Four Songs
Sep. 17th, 2009 10:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sorciereTitle: Four Songs Samuel Witwicky Heard From Bumblebee... and One That He Didn't
Rating: PG-13 for a few curses, Cybertronian and human.
Disclaimer: Absolutely, positively not mine.
Warnings: Spoilers for RotF, but not the books or comics, most of which I haven't read and will cheerfully ignore. Slight AU from the very end of RotF. Possibly a song fic, but I blame Bumblebee for that. Oh, and Sam rambles a bit. Nothing new there.
Summary: Songs took on a whole new meaning for Sam after meeting Bumblebee. Four times it was intended for him – and one time it wasn't. Ca. 6200 words.
A/N: Several people have suggested a Sam and 'Bee set, but it took a while for the bunny to bite and get even a vague grasp on 'Bee's voice. But I finally managed... and I'll leave it to the reader to decide if I succeeded. Sometime, somewhere a while back – possibly on LJ – I saw someone comment in regards to songs that 'Riding With Private Malone' struck them as something Will might sing to Ironhide. I liked the idea and blatantly, uh, borrowed it, so if it was you/you know who it was, let me know so I can credit where credit is due. Also, I sort of cheated a bit – the song in the third part of this set isn't technically a song but spoken word, but I figured eh, it's on the radio, that makes it fair game.
Set in the same AU 'verse as the rest of the Four fics, but they're not really needed for background information and this can be read as a stand-alone just fine. The fifth section is an epilogue of sorts to the Sydney mission that showed up in Four Lives, Four Times, and Four Targets.
* * * *
1.
* * * *
The nightmares had mostly vanished by the time Sam had decided to try and live a normal life and go to college. To be completely honest, it was one of the reasons why he'd done it – he wanted to feel normal for a little while, act like a normal teen, who did normal stuff that teenagers did, and with the nightmares mostly gone, he might even be able to be normal and not wake up a room-mate night after night from strangled screams and frantic attempts to get out of bed, out of the room, out of the door---
The nightmares had mostly vanished and then Megatron had been brought back and Egypt had happened, and he had died, and now he watched the time creep close to one in the morning and he hadn't really slept much at all for the last several days and still he stayed up. Going to bed would mean nightmares. He could feel them already, the dread settling in his stomach as the darkness closed in.
Mikaela was long asleep, out cold and still in her clothes, and he had gently tugged the blanket free to cover her. His mom and dad were in the room next door and probably long asleep, too, and even if they hadn't been, he wasn't sure what he could have said. The mechs might still be up, or they might not – he never did quite figure out how long they could go without recharge, and even if they were awake, he wasn't sure if talking with most of them would help at all. He wanted to talk with Optimus, really talk, about that minute he was dead that he still didn't feel comfortable talking about with anyone else, but Optimus needed rest and Ratchet had made that very clear, and even if Sam didn't believe for a moment that the large mech would obey, he himself was not going to cross the medic's orders.
The nagging feel of darkness at the edge of his consciousness, dread that still hadn't quite solidified into actual nightmares, and he shuddered and stood up to grab a jacket, decision made. He wasn't sure if his cheerful, yellow guardian was still up, but he was willing to give it a go, and if nothing else, finding him in the maze of the carrier would keep him awake for a while longer.
It turned out that someone was awake, at least, because the hallways weren't completely deserted, and a few careful enquiries and fifteen minutes of mostly-lost walking among identical doors and hallways finally found Sam staring at the flight deck and several familiar alt modes that seemed to keep a polite distance to each other. Maybe they were in recharge. He didn't see Optimus, who was probably still with Ratchet, but he did see the silver Corvette he recognised as Sideswipe, glowing pale in the moonlight – on purpose, he was sure – and a blue Chevrolet that someone had told him was Jolt.
A few more steps out onto the flight deck and he spotted his goal – a yellow Camaro by the side of the buildings, almost lost in shadows and probably in recharge after everything that had happened, but Sam didn't have time to hesitate and reconsider his plan and wonder whether Bumblebee was even awake before one door opened and the light in the car came on.
Recognising an invitation when he saw it, Sam crossed the deck and slipped inside the Camaro to sink into a comfortingly familiar seat that had long since moulded itself to his shape, and the radio made a questioning sound.
Shouldn't you be in bed? Sam guessed and brushed the steering wheel lightly with his thumb. He'd felt hallucinations start to set in earlier in the night from lack of sleep, and he didn't like to think about the fact that he was familiar enough with sleep deprivation to recognise that part of it.
“Nightmares,” he said and finally admitted what he'd been unwilling to tell anyone else. “They were almost gone, you know? I could sleep without seeing Meg's ugly face or be hunted by possessed police cars, but now they're there again and I can't do it, 'Bee. I'm going to go to sleep, and I'll see you dead, and Optimus killed by the 'Cons, and the world in flames, and I know I can't stay up forever, but if I get so exhausted that I collapse, then maybe I won't dream.”
He took a breath, low and shuddering as fear settled in his stomach again and one hand dug into the seat, desperate for reassurance. “I can't talk to my parents. I can't talk to Mikaela, because she's got enough to deal with and I don't want to make her worry, and Optimus is with Ratchet, and I don't think bad-ass NEST guys even get nightmares, and...” He paused and sighed, and his shoulders slumped as the last of his strength left him. “I don't want to worry you or make you deal with this, because you've done so much already and it's not your fault, I'm just being stupid, and I just want to sleep. Ten hours, no nightmares, just sleep and wake up and everything will be better, but it's not going to happen because Megatron is never, ever going to go away. He'll never stop hunting me, and I'll never stop having to look over my shoulder, and now the whole slagging world is looking for me, and- slag it.”
He hit the seat, not hard enough to hurt but enough to get across the frustrations he couldn't find the right words for, and the Camaro rumbled soothingly around him.
Sam sighed and closed his eyes but snapped them open again a moment later as utterly unfamiliar sounds came through the radio, strange and alien and somehow soothing, and he blinked in confusion.
Some of the sounds were almost familiar – Cybertronian, definitely, even if he didn't recognise the words, and he frowned slightly as he tried and failed to pick out anything familiar in the song at all. “Cybertronian?” he asked, and then he realised how stupid his obvious surprise would seem. “I mean, no one ever mentioned music on Cybertron, so I just never thought about it before, but it makes sense. I mean, why would we be the only species with music?”
