonderful, brave child who brightens his days in this base once full of sorrow.

He will need to talk to Jazz, Ironhide, and Optimus. But there’s not much they can do besides prepare Bumblebee for what’s next. None of them will like the idea of putting their pup in battle. But Bumblebee can just jump into a firefight without them seeing, so it’s better he’s prepared.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook, little bot. You’re grounded and I’m telling the others.”

Bumblebee steps away from him with an indignant look, surprised and a bit betrayed by the caretaker’s words. Ratchet laughs at the pup’s unexpected reaction, which seems to annoy him even more. With a huge smile, Ratchet rubs their helmets together and kisses the space between the pup’s antennas, making them shift to the sides.

I’ll do everything to protect you. I promise.

The display of affection seems to soften Bee, and the noise he makes is like happy clicks, like a new spark enjoying the affection and attention of a loving caretaker. He seems happy to be pampered but freezes when the sound of the door opening echoes through the room.

Drift enters shortly after and looks curious to see the Conjunx holding his pup. Bumblebee’s optics widen at the sight, and as Ratchet moves away, the little one raises his arms toward the blue bot.

“Drift!”

“Hello, little bug.” The bot wastes no time and lifts Bumblebee above his helmet, enjoying the pup’s cheerful laughter in a rare moment of peace between the two. “You seem happy today. Who was the victim of your mischief?”

Ratchet watches them with a warm but amused smile. Their relationship both charms and intrigues him, and it’s always been that way.

Explaining that he became a caretaker and that a pup was now under the Autobots’ protection was difficult. He still remembers how shocked and frankly furious Drift seemed when Ratchet took on the responsibility of raising a new spark without consulting him first. His gaze became distant when he learned, almost feeling betrayed.

But that changed the moment he met Bumblebee.

He didn’t hold, touch, or kiss him like other soldiers did. But the way his tired optics shone upon seeing the new spark for the first time was something unique and the most beautiful thing Ratchet has ever seen in his life.

And when Drift held him for the first time, something definitely changed inside him. Like many others, he surrendered to Bee the day he met him, and as strange as the situation was, he accepted him as his own pup very quickly.

Drift is not one of the main caretakers or Bee’s preferred guardian, but he loves him and Ratchet knows he would fight for this pup without hesitation. Sometimes, the two can’t spend much time together before they start fighting or teasing each other, but Ratchet knows there is affection and care between them, even though he’s had to yell at both for their antics.

“Ratchet said I can be a soldier!” Bumblebee says happily, raising his little arms as if celebrating a victory, oblivious to how his words affect the bot holding him.

Ratchet watches in real time as Drift stiffens, his relaxed posture shifting to something like a wounded bot. His smile fades, replaced by a horrified and fearful expression.

“I—” Drift seems choked up, horrified and almost terrified as if he’s about to head off to battle alone. “Ratch?”

“I still need to talk to the others, but Bee wants to be a soldier,” Ratchet summarizes quickly, hoping Bee doesn’t notice the fear in the one holding him. Drift’s grip on the little bot tightens as if he could hide him from all this war. Part of Ratchet hopes he can.

“He can’t,” Drift says in private comms, terrified but smiling at Bee as he keeps talking. “No, he can’t.”

“I can’t protect him forever, Drift. He’s going to grow up and make his own decisions. How long can we keep him safe from this war before it catches up to him?”

“Ratch, we can’t lose him,” Drift insists. “He’s just a kid, too young.”

“And that’s why we have to teach him. How long before Megatron finds this base? How long can I keep Bumblebee here, stuck with me when he wants to be on the battlefield? He won’t be like this forever, Drift.”

The blue bot stares at him, looking devastated. Then his gaze shifts to Bee and he forces a smile as he talks to the little one, listening as he talks about how he’ll be a great warrior and help the Autobot cause.

“I’m going to be the greatest warrior Cybertron has ever seen.”

With a forced, weary smile, Drift replies:

“I know you will.”

Chapter Text

Bumblebee walks silently down the dark hallway, his peds slowly touching the ground.

Not a single sound can be heard besides the nearly inaudible steps of the sparkling. The entrance to the base remains closed, but it could be easily opened if he gets close enough.

The young sparkling chuckles softly at the plan forming in his processor. No soldiers are awake now, all recharging after a hard but victorious battle against the Decepticons for energon. There are many injured, and some will spend the night in the medbay, but there are now more resources, and Bumblebee is happy to see the adults feeding themselves, no longer skipping meals so he wouldn’t go hungry.

He knows he is loved, but watching his caretakers skip meals just so he wouldn’t starve was awful.

He’s closer now, almost touching the entrance gate on his way to freedom. He smiles, processor racing, spark bouncing with anxiety and anticipation.

But all his expectations are crushed when two large servos grab him, lifting him off the ground until his peds no longer touch the floor. He shuts his optics as he’s turned around, hoping it isn’t Optimus, or worse, Ratchet.

But when he opens his optics to face his captor, he sees neither Optimus’s blue optics nor Ratchet’s scowl, but the confused expression of Ironhide. The confusion in his optics would be funny if Bumblebee weren’t so scared.

“Hi, Iron.”

The large bot narrows his optics at him, confused and concerned to see Bumblebee online so late. The sparkling curls up in his servos, giving a nervous smile to his caretaker.

“Bee, what are you doing awake?” he asks, bringing the sparkling closer and supporting him against his chassis with arms wrapped around his legs and back. “I told you to recharge, didn’t I? You said your training today left you exhausted.”

Bumblebee flinches. The scratches and small dents on his armor no longer hurt like they did when he sparred with Ironhide. However, he can still feel the exhaustion in his body caused by a full day of training with the older bot as he tried to keep up.

Ironhide’s training routine is grueling, but so worth it. The large bot rocks him gently, more out of habit than any real attempt to soothe the young bot.

Part of Bumblebee screams for him to rest his helm against the soldier’s shoulder and let himself be lulled by the warmth of his embrace, and Ironhide seems to know this, his rocking becoming deliberately gentler, meant to lull the child into recharging.

But he can’t let an opportunity like this slip through his digits. Turning his helm to the side, he fights the instinct to nuzzle into his caretaker and recharge in the safety of his arms.

“I wanted to see the stars.”

Such a response surprises the old warrior. Bumblebee watches the bright optic widen and sees the mech’s jaw drop in surprise. He can’t blame him for the reaction, even if it’s a little over the top.

The large bot holds him tighter, lifting him so that his small helm rests on the shoulder marked by a large scar. Bumblebee traces it lightly with his digits, familiar with and fascinated by the marks that prove the strength of the one holding him.

The warrior walks toward the training room with Bumblebee in his arms, and his rocking now becomes more insistent, meant to keep Bumblebee’s optics open rather than lull him to sleep. An annoyed whine escapes the sparkling, and Ironhide chuckles, continuing to rock the small bot insistently.

Upon reaching the room, it’s clear everything was cleaned up shortly after Bumblebee left. There’s no more obstacle course meant for a mischievous sparkling, just worn flooring laid bare before them.

Nothing left to trip over.

Ironhide then sits with his back against a wall, Bumblebee settling between his crossed legs, optics focused on him. He looks tiny like this, and Ironhide wonders if he’ll always be so small compared to other bots, perhaps small like Cliffjumper.

“Bumblebee,” he begins, gently holding the sparkling’s helm, caressing under his optics with a digit, “can you tell me why you were sneaking out? I’m not mad, I just want to understand. You said you wanted to see the stars, but can you tell me more?”

The sparkling blinks his baby-blue optics and watches as Ironhide seems to shrink down, deliberately trying to appear smaller for him. Ironhide—fearless warrior and Optimus Prime’s weapon specialist—shrinking down in front of him.

Ironhide, one of the three warriors who took time to realize that, just like Optimus, he now has a bond with the little sparkling before him. A bond that is strong, powerful, and solid. A bond that brings warmth to the young one’s spark whenever he’s near his caretakers.

A tiny servo reaches up to grasp the large servo holding his helm, squeezing one of the warrior’s big digits. He rubs his helm against him, enjoying the touch like he did when he was a newly sparked little one starved for affection. Ironhide hopes that never changes, even when Bumblebee grows into a soldier big enough to fire without being thrown backward.

“I really just wanted to see the stars,” the sparkling whispers, so quietly that Ironhide almost doesn’t hear it. “I swear. I just wanted to go outside like all of you do and see the sky. I was going to come back really fast.”

“Bumblebee, it’s too dangerous. The Decepticons could be above us without us even knowing, and they wouldn’t hesitate to hurt you,” Ironhide explains, trembling at the thought of seeing Bumblebee hurt. “If we lost you, there’s nothing that would hurt more. We love you so much.”

“I know that, Drift told me.”

There’s an optic roll when he mentions the ally’s name. Ironhide always finds it amusing how Bumblebee never minded the fact that Drift was a former Decepticon—but rather, he minded having to share Ratchet with him. Still, there’s love between them and a funny relationship that never fails to make Ironhide laugh.

“But I’m tired of being stuck here. I want to go out, I want to run, I want to fight. I can’t stand seeing the same walls and the same bots every day, Iron. I love all of you, but I just can’t anymore.”

“Oh, Bee…” Ironhide shakes his helm with a chuckle, impressed. “You don’t have to hide anything from us. You could’ve told anyone, we’d understand.”

“You were all busy.”

Cybertronians don’t need to breathe, but a sad sigh still escapes the warrior’s vents. He lifts Bumblebee until their helms can press together, staring into the firm optics of the sparkling he loves so deeply.

He’ll never stop admiring that bright, vibrant blue that only Bumblebee’s optics seem to hold. There’s innocence there, and no matter how many times he looks, the wonder never fades.

He can imagine himself again in a cramped little room, with three other bots asleep around him after a long day with an energetic sparkling. He can feel the familiar weight of a sleeping newspark in his arms, helm resting against his chassis, the bond forming between them through confusing but wonderful emotions.

“Bumblebee, you are our light, the spark of our lives. No one matters to us like you do,” the mech says, rubbing their helms together, drawing out those adorable giggles that warm the warrior’s spark. “You’re the sparkling we love the most in the whole universe. Even when you grow up, you’ll always be our sweet little sparkling.”

“Even when I’m a soldier?”

“Even when you’re a giant soldier!” the warrior laughs, lifting the sparkling above his helm. The laughter is worth it, the sound echoing through the training room like the most beautiful music. “When you’re a big bot, you’ll still be my little one!”

Bumblebee laughs and hugs him tightly, snuggling into his caretaker’s neck with a wide smile that makes the warrior chuckle.

He can’t let the sparkling leave just yet, not without knowing the basics of survival and not without ensuring the area around the base is safe. He’ll talk to Optimus in the morning, but for now, he lets the Prime rest.

Besides, if he dares to wake Optimus, Ratchet will end him.

It doesn’t take much movement to reach the control panel beside them. One servo keeps Bumblebee against him while the other reaches out. Bumblebee’s optics follow curiously, filled with anticipation.

He’s used this control many times to generate illusions, perfect fake enemies for training. But today, he’ll use it for something else.

He watches with a smile as Bumblebee’s optics widen. The ceiling above them, the walls, and the floor are filled with the image of stars—fake, yes, but enough to make the little one happy.

Galaxies he’s never seen. An entire universe he’s never been able to witness. It all seems within reach now, in this massive room where so many soldiers train in the hope of protecting the world they love.

He jumps from Ironhide’s arms, running across the room, pointing at galaxies and stars he’s never seen before. His laughter makes Ironhide laugh too, enchanted by the joy Bumblebee expresses so openly.

Every day, this little one heals the wounds inside him and everyone else in the base. His childlike joy, his kindness, his laughter, they all seem to stitch together the shattered pieces of Ironhide he thought would never be whole again.

He swears to destroy anyone who tries to destroy that happiness. Anyone who dares to hurt him.

The sparkling then turns to him with the biggest smile Ironhide has ever seen, and without warning, runs toward him and jumps into his arms, hugging him tightly around the neck. Ironhide returns the affection, though with less force to avoid hurting the young one.

“You can’t go out yet. So I thought you might like to see a little of what’s out there,” Ironhide says, holding Bee more securely when the little one nearly collapses from exhaustion. “Did you like it?”

“I loved it,” Bumblebee replies, sincerity clear in his childish voice.

Ironhide watches as the small one’s antennas droop until they nearly touch his helm, his wings hanging low as if their own weight is too much to bear. Ironhide kisses him between the tiny antennas, the gentle touch seeming to deepen the young one’s sleepiness.

He shifts Bumblebee to rest against his left arm, pressed to his chassis, his right servo braced against the ground for balance. Bumblebee still looks at him with sleepy, half-lidded optics, the corners of his mouth slightly lifted.

“You can sleep now, little one,” he whispers, the stars above them sure to be part of Bumblebee’s dreams for a long time. “I’m here, and I’ll take care of you.”

The sparkling rubs his helm against the large bot’s chassis, placing his little servo just above where Ironhide’s spark rests. The bond between them transmits all the love Bumblebee cannot yet express with words, and Ironhide’s spark might as well burst with joy and affection.

“Thank you, Iron…” Bumblebee whispers, slipping into recharge moments later.

.

"You're welcome, Bee."

With a bit of effort, he stands up with the sparkling in his arms. Bumblebee’s room isn’t one of the closest, but after countless nights walking there, Ironhide can now find the way even with his optics offline.

Bumblebee barely stirs as he’s laid in bed, mumbling incoherent words in recharge. Ironhide smiles, leaning down to kiss the young one’s yellow helm. Bumblebee lets out a happy hum, relaxing into the bed made just for him.

“Good night, my little one.”

As he steps away, Ironhide barely catches the soft words from the affectionate sparkling:

“Love you, Iron.”