The song continued, quiet and soothing, and Sam relaxed fractionally and sunk back into the seat. “What song is it?” he finally asked, because it kept being familiar in an almost nagging way, and he knew he had never heard it before, but there was still something about it...
“Sleep pretty darling, do not cry, and I will sing a lullaby.”
Skipping the stranger parts of the song, long used to Bumblebee's way of communicating – pretty darling? No comment, thank you – Sam still paused and just stared at the radio as the quiet, soothing recording continued.
It was a lullaby. A Cybertronian lullaby, and he realised why it had sounded so strangely familiar. It was like no other song he had heard before, but it still had the same feel as the lullabies he had grown up with, and he felt something in his heart twist for a moment.
“'Bee...”
“I know that you're tired, just let me sing you to sleep,” the radio responded in another brief interruption of the recording, and Sam touched the dashboard lightly as the strange song continued.
It felt silly. He had just died and come back to life, he had helped save the world, he had fought with and against giant, alien robots, and now one of said robots was playing a lullaby for him from a planet so far away that it couldn't be seen from Earth and that he would know only through the stories of his alien friends.
It felt silly, but the song was slowly but surely effecting him, and it didn't matter that he wasn't a baby Autobot and didn't understand the language. It was still calm, still soothing, and it was 'Bee singing for him, and slowly but surely he felt his eyelids getting heavier. He didn't want to sleep, didn't want the nightmares, but he was tired and his body was trembling and he felt like crying as his mind desperately wanted sleep he wasn't sure he could even offer, and this was 'Bee, and if there was anywhere he might be able to sleep undisturbed, it would be within the comfortingly familiar yellow Camaro.
The song continued and he finally gave in.
“Sorry in advance if I hit you,” Sam mumbled and closed his eyes as the seat tilted backwards to turn into a makeshift bed. “No clue where I am when I wake up from that stuff.”
The car offered a soothing rumble as the song went on, chasing away shadows and fears as the light in the car darkened and finally turned off completely.
An attentive listener might have been able to focus on the song itself to realise why it was so familiar beyond the soothing sound of it all. An attentive listener familiar with the species that had made the song might have been able to recognise the voice and heard a younger, far less battle-weary Prime sing a yellow sparkling into recharge.
But Sam was already asleep.
* * * *
2.
* * * *
Bumblebee was what Sam had – frequently – called 'disgustingly awake' for seven forty-five in the morning. It wasn't technically Bumblebee's fault. Unlike his human charge, whose sleep patterns ranged from mildly bemusing to downright baffling if left to his own devices – a common trait in humans that age, Bumblebee had learned – Cybertronian recharging was simple and predictable. It meant that while both of them were up at seven flat, Bumblebee was awake, and Sam was... mostly not.
It didn't change the fact that he still got up, usually adding a few unflattering comments about NEST in general and Will Lennox in particular in the course of the process, and was dressed and ready for his morning run fifteen minutes later. Knowing Sam as he did, Bumblebee had been proud enough of that. The fact that his human charge kept it up even on the days when the weather was miserable by both human and Cybertronian standards made him downright impressed.
He had talked with Ironhide, of course. He had done that the moment Sam had mentioned the agreement with the weapon specialist, because he hadn't been altogether sure it was a good idea. Sure, he approved of Sam being able to defend himself, but he knew Ironhide's ideas about training and he didn't trust the large mech to remember that not all humans were in as good shape as the NEST teams he was used to. Ironhide had looked vaguely insulted, but Bumblebee hadn't cared, not when it was a matter of Sam's well-being. Watching one of Ironhide's training sessions with Will hadn't done much to improve Bumblebee's view of it, either, but he had finally relented. Sam would be in much better shape by the time the training started, after all, and that was assuming Sam didn't change his mind after being put through the standard NEST workout. The deciding factor had been the fact that it really was useful to learn and that no matter how hard Bumblebee worked to protect him, there would always be the risk that it might one day be needed, too.
Bumblebee watched as the human in question appeared in the driveway, out of breath and with sweat-soaked T-shirt, and a quick check revealed that he had cut another few second off of his time. Bumblebee had offered to follow Sam around on his run around the neighbourhood, but Sam had refused – it'd draw attention, 'Bee, he'd said and winced, and attention's the last thing we want.
Scanning his human's pulse and general condition as he approached, Bumblebee made a pleased rumble and then drowned it out a moment later as he turned on the radio – gleefully. Training should be fun, the internet had claimed so and observing Sam had confirmed the theory.
“Play the game, you know you can't quit until it's won. Soldier on, only you can do what must be done!”
Sam groaned even as he grabbed his water-bottle and tried to block out the sudden soundtrack to his morning run. “It's too early for eighties stuff, 'Bee. No fair!”
The song went on, and Sam pointedly ignored him to drink his fill from the water-bottle and his guardian took the chance to scan his vitals again and watch as his pulse came down and his body slowly relaxed.
“I can see a new horizon underneath the blazin' sky; I'll be where the eagle's flying higher and higher!”
His human muttered something – doubtlessly unflattering – as Bumblebee continued, and then groaned at the words.
“Gonna be your man in motion, all I need is a pair of wheels!”
“Swear I'm going to sign you up for combat training with Sideswipe,” Sam muttered, but the slap he gave the hood was light and playful, and turned into an affectionate pat. “And leave stinky gym clothes on your seats. Just see if I don't.”
“Burning up, don't know just how far that I can go. Soon be home, only just a few miles down the road. I can make it, I know I can. You broke the boy in me, but you won't break the man.”
And then Sam went still, hand unmoving on the Camaro's hood, and when it moved again it was to give a reassuring squeeze of one side mirror, hand gripping tightly on alien metal and glass, water-bottle and sweaty clothes forgotten.
Bumblebee's engine offered a low purr in response, knowing that Sam would pick up on the sound, just like he had picked up on the song, and suddenly his human charge laughed, startling the mech for a moment.
“We're going to make Big and Ugly regret it so bad next time he tries anything.” Another affectionate pat. “You and me, buddy. You and me and Mikaela and the guys. Optimus does it really well, but just wait. Next time, we're going to kick those 'Con afts, too. We'll slag him so bad, they'll have to make up new words to describe how much we fragged him.”
Bumblebee should probably discourage it, because it was youthful stupidity and he knew it, but Bumblebee was young, too, and Megatron had a lot to pay for, and so he simply turned up the volume on the radio and added his approval.
“I can hear the music playin', I can see the banners fly. Feel like you're back again, and hope ridin' high. Gonna be your man in motion, all I need is a pair of wheels - take me where my future's lyin', St. Elmo's Fire!”
And Samuel Witwicky grinned.
* * * *
3.
* * * *
The water in the lagoon of Diego Garcia was cool and comfortable in the normal humidity of the island. Sam wiggled his toes in the sand and watched the small waves that lazily rolled over his legs as he sat at the edge of the water. He thought it was Friday, but he wasn't sure, and it didn't really matter. Mikaela was with Ratchet and busy for hours to come, but Bumblebee was there on the beach with him, human figure dwarfed by the metallic being that had made itself comfortable in the sand at his side.
“She always thinks I'm silly when I say it, but it's true,” Sam commented and made lazy swirls in the sand with his toes, little squiggles gone with the wave that followed. “She's so tiny but she does so much good with Ratchet. Not just polishing parts or something. She helped with one of Flareup's injuries last week. I mean, Ratchet did the actual work but Mikaela helped.”
There was admiration in his voice but something else as well, and Bumblebee's radio made a questioning sound, earning a small, wry smile from Sam.
“It's not like I'm jealous or anything. I'm proud of her, she kicks aft, and there's no way in heck I deserve someone as awesome as her, I just... wish I knew what I was supposed to do, too.” He sighed softly. “She's going to be a medic. She loves it. She was an awesome mechanic, but she lives for this, and I watch her and Ratchet and I wonder when I'm going to figure out what I'm supposed to do. She's useful here, she's part of the team. She actually helps. I'm just... me.”
“Don't worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum,” the radio voice of his guardian replied, in what was almost more spoken words than song. “The real troubles in life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at four pm on some idle Tuesday.”
Sam smirked and dug his toes into the sand before letting the water wash them clear again. “Like talking, alien cars that turn into robots?” He paused. “It's just... a purpose would be nice, you know? Something to do. Be someone other than the kid that always needs saving. You guys all got stuff to do. You've got programming, stuff you know you're good at. Mikaela does repairs. Maggie still works for the government. Simmons got offered a job here and last I heard, Leo's sort of working with him as well. Everyone knows what they're supposed to do... 'cept for me. I'm still just Sam. I don't even have the Allspark in my brain anymore.”
Bumblebee made a soft, comforting sound at his side, and a large metal finger touched his shoulder lightly in silent support.
“Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at twenty-two what they wanted to do with their lives; some of the most interesting forty-year-olds I know still don't,” the radio continued.
“Hey, I'm not that old,” Sam objected automatically, then twitched his lips slightly. “Yet.”
He fell silent and drew lazy squiggles in the sand again, watched as they were washed away and then drew new ones, and finally he looked up, staring at the haze of green and white on the other side of the lagoon. “I don't have that knack for repairs. I can't hack, or figure out all the government cover-up stuff. Will'd welcome me in NEST, but I'd have to go through military training, I mean the real stuff, and I don't think I'm cut out for that, either.”
“Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself, either – your choices are half chance, so are everybody else's,” Bumblebee's radio said quietly in that same calm, male voice.
“Like Leo. Right place at the right time,” Sam commented, “... or wrong place at the wrong time. I don't know. I never asked him.” He hesitated, almost unwilling to mention it, because it had been a throw-away comment and he wasn't going to put any hope in it, but it had been the source of his sudden introspection in the first place, and he took a deep breath. “I heard General Morshower say that Optimus had suggested I'd make a good ambassador. I mean, I believe him if he says he wants me to have the job, but there's the government, too, and none of them have mentioned anything directly, and I don't think I was supposed to have heard it, but...”
But it could be really, really awesome, he didn't say, because it sounded silly and childish, but it would be something to do, a chance to be someone other than just the Kid and to do something to help the species that had done so much for him already.
Bumblebee obviously understood, because the light touch on his shoulder returned and Sam leaned into it, a sigh on his lips. “It's the government. They'll want one of their own. But I liked the idea and if Optimus said it, then maybe. But I won't hold my breath.”
A low, comforting sound from the radio, and if his guardian knew something, he didn't share, and Sam didn't really mind. It was a silly thought and he knew it – an Autobot ambassador barely out of his teens? – but it didn't stop him from turning over the idea in the back of his mind where no one would ever know.
In front of him, the small waves kept rolling in, and Sam reached up to pat Bumblebee affectionately. “I'm fine,” he said, and it was even mostly true.
He could consider his future career another day. For now he had Bumblebee, nice weather, a great beach, and a whole day off for both of them.
And for now, that was enough.
* * * *
4.
* * * *
Bumblebee considered himself a patient mech. He loved his human companion like a younger sibling he'd never had and a partner in crime for whatever mischief they got themselves into, and he prided himself on eventually having learned to understand human culture almost as well as Jazz had been able to. He loved his human companion and he patiently ignored the youngling tendencies he occasionally displayed – human teenage behaviour, he had learned, did not somehow instantly cease at the human in question's twentieth birthday – but even Bumblebee had limits and right now, Sam was pushing them.
“-But what if she isn't the marrying sort? I mean, with her parents and all, although okay, that was mostly her father, but I don't know, she's never mentioned it, but she was talking with Mrs. Lennox about her wedding a while back, and I don't think I was supposed to overhear that, and-”
Samuel Witwicky could ramble like few beings Bumblebee had ever known, but this day had to break some sort of a record. He sighed as the human continued and his alt mode slumped a little in defeat. He understood that talking to someone helped clean up your processors a little and made things make sense. He liked having Sam talk to him, liked learning about human life on Earth and seeing Sam's view of Autobots and NEST and Earth and all, but so far, all Sam had been talking about this morning was human bonding rituals.
It would have been easier for a Cybertronian. You knew, then. Your very spark sang with the knowledge that you had found your bondmate. Humans were far more complicated things like that, but after listening for two hours, Bumblebee had reached the conclusion that his human charge's situation would be improved immensely by talking to the potential mate in question. Mikaela considered Bumblebee to be family – she had told him as much – and Bumblebee had reached the fairly straight-forward conclusion that since she was still Sam's 'girlfriend', it obvious meant that she loved him, too.
“-And I don't know, I should, but I'm scared I'm going to scare her away, and I think she's the one, and... I don't know.” Sam finally sighed. “What do you think, 'Bee?”
Bumblebee perked at the break in the word-flow as the question registered in his processors. Finally his charge might be open to some common sense, and Bumblebee had already spent a good part of the rambling monologue scanning the radio channels for just the right response.