Ironhide freezes mid-step, completely still. His spark burns warmly inside his chest, and even though Bumblebee is recharging, he can feel the joy and love nearly bursting through the bond they share.
Every bit of pain he’s ever felt is worth it, every moment of anguish, every drop of sorrow—just to hear those words from the kind little one who never lies to him. He would go through it all again just to see Bumblebee safe and well like this, and to hear the most precious words he’s ever heard.

“I love you too.”

He closes the door to the small room carefully, making sure not to wake the sparkling, and walks quietly so his heavy steps won’t echo through the empty hallway. He’s smiling like a fool, deeply moved by the sparkling’s sweet and sincere words. That child still holds him close, and he can’t imagine that changing anytime soon—not even when Bumblebee becomes a strong, independent soldier.

“What’s with that goofy smile?”

He nearly jumps at the sound of Jazz’s voice breaking the silence of the hallway. The soldier grins, clearly amused by Ironhide’s exaggerated reaction.

Ironhide could punch him, but that would be loud, and Bumblebee has ridiculously sharp audio receptors. Instead, he lets out a grunt, slinging an arm over Jazz’s shoulders and pulling him down. Jazz huffs, kicking his friend’s leg lightly in playful protest.

“Bumblebee said he loves me,” Ironhide whispers, his voice soft and that same smile still on his face. Jazz’s optics widen at the news, but his smile mirrors Ironhide’s.

“I’m happy for you, my friend,” Jazz says, poking him in the arm, looking both proud of Bumblebee and genuinely happy for his companion. “But I’m gonna make him say that to me too.”

“You can try.” 

Chapter Text

Jazz is tired.

Not just tired, but exhausted, to the point where even his digits ache as if they were rusted. There are new scars on his chassis and arms, long and deep enough to stand out against his now dull paint, no longer bright and polished like it once was. The price of war isn’t only visible in his appearance, but also in the fatigue that leaves him so worn out that even walking feels like a challenge.

The mission was a failure.

Part of him wants to bash his own helm until the metal dents. The Decepticons' trap was planned so carefully that none of them even suspected it was an ambush. Now there are many injured soldiers, most of whom will spend nights in Ratchet’s medbay so the medic can monitor and ensure their safety. Jazz can already imagine how exhausted the medic must be after all of this, but talking to

Ratchet won’t help.

And if he dares try to escape, Ratchet will kill him.

The Autobot scratches his scraped helm as he walks down the large hallway of the base. Ultra Magnus, standing in the corridor with arms crossed, eyes him with narrowed optics. Jazz rolls his optics in return, signaling for them to walk together toward the end of the corridor where the medbay is located.

Ultra Magnus looks a bit downcast, and Jazz figures it’s because of the grim outcome of the ambush.

"You know I’m not gonna run, right?" he jokes, to which Ultra Magnus rolls his optics. "I don’t plan to defy our favorite medic."

"You said the same thing last time and disappeared. Do you want Ratchet to hunt you down with a metal bar again?"

The memory of an angry Ratchet makes Jazz’s arm ache. No, he definitely doesn’t want to test Ratchet’s limits again, nor see another metal bar.

Part of him wonders how Megatron fears Optimus and not Ratchet. Maybe because the medic is always at the base, too busy tending to patients, but Ratchet can be scarier than any Decepticon, and that’s with heavy tools, not weapons.

"By the way, where’s your little yellow mini version?" Ultra Magnus asks suddenly, looking around as if Bumblebee might jump out from a wall. Jazz doesn’t think it’s impossible, considering how quiet Bumblebee can be when he wants. "He’s always with one of you, but I haven’t seen him today."

"Ah, Bee’s probably with Bulkhead. Those two get along in a terrifying way," Jazz jokes, imagining how Bumblebee has probably wrecked half the base by now under Bulkhead’s supervision. "I feel bad for the Decepticons, that kid knows how to handle a weapon better than Optimus."

The memory of Bumblebee shooting at junk with perfect aim is still fresh in his processor. He almost laughs thinking about the shocked expressions of Ratchet and Optimus when they saw how confident the sparkling was, but Ironhide, of course, wore a proud (and slightly annoying) smirk.

Jazz himself was proud. Bumblebee could shoot using a blaster nearly twice his own weight, so he never stopped bragging about the kid.

Ultra Magnus smiles slightly at the memory of the proud little bot, blaster raised with a wide grin that could light up the entire dark and depressing base they live in. Once again, Jazz is surprised at how easily this proud and grumpy bot smiles when it comes to Bumblebee.

“BUMBLEBEE!”

Both bots jump at the sound of Ratchet’s loud, furious voice. His shout echoes through the entire base, and the walls seem to tremble with the medic’s rage. Along with the shout, a mischievous, childish laugh gives away Bumblebee’s involvement.

Jazz and Ultra Magnus glance at each other, and without a word, both run toward the medbay to see what prank managed to enrage Ratchet this time. The bond with Bumblebee lets Jazz feel the sparkling’s delight, as if he’s proud and thoroughly pleased with whatever he’s done.

And… wow.

Jazz covers his mouth with a servo, pressing his digits to his lips in a weak attempt to hide his shock, and underneath, his laughter. Ultra Magnus doesn’t laugh, but he looks just as stunned as Jazz by the sight in front of them.

The medbay door is wide open, and near it, a giggling Bumblebee leans against the wall, trying not to fall over from laughter. Nearby, and very angry, Ratchet is attempting to wipe paint off his helm and optics.

Pink paint.

Pinker than Arcee’s paint, who’s laughing hysterically despite coughing occasionally due to the damage to her armor, and brighter than Elita’s. It’s such a vivid color that Ratchet might as well glow in the dark if he doesn’t get the paint off soon.

"You little brat..." Ratchet growls, furious at Bumblebee’s latest prank. He doesn’t seem bothered by the laughter of the injured soldiers behind him, far more focused on plotting the murder of the youngest Autobot. He wipes away the paint threatening to drip into his optics, growling so loudly that Jazz hears it from meters away.

Drift peeks out from inside the medbay, and upon seeing his conjunx covered in pink paint, he doesn’t look the least bit surprised. Jazz realizes he must’ve known about the sparkling’s plan, and now he’s hiding from his partner’s wrath, even stifling a laugh.

He seems perfectly happy to let Bumblebee be the sacrifice.

Bumblebee is fast enough to run and hide behind Jazz, using him as a shield against the wrath of the grumpy medic and looking more than willing to offer him up as a sacrifice in exchange for his own life. Ratchet shifts his optics to Jazz, seeming to expect him to move and hand Bumblebee over.

"Move aside."

Jazz's optics flick from Ratchet to Bumblebee, then back again. The sparkling has a huge grin on his face and clings to Jazz’s leg as if seeking protection. Ratchet does not look amused, still glaring furiously at Bumblebee, and with growing anger at Jazz, waiting for him to act.

There’s a short distance between them, and Jazz moves, taking a step back. Bumblebee seems to understand the signal and releases his leg, ready to bolt.

Ratchet’s optics widen, but he isn’t fast enough. He watches in stunned fury as the two flee down the corridor, dodging other soldiers, the sound of Bumblebee’s laughter echoing around them. Ratchet’s yelling only fuels their escape, both bots now fearing the very angry medic.

They know that if they’re caught, there’s little hope of mercy.

Jazz spots Optimus and Bulkhead up ahead, both of them widening their optics at the sight of the two fugitives. Being a soldier, Jazz plants a pede against the wall and uses Bulkhead’s shoulder to push off, vaulting over him and continuing the sprint without looking back.

Bumblebee takes another route, slipping between Optimus’s legs thanks to his small size. The Prime stares down in confusion the moment Bee zips under him, clearly startled.

Jazz glances back when Bumblebee catches up and starts running alongside him. He sees Optimus raise his helm just in time to be bumped by a sliding, furious Ratchet. The pink paint smears across the leader’s chassis, and Jazz, a mixture of entertained and terrified, realizes he can’t afford to stop running if he wants to survive.

Ratchet rises like a demon, glaring at them as if he wants to peel them alive.

Jazz grabs one of the sparkling’s wings and hoists him onto his back when Bumblebee begins to slow, tired after the long sprint. The little bot wraps his arms around Jazz’s neck and his small legs around his waist.

They’ve played like this many times before, so the added weight is nothing to Jazz.

Pausing for a moment, Jazz scans the area before spotting an old storage room. A small cabinet beside a huge stack of crates gives him the boost he needs to climb up onto the massive steel beams lining the ceiling of the base.

Once settled, he pulls Bee into his lap, watching as a furious Ratchet stomps by with Optimus right behind him, seemingly trying to calm the medic down and save his friend and the sparkling’s lives.

Damn.

"So, little ball of chaos," Jazz says, voice free of anger, but full of curiosity and a touch of playful exasperation. "Care to explain?"

He’s tired, but it’s been a while since he had this much fun. Constant responsibilities as a soldier left him with little time for joy, so this light-hearted moment is a refreshing break.

Bumblebee smiles at him, clutching his shoulders and tucking his helm against Jazz’s, clearly soaking up the affection. The soldier lets out a soft huff, hugging him tightly in return, rocking them gently the way he did when Bee was still a tiny newspark.

He rubs his chin against the top of Bumblebee’s helm, earning a soft, silly-sounding grunt from the sparkling.

"Come on, Bee. I want answers. Ratchet is hunting us down, and I want to know what I risked my spark for."

A faint giggle is his only response at first, and Bumblebee nuzzles against him. Then, looking up at his caretaker with those bright baby-blue optics, optics that always, always disarm Jazz and make him say yes to everything, he speaks.

"I saw you and the others coming back after the battle," he murmurs, his little pedes swinging back and forth but carefully avoiding Jazz’s leg. "I was in the medbay with Ratch, and everyone looked so sad, so I wanted to cheer them up."

Jazz just laughs.

Maybe covering Ratchet in paint wasn’t the best idea, but it came from a place of love, a child’s innocent wish to make gloomy soldiers smile again. Bumblebee has known them all since his birth, and though there are only four official caretakers, many more bots genuinely love him.

This was just Bumblebee being himself: an empathetic sparkling with slightly bad ideas.

"You, noble warrior, shall be remembered as the one who faced the fiercest beast to bring joy to his comrades. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten."

Bumblebee snorts, rolling his optics just like Ratchet does. The resemblance isn’t lost on Jazz, and he chuckles quietly, imagining that if the medic weren’t so mad, he might have found this funny.

"Did Drift help you? He looked like he knew something."

Bumblebee rolls his blue optics upon hearing the name of his “extra annoying caretaker,” as he likes to call him.

“He helped me put the bucket of paint on the door but used me as a sacrifice.” The little bot’s optics gleam with something dangerous, something like revenge. “I’ll tell Ratchet everything if I survive.”

Jazz can’t do anything but laugh.

He pulls the little bot into a tight hug, ignoring the squeaks and giggles that follow. A part of him hopes Bumblebee never changes, that he never stops being that adorable and cheerful bot who makes everyone laugh just with a smile and big blue optics. Bee rubs his small helmet against Jazz’s chassis, clinging to him like when he still fit in one of Jazz’s servos.

Thinking of Bee as a newspark is nostalgic, painful, but also a wonderful memory that is forever kept with him.

He’s focused on Bumblebee’s hug when the sound of Ratchet’s footsteps approaches. They both freeze, with startled postures and wide optics. They look at each other for a moment, blinking, then look down with tense postures.

Below them, Ironhide stares with crossed arms, amused, but not seeming willing to save their lives. Maybe it’s because of the pink paint on his chassis, but they know they can’t count on the weapons master. Ratchet is in front of him, holding a tool in his servo, looking ready to use Bumblebee and Jazz as targets.

Optimus is the only one trying to calm him, moving his servos and murmuring something they can’t hear. However, even Optimus doesn’t seem ready to risk his life for them.

What a great Prime.

Jazz is quick enough to grab Bee and press him against his chassis. He jumps just in time to dodge Ratchet’s tool, landing on his feet and running to hide behind Optimus’s huge figure. Maybe it’s a bit childish to use the leader as a shield, but he doesn’t care after seeing Optimus willing to abandon them to their fate.

Optimus, blessed be, tries to calm the murderous medic. Whether out of guilt or to keep the two alive, they don’t know.

“Old friend, let’s talk.”

“Talk?! It’s going to take me a long time to get this paint off! Do you know how bad the medbay floor is?! No, I’m going to finish Jazz and his mini-me!”

“Look, you can’t just kill the two of us,” Bumblebee says from Jazz’s arms, a bit confident with Optimus as his shield. “You have to kill Drift too, since he knew everything and even helped me.”

Ratchet’s optics widen for a moment, shocked by his Conjunx’s “betrayal.” However, he doesn’t seem willing to let the two escape.

Jazz doesn’t feel even a bit sorry for what Drift will have to endure later.

“I’ll kill him after I kill you, don’t worry.”

Bumblebee laughs, not seeming fazed by the angry medic’s threats. Jazz thinks about handing him over as a sacrifice, but he loves Bumblebee too much to be that cruel.

Ironhide finally seems to have found the courage to save the two’s lives and places himself between the furious medic and the Autobot leader, signaling Ratchet to calm down with raised servos, but even he doesn’t seem able to calm the enraged bot.

But that’s just a façade. For a brief moment, paint falls onto Ratchet’s optics and he rubs them with his servos, becoming “blind” for a moment. Ironhide then looks at Optimus in a way Jazz can’t identify, and Optimus looks at Jazz and Bumblebee shortly after.

There’s a cheerful gleam in the leader’s deep blue optics, something he only allows himself to show to those closest to him. And the bots closest to him are here, in this room.

The four waste no time running, with Jazz still carrying Bumblebee, followed closely by Optimus and Ironhide. Ratchet’s furious shout could rival Megatron’s, and Jazz knows they’re in trouble.
But when he hears Bumblebee’s joyful laughter, everything seems worth it. As long as Ratchet doesn’t catch them, he allows himself to laugh.

Chapter Text

"This mission is very boring."

Cliffjumper’s comment makes Bumblebee roll his optics with a smile beneath his battle mask. The building they’re hiding in is tall enough to give them a clear view of where Optimus stands, alongside Jazz and Ironhide, nearly ready to launch the Allspark into space, with other Autobots prepared to fight if necessary.

The war has long since escalated, and if they want to keep the artifact safe, it needs to leave Cybertron. The decision was made with great sorrow, and even Optimus himself seemed nervous about the idea, but there’s nothing they can do now. Bumblebee was chosen to keep watch with Cliffjumper, far from the Allspark and supposedly in a safe position.

The overprotectiveness of four caretakers never seems to leave him, always with him, always under the watchful optics of bots who love him more than anything in the entire universe.

"I don't like lying around in a filthy building either, Cliff," Bumblebee transmits via communicator, catching a glimpse of his friend’s smirk from the corner of his optic. "But it’s important. Optimus needs cover."

"I was in this fight when you were still a newspark. Shut up."

Bumblebee snorts, about to give a snappy reply, but something in the distance makes him forget all about Cliffjumper. He narrows his optics toward the horizon, widening them when he realizes what he's looking at: a Decepticon army.

"Scrap," Cliffjumper mutters beside him, touching his audio receiver, weapon ready in his free servo. "Optimus, we’ve got a problem."

Bumblebee keeps his focus on the approaching army, letting Cliffjumper handle alerting Optimus. There are far too many Decepticons, and they begin to spread out as soon as they reach Tyger Pax. The massive force splits into smaller squads, sweeping across the city in search of the Allspark.

Cliffjumper keeps one optic on the army while still talking to Optimus, growing increasingly tense as the Decepticons draw closer, though they don’t seem to spot them, too focused on their own search.

"Bumblebee," Optimus’s voice cuts through the communicator, and Bumblebee would have jumped if the situation weren’t so dire. "Hold your position. Do not move. Just keep me informed."

The more the army spreads, the clearer it becomes who’s leading them, right at the center.

Megatron.

Standing there before them.

Bumblebee stares at Cliffjumper in horror, and the other bot meets his gaze with the same expression. Both of them watch the Decepticon leader surrounded by a large unit, pointing around and shouting things they can’t hear—probably commands.

Megatron gestures to the sky, and a fleet of Seekers soars above, extending the search into the air and giving the Decepticons an even greater advantage. Bumblebee growls under his breath, catching Optimus’s attention over the communicator.

"Bumblebee?"

"Megatron is here," Bumblebee replies, and silence falls on the other end. If he closes his optics, he can almost imagine the horror on Optimus’s face, knowing the most dangerous Decepticon is in Tyger Pax, and worse, dangerously close to where Bumblebee and Cliffjumper are hidden.

"He sent Starscream and the others. They're in the skies. There are many Decepticons on the ground."

It takes a few seconds for Optimus to answer, seconds Bumblebee uses to observe Megatron. The Decepticon leader shouts at a soldier, and a group of five others closes in around him, following as he walks like obedient slaves that can’t leave their master’s side.

Megatron moves with an imposing stride, towering over his soldiers and radiating an aura so terrifying that Bumblebee flattens his wings against his back and presses his audio receptors tightly to his helm. That glowing red optic makes even his own soldiers shrink when it lands on them, and Bumblebee silently prays it won’t turn toward him.

"Bumblebee," Optimus finally says, his voice laced with shouts in the background. Groups must be forming among the Autobots to distract the Seekers while staying close to Optimus.
"Bumblebee, do not let Megatron see you. Do not move until I tell you to."

Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots and the bravest bot Bumblebee has ever known, speaks with a trembling voice. The thought of Megatron near the sparkling he loves more than Cybertron itself, more than the Autobot cause, is enough to shake him to his core. His worst nightmares are becoming reality.

In the distance, Megatron and his squad get closer to the building Bumblebee and Cliffjumper are in. His heavy steps make the ground quake and the building tremble. At this pace, he’ll reach Optimus, and the Allspark, in no time.

Bumblebee can feel Optimus’s anxiety through the bond they share, one only a caretaker and his sparkling could have. That worry intensifies as time passes, and soon, Bumblebee feels the other three caretakers through the bond too, trembling with the same fear. Their voices echo through his comm, calling his name, asking questions, begging him to stay safe.

But he doesn’t respond.

Megatron holds all his attention now.

He’s so close to passing their building, and once he does, he’ll reach Optimus. That can’t happen. The future of Cybertron depends on it.

Cliffjumper remains at his side, but he seems to be thinking something similar, nervousness evident in his clenched teeth and narrowed optics, ready to fire at Megatron and his soldiers. Both know they could hurt the troops if they tried, but Megatron is entirely different. He won’t be taken down easily, and their position would be exposed if they shot any of the soldiers guarding their master.
Megatron is ridiculously resilient, and they’ll be lucky to scratch him. But the Allspark must not be found at any cost.

“Bumblebee?” comes Optimus’s voice again, almost desperate. “Bumblebee, answer me.”

“Sorry, Optimus.”

He blocks out anything else Optimus or others might say. Cliffjumper doesn’t seem to notice, still focused on Megatron and his group. Bumblebee can't turn back now, not with so much at stake, not with the future of their race on the line.

“Cliff,” Bumblebee whispers. Cliffjumper doesn’t turn around, but he watches from the corner of his optic and stays alert to Bumblebee’s voice. “Be ready to shoot.”

Cliffjumper whips around, optics wide, and is about to grab him, desperate upon realizing his best friend’s plan. But Bumblebee is faster and dashes away before he can act. He runs as fast as he can and tumbles to a stop right behind Megatron’s group, landing hard on his feet.

The Decepticon leader turns to face him. Two of the five soldiers with Megatron charge forward, but Cliffjumper acts faster, firing at their helms and knocking them down in front of Bumblebee. Megatron looks toward Cliffjumper and signals to two other soldiers to deal with him. Seekers swoop down, and Cliffjumper is dragged away by the Decepticons, too far for Bumblebee to help.

There’s nothing Bumblebee can do now. He needs to distract Megatron, and even without Cliffjumper, he must fight.

The scout charges Megatron, and the last Decepticon soldier beside the tyrant appears ready to shoot, but Megatron raises a servo, aiming it at Bumblebee.

The shot isn’t fatal, but it’s powerful enough to knock Bumblebee off balance and send him sprawling. The scout pants, convulsing, and is once more slammed to the ground when another Decepticon presses a pede against his dented chassis. The weight of the enemy bot bears down mercilessly.

He can feel his paint burning, the scent of smoke, the excruciating pain tearing him apart from the inside out. He writhes, pressing against their pede, trying to escape the unbearable heat.

The thought that Megatron may have fired without intent to kill terrifies him, it shows how sadistic this tyrant can be. Megatron looms, curious, his massive shadow swallowing Bumblebee entirely and making him look even smaller, like the tiny, skinny newspark he once was. The young bot supports the pede on his chassis, trying to maintain a serious gaze, but his antennas against his helm betray him.

“Who are you?” Megatron demands with contempt, eyeing the Autobot insignia with disgust. “I’ve never seen such a young Autobot.”

Bumblebee spits, landing the hit on the Decepticon’s pede. His boldness infuriates the leader; his red optic fills with rage as he glares down at the fallen bot. He points the weapon at one of Bumblebee’s legs and fires without hesitation.

A loud crack echoes, the metal snapping and a hole appearing next to Bumblebee shakes Tyger Pax (or so the scout believes). He screams in agony, his voice box strained and raspy, but no one is around to hear him.

A small, childlike part of him calls out for his caretakers, wishing to be with them, safe at home. The bond with them transmits his pain and desperation, but no one can help now.

Megatron refuses to let him dwell on that illusion, determined to cause more harm.

“Who are you?” he repeats. The Decepticon steps back, lifts his foot, and crushes Bumblebee’s wounded leg, eliciting painful cries and groans. “Tell me your name.”

“Bumblebee!” the young bot howls through sheer agony, shrouded by the giant’s shadow.

“Well, Bumblebee, you are very young,” Megatron observes, sizing him up in disbelief, as if the idea of such a youthful soldier is impossible. “No newspark would survive on their own. So tell me—who is your caretaker?”

Bumblebee struggles to focus on his surroundings, pain has slowed his processor. He looks up at Megatron with what he hopes is courage, digging his chassis into the ground as Megatron stomps down harder, twisting the pede into his injured leg.

“Ratchet.”

He doesn’t mention the others. He doesn’t say that among the Autobots, he’s the beloved, protected child of their leader, first lieutenant, and weapons expert. Ratchet is a war medic, and though a capable warrior in his own right, he hasn’t appeared in as many battles, always tending wounded bots… and that one young bot who needed so much care.

Of the four, he’s the least interesting to Megatron.

Bumblebee’s spark feels crushed as he remembers the time when he was safe and protected with Ratchet, with his only responsibility being to make the patients laugh and serve as a little light in the darkness of the Autobot base.

Part of Bumblebee wants to cry and scream for Ratchet, to call for help and hide in his caretaker’s arms like he used to. But Ratchet isn’t here, none of his caretakers are.

Megatron’s other pede crushes one of Bumblebee’s arms, the snapping sound loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. He shoots the scout’s other arm, piercing through it.

Bumblebee swallows the scream of pain threatening to tear through his throat.

“So, you know Optimus very well. Tell me, where is the Allspark?”

Bumblebee’s answer comes quickly, and a little strangled.

“I don’t know.”

Megatron’s rage increases, his glowing red optics blazing with a murderous fury that makes the soldier beside him shrink back. The Decepticon leader stops stomping on Bumblebee and grabs him by the neck, lifting the smaller bot effortlessly until his injured leg and arms dangle like a lifeless corpse.

A blade replaces Megatron’s free arm, and he drives it into the scout’s abdomen, twisting until Bumblebee’s energon stains the tyrant’s arm. Bumblebee tries to push him away with his remaining limbs, but Megatron is far stronger, and the more Bumblebee struggles, the deeper the blade sinks.

A pool of energon forms at the Decepticon’s feet, growing as he continues driving the blade deeper into Bumblebee’s body. The scout screams, but the sound is low, choked off by the grip on his throat.

“Don’t lie to me! Where is the Allspark?!”

Tears form in Bumblebee’s optics, the shame of crying in front of the Decepticon leader is nothing compared to the pain that makes him want to curl into himself.

“I don’t know! Ask Optimus when he finishes you off, you worthless piece of scrap!” The blade sinks deeper, but Bumblebee keeps speaking, praying the Allspark has already left the planet, wishing he could finally go home, somewhere safe. “Or are you too scared of him? So scared you need a low-ranking Autobot to find the Allspark for you?”

Megatron snarls and yanks the blade from Bumblebee, the metal now soaked with the scout’s energon. He looks ready to speak, perhaps an insult, perhaps another threat, but he never gets the chance.

A blue light seems to illuminate the entire city, blinding every bot nearby. The light slowly fades, and rising into the sky, the Allspark moves away from Tyger Pax, disappearing into the stars.

Megatron screams, he screams with such hatred and fury that the nearby Decepticon soldier steps back for safety. Bumblebee glances at the soldier, then back at Megatron, locking optics with the furious red gaze.

He’ll never know if it’s from energon loss or the pain clouding his processor, but at the worst possible moment—it plays a trick on him.

Bumblebee laughs.

He laughs like a lunatic, his broken limbs dangling, his deepest wounds burning until the laughter becomes choked—but still loud and mocking. Mocking just how desperate Megatron now looks.

Megatron’s fury turns on him, the closest, most vulnerable target, his small punching bag.

“You dare laugh?” Megatron tightens the grip on Bumblebee’s neck cables. The scout watches as he repositions the blade to strike again, but not the abdomen this time, not from this angle. “I’ll make sure you can never do that again.”

Megatron’s blade drives into Bumblebee’s throat, piercing and embedding in his voice box. Bumblebee screams, but the sound comes out low and broken. Megatron then rips the blade out, and the resulting static makes the pain even worse as it tears through his wounded throat.

Megatron drops him, watching with a smirk as Bumblebee crashes to the cold ground, body limp and aching, vision blurred. Megatron kicks him, turning him until his faceplates are pressed against the floor.

Megatron stomps on his back, just below his wings. He grabs them, and Bumblebee feels them ripped off violently, flung near his body. A maniacal laugh makes Bumblebee shiver against the cold floor, unable to move from the pain.

“No one disrespects me. No one,” Megatron growls, aiming his weapon at Bumblebee’s helm. The bot tries to crawl away, trying to escape the monster who hurt him—but he doesn’t have the strength.

He stares at the floor, waiting for Megatron’s final strike. But it never comes.

The one hit is Megatron himself. The impact of a powerful shot knocks him away from Bumblebee, sending him crashing into the Decepticon soldier nearby.

“Bumblebee!”

Jazz.

He can’t turn around to see his caretaker, with only Megatron in his field of vision. The horrified look on the Decepticon’s face is something he will never forget; the way he seems scared is something Bumblebee will forever keep in his memory.

Megatron screams, ordering his army to flee. He is the first to pull away, quickly leaving Tyger Pax with his soldiers right behind him. From the sounds behind him, Bumblebee knows it’s not just one bot, but three.

Jazz, Ironhide, and Optimus, along with other Autobots, fire at Megatron, and the tyrant has no choice but to run. None of them think to chase the Decepticon leader, not with a situation as delicate as Bumblebee’s.

Optimus is the first to arrive, dropping to his knees beside Bumblebee and with all the care he can muster, lifts the young bot into his arms. Bumblebee’s optics are nearly closed, his helmet resting on the caretaker’s chassis, and his vision blurred and glazed.

He wants to cry with relief, cling to Optimus, and never let go, never leave the comfort of his embrace. But he can’t, no sound comes out, and he has never been so weak, unable to move.