“A little less conversation, a little more action please. All this aggravation ain't satisfactioning me,” his radio responded firmly, and Sam blinked.
“Elvis?”
Bumblebee sighed mentally.
“A little more bite and a little less bark. A little less fight and a little more spark - close your mouth and open up your heart and baby satisfy me,” he continued, and felt rather pleased for a moment when Sam actually snickered. It was better than the concerned expression he had worn all morning.
“'Spark'? 'Satisfy me'? You hitting on me, 'Bee?”
Bumblebee's engines responded with an annoyed sound, but it wasn't really serious, and Sam knew that, too, as he settled down further into the seat, still grinning.
“Hey, I'm flattered! It's not every day you get propositions from an alien that's older than the entire human race. I mean, some might say that's robbing the cradle a little, but humans are a pretty pervy species. We can make it work.”
Bumblebee made a sound that his young charge knew enough to recognise as a smug you wish and the human snickered again before he went back to looking serious – if slightly more cheerful than before. Which was good with Bumblebee, too. Pretty much anything was an improvement over a worried, rambling Samuel Witwicky.
“So...” he finally said, and while he didn't look completely convinced, he did look ready to listen. “Talk to her?”
“A little less conversation, a little more action please,” Bumblebee's radio repeated, stressing the point because he knew from experience that his human charge sometimes needed things repeated to be properly convinced, and Sam nodded slowly.
“I guess. Maybe I should ask at our next anniversary. Give me some time to find a ring. Maybe hide it in a new toolbox for her...” The young human paused and then grinned, and while it wasn't quite as bright as usual, it was definitely a start as far as Bumblebee was concerned. “But if she says no, I'm so blaming you. Aliens made me do it!”
Bumblebee's radio made a pretty decent imitation of blowing raspberries at that, and Sam snickered. He was still worried, Bumblebee could tell from years around the boy, but it was unnecessary in the mech's opinion. He knew the two humans in question, and while the boy would worry, Bumblebee suspected the answer to the proposal was given already and that left processing power free to focus on other things. The internet was a fountain of knowledge on human customs, after all, and he had found one in particular that sounded promising.
'Bachelor party', Bumblebee suspected, was a custom he could get behind.
* * * *
5.
* * * *
Diego Garcia was surprisingly quiet. It was cloudy and almost comfortable with the relatively cool breeze rolling in to make the humidity more tolerable. Sam was outside, bucket and sponge in hand as he prepared to give 'Bee a much-needed wash of his alt mode, and he had been mildly surprised to find Will and Ironhide there already, surrounded by drying water and soap bubbles as sponge and bucket had been replaced by wax and cloth.
“Are you supposed to be doing that?” he asked, a bit dubiously – because really, he was not going to be an accomplice in defying Ratchet's orders, not even if it had been 'Bee – but Will just shrugged.
“No hard work, 's what he said. This is fine.”
Sam nodded and settled down with bucket and sponge and yellow Autobot guardian and tried not to stare at the glaring scars that marked Will's exposed skin, or the deep, jagged cuts that still showed through the new coat of black on Ironhide's alt mode. It would heal, Ratchet had said. Ironhide's limp and marks, and Will's scars, and the burns and broken bones they had all suffered. Another month and the last of the scars would be gone. The physical ones, at least. Sam still woke up occasionally from nightmares, and recently the visions of Megatron and Barricade and Starscream had been joined by the bodies of his friends, burned beyond recognition, Bumblebee reduced to melted metal as some 'Con or another had taken down the building, and-
He took a deep breath, forcibly banished the image, and then resolutely bent down to soak the sponge and forced a grin at the pleased purr of his guardian's engine at the first touch of warm, soapy water.
Safe. They were safe. 'Bee was safe, and Optimus, and Will, and Ratchet, and Ironhide, and all the others, and while it had come close before, they were still okay and he was not going to worry about what-ifs and could-have-beens. There were plenty of things to give him nightmares without adding more to the list.
He wasn't sure how long it took him to notice the hum. Bumblebee's radio was silent for once, but Sam had been caught up in his own thoughts, and it wasn't until words were added that he finally noticed the sound – and then he spent several moments just staring as he realised it was coming from Will, focused on Ironhide and with Sam and Bumblebee long forgotten again. It wasn't loud, but Diego Garcia was quiet, and Sam had learned to listen from long exposure to Bumblebee's radio.
“-I opened up the glove box and that's when I found the note; the date was nineteen sixty-six and this is what it wrote: He said, 'My name is Private Andrew Malone, and if you're reading this, then I didn't make it home.'”
Sam's hands tightened reflexively on the sponge, water running between his fingers, and the images came unwanted – Bumblebee with torn leg and silently begging him to take up the Allspark and help, Jazz torn to pieces, Optimus in the forest, dead by 'Con hands to keep Sam safe. Ironhide in stasis lock with face plates almost melted beyond recognition and cannons reduced to twisted bits of metal, and Will kept in artificial coma with large flakes of burned skin falling off of exposed flesh and half of his insides replaced with plastic as they fought to keep him breathing at all, and Sam had spent that night in the bathroom, losing what little remained of his dinner. Those images weren't nightmares and Sam dreaded that. They weren't nightmares, because it had happened, and they couldn't just be dismissed, because if it had happened before, it could happen again, and Sam had become too familiar with realities to believe that they would all make it home when the war was finally over... himself and Bumblebee included. He tried not to think about that but the thought was still there, that it was supposed to have been an easy mission, that he might have tagged along to learn the ropes, that 'Bee might have been there to protect him. They had lost fully half of the human Alpha team in what was supposed to have been a simple job, and only Ironhide's massive plating and Sideswipe's insane reflexes had kept them from losing an Autobot or two as well, and it could have been him and 'Bee, and Sam reached out with one hand to touch his guardian for reassurance, metal warm under his fingers.
“'But for every dream that shattered, another one comes true; this car was once a dream of mine, now it belongs to you. And though you may take her and make her your own – you'll always be riding with Private Malone.'”
The cloth kept moving, almost reverently as Will made his way across the large surface of Ironhide's massive alt mode, and Sam stayed silent as he heard another sound join the quiet words – a low rumble, almost too low to be heard at all, and even looking at the two, Sam couldn't quite get himself to believe that the sound came from the Topkick's engine, humming along to its human companion's song as it continued.
It was Ironhide. Ironhide. Four metric tons of grouchy, grumbling, trigger-happy destruction did not hum.