“No, no, no.” That’s Jazz’s voice, and Bumblebee recognizes it, the voice he heard during nights filled with nightmares and terrible jokes. The bot falls to his knees in front of Optimus, his servos trembling as he holds Bumblebee’s helmet, trying to keep him awake and firmly supporting his limp, injured neck. “Bee!”

Ironhide is the last to arrive, and upon seeing the young bot’s condition, he widens his optics in horror. Bumblebee says nothing, mouth open, energon leaking from it down to his open throat, eyes glazed and confused, certainly blurred.

“Bee,” Ironhide, the huge, strong, and brave bot that Bee admires and who never shows fear, is terrified. “We need to get him to Ratchet now.”

Optimus understands, and with his spark broken and fear piercing every part of his being, rises with Bumblebee in his arms and starts running, Ironhide and Jazz close behind. Amid the run, he hears Ironhide’s low but pleading voice:

“Primus, take me instead, but let my youngling live.”

.

Optimus will never forget the horrified look on Ratchet’s face. He will never forget how limp Bumblebee was and how barely reactive when placed on the medbay table. He will never forget how Ratchet started running as soon as he took in the situation.

The only thing Bumblebee did was vomit energon, coughing up static, accidentally spitting on them before collapsing again, this time with black optics.

The desperation of the three remaining caretakers doesn’t help. Their frantic cries in a useless attempt to wake Bee do nothing, and Ratchet, scared as they are but still a doctor with a patient at risk—kicks them out.

The three end up outside the medbay, never leaving the hallway while Ratchet is locked inside with Bumblebee. There’s not a single clue about what’s happening inside the medical room, and the waiting makes them more and more desperate.

Jazz paces back and forth in the hallway, arms crossed and helmet down with optics on the floor, never stopping. Ironhide stands leaning against the wall, not looking at anything in particular, lost in his own thoughts, while Optimus sits on the floor next to him, too weak to stand.

At some point, Ironhide begins biting his own fingers nervously, tapping his foot on the ground. Optimus chooses to hide his helmet in his own servos, trembling with the feeling of Bee’s energon still fresh on his servos, even though he’s already cleaned himself.

“Jazz, Ironhide,” Optimus calls, stopping hiding behind his servos to face the two, who respond with confusion in their optics. “I apologize. This is all my fault.”

Because Megatron wanted Optimus, he is the main target, the tyrant’s greatest enemy. Megatron is a monster without scruples, and of course, upon seeing such a young bot on the battlefield, he knew hurting him would strike Optimus.

He knew. That’s why he hurt Bee.

Jazz narrows his optics at him, Ironhide looks shocked for a few seconds but recovers quickly enough to widen his optics and stare at Optimus in horror.

“What are you talking about, Optimus?”

“I should never have let Bumblebee come with us. He would have been safe at the base, away from the battle,” Optimus trembles, rubbing his helmet hard enough to scratch his own paint. “If it weren’t for me, he would be safe. He would be protected.”

Safe, happy, and healthy. Away from all this killing, away from the Decepticon monster.

He hears Jazz’s footsteps quickly approaching and the bot kneels before the leader. He grabs Optimus’s shoulders and shakes him angrily, seeming to hold back his own tears in front of the two friends.

“Shut up,” he orders, startling Optimus. “None of this is your fault, Optimus. None of it is our fault, and certainly not Bumblebee’s. The fault lies with Megatron.”

“I let Bumblebee go into that battle.”

“And what could you have done? Handcuff that stubborn youngling to a bed until his time came?”

“Jazz is right, Optimus,” Ironhide says, sitting next to Optimus as he speaks. “That monster did this to Bee.”

Optimus looks down, not wanting to show fear in front of his friends and subordinates. Jazz squeezes the leader’s shoulders even harder, so much that it hurts.

“Don’t you dare try to stay calm, Optimus,” Ironhide reprimands, speaking for Jazz. “Our pup is lying on a stretcher with his throat open, limp like a corpse. We have the right to despair, and do you know why?”

Optimus doesn’t respond, but Ironhide keeps speaking.

“I say we have the right to despair because he’s the pup we’ve loved and raised since he was born. Don’t stay calm, despair and pray that kid makes it out of the operating table alive.”

Optimus just nods, head bowed. Ironhide lets out a tired kind of sigh at his reaction but says nothing more.

Optimus just nods with his helmet, and Jazz stares at him, sitting next to Ironhide. None of them say anything, enjoying the silence as they wait for news. All four of Bumblebee’s caretakers had grown close over time, united in their task of raising a sparkling bot.

They’re not just colleagues or comrades in a bloody war. The friendship between them is now stronger than a common bond, a brotherhood-like friendship.
None of them need to say anything anymore; they haven’t for a long time. The three just wait for Ratchet with a heavy silence, comforting each other with shoulder touches and pats on the back. If Bumblebee were here, he’d already be clinging to one of them, laughing with a bad joke ready to make them smile.

None of them know how much time passes, but Ratchet finally leaves the medbay. The three surround him and watch how tired the doctor looks, his optics deep-set and fresh blue energon on his servos and legs, Bumblebee’s energon.

Optimus is the one who holds him when Ratchet stumbles and almost falls from exhaustion after so long saving Bumblebee’s life. Ratchet doesn’t let himself be held for long, standing quickly and walking inside the room, followed by his friends.

The sight before them is horrible.

Bumblebee, with his optics off and motionless. A bag of energon is connected to the pup’s arm, his dents repaired but with flaws in the beautiful yellow paint. The injured leg and servos were fixed and welded but are covered with tape and immobilized; the wounded belly is covered with the same tape. The pup’s wings, carried by Ironhide on the way back, were back in place with a faded gray stitch at their base near the back.

The most visible and worst injury is in his throat.

A piece of metal, darker than the rest, was molded to fit Bumblebee’s throat and cover the huge hole that was once there. It stands out from the rest of the paint and is visible even from afar.

“Ratchet,” Optimus murmurs in the silence of the medbay, “what’s the situation?”

Ratchet seems to swallow audibly behind him, almost without strength.

“The injuries on his servos and leg will improve soon; he may limp at first but will recover with time. The hole in his belly will hurt for a long time; it will be uncomfortable, and his wings will hurt until they finish healing.” This doesn’t surprise Optimus, considering how sensitive Bumblebee’s wings are. “But the worst is the throat.”

Optimus approaches the pup, holding one of the young bot’s arms. Ironhide does the same with his other arm, both searching for an anchor for the next news. Jazz leans on the stretcher.

“Megatron destroyed his voice box,” Ratchet says, but his voice sounds strangled, pained. “We don’t have the resources, I… I can’t fix it.”

That hits them harder than any shot, harder than any blow.

The idea of never hearing Bumblebee’s laughter again, never hearing him tell a joke or call them with his huge and adorable smile, is overwhelming. Bumblebee, the chatterbox and their pup, who never failed to remind them he loved them, is silent.

“Oh Bee,” Jazz whispers. He passes by Optimus, gently hugging the little bot he loves so much. “I’m sorry, pup.”

Optimus watches them with his spark shattered, pain burning inside out at the sight of Bee motionless. He tried to save Megatron, tried to end this war peacefully.

But now? He wants Megatron dead, wants him dead with his helmet crushed underfoot. He wants to see that tyrant suffer for what he did to the pup in front of him.

And he knows the other bots in the medbay want the same.

Chapter Text

Um mega-ciclo se passa e Bumblebee permance em estase.

Nenhum de seus cuidadores e amigos gosta disso, mas Ratchet não teve outra escolha. Nas pouquíssimas vezes em que Bumblebee recuperou a consciência, o pânico e o medo o faziam lutar contra o aperto de outros bots, reabrindo seus ferimentos e rasgando a garganta ainda em recuperação.

Foi assustador, e Ratchet precisou tomar medidas desesperadas para protege-lo. Ver o espumante que ama deitado em uma cama, imóvel e ferido como se estivesse morto, é a realização dos piores pesadelos do médico.

Ratchet solta uma lufada de ar, cansado. Já faz algum tempo desde a ultima recarga e mesmo que ele se force a comer, o energon parece queima-lo por dentro sempre que Drift tenta alimenta-lo. Pensar em Bumblebee o fere, o rasga por dentro e ele quase pode sentir as garras afiadas de Megatron esmagando sua centelha sempre que olha para o pequeno.

O médico se aproxima do filhote mais uma vez e toca o capacete redondo e fofo, arranhando a tinta amarela com as pontas dos dígitos como costumava fazer quando Bee era pequeno, pequeno o bastante para que Ratchet pudesse carrega-lo nos braços e fazê-lo recarregar em contra ele. A lembrança agora parece um tanto quanto dolorosa, ele gostaria de voltar para aquela época, quando Bee estava seguro e sempre próximo de um cuidador, nunca no campo de batalha.

Ele gostaria de voltar a época em que Megatron era problema deles, não de Bee.

Ele quase pode ouvir os silvos e risadinhas infantis com o carinho, com pequenos servos arranhando-o no chassi e asas trêmulas de alegria contra seus braços, apenas por estar perto de seu cuidador. Drift geralmente estava por perto, irritando o filhote e recebendo cliques irritados sempre que tocava a tinta amarela.

“Sinto muito” Ele sussurra, próximo as antenas abaixadas e imóveis “Gostaria de ter feito mais.”

Ele mal registra o barulho da porta do medbay abrindo até que os passos pesados de Drift façam um barulho quase insuportável em meio ao silêncio da sala médica. Ratchetb nota a pintura azul pelo canto da ótica antes que Drift possa toca-lo no ombro, esfregando um dígito na pintura verde em uma tentativa fraca de conforta-lo.

O robô então senta ao lado do conjunx em uma cadeira pequena, mas confortável o bastante para que ele possa estar ao lado de Ratchet. O médico vira o capacete na direção dele e encontra energon no servo livre de Drift, balançando em uma exibição proposital para atrair sua atenção.

Ele poderia rir da tentativa fraca de conforto em outro momento, mas aqui, com Bumblebee desacordado, não há motivos para rir.

“Não.”

“Sim” Drift responde instantaneamente, nada abalado com a recusa do médico teimoso “Precisa reabastecer, assim como os outros.’’

Ratchet suspira, o cansaço de ciclos sem recarga ou reabastecimento adequados deixando-o mole na cadeira. O servo de Drift se aperta em seu ombro com uma força calculada, com o intuito de confortar, não machucar.

“Reabasteça e descanse um pouco” Drift pede, o servo subindo até as placas faciais de Ratchet, pressionando o metal “Vou vigiar Bumblebee, ele não ficará sozinho.”

Ratchet ainda hesita, ombros erguidos em alerta e servo ainda tocando o capacete de Bumblebee como se ele fosse uma âncora, uma garantia de que Bee está de fato ali, vivo e com eles. Não morto, não nas mãos imundas e profanas de Megatron, mas vivo e com eles.

E Drift entende, ele entende o medo de Ratchet. O médico se preocupa e teme que, se fechar a ótica por um único momento, Bumblebee se vá.

Mas não importa agora, não quando a teimosia de Ratchet o deixa cada vez mais cansado, cada vez mais fraco e exausto conforme o tempo passa. Três dos quatro cuidadores de Bumblebee já desmaiaram de exaustão e foram arrastados para longe do medbay por ele em um descanso forçado, Bee não pode se dar ao luxo de perder seu quarto cuidador em um momento tão delicado.

E Drift é o conjunx de Ratchet, seu parceiro de faísca, companheiro e apoio. Ele sabe o quão importante esse filhote verdadeiramente é e embora ele não admita, esse filhote teimoso e irritante é importante para ele assim como é para Ratchet desde que chegou.

“Eu juro que vou cuidar dele, Bumblebee ficará bem” Drift insiste “Mas ele precisa de todos vocês bem, não em estase assim como ele.”

Essas palavras parecem finalmente alcançar Ratchet e aceita o cubo de energon com voracidade, faminto. Drift o observa até que esteja satisfeito e quando ele finalmente termina, a exaustão parece alcança-lo.

Ratchet, exausto e com o processador quase quebrado pelo cansaço, apoia o elmo sobre os braços e deita próximo a Bumblebee. Não é uma posição confortável e estar sentado o fará reclamar de dores mais tarde, mas Drift não o incomoda.

Com Ratchet em recarga, ele se contra em Bumblebee. Os ferimentos mais leves em sua armadura estão quase curados, mas ainda há aqueles que farão o jovem bot chorar de dor assim que estiver consciente. Suas asas e garganta, absurdamente sensíveis, trarão uma dor insuportável e eles não podem mantê-lo em estase para sempre, mesmo que seja para poupa-lo da dor.

O vocoder feito por Wheeljack e Ratchet já demonstra progresso, com pequenos e fracos ruídos soltos por Bumblebee durante seu estado de inconsciência, uma luz em meio a escuridão criada por Megatron.

Pedaço de sucata maldito, que sua centelha queime----

Drift precisa de toda a força de vontade e toda a calma que pode reunir para não caçar Megatron. Não, Bumblebee é a prioridade.

O bot azul se aproxima do pequeno e, como não faz desde que Bumblebee era um espumante, segura um dos servos menores contra os seus. Os dígitos do batedor permanecem esticados e ele não corresponde ao aperto de Drift. É como tocar um cadáver, exceto que Bumblebee ainda vive.

Ele quase pode ver a ótica azul brilhando em travessura após mais um ciclo irritando Ratchet. O médico o caçaria por toda a base com qualquer ferramenta que pudesse encontrar e Bumblebee fugiria com gritos e risadas alegres, com o som de aplausos e gargalhadas de outros bots como plateia. Optimus, Jazz e Ironhide não o parariam, mas não protegeriam o filhote e permitiriam que Ratchet o perseguisse.

Mas Drift não.