Except, apparently, when it did, and if it surprised Will at all, he didn't show it.
Bumblebee made an insistent sound at his side, and Sam looked down and realised he still had the wet sponge in his hand, and he turned his attention back to his yellow guardian.
“Sorry, 'Bee,” he murmured affectionately and patted one door as the Autobot made a low, approving rumble. “Good to see them better, that's all. Nice to see them out of the infirmary again.”
“The buttons on the radio didn't seem to work quite right, but it picked up that oldie show, especially late at night.”
Not Will this time, and Sam looked up sharply as he realised that the voice had come from Bumblebee's radio, and he wasn't sure how to react to words that fit entirely too well with everything he had experienced since the first time he sat behind the wheel of a banged-up, yellow Camaro.
“I'd get the feeling sometimes, if I turned real quick I'd see, a soldier riding shotgun in the seat right next to me.”
Fingers brushed gently against one side mirror and Sam rested his head against the warm metal of the door for a moment, just enjoying his guardian's presence. “I'm not going to leave you, 'Bee,” he promised quietly, and he wasn't sure if that was why Bumblebee had picked up on that part of the song, but it felt right to say and he needed to put words to it and make that promise, because it was 'Bee and he deserved it. “I'll be careful. I know I'm fragile, I know I'm a squishie, I know it's dangerous out there. I'll be careful, 'Bee. I promise. I'm still me. Still Sam. I just... want to be able to do something useful now. Not just scream and run. It's my planet, too. I want to help.”
The sound from the radio was half agreeing acceptance and half mournful objection, and Sam offered a small smile as he continued to wash the yellow expanses. “Besides, I have you. We kick aft together.”
Still the low sound of quietly sung words joined by the soft hum of an engine from the Topkick and its companion, and Sam kept listening, because there was something comforting about it. It wasn't meant for them and he doubted Will even noticed their presence there anymore, but it was comforting nonetheless, reassurance that something was all right, and right now he needed that.
“One night it was raining hard, I took the curve too fast. I still don't remember much about that fiery crash. Someone said they thought they saw a soldier pull me out - they didn't get his name, but I know without a doubt: It was a young man named Private Andrew Malone, who fought for his country and never made it home.”
He liked the song and he didn't, uncomfortable with the refrain but still unable to keep from listening, and he didn't like to think about similarities that were too obvious to ignore, even if it was probably why Will was singing it in the first place, and maybe it was a Ranger thing, maybe it was a NEST thing, maybe it was just him and Ironhide being who they were, with a morbid taste in songs and too used to the realities of war.
“But for every dream that's shattered, another one comes true. This car was once a dream of his, back when it was new. I know I wouldn't be here if he hadn't tagged along – oh, thank God, I was riding with Private Malone.”
The song died and Will patted Ironhide affectionately on the hood before the Autobot transformed, slow and careful with injuries still not completely healed. Sam was starting to get an inkling of the whole situation – enough, at least, to realise that he probably didn't want to be able to understand it all, didn't want to know if Lennox considered it just a matter of time, if Ironhide had told stories about comrades long gone, or if it was nothing more than a morbid bit of humour between two veterans who had seen and survived too much already, and Sam turned his attention to Bumblebee again and continued his work with the sponge with a vengeance and 'Bee said nothing but merely rumbled soothingly.
He wasn't going to think about it. They were all alive, all fine, and in another month, there'd be no scars left to show. Things could get slagged soon enough as it was and Sam knew that, too, and thinking about it before he had to wasn't going to help anything.
A familiar sound of motion as Ironhide picked up his human charge, and it was only the fact that Sam's ears were already strained from listening that he heard it at all, a murmured echo of the song from Will clearly aimed at Ironhide before the mech carried him off, and Sam went still for a moment.
“Thank God I was riding with Private Malone.”
There was the sound of heavy footsteps against concrete as Ironhide moved away, towards a hangar nearby...
And then they were alone.
* * * *
A/N: The songs – I didn't use the full lyrics, obviously, or I'd still be writing on this beast -cough- :
1: A Cybertronian lullaby
2: John Parr - St. Elmo's Fire (Man in Motion)
3: Baz Luhrmann - Everyone's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)
4: Elvis - A Little Less Conversation
5: David Ball - Riding With Private Malone
Rating: PG-13 for a few curses, Cybertronian and human.
Disclaimer: Absolutely, positively not mine.
Warnings: Spoilers for RotF, but not the books or comics, most of which I haven't read and will cheerfully ignore. Slight AU from the very end of RotF. Possibly a song fic, but I blame Bumblebee for that. Oh, and Sam rambles a bit. Nothing new there.
Summary: Songs took on a whole new meaning for Sam after meeting Bumblebee. Four times it was intended for him – and one time it wasn't. Ca. 6200 words.
A/N: Several people have suggested a Sam and 'Bee set, but it took a while for the bunny to bite and get even a vague grasp on 'Bee's voice. But I finally managed... and I'll leave it to the reader to decide if I succeeded. Sometime, somewhere a while back – possibly on LJ – I saw someone comment in regards to songs that 'Riding With Private Malone' struck them as something Will might sing to Ironhide. I liked the idea and blatantly, uh, borrowed it, so if it was you/you know who it was, let me know so I can credit where credit is due. Also, I sort of cheated a bit – the song in the third part of this set isn't technically a song but spoken word, but I figured eh, it's on the radio, that makes it fair game.
Set in the same AU 'verse as the rest of the Four fics, but they're not really needed for background information and this can be read as a stand-alone just fine. The fifth section is an epilogue of sorts to the Sydney mission that showed up in Four Lives, Four Times, and Four Targets.
* * * *
1.
* * * *
The nightmares had mostly vanished by the time Sam had decided to try and live a normal life and go to college. To be completely honest, it was one of the reasons why he'd done it – he wanted to feel normal for a little while, act like a normal teen, who did normal stuff that teenagers did, and with the nightmares mostly gone, he might even be able to be normal and not wake up a room-mate night after night from strangled screams and frantic attempts to get out of bed, out of the room, out of the door---
The nightmares had mostly vanished and then Megatron had been brought back and Egypt had happened, and he had died, and now he watched the time creep close to one in the morning and he hadn't really slept much at all for the last several days and still he stayed up. Going to bed would mean nightmares. He could feel them already, the dread settling in his stomach as the darkness closed in.