Ele ama Ratchet, realmente ama. Mas o estresse constante da guerra e dos cuidados com outros bots tinha seu preço, isso vinha como irritação e um mal humor incomum, mesmo para Ratchet. As brincadeiras de Bumblebee eram irritantes, mas também um descanso e uma alegria que os autobots apreciavam.

Então, sempre que eles se esbarravam em meio as fugas de Bumblebee, Drift o escondia em lugares que Ratchet nunca procuraria. Esses momentos eram divertidos e mesmo que costumassem se provocar e irritar um ao outro, haviam momentos em que Bumblebee recorria a ele em busca de proteção e para fugir de um cuidador bravo.

Ele daria qualquer coisa para vê-lo assim de novo.

“Quando sair da estase, é melhor você seguir todas as ordens de Ratchet e se cuidar, é melhor você se recuperar rápido.”

Não há calor em sua repreensão, mas uma preocupação genuína e medo. Medo de que Bumblebee nunca acorde, mesmo que Ratchet pare de força-lo a se manter em estase, medo de que os ferimentos sejam piores do que eles imaginam.

Medo de que Bumblebee nunca mais seja o mesmo. E ele não será.

“Seus cuidadores sentem sua falta” Ele sussurra, não querendo que Ratchet desperte “Seus amigos sentem sua falta. Frag, todos sentem sua falta.”

É neste momento que Bumblebee deveria sorrir, cruzar os braços e chamar Drift de sensível. Ele faria uma piada com uma frase ruim como ‘’eu sei que você me ama” ou “o grande bot tem uma faísca!”

Mas Bumblebee não responde. De alguma forma, isso dói.

.

Quando Ratchet acorda, todos já estão na sala.

Optimus e Jazz estão ao lado da cama, encarando Bumblebee com a mesma ótica cansada que Ratchet tem agora. Optimus segura um dos servos menores de Bee contra o dele, apertando os dígitos menores como fazia quando Bee era mais jovem. Jazz está um pouco distante, tocando-o na dobra do joelho amarelo, com um toque leve de seus servos em um carinho leve.

Ironhide está ao lado do elmo de Bumblebee e se afasta quando Cliffjumper, ainda mancando pelos ferimentos em ambas as pernas causados pelos seekers, se aproxima do amigo. Ratchet o observa de longe, deitado em uma cama com Drift sentado ao lado dele.

Ele tem quase certeza de que foi carregado para a cama quando seus companheiros entraram na sala.

“Oi, Bee” Cliffjumper sussurra, apoiando-se contra a cama para conseguir encarar Bee de perto, colocando seu peso contra ela para não machucar ainda mais suas pernas “Desculpe não ter te visitado antes, minhas pernas estão...bem, uma porcaria.”

Jazz bufa, segurando uma risadinha com a piada ruim do amigo de Bee. Cliffjumper ainda sorri para ele, mesmo que seu sorriso pareça cansado e muito forçado.

Vendo o robô vermelho sentar ao lado da cama, Ratchet sente o processador se encher de mais lembranças. Bumblebee e Cliffjumper, a pequena e caótica dupla que o deixava louco. A amizade dos dois nunca o surpreendeu, considerando o quão parecidos eram e a solidão de Bee como o último espumante de Cybertron colaborou para sua aproximação.

Cliffjumper nunca o tratou como frágil e intocável como os outros, ele nunca deixou de ver Bee como um forte e valente guerreiro. E Bumblebee, doce e divertido Bumblebee, se agarrou a essa amizade como um pequeno verme.

Ratchet gostaria de vê-los correndo por aí mais uma vez, deixando os autobots mais velhos loucos com suas travessuras, divertindo-se com coisas simples e fazendo todos ao seu redor rirem. Bumblebee e Cliffjumper são amigos há muito, muito tempo, ver um sem o outro não é normal.

Eles estavam juntos Ratchet então lembra. Concentrado em salvar Bumblebee, ele realmente não pensou em como Cliffjumper deve se sentir nesse momento. Ele foi arrastado para longe de seu melhor amigo e ferido até que suas pernas não fossem úteis, ferido até a estase. Ele foi arrastado para longe do bot com quem se importa tanto e quando ficou online, Bee já estava ferido demais para falar com ele.

“Eu sinto muito” Cliffjumper sussurra, segurando o servo livre de Bee entre os seus “Eu sinto muito, meu amigo. Eu deveria estar com você, mas não estava e eu sinto muito.”

Ele não pede perdão a Ratchet, Optimus, Jazz ou Ironhide. Não, ele pede perdão a Bumblebee.

Ele pede perdão ao amigo, ao companheiro e colega. Ele pede perdão ao filhote que conheceu há tanto tempo e que se apegou a ele como velcro, nunca deixando de sorrir para ele depois de um dia difícil. Ele pede perdão a Bee, aquele que sempre esteve lá por ele.

A culpa o consome como veneno e, enojado, Ratchet percebe que Megatron não se limitou a ferir Bumblebee. Ele feriu todos eles, todos os autobots, ele feriu todos eles ao machucar Bumblebee.

Sem seu raio de luz e esperança, o que resta para lutar?

Sem Bumblebee, o maior milagre de suas vidas marcadas pela guerra e pela morte, nada vale a pena. Tudo parece vazio sem ele e Ratchet sabe, ele sabe que não é o único que sente esse vazio. O vínculo com Bee mal se mantém agora e ele quase pode sentir sua faísca se apagando, mas ainda viva e lutando.

Então, naquela sala médica minúscula, lotada e triste, Ratchet faz algo que nunca imaginou fazer. Ele chora.

Com um servo sobre a ótica e o elmo virado para a parede, ele deixa seus soluços serem abafados pelo peso de seu próprio servo. Os tremores não são o bastante para chamar a tenção de seus companheiros, mas Drift nota e silenciosamente segura o servo livre do conjunx em um aperto firme, mas amoroso.

É tudo que ele pode fazer.

.

É necessário esperar mais um meta-ciclo antes que Ratchet decida acordar Bumblebee.

Não há mais bots além dele, Optimus, Ironhide e Jazz. Drift se mantém do lado de fora do medbay e próximo a porta com Cliffjumper ao lado, ambos prontos para ajudar caso necessário. Não há outros bots além deles, mas todos aguardam notícias, ansiosos pelos resultados.

Os quatro cercam o jovem bot com a intenção de contê-lo em caso de emergência e Ratchet suspira, trêmulo e francamente, um pouco assustado. Ele retira Bee da estase forçada e se posiciona ao lado de seu servo direito, com Jazz ao lado do esquerdo e e Ironhide em suas pernas. Optimus segura o pequeno elmo entre seus dígitos com cuidado, aguardando pacientemente por qualquer sinal de consciência.

Não há motivos para mantê-lo assim quando seus ferimentos já estão praticamente curados e eles não podem manter Bumblebee assim, como um cadáver. Bumblebee precisa viver, ele precisa se curar e quanto mais adiarem, mais difícil será.

Adiar sua volta não fará doer menos.

Não demora para que Bumblebee comece a demonstrar sinais de consciência. As asas desbotadas tremem e suas pequenas antenas se erguem, buscando por sons e tentando reconhecer o ambiente ao seu redor. Seus servos, antes imóveis, se apertam ao redor dos servos de Ratchet e Jazz de forma involuntária.

Em meio aos movimentos estranhos e reflexos, a ótica de Bumblebee se abre.

Optimus poderia chorar com a visão do azul intenso e brilhante da ótica do filhote, mas ele se mantém calmo e aguarda o reconhecimento de Bee com paciência, nunca deixando de tocar o elmo amarelo.

Bumblebee pisca algumas vezes, ainda sonolento e confuso. A luz de medbay o incomoda e demora alguns segundos para se ajustar a claridade. Com a ótica estreita, ele encara Optimus com curiosidade e um pouco de medo, parecendo assustado.

“Bumblebee” Jazz sussurra ao lado dele, com a voz carregada de emoção “Você se lembra de algo, filhote?”

Bumblebee olha para o lado, ainda com a ótica meio fechada. O movimento causa um desconforto estranho em sua garganta e ele solta um ruído irritado, não acostumado com a sensação.

No entanto, o ruído que sai de sua garganta é totalmente diferente de qualquer som que ele já fez na vida. Não é nada parecido com sua voz, sendo semelhante a um apito alto e irritante. Bumblebee solta os servos de Jazz e Ratchet e agarra a própria garganta, confuso e muito, muito assustado.

O metal parece estranho, liso e novo, diferente do metal áspero de sua armadura. Ele pode sentir as marcas de solda em ambos os lados de seu pescoço, mantendo o metal estranho preso a ele. Com o toque, algo na centelha de Bumblebee treme.

Guerra.

Megatron.

Sua caixa de voz arrancada e destruía enquanto ele perdia energon, preso ao chão como sucata, ferido e paralisado.

O vocoder de Bumblebee solta mais um som, mas não um ruído ou sussurro. Bumblebee grita.

Ele grita com dor, horror e medo. O som parece atravessar as paredes, tão alto que o medbay parece tremer com o barulho anormal e doloroso, fazendo os quatro bots mais velhos se encolherem com os servos sobre os receptores de áudio.

Livre dos servos que o seguram, Bumblebee senta em sua cama e intensifica o aperto em sua garganta se intensifica, a dor do aperto fazendo o barulho de seu vocoder falhar como soluços, fazendo as asas em suas costas tremerem.

O tremor queima como fogo, sensível depois de tanto tempo sem uso e com a sensibilidade dos ferimentos recém-curados fazendo cada fio dentro de Bumblebee queimar. Ele tenta gritar, ele tenta berrar com a dor insuportável, mas apenas aquele apito anormal sai no lugar de sua voz.

Dói, dói, dói, dói, dói, dói-

ISSO DÓI!

Bumblebee se encolhe com o elmo contra os joelhos, em uma posição enrolada como fazia quando era mais jovem e era assombrado por pesadelos, frutos da imaginação fértil de uma criança. A diferença é que agora o pesadelo é real, Megatron arrancou algo de Bumblebee e o destruiu, quase o matou.

Ele quase pode sentir suas asas sendo arrancadas, a dor de ser atingido como um saco de pancadas ainda fresca.

O apito continua, ainda falhando em meio aos soluços de Bumblebee enquanto ele continua tentando gritar. Mas alguém se aproxima, alguém o segura e alguém o abraça, apertando-o contra si em uma fraca tentativa de conforto.

Bumblebee se contorce, tentando fugir do aperto. Ele precisa correr, ele precisa fugir e buscar ajuda. Ele precisava sobreviver.

Megatron vai mata-lo se ele não fugir.

O batedor agarra os pulsos do ditador e crava os dígitos no metal, afundando-os com tal força que Megatron geme de dor e treme em seu aperto, mas nunca o solta. Bee chuta e morde, mas Megatron não solta.

ME SOLTE!

ME DEIXE IR!

Em meio aos gritos, ele chama por seus cuidadores. Sua voz perdida não o impede de deixar seus instintos assumirem o controle e buscar pelo conforto dos bots que mais o amam. Ele grits por Jazz e Ironhide, seguido por Optimus e Ratchet, com lágrimas molhando a armadura amarela e tornando seus soluços mais altos.

Por que vocês não estão aqui?

Onde estão?

Por que me abandonaram?

O servo de Megatron segura o elmo amarelo e Bumblebee fecha a ótica, pronto para o golpe final. Ele vai morrer, Megatron vai mata-lo e vai joga-lo no chão como lixo.

Mas o golpe nunca vem. No lugar de um golpe mortal, o toque gentil de dígitos pressionando-o contra um chassi enorme e familiar. O abraço é apertado, confortável e seguro, mantendo Bumblebee próximo a ele e pressionando contra o local onde sua centelha se encontra. O vínculo e a proximidade fazem Bumblebee parar, assim como como o apito em seu vocoder.

Optimus.

Bumblebee arregala a ótica azul quando entende que não é um tirano que o segura, mas Optimus.  Não há perigo em seu abraço, não há medo e não há nenhum monstro pronto para atacar Bumblebee.

Só Optimus.

Tremendo, Bumblebee para de lutar contra o abraço e move um servo para descansar contra o chassi de Optimus. A centelha do Prime treme, feliz e apavorada com a situação do filhote, mas ainda viva e gentil. O vínculo entre eles treme com as emoções de Bumblebee e ele olha para cima com expectativa, temendo que tudo isso não passe de um sonho.

É a ótica e o sorriso dolorido de Optimus que ele encontra, é o elmo pontudo e a tinta com cores que remetem ao lar. A centelha de Bumblebee se alegra, agarrando-se a essa realidade através do vínculo com Optimus.

E, logo depois, ela se agarra aos vínculos com seus outros cuidadores.

Jazz se aproxima e Bee não precisa se virar para saber que ele está ali, próximo e nunca longe demais. É Jazz, seu cuidador gentil e divertido que nunca deixou de trata-lo como seu milagre e a maior alegria de sua existência, sempre pronto para segurar Bumblebee em seus braços e cantar com sua voz horrível, mas reconfortante.

Jazz pressiona um servo entre as asas profanadas por Megatron, como se pudesse limpar a sujeira, como se pudesse substituir o toque imundo pelo dele, um toque gentil que não trás nada além de amor.

Ironhide e Ratchet se agarram a ele através do vínculo com desespero, querendo garantir seu conforto. Os dois bots se esforçam para estar lá e Bumblebee sente tudo, sufocado pelo desespero, pelo carinho e pela proteção de quatro bots. Ironhide toca gentilmente um joelho dobrado e Ratchet, mesmo sem toques, está ao lado dele e próximo como os outros.

A segurança, o amor e a proteção quebram algo dentro de Bumblebee e ele não grita, ele não berra e nem se contorce. Ele não luta contra o conforto.

Ele esconde o elmo contra o chassi de Optimus e chora.

Ele chora como um filhote assustado e em busca do conforto de seus cuidadores, ele chora com toda a dor, medo e angústia que o rasga por dentro como uma faca, cortando-o de dentro para fora, arrancando sua centelha e esmagando-a com seus próprios medos.

Ele chora porque sabe que não há concerto, ele sabe há muito tempo que os recursos se esgotam rapidamente e por mais que Ratchet queira, ele não pode fazer nada.

Optimus não o solta, nenhum deles solta. Bumblebee chora contra o líder com soluços fracos e apitos baixos, como se Bumblebee soluçasse. Os dígitos do filhote arranham o chassi de Optimus em meio ao desespero, buscando por qualquer coisa que não seja a agonia e a dor que o sufoca.

Jazz cobre a boca com o servo livre, parecendo enjoado. Ironhide fecha a ótica em uma tentativa fraca de impedir os próprios tremores, mas Ratchet não tenta. Ele rosna de fúria.

Optimus, segurando o mundo inteiro nos braços, amaldiçoa Megatron mais uma, duas, mil vezes.

Ele vai pagar por isso Optimus jura mais uma vez, apertando Bumblebee. Seu doce e amado espumante está vivo, mas o custo é alto demais.

Ele esmagará Megatron sob seus pedes, ele dará sua cabeça como um presente para Bumblebee e fará o líder Decepticon implorar por misericórdia.

Chapter Text

Bumblebee se torna mais recluso depois de ser liberado por Ratchet.

Nenhum de seus quatro cuidadores acha isso estranho, considerando o quão ferido e assustado ele está. A garganta do batedor se recupera sem problemas, mas ele parece se recusar a usar os apitos e bipes de seu vocoder.

Esse é o problema principal, considerando o fato de que Bumblebee é um guerreiro e por mais que nenhum deles queira força-lo a fazer algo que não quer, mas em um campo de batalha, ele precisa se comunicar e precisa conseguir chamar por socorro caso precise. Ele não pode se manter em silêncio em meio a uma guerra.

Mas ainda é muito triste vê-lo assim.

Bumblebee é o sol da base autobot, a maior alegria que esse exército destroçado teve em muito, muito tempo. O espumante minúsculo e adorável sempre foi e sempre vai ser a coisa mais preciosa que eles já tiveram.

Mas agora, Bumblebee parece uma casca do bot que já foi. Não há alegria em sua ótica azul, não há mais um sorriso alegre e divertido que faz todos ao seu redor rirem. Bumblebee está destroçado, deprimido e tão infeliz que toda a luz da base parece ter sido levada com ele.

“Estou preocupado com ele” Jazz diz uma noite após uma reunião, com todos os cuidadores reunidos ao redor de uma mesa “Ele está se recuperando, mas só fisicamente.”

“E o que você sugere? Não há nada que possa alegra-lo agora” Ratchet suspira, esfregando a própria ótica com força em seus servos “Ele se recusa a tentar se comunicar, não tenta usar o vocoder. Wheeljack o pegou no campo de tiro.”

“Ele acha que é inútil” Ironide solta um suspiro, cansado “Ele acha que não pode ser um bom guerreiro depois do que aconteceu. Isso me preocupa, e se Bee nunca usar o vocoder?”

“Posso tentar falar com ele” Optimus sugere com um servo levantado “Talvez ele me escute.”

Ironhide, Jazz e Ratchet olham um para o outro por alguns segundos e parecem aprovar a sugestão de Optimus. Bumblebee não te um cuidador favorito, mas Optimus é aquele que consegue fazê-lo escutar quando Bumblebee é especialmente teimoso, então Optimus é a esperança deles nesse momento.

Ratchet ama Bumblebee, mas é um pouco bruto quando se trata de emoções. Ironhide é, na melhor das hipóteses, desajeitado e Jazz é impulsivo. Uma palavra errada e Bumblebee pode se fechar ainda mais em sua bolha, deixando-os de fora.

Com isso, Optimus se retira e caminha para o quarto de Bumblebee. O caminho é tão familiar que ele sequer precisa pensar enquanto passa pelos corredores, mas isso permite que seu processador o atormente uma e outra vez.

A culpa de estar lá para Bumblebee ainda faz sua centelha se contorcer de agonia, a Matrix incapaz de diminuir tal sofrimento. Não importa o quão forte ele seja, ele não estava lá quando o bot mais importante para ele precisou e por isso, Bumblebee pagou o preço.

Pela fraqueza dele, Bumblebee se machucou.

O energon do filhote está nas mãos daquele que ele já amou como um irmão, a dor que Bumblebee sente é insuportável e sua agonia o destrói.

Nunca vou me perdoar por isso.

Parando em frente a porta de Bumblebee, Optimus bate contra o metal. Não há resposta, nem mesmo um bipe ou o som de movimentação no cômodo.

Optimus nunca gostou de invadir os aposentos privados de Bumblebee. O jovem sempre gostou de ter privacidade e quando mais jovem, ficava facilmente irritado quando alguém entrava em seu pequeno quarto sem bater. Sempre havia algum barulho, seja de Bee brincando ou seu cantarolar animado.

Mas dessa vez não há nada. Nem mesmo o som dos passos de Bumblebee.

Ele entra e se depara com um quarto vazio. O quarto parece ter sido revirado, os pertences de Bumblebee jogados para todos os lados e seus brinquedos, presentes de todo o exército e tesouros que ele guarda com carinho, estão quebrados e espalhados pelo chão. Optimus nota um buraco na parede, com o tamanho perfeito para que o servo de Bumblebee se encaixe.

Droga.

.

Bumblebee não está em lugar nenhum. Não importa o quanto procurem, ele não é encontrado.

Os amigos do jovem o procuram com expressões assustadas e nervosos, temendo pela segurança dele. A situação preocupante de Bee, junto ao fato de que ele está sozinho, os deixa loucos.

O único que parece saber de algo é, surpreendentemente, Drift.

O bot azul não parece nervoso ou apavorado, mas preocupado. Ele se afasta de Ratchet sem chamar atenção, esgueirando-se pela base até o local mais isolado, o local que muitos bots ignoram ou esquecem da existência.

Não é nada além de um conjunto de salas vazias e portas enferrujadas, sem um único cybertroniano vivo passando por ali. No fim do corredor, uma porta enferrujada e menor que todas as outras está entreaberta.

Drift solta um suspiro, caminhando em direção ao depósito velho e vazio que poucos conhecem. Abrindo a porta, ele pode ver uma figura amarela e brilhante encolhida no canto do depósito e mesmo que muitas partes da pintura de Bee tenham sido arrancadas e destruídas pelos ferimentos, ele sabe que é o batedor ali.

“Bumblebee” Ele chama, abrindo a porta aberta apenas o suficiente para ver a ótica azul voltada para ele com raiva “Bumblebee, todos estão procurando por você.”

Bumblebee bufa e de forma infantil e raivosa, se vira até que Drift veja somente as asas amarelas, abaixadas e desanimadas.

Drift solta um resmungo irritado, desconfortável pela situação em que se encontra. Se ele sair agora, Bumblebee não o deixará se aproximar de novo e provavelmente, encontrará outro, esconderijo ainda mais secreto.

Ele está triste, ferido e por mais irritante que seja, a ideia de deixa-lo sozinho faz Drift ficar incomodado. Imaginar esse youngling desamparado e sem um adulto por perto é de dar pena.

“Você me deve isso, garoto.”

Bumblebee não olha para ele, mas Drift não se importa. Colocando as espadas no corredor e se espremendo pela pequena porta do depósito e arrastando-se para o canto da sala, onde Bumblebee permanece sentado.

Drift consegue sentar ao lado dele com um pouco de esforço, embora seja desconfortável e o local esteja sujo pela falta de uso. Bumblebee olha para o lado oposto a Drift, abraçando os próprios joelhos com o elmo apoiado nos braços desbotados.

É como olhar para Bumblebee quando mais jovem, quando ele desapareceu em meio a invasão da antiga base. Havia um depósito semelhante na época e com o filhote desaparecido, todos entraram em pânico, imaginando que os Decepticons o tivessem levado.

Drift o encontrou na época depois de vasculhar a base em chamas, feliz pelo filhote estar vivo e bem. Os dois fugiram juntos e depois disso, Bumblebee encontrou um depósito semelhante ao anterior na nova base e é claro que se tornou seu lugar secreto.

Drift é o único que sabe e por mais que ele não seja um cuidador grudento e protetor, ele não pode negar que os Decepticons poderiam ter encontrado Bumblebee se não fosse por seu esconderijo quando filhote. Ele nunca contou esse segredo para os outros, respeitando a vontade do jovem teimoso.

Teimoso como Ratchet.

Bmblebee se move ao lado dele, e ele observa o jovem digitar algo em seu bloco de notas que Ratchet lhe deu como forma de se comunicar. Ele digita com raiva, pressionando cada tecla com tanta força que a tela pode se partir se ele não se controlar.

Ele empurra o bloco de dados contra o elmo de Drift com um pouco de violência e ele precisa afastar o servo estranhamente ferido do jovem.

“O que está fazendo aqui?”

“Como eu disse, todos estão preocupados e procurando por você” Ele responde com cuidado, vendo Bumblebee se encolher “Você sumiu e todos ficaram loucos, garoto.”

“Não sou uma criança.”

“Para eles, você sempre será um espumante redondo e chorão” Essa frase lhe rende um soco no braço, mas não há força por trás dele “Ratchet disse que você não quer usar seu vocoder.”

Bumblebee bufa, com uma mistura de raiva e tristeza em seu olhar. Drift não o deixa fugir de seu olhar, encarando o bot mais jovem com desconfiança e, no fundo, preocupação.

Ele viu esse filhote nos braços de Ratchet, seu Conjunx e ele viu Bumblebee crescendo. Ele viu Bumblebee se tornando um guerreiro forte e corajoso, se inspirando em todos os quatro cuidadores e sempre buscando se tornar mais forte.

Esse é o filhote minúsculo que ele segurou nos braços, esse é o filhote que costumava espia-lo quando achava que ele não estava prestando atenção, com uma ótica cheia de admiração, mas ainda com uma birra típica de um espumante ciumento.

Os dois brigam como se Drift fosse um espumante, mas ele pôde sentir a própria faísca gelar de horror quando Bee foi levado as pressas para o medbay e Ratchet o salvou por pouco. Ele estava lá quando Ratchet desmoronou ao lado do jovem desacordado e ele monitorou os sinais de Bee.

Ele estava lá para esse idiota teimoso.

“Estamos preocupados” Drift murmura, envergonhado e com as placas faciais levemente franzidas em desconforto “Você não está bem e nós sabemos disso.”

A ótica de Bee se volta para ele, olhando diretamente na ótica do bot mais velho. Ele está um pouco surpreso, tímido e sinceramente, um pouco tocado.

Drift não é o mais sentimental dos soldados e para muitos, ele pode soar como um soldado grosso e rude. Ouvi-lo se incluir no grupo de bots preocupados com Bumblebee é uma grande demonstração de carinho e preocupação.

Ele se importa e Bumblebee pode sentir sua centelha esquentar de carinho.

Só um pouquinho.

Drift observa o jovem digitar em seu bloco de notas mais uma vez, hesitando em algumas palavras como se não soubesse como se expressar. Drift espera, não o apressando.

“É estranho.”

“Estranho?”

“Quando tento usar o vocoder, é como se outra pessoa falasse em meu lugar, mas com meu corpo e com a minha garganta. É desconfortável, não gosto disso.”

“Bumblebee, por que não disse nada? Você poderia ter falado com qualquer um de seus cuidadores.”

“Eles já se culpam o bastante” Bumblebee se encolhe ainda mais, mas dessa vez, ele se aproxima da figura de Drift “Eles me olham com culpa e pena. Sou um batedor, posso lidar com isso.”

Pirralho teimoso.

“Seu elmo é tão duro quanto o de Optimus” Drift diz com um rolar de sua ótica “Eles amam você, Bumblebee, e embora a culpa deles seja algo ridículo, você não pode e não precisa passar por tudo sozinho.”

Bumblebee olha para o chão, onde seu pede encontra o de Drift e toca a própria garganta, traçando-a com os dedos como se fosse algo frágil, mesmo que o metal já tenha se curado completamente.

Drift precisa fechar a própria ótica para afastar a imagem da garganta aberta e vazando energon de Bumblebee. Ele pode ouvir os gritos de Ratchet e o som angustiante da estática descontrolada de Bumblebee.

Ele abre a ótica com a centelha tremendo, mas não permite que Bumblebee note.

“Se quiser ser um soldado, precisa aprender a superar suas dores. Sei que deve ser estranho, mas você vai se acostumar e com o tempo, talvez possamos devolver sua voz” Esperança brilha na ótica azul, melhor que a apatia de antes “Vamos, Bumblebee, faça isso e não deixe Megatron vencer.”

Mencionar o nome do tirano faz Bee tremer, mas ele entende as palavras de Drift. Megatron já tirou sua voz, ele quase perdeu suas asas e passou muito tempo em estase a beira da morte.

Não o deixe vencer.

Não o deixe continuar te machucando.

Ele já tirou tanto de você, não o deixe tirar mais.

Sob a ótica atenta de Drift, Bumblebee força o vocoder a funcionar. No começo, o apito é alto, fino e insuportável. Drift se encolhe sob o som com ombros erguidos, mas não ousa se afastar dele e mantém a ótica sobre Bee.

Minutos depois, o apito diminui para bipes finos e baixos, embora falhos. É um pouco estranho e Bumblebee tosse algumas vezes, mas continua tentando, fazendo o aparelho trabalhar sem realmente dizer nada.

Até que ele diz.

“Meu n-nome...” Bumblebee bufa, parecendo um pouco cansado, mas continua tentando “É B-Bumblebee.”

Bumblebee solta um suspiro cansado, massageando a garganta soldada com os ombros baixos em exaustão, mas Drift sorri para ele. Ele bate no elmo amarelo do jovem como fazia quando Bee era criança em uma rara demonstração de carinho, quase parecendo orgulhoso.