Mikaela was long asleep, out cold and still in her clothes, and he had gently tugged the blanket free to cover her. His mom and dad were in the room next door and probably long asleep, too, and even if they hadn't been, he wasn't sure what he could have said. The mechs might still be up, or they might not – he never did quite figure out how long they could go without recharge, and even if they were awake, he wasn't sure if talking with most of them would help at all. He wanted to talk with Optimus, really talk, about that minute he was dead that he still didn't feel comfortable talking about with anyone else, but Optimus needed rest and Ratchet had made that very clear, and even if Sam didn't believe for a moment that the large mech would obey, he himself was not going to cross the medic's orders.
The nagging feel of darkness at the edge of his consciousness, dread that still hadn't quite solidified into actual nightmares, and he shuddered and stood up to grab a jacket, decision made. He wasn't sure if his cheerful, yellow guardian was still up, but he was willing to give it a go, and if nothing else, finding him in the maze of the carrier would keep him awake for a while longer.
It turned out that someone was awake, at least, because the hallways weren't completely deserted, and a few careful enquiries and fifteen minutes of mostly-lost walking among identical doors and hallways finally found Sam staring at the flight deck and several familiar alt modes that seemed to keep a polite distance to each other. Maybe they were in recharge. He didn't see Optimus, who was probably still with Ratchet, but he did see the silver Corvette he recognised as Sideswipe, glowing pale in the moonlight – on purpose, he was sure – and a blue Chevrolet that someone had told him was Jolt.
A few more steps out onto the flight deck and he spotted his goal – a yellow Camaro by the side of the buildings, almost lost in shadows and probably in recharge after everything that had happened, but Sam didn't have time to hesitate and reconsider his plan and wonder whether Bumblebee was even awake before one door opened and the light in the car came on.
Recognising an invitation when he saw it, Sam crossed the deck and slipped inside the Camaro to sink into a comfortingly familiar seat that had long since moulded itself to his shape, and the radio made a questioning sound.
Shouldn't you be in bed? Sam guessed and brushed the steering wheel lightly with his thumb. He'd felt hallucinations start to set in earlier in the night from lack of sleep, and he didn't like to think about the fact that he was familiar enough with sleep deprivation to recognise that part of it.
“Nightmares,” he said and finally admitted what he'd been unwilling to tell anyone else. “They were almost gone, you know? I could sleep without seeing Meg's ugly face or be hunted by possessed police cars, but now they're there again and I can't do it, 'Bee. I'm going to go to sleep, and I'll see you dead, and Optimus killed by the 'Cons, and the world in flames, and I know I can't stay up forever, but if I get so exhausted that I collapse, then maybe I won't dream.”
He took a breath, low and shuddering as fear settled in his stomach again and one hand dug into the seat, desperate for reassurance. “I can't talk to my parents. I can't talk to Mikaela, because she's got enough to deal with and I don't want to make her worry, and Optimus is with Ratchet, and I don't think bad-ass NEST guys even get nightmares, and...” He paused and sighed, and his shoulders slumped as the last of his strength left him. “I don't want to worry you or make you deal with this, because you've done so much already and it's not your fault, I'm just being stupid, and I just want to sleep. Ten hours, no nightmares, just sleep and wake up and everything will be better, but it's not going to happen because Megatron is never, ever going to go away. He'll never stop hunting me, and I'll never stop having to look over my shoulder, and now the whole slagging world is looking for me, and- slag it.”
He hit the seat, not hard enough to hurt but enough to get across the frustrations he couldn't find the right words for, and the Camaro rumbled soothingly around him.
Sam sighed and closed his eyes but snapped them open again a moment later as utterly unfamiliar sounds came through the radio, strange and alien and somehow soothing, and he blinked in confusion.
Some of the sounds were almost familiar – Cybertronian, definitely, even if he didn't recognise the words, and he frowned slightly as he tried and failed to pick out anything familiar in the song at all. “Cybertronian?” he asked, and then he realised how stupid his obvious surprise would seem. “I mean, no one ever mentioned music on Cybertron, so I just never thought about it before, but it makes sense. I mean, why would we be the only species with music?”
The song continued, quiet and soothing, and Sam relaxed fractionally and sunk back into the seat. “What song is it?” he finally asked, because it kept being familiar in an almost nagging way, and he knew he had never heard it before, but there was still something about it...
“Sleep pretty darling, do not cry, and I will sing a lullaby.”
Skipping the stranger parts of the song, long used to Bumblebee's way of communicating – pretty darling? No comment, thank you – Sam still paused and just stared at the radio as the quiet, soothing recording continued.
It was a lullaby. A Cybertronian lullaby, and he realised why it had sounded so strangely familiar. It was like no other song he had heard before, but it still had the same feel as the lullabies he had grown up with, and he felt something in his heart twist for a moment.
“'Bee...”
“I know that you're tired, just let me sing you to sleep,” the radio responded in another brief interruption of the recording, and Sam touched the dashboard lightly as the strange song continued.
It felt silly. He had just died and come back to life, he had helped save the world, he had fought with and against giant, alien robots, and now one of said robots was playing a lullaby for him from a planet so far away that it couldn't be seen from Earth and that he would know only through the stories of his alien friends.
It felt silly, but the song was slowly but surely effecting him, and it didn't matter that he wasn't a baby Autobot and didn't understand the language. It was still calm, still soothing, and it was 'Bee singing for him, and slowly but surely he felt his eyelids getting heavier. He didn't want to sleep, didn't want the nightmares, but he was tired and his body was trembling and he felt like crying as his mind desperately wanted sleep he wasn't sure he could even offer, and this was 'Bee, and if there was anywhere he might be able to sleep undisturbed, it would be within the comfortingly familiar yellow Camaro.
The song continued and he finally gave in.
“Sorry in advance if I hit you,” Sam mumbled and closed his eyes as the seat tilted backwards to turn into a makeshift bed. “No clue where I am when I wake up from that stuff.”
The car offered a soothing rumble as the song went on, chasing away shadows and fears as the light in the car darkened and finally turned off completely.
An attentive listener might have been able to focus on the song itself to realise why it was so familiar beyond the soothing sound of it all. An attentive listener familiar with the species that had made the song might have been able to recognise the voice and heard a younger, far less battle-weary Prime sing a yellow sparkling into recharge.
But Sam was already asleep.
* * * *
2.