“Você foi muito bem” Ele elogia, recebendo um olhar cheio de expectativa “Sei que está cansado, mas seu esforço foi admirável. Parabéns.”

O sorriso de Bumblebee faz tudo valer a pena, o sorriso que é capaz de iluminar a escuridão e que Drift pensou que Megatron tivesse roubado naquela missão terrível. Ele então fica de pé, puxando Bumblebee pelo servo para que o siga, fazendo o jovem levantar.

“Precisamos voltar, todos estão preocupados” Bumblebee acena com o elmo, embora pareça um pouco nervoso “Vamos mostrar seu progresso a Ratchet e então você vai pedir desculpas por desaparecer, tudo bem?”

Bumblebee treme com a menção do cuidador raivoso, mas aceita a sugestão e segue Drift para fora do depósito com o elmo baixo e o bloco de notas em seus servos. Drift está com ambas as espadas em seus servos quando, sem aviso, algo o atinge e ele larga as armas.

Bumblebee quase o derruba e pela força usada por ele, Drift solta as espadas e Bee deixa o bloco de notas cair no chão. Com a ótica arregalada, ele olha para baixo apenas para ver o elmo redondo e amarelo.

Um abraço de Bumblebee. Um abraço de verdade, agarrado a Drift pela cintura com o elmo em seu chassi, como fazia quando era pequeno demais para andar longas distâncias e implorava para ser carregado.

“O-Obrigado” Bumblebee apita, apertando o mech mais alto. Drift, envergonhado e feliz, corresponde com tapinhas entre as asas erguidas do jovem. Bumblebee ri “Vo-você é péssimo-mo nisso.”

“Cale a boca, seu pirralho arrogante.”

Drift se afasta e com seus pertences nos servos, os dois caminham para o medbay para encontrar os cuidadores, reunidos após uma mensagem de Drift. Não demora para chegar e quando Drift entra, Bumblebee se esconde logo atrás dele como se ele pudesse defende-lo.

Me usando como escudo. Que coisa maléfica.

“Você deve ter uma boa desculpa, jovem” Ironhide fala primeiro, com braços cruzados e uma expressão severa.

“Onde você estava?” Ratchet questiona, com a voz cheia de raiva. Bumblebee se encolhe ainda mais atrás de Drift e Ratchet encara o Conjunx com a ótica estreita, recebendo um olhar nervoso com servos erguidos em defesa.

“Vamos nos acalmar” Optimus interrompe a bronca, embora pareça tão sério quanto os outros dois. Ele olha para Drift com a ótica cheia de perguntas “Drift, pode explicar o que aconteceu?”

Ele olha para Bumblebee sobre o ombro e o jovem acena positivamente, mais preocupado em escapar da fúria dos cuidadores.

É um pouco engraçado, o filhote corajoso que foi capaz de enfrentar Megatron tem medo de seus cuidadores. Mas Drift concorda que Ratchet é mais assustador que o tirano Decepticon.

“Bumblebee se escondeu porque acha que sua...deficiência é algo com o qual deve lidar sozinho. Ele não queria preocupa-los e por isso se escondeu” Bumblebee espia o cenário ao lado de Drift, mas ainda usando-o como escudo.

Ele observa como os quatro mech murcham com culpa, a raiva deixando seus corpos para dar lugar a tristeza. Optimus balança o elmo para os lados, quase descrente.

“Bee” Jazz é quem fala, a uma distância segura, mas ainda próximo o bastante para olhar Bee na ótica “Você é nosso filhote e a coisa mais preciosa que já tivemos nessa guerra. Nós nunca, nunca quisemos que você lidasse com isso sozinho. Sinto muito, filhote.”

Bumblebee é quem move o elmo para os lados agora, saindo da proteção de Drift para se aproximar de Jazz com a ótica cheia de culpa. Ele segura os servos do cuidador com carinho, olhar fixo na viseira de Jazz.

“Des-Desculpe.”

Drift observa em tempo real como o ambiente parece se iluminar com os bipes gagos e falhos de Bumblebee. Optimus e Ironhide endireitam suas posturas, com as óticas arregaladas e Ratchet quase engasga de choque.

Jazz parece brilhar.

Ele segura o elmo de Bumblebee com os servos, olhando o filhote com um brilho incomum. Bumblebee sorri, com antenas e asas erguidas.

“Diga algo” Ele pede, com a voz carregada de emoção “Fale de novo para que eu saiba qur não é um sonho.”

Mais bipes ecoam pelo medbay ao som das risadas de Bumblebee. Jazz parecer segurar as lágrimas, emocionado como Drift nunca viu antes.

“N-Não é um so-sonho, Jazz” Bumblebee garante e bem ali, em meio aos companheiros, Jazz grita de alegria.

Ele ergue Bumblebee em um abraço apertado, rindo como um espumante alegre. Bee corresponde com a mesma força.

Apesar das risadas falhas e estranhas, ouvir Bumblebee rir vale a pena.

.

“Estou cansado.”

“Sei disso, mas você precisa treinar mais se quiser se comunicar” Ratchet diz após ler a mensagem no bloco de notas, com Bumblebee massageando a garganta dolorida “Seu vocoder foi instalado há muito tempo, mas não foi usado e por isso dói. Você precisa usa-lo até que se acostume.”

Bumblebee o encara com indignação, mas não digita nada em seu bloco de notas e apenas murcha sobre a maca desconfortável do medbay. Ratchet sorri tristemente, segurando o elmo amarelo com um servo e acariciando sob a ótica azul com um dígito.

Ele não gosta de forçar Bumblebee a usar seu vocoder, sabendo que é desconfortável e que dói. Mas, considerando o fato de que Bee é um soldado e que ele precisa usá-lo para que possa se comunicar, ele não pode fraquejar.

Bee pressiona o elmo contra o servo de Ratchet com um barulho baixo de alegria, aproveitando o carinho como quando era apenas um espumante minúsculo que perseguia Ratchet por aí. Isso faz Ratchet sorrir ainda mais, com a centelha derretida de carinho.

“Não gosto de ver você sentir dor, mas é preciso, pequeno” O apelido antigo faz Bumblebee soltar mais barulhos felizes, relaxado como não faz desde que saiu da estase “Que tal descansarmos um pouco? Podemos treinar mais depois.”

Bumblebee acena com o elmo e agarra o servo de Ratchet, arrastando-o para fora do medbay, tão rápido que o médico não consegue escapar de seu “sequestro.”

Bumblebee o arrasta para o refeitório e Arcee, a responsável pela distribuição do dia, sorri para eles com a ótica suave ao olhar para Bumblebee. O jovem sorri para ela com a mesma alegria, acenando para a femme antes de se afastar.

Ele empurra um cubo de energon para Ratchet com um olhar cheio de expectativa e com a ótica arregalada. Ratchet bufa, aceitando a oferenda com um sorriso brincalhão.

“Drift disse para você fazer isso, certo?” Ele questiona com a ótica franzida. Como médico, ele está sempre ocupado e deixa as necessidades básicas de lado com uma frequência preocupante. Drift, é claro, nota seus hábitos e se preocupa.

Ele sabe que Ratchet não consegue dizer não quando se trata de Bumblebee.

O jovem apenas sorri de forma conspiratória e então desvia o olhar. Ratchet não insiste, feliz por vê-lo mais alegre e se alimentando, mesmo que uma parte dele saiba que o humor de Bee pode mudar no instante seguinte. Ele parece instável, nunca estando totalmente relaxado.

Vê-lo assim, feliz e alimentado, é tudo que Ratchet pode pedir.

No entanto, a paz não dura muito.

Os olhares dos outros bots não são discretos, focados no batedor amarelo com preocupação e curiosidade. A pintura amarela de Bumblebee permanece arranhada e suas cicatrizes expostas a pedido do próprio Ratchet, preocupado em acompanhar o processo de cura e como Bumblebee reage as mudanças depois de ser tão machucado.

Não é por maldade, eles estão curiosos e preocupados com Bumblebee. Assim como outros soldados, é claro que Bumblebee possui cicatrizes, mas aquelas deixadas por Megatron são as piores e as mais profundas.

Marcas deixadas pelo líder dos Decepticons, torturado e quase morto. Ele não está surpreso com os olhares, mas ele pode ver como Bumblebee ergue as asas desbotadas e sua ótica se estreita em alerta, claramente desconfortável por ser tão exposto.

Os bots desviam seus olhares, mas alguns ainda arriscam encarar Bumblebee em alguns momentos, quase como se ele fosse uma espécie de material de exposição. As asas de Bumblebee tremem, as antenas pressionadas contra o capacete com tanta força que ele se assemelha a uma criança assustada.

Ratchet não suporta essa visão. Ele agarra Bumblebee pelo servo, arrastando o filhote de volta para o medbay com um olhar furioso na direção dos bots curiosos, fazendo-os tremer. Nenhum deles gosta de provocar o médico e embora não haja uma única palavra trocada entre eles, todos chegam a uma conclusão:

Ratchet vai fazê-los entender da forma mais difícil o quão insensíveis eles foram.

De volta a sala, Bumblebee se encolhe na maca mais próxima da parede com as asas dobradas e pressionadas contra ela. Ele abraça as pernas com servos entrelaçados, um olhar envergonhado em sua ótica.

Ele pode escutar a voz de Ratchet, mas não compreende suas palavras e não tenta escutá-lo. A vergonha e o desconforto por ser encarado como uma peça de museu o assusta, fazendo cada ferimento coçar.

Ele ainda sonha com os servos de Megatron em sua armadura, arranhando a pintura da qual ele tanto se orgulha, arrancando sua caixa de voz e arrancando suas asas. Quando Megatron as arrancou, Bumblebee mal sentiu devido a dor e a tontura pela tortura de Megatron. A dor já era insuportável, então o último ferimento se perdeu em meio a dor.

Mas depois? Doeu muito.

Cada movimento de suas asas parece pesado, como se elas pudessem cair com o mínimo movimento de Bee. A sensibilidade tornou tudo pior, os movimentos fazendo-o se contorcer de dor e tremer com o desconforto insuportável.

A garganta foi a pior parte. As facadas de Megatron e os amassados deixados em sua armadura foram fáceis de lidar, mas o ardor, o incômodo e a voz perdida fazem tudo parecer um inferno. Bee sente falta de rir com Jazz, de Gritar com Drift e contar piadas ruins apenas para que seus cuidadores riam um pouco e deixem o peso da guerra de lado.

Ele é o tagarela, e Megatron tirou isso dele.

A porta de medbay é aberta com tanta força que Bumblebee pula de susto, encolhendo-se na maca de Ratchet com a ótica arregalada e asas erguidas. Cliffjumper invade a sala com passos pesados, quase soltando fumaça pela boca e andando de um lado para o outro como faz sempre que está furioso.

Ratchet, em um dia normal, o repreenderia por quase quebrar sua porta, mas ele desaparece no corredor e isso deixa Bumblebee confuso. Cliffjumper solta um bufo, parecendo quase entrar em combustão diante de Bumblebee.

Cliffjumper então para, olhando para Bumblebee e soltando bufos raivosos como um touro furioso. Ele não tem raiva de Bee, não há raiva pelo bot ferido e grande amigo, mas por aqueles que foram insensíveis o bastante para não calar a boca.

Encará-lo é uma coisa, mas falar sobre seus ferimentos? Isso é demais.

O bot vermelho move o elmo para os lados, tentando manter a tensão sob controle e caminha até a maca onde Bee está sentado. Ele não diz nada, sentando-se ao lado do amigo com uma carranca profunda.

Bumblebee sabe que Cliff é explosivo, impulsivo e teimoso, mas é um bom bot e um bom amigo. Bumblebee era um newspark quando Cliffjumper era um jovem soldado e naquela época, não haviam motivos para que eles fossem próximos pela diferença de idade.

Mas quando Bee começou a crescer e se tornou um espumante capaz de falar a brincar, algo mudou entre eles. A teimosia e a travessura de Bumblebee os aproximou e, com o tempo, eles se tornaram uma dupla inseparável.

Alguns bots tem irmãos, outros cybertronianos ligados a eles desde que foram forjados, mas Bumblebee encontrou isso em Cliff e em meio a uma guerra. Não há a necessidade de uma ligação entre suas faíscas para que eles se protejam e cuidem um do outro como irmãos.

“Bee” Cliffjumper começa, com a voz baixa e arrastada. Ele esfrega os dígitos na própria ótica azul, estressado “Você está bem?”

Cansado e desanimado, Bumblebee escolhe usar o bloco de notas de Ratchet para se comunicar com o amigo, empurrando-o para Cliff.

“Mais ou menos.”

“Estavam falando sobre você” Cliffjumper murmura, ao que Bumblebee bufa “Alguns deles estavam falando sobre como filhote do Prime ‘finalmente viu como uma guerra realmente é’ ou alguma merda parecida.”

Isso irrita Bumblebee.

Não é a primeira vez que alguém considera Bumblebee frágil ou mimado por Optimus. Ele é o filhote que foi mantido sob sua proteção e sob a proteção de três outros bots, além de ser o mais jovem de toda a base. Essa imagem se formou com o tempo e não importa o quanto ele tente provar que é um bom soldado, muitos ainda o vêem como um filhote protegido por um Prime.

Mas isso? Isso é cruel.

Bumblebee já se machucou antes, ferido por Decepticons antes de Megatron e ele já perdeu amigos nessa guerra. Isso não conta? Foi necessário perder a voz e sentir tanta dor para finalmente ser visto não como um filhote, mas como um adulto?

Não é justo. Não é assim que deveria ter sido.

“Ratchet estava tão furioso que Optimus precisou segura-lo” A menção de dois cuidadores juntos faz Bumblebee segurar uma risada, imaginando a cena de um Optimus segurando Ratchet furioso e tremendo de raiva “Mas Jazz e Ironhide disseram que dariam um jeito, não fiquei para ver.”

Bumblebee se vira para olhar o velho amigo com a ótica arregalada de surpresa. Cliffjumper bufa, desviando o olhar para qualquer outro ponto que não seja a expressão do amigo mais jovem entre eles.

Cliffjumper nunca foi o mais sentimental entre eles, mas Bumblebee aprendeu a lê-lo depois de tanto tempo juntos. Cliff, o bot que tanto se parece com ele, não precisa ser sentimental para mostrar a ele que se importa. Cliffjumper está ali com ele, ele esteve com ele no tempo em que Bee esteve em estase e Cliff é capaz de se meter em problemas por ele.

“Mas você-“ A estática torna os bipes e apitos difíceis de entender, distorcidos pelo cansaço de Bumblebee. Mas Clifffjumper se vira para olhar para ele com toda a atenção e esperança dentro de sua ótica “Você nunca-“

Bumblebee bufa, cansado, ele esfrega a garganta com irritação. O vocoder dói, ardendo pelo esforço de ser usado por mais tempo que o normal e cansado pelo esforço de Bumblebee. Cliffjumper murcha ao lado dele, a esperança de ouvir uma frase completa através dos bipes morrendo.

Mas as poucas palavras são o bastante para que essa esperança volte a vida. Ele pode não ouvir uma frase completa hoje, mas poderá ouvir depois que Bumblebee descansar e seu vocoder não doer mais. Isso é o bastante por enquanto.

“Nunca fujo de uma briga?” Cliffjumper termina a frase por ele, ao que Bumblebee sorri “Talvez, mas Ratchet disse que você estava triste e embora eu queira arrumar uma briga, você é meu amigo e portanto, a prioridade.”

Dessa vez, Bumblebee usa o bloco de notas para transmitir um “obrigado” sincero para Cliffjumper. O bot vermelho ri, abraçando Bumblebee pelos ombros, balançando-o de forma brincalhona para os lados.

“Mas não é só isso, é?”

Cliffjumper para de sorrir no momento em que lê as palavras escritas no bloco de notas. O abraço se intensifica, quase chegando a machucar, mas Bee não o afasta.

“Não, não é” Cliff murmura, olhando para os pedes com o que Bee só pode descrever como vergonha “Eu...eu não estava lá.”

Oh.

“Fui levado para longe de você e Megattron pôde te machucar” Cliff então volta o olhar para o amigo, com um brilho suspeito na ótica azulada “Eu sinto muito.”

Cliffjumper é teimoso, absurdamente teimoso. Bumblebee sabe disso, conhecendo-o a tempo demais para ser enganado com palavras falsas. Ele pode dizer que não o culpa, mas Cliff não vai acreditar e vai ignora-lo.

Então ele o abraça.

Não como um abraço lateral, não como um abraço desajeitado de dois soldados bobos. É um abraço apertado de dois velhos amigos e irmãos, um abraço apertado e cheio de carinho.

Cliff não diz nada, então Bumblebee ignora os tremores vindos dele.

.

Crosshairs é irritante, Hound é tolerável, mas as vezes, consegue ser ainda mais irritante que o grande bot verde.

Bumblebee não precisa se aproximar muito para saber que os dois estão por perto, o grande tamanho dos dois tornando-os visíveis de longe.

Os dois riem de algo quando Bee se aproxima pelo corredor com o objetivo de chegar ao escritório de Optimus. Eles se viram para encará-lo e quando Bee passa por eles, Hound o cumprimenta com dois tapinhas no capacete amarelo.

Bee o encara com confusão, tocando o capacete com uma expressão curiosa. O grande bot apenas sorri, afastando-se e deixando um cheiro forte de fumaça para trás.

“Bom ver você, pirralho” Crosshairs diz com um sorriso muito, muito esquisito “Na próxima, não deixe alguns idiotas falarem de você.”

Ele então some antes que Bee possa fazer perguntas, deixando-o um pouco assustado. Crosshairs é uma dor na popa e um idiota irritante, mas não deixa de ser leal e as vezes, protetor. Pensar no que ele pode ter feito junto com Hound é um pouco assustador.

“Bee!”

A voz de Jazz o faz pular de susto e Bumblebee mal registra a presença do cuidador antes que Jazz o abrace, um abraço apertado que o ergue do chão. O bot mais velho esfrega seus elmos juntos, arranhando o metal em seu carinho agressivo.

Bumblebee se contorce em meio ao abraço como um espumante, mas Jazz não o solta e Ironhide se aproxima com uma risada. Ele encara o grande bot com raiva, mas isso só o faz rir mais.

“Meu pequeno inseto, vou acabar com os idiotas que falaram de você” Jazz finalmente o solta, mas ainda segura um servo negro e arrasta Bumblebee com ele ao caminhar, Ironhide os segue com um sorriso “Você está bem? Ratchet disse que você estava abalado.”

“Estou bem.”

“Que bom, pequeno” Ironhide diz ao lado dele, batendo levemente no capacete amarelo em um sinal de afeto “Ratchet disse que quer falar com você, algo sobre seu vocoder.”

Bumblebee acena, se deixando ser praticamente arrastado para o escritório de Optimus. Chegando lá, Ratchet e Optimus os aguardam.

Optimus sorri ao vê-lo, mas é um sorriso tenso e Ratchet parece preocupado. Ele sinaliza para a velha cadeira diante dele e Bee senta, aguardando por suas palavras.

“Bumblebee” Ratchet começa, fazendo o jovem se encolher “Wheeljack e eu conversamos sobre seu vocoder depois da situação com os outros bots. Achamos que seu vocoder precisa ser reparado.”

O que-

“Achamos que seu vocoder pode ter sido quebrado quando saiu da estase” Ratchet se ajoelha diante do filhote, segurando os servos do jovem com cuidado “Achamos que, quando você gritou depois de sair da estase, seu vocoder acabou sendo quebrado.”

“Como? O vocoder dele foi feito com as melhores peças que tínhamos!”

“Sim, Jazz, mas ainda foi usado pela primeira vez de forma muito repentina. Bumblebee estava inconsciente por muito tempo e usa-lo dessa forma tão de repente pode tê-lo quebrado. O vocoder ainda é algo sensível e achamos que Bee pode precisar de outra cirurgia.”

“Por isso ele ainda gagueja?” Ironhide questiona.

“Talvez e talvez por isso ainda haja tanta estática, mas precisamos fazer essa cirurgia para saber” Ratchet responde, olhando para o amigo “Também há o fato de que Bee apertou a própria garganta logo depois de sair da estase, mas estávamos tão preocupados em acalma-lo que não notamos até agora.”

Os olhares se voltam para Bumblebee, que olha para os próprios pedes com horror.

A ideia de ser colocado em estase mais uma vez é assustadora, mas ter a garganta aberta de novo é pior.

Ratchet é cuidadoso e Wheeljack estará com ele, ajudando-o e garantindo que Bumblebee esteja bem. Ainda sim, a ideia de ser colocado na maca mais uma vez e passar por uma cirurgia tão delicada o faz querer se encolher.

Ratchet não é Megatron. Ratchet nunca o machucaria e ele é cuidadoso. Seus servos foram feitos para curar, para salvar vidas, para manter Bumblebee saudável e vivo.

Ele considera manter o vocoder danificado como está, cheio de estática, dolorido e gago. Entretanto, isso não será útil em uma guerra e ele estará vulnerável durante as batalhas se não puder se comunicar.

Ratchet teria feito outra caixa de voz se pudesse, mas um vocoder é tudo que ele pode fazer no momento. As melhores e mais novas peças foram usadas nele e se Bumblebee não usar isso, será um desperdício. Bumblebee sequer o culpa por não ter notado as falhas no vocoder antes, todos estavam felizes por vê-lo consciente e foi nisso que se concentraram.

“Bumblebee” A voz de Optimus o faz levantar o capacete para olhar para o cuidador. Ratchet se afasta, permitindo que Optimus assuma seu lugar, ajoelhado diante dele “Sei que está assustado, mas Ratchet será cuidadoso e fará de tudo para concertar seu vocoder. Nós estaremos com você assim que sair da estase.”

Os grandes servos de Optimus cobrem os menores de Bee, apertando-os com cuidado como se quisesse transmitir segurança. Os mesmos servos que antes seguravam Bumblebee com tanta facilidade, os servos que o embalavam para recarregar, os mesmos servos que podem matar Decepticons, mas que nunca machucaram Bee.

Bumblebee solta uma lufada de ar, tremendo na cadeira. Ele aperta os servos de Optimus e acena com o elmo positivamente, aceitando a oferta de Ratchet, mesmo que o medo ainda esteja presente em sua centelha.

“Meu filhote corajoso.”

O orgulho na voz de Ironhide o faz sorrir um pouco.

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A cirurgia é feita no mesmo dia.

Optimus, Jazz e Ironhide são expulsos do medbay mais uma vez e Ratchet tranca a porta como se os três bots fossem espumantes, prontos para desobedecer suas ordens. Optimus não o culpa, considerando o fato de que Bumblebee é o paciente.

Jazz anda de um lado para o outro com um servo cobrindo sua boca, a ansiedade mantendo-o inquieto. Ironhide está sentado no chão com o elmo apoiado em uma parede, com a ótica fechada e servos apoiados nos joelhos dobrados.

Optimus está de pé, parado e batendo um pede contra o chão. Ele arranha os braços cruzados com as pontas dos dígitos, nervoso e ansioso, mesmo que Bumblebee não esteja realmente em perigo.

A cirurgia não é perigosa como a anterior, a garganta de Bee não está sendo aberta por um servo inimigo, mas por um cuidador que o ama mais do que qualquer coisa no universo. Ratchet morrerá antes de piorar a situação de Bee, mas o cenário familiar ainda é muito incômodo.

Da última vez que estiveram nessa posição, Bee estava a beira da morte e perdendo energon rapidamente. Optimus se obriga a se manter parado, longe da porta e aguardando notícias.

O vínculo compartilhado com Bumblebee e mantém sólido, mas o jovem parece dar um puxão através dele, quase como se beliscasse a centelha do cuidador. Não parece proposital, mais involuntário e algo causado pela anestesia, deixando-o atordoado.

Optimus ri baixinho, imitando a ação do filhote e torcendo para que o vinculo transmita o amor e segurança que ele deseja. Jazz parou de andar e considerando o olhar divertido, ele parece ter sentido o mesmo que Optimus.

Bumblebee sequer está consciente, mas ainda busca pelo conforto deles.

É nisso que eles se agarram, aguardando pelo fim da cirurgia com ansiedade e medo. Jazz para de andar em algum momento, cansado demais para continuar. Ele senta ao lado de Ironhide e Optimus o segue. Os três apoiados na parede com cansaço.

“Quem diria, aqui estamos nós, de novo” Ironide diz em meio ao silêncio do corredor, batendo o joelho contra o de Jazz com uma espécie de sorriso exausto “Quando Bee chegou, não achei que ele nos faria ter um ataque de faísca pelo menos uma vez por ciclo.”

“Bem, é culpa nossa, ele é tão teimoso quanto todos nós” Jazz responde, empurrando o amigo pelo ombro “Principalmente o Optimus.”

O Prime encara os dois com perplexidade e indignação, arrancando risadas de Ironhide e Jazz. Optimus bufa, empurrando os dois com um joelho e quase derrubando Jazz sobre Ironhide.

A porta do medbay então se abre, Drift saindo dela com passos leves e ombros relaxados. Ele observa os três bots ficarem de pé com tropeços e quase caindo um sobre o outro. O bot azul cruza os braços, esperando que eles estejam de pé com uma espécie de diversão no olhar.

“Ele está bem” Drift diz quando eles estão de pé, embora Jazz ainda se apoie contra Ironhide “A cirurgia correu bem e Ratchet acha que ele vai acordar em um breem.”

Os três cuidadores relaxam ao ouvir a notícia, aliviados e felizes com a notícia. Drift permite que eles entrem com um sorriso em suas placas faciais. Optimus acena ao passar por ele, ganhando um tapinha no braço. Drift permanece na porta, de braços cruzados e sorrindo.

Ao entrar, eles podem ver Bumblebee deitado na maca com a ótica fechada e garganta recém soldada. O trabalho de Ratchet foi mais delicado dessa vez, com um pedaço de metal diferente tendo sido colocado no buraco da garganta de Bumblebee é de uma cor semelhante a sua armadura, as partes soldadas mais discretas dessa vez.

Optimus então se aproxima e ao fazer isso, nota que Ratchet cuidou de Bumblebee mais do que originalmente planejado. As asas de Bumblebee, antes desbotadas e com a solda exposta, foram cobertas com a tinta amarela.

Não é perfeito, ainda há marcas dos ferimentos e embora mais suaves, ainda são visíveis. Mas é muito melhor que antes.

Jazz também parece notar e vira para encarar Ratchet com um sorriso divertido. O médico cruza os braços e estreita a ótica, quase desafiando-o a dizer algo.

“Você é sensível Doc!”

“Não me chame de Doc!”

Ironhide encara Optimus com diversão e o Prime revira a ótica, deixando que os dois discutam atrás dele. Ele segura o servo de Bee com cuidado, observando como sua expressão parece relaxada, diferente de quando ele foi trazido as pressas para o medbay depois de encontrar Megatron.

“Há quanto tempo ele não recarrega direito?” Ironhide murmura, segurando o outro servo de Bumblebee. O servo livre do soldado pousa no elmo redondo, acariciando as antenas adoráveis e frouxas contra o capacete.

Optimus observa com tristeza. Bumblebee é jovem, mas não está livre dos pesadelos e dos traumas.

Ele precisará falar com o filhote teimoso sobre isso, mas no momento, ele se concentra em estar ao lado dele e torcer para que tudo dê certo.