* * * *
Bumblebee was what Sam had – frequently – called 'disgustingly awake' for seven forty-five in the morning. It wasn't technically Bumblebee's fault. Unlike his human charge, whose sleep patterns ranged from mildly bemusing to downright baffling if left to his own devices – a common trait in humans that age, Bumblebee had learned – Cybertronian recharging was simple and predictable. It meant that while both of them were up at seven flat, Bumblebee was awake, and Sam was... mostly not.
It didn't change the fact that he still got up, usually adding a few unflattering comments about NEST in general and Will Lennox in particular in the course of the process, and was dressed and ready for his morning run fifteen minutes later. Knowing Sam as he did, Bumblebee had been proud enough of that. The fact that his human charge kept it up even on the days when the weather was miserable by both human and Cybertronian standards made him downright impressed.
He had talked with Ironhide, of course. He had done that the moment Sam had mentioned the agreement with the weapon specialist, because he hadn't been altogether sure it was a good idea. Sure, he approved of Sam being able to defend himself, but he knew Ironhide's ideas about training and he didn't trust the large mech to remember that not all humans were in as good shape as the NEST teams he was used to. Ironhide had looked vaguely insulted, but Bumblebee hadn't cared, not when it was a matter of Sam's well-being. Watching one of Ironhide's training sessions with Will hadn't done much to improve Bumblebee's view of it, either, but he had finally relented. Sam would be in much better shape by the time the training started, after all, and that was assuming Sam didn't change his mind after being put through the standard NEST workout. The deciding factor had been the fact that it really was useful to learn and that no matter how hard Bumblebee worked to protect him, there would always be the risk that it might one day be needed, too.
Bumblebee watched as the human in question appeared in the driveway, out of breath and with sweat-soaked T-shirt, and a quick check revealed that he had cut another few second off of his time. Bumblebee had offered to follow Sam around on his run around the neighbourhood, but Sam had refused – it'd draw attention, 'Bee, he'd said and winced, and attention's the last thing we want.
Scanning his human's pulse and general condition as he approached, Bumblebee made a pleased rumble and then drowned it out a moment later as he turned on the radio – gleefully. Training should be fun, the internet had claimed so and observing Sam had confirmed the theory.
“Play the game, you know you can't quit until it's won. Soldier on, only you can do what must be done!”
Sam groaned even as he grabbed his water-bottle and tried to block out the sudden soundtrack to his morning run. “It's too early for eighties stuff, 'Bee. No fair!”
The song went on, and Sam pointedly ignored him to drink his fill from the water-bottle and his guardian took the chance to scan his vitals again and watch as his pulse came down and his body slowly relaxed.
“I can see a new horizon underneath the blazin' sky; I'll be where the eagle's flying higher and higher!”
His human muttered something – doubtlessly unflattering – as Bumblebee continued, and then groaned at the words.
“Gonna be your man in motion, all I need is a pair of wheels!”
“Swear I'm going to sign you up for combat training with Sideswipe,” Sam muttered, but the slap he gave the hood was light and playful, and turned into an affectionate pat. “And leave stinky gym clothes on your seats. Just see if I don't.”
“Burning up, don't know just how far that I can go. Soon be home, only just a few miles down the road. I can make it, I know I can. You broke the boy in me, but you won't break the man.”
And then Sam went still, hand unmoving on the Camaro's hood, and when it moved again it was to give a reassuring squeeze of one side mirror, hand gripping tightly on alien metal and glass, water-bottle and sweaty clothes forgotten.
Bumblebee's engine offered a low purr in response, knowing that Sam would pick up on the sound, just like he had picked up on the song, and suddenly his human charge laughed, startling the mech for a moment.
“We're going to make Big and Ugly regret it so bad next time he tries anything.” Another affectionate pat. “You and me, buddy. You and me and Mikaela and the guys. Optimus does it really well, but just wait. Next time, we're going to kick those 'Con afts, too. We'll slag him so bad, they'll have to make up new words to describe how much we fragged him.”
Bumblebee should probably discourage it, because it was youthful stupidity and he knew it, but Bumblebee was young, too, and Megatron had a lot to pay for, and so he simply turned up the volume on the radio and added his approval.
“I can hear the music playin', I can see the banners fly. Feel like you're back again, and hope ridin' high. Gonna be your man in motion, all I need is a pair of wheels - take me where my future's lyin', St. Elmo's Fire!”
And Samuel Witwicky grinned.
* * * *
3.
* * * *
The water in the lagoon of Diego Garcia was cool and comfortable in the normal humidity of the island. Sam wiggled his toes in the sand and watched the small waves that lazily rolled over his legs as he sat at the edge of the water. He thought it was Friday, but he wasn't sure, and it didn't really matter. Mikaela was with Ratchet and busy for hours to come, but Bumblebee was there on the beach with him, human figure dwarfed by the metallic being that had made itself comfortable in the sand at his side.
“She always thinks I'm silly when I say it, but it's true,” Sam commented and made lazy swirls in the sand with his toes, little squiggles gone with the wave that followed. “She's so tiny but she does so much good with Ratchet. Not just polishing parts or something. She helped with one of Flareup's injuries last week. I mean, Ratchet did the actual work but Mikaela helped.”
There was admiration in his voice but something else as well, and Bumblebee's radio made a questioning sound, earning a small, wry smile from Sam.
“It's not like I'm jealous or anything. I'm proud of her, she kicks aft, and there's no way in heck I deserve someone as awesome as her, I just... wish I knew what I was supposed to do, too.” He sighed softly. “She's going to be a medic. She loves it. She was an awesome mechanic, but she lives for this, and I watch her and Ratchet and I wonder when I'm going to figure out what I'm supposed to do. She's useful here, she's part of the team. She actually helps. I'm just... me.”
“Don't worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum,” the radio voice of his guardian replied, in what was almost more spoken words than song. “The real troubles in life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at four pm on some idle Tuesday.”
Sam smirked and dug his toes into the sand before letting the water wash them clear again. “Like talking, alien cars that turn into robots?” He paused. “It's just... a purpose would be nice, you know? Something to do. Be someone other than the kid that always needs saving. You guys all got stuff to do. You've got programming, stuff you know you're good at. Mikaela does repairs. Maggie still works for the government. Simmons got offered a job here and last I heard, Leo's sort of working with him as well. Everyone knows what they're supposed to do... 'cept for me. I'm still just Sam. I don't even have the Allspark in my brain anymore.”
Bumblebee made a soft, comforting sound at his side, and a large metal finger touched his shoulder lightly in silent support.
“Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at twenty-two what they wanted to do with their lives; some of the most interesting forty-year-olds I know still don't,” the radio continued.
“Hey, I'm not that old,” Sam objected automatically, then twitched his lips slightly. “Yet.”
He fell silent and drew lazy squiggles in the sand again, watched as they were washed away and then drew new ones, and finally he looked up, staring at the haze of green and white on the other side of the lagoon. “I don't have that knack for repairs. I can't hack, or figure out all the government cover-up stuff. Will'd welcome me in NEST, but I'd have to go through military training, I mean the real stuff, and I don't think I'm cut out for that, either.”
“Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself, either – your choices are half chance, so are everybody else's,” Bumblebee's radio said quietly in that same calm, male voice.
“Like Leo. Right place at the right time,” Sam commented, “... or wrong place at the wrong time. I don't know. I never asked him.” He hesitated, almost unwilling to mention it, because it had been a throw-away comment and he wasn't going to put any hope in it, but it had been the source of his sudden introspection in the first place, and he took a deep breath. “I heard General Morshower say that Optimus had suggested I'd make a good ambassador. I mean, I believe him if he says he wants me to have the job, but there's the government, too, and none of them have mentioned anything directly, and I don't think I was supposed to have heard it, but...”
But it could be really, really awesome, he didn't say, because it sounded silly and childish, but it would be something to do, a chance to be someone other than just the Kid and to do something to help the species that had done so much for him already.
Bumblebee obviously understood, because the light touch on his shoulder returned and Sam leaned into it, a sigh on his lips. “It's the government. They'll want one of their own. But I liked the idea and if Optimus said it, then maybe. But I won't hold my breath.”
A low, comforting sound from the radio, and if his guardian knew something, he didn't share, and Sam didn't really mind. It was a silly thought and he knew it – an Autobot ambassador barely out of his teens? – but it didn't stop him from turning over the idea in the back of his mind where no one would ever know.
In front of him, the small waves kept rolling in, and Sam reached up to pat Bumblebee affectionately. “I'm fine,” he said, and it was even mostly true.
He could consider his future career another day. For now he had Bumblebee, nice weather, a great beach, and a whole day off for both of them.
And for now, that was enough.
* * * *
4.
* * * *
Bumblebee considered himself a patient mech. He loved his human companion like a younger sibling he'd never had and a partner in crime for whatever mischief they got themselves into, and he prided himself on eventually having learned to understand human culture almost as well as Jazz had been able to. He loved his human companion and he patiently ignored the youngling tendencies he occasionally displayed – human teenage behaviour, he had learned, did not somehow instantly cease at the human in question's twentieth birthday – but even Bumblebee had limits and right now, Sam was pushing them.
“-But what if she isn't the marrying sort? I mean, with her parents and all, although okay, that was mostly her father, but I don't know, she's never mentioned it, but she was talking with Mrs. Lennox about her wedding a while back, and I don't think I was supposed to overhear that, and-”
Samuel Witwicky could ramble like few beings Bumblebee had ever known, but this day had to break some sort of a record. He sighed as the human continued and his alt mode slumped a little in defeat. He understood that talking to someone helped clean up your processors a little and made things make sense. He liked having Sam talk to him, liked learning about human life on Earth and seeing Sam's view of Autobots and NEST and Earth and all, but so far, all Sam had been talking about this morning was human bonding rituals.
It would have been easier for a Cybertronian. You knew, then. Your very spark sang with the knowledge that you had found your bondmate. Humans were far more complicated things like that, but after listening for two hours, Bumblebee had reached the conclusion that his human charge's situation would be improved immensely by talking to the potential mate in question. Mikaela considered Bumblebee to be family – she had told him as much – and Bumblebee had reached the fairly straight-forward conclusion that since she was still Sam's 'girlfriend', it obvious meant that she loved him, too.
“-And I don't know, I should, but I'm scared I'm going to scare her away, and I think she's the one, and... I don't know.” Sam finally sighed. “What do you think, 'Bee?”
Bumblebee perked at the break in the word-flow as the question registered in his processors. Finally his charge might be open to some common sense, and Bumblebee had already spent a good part of the rambling monologue scanning the radio channels for just the right response.
“A little less conversation, a little more action please. All this aggravation ain't satisfactioning me,” his radio responded firmly, and Sam blinked.
“Elvis?”
Bumblebee sighed mentally.
“A little more bite and a little less bark. A little less fight and a little more spark - close your mouth and open up your heart and baby satisfy me,” he continued, and felt rather pleased for a moment when Sam actually snickered. It was better than the concerned expression he had worn all morning.
“'Spark'? 'Satisfy me'? You hitting on me, 'Bee?”
Bumblebee's engines responded with an annoyed sound, but it wasn't really serious, and Sam knew that, too, as he settled down further into the seat, still grinning.
“Hey, I'm flattered! It's not every day you get propositions from an alien that's older than the entire human race. I mean, some might say that's robbing the cradle a little, but humans are a pretty pervy species. We can make it work.”
Bumblebee made a sound that his young charge knew enough to recognise as a smug you wish and the human snickered again before he went back to looking serious – if slightly more cheerful than before. Which was good with Bumblebee, too. Pretty much anything was an improvement over a worried, rambling Samuel Witwicky.
“So...” he finally said, and while he didn't look completely convinced, he did look ready to listen. “Talk to her?”
“A little less conversation, a little more action please,” Bumblebee's radio repeated, stressing the point because he knew from experience that his human charge sometimes needed things repeated to be properly convinced, and Sam nodded slowly.
“I guess. Maybe I should ask at our next anniversary. Give me some time to find a ring. Maybe hide it in a new toolbox for her...” The young human paused and then grinned, and while it wasn't quite as bright as usual, it was definitely a start as far as Bumblebee was concerned. “But if she says no, I'm so blaming you. Aliens made me do it!”
Bumblebee's radio made a pretty decent imitation of blowing raspberries at that, and Sam snickered. He was still worried, Bumblebee could tell from years around the boy, but it was unnecessary in the mech's opinion. He knew the two humans in question, and while the boy would worry, Bumblebee suspected the answer to the proposal was given already and that left processing power free to focus on other things. The internet was a fountain of knowledge on human customs, after all, and he had found one in particular that sounded promising.
'Bachelor party', Bumblebee suspected, was a custom he could get behind.
* * * *
5.
* * * *
Diego Garcia was surprisingly quiet. It was cloudy and almost comfortable with the relatively cool breeze rolling in to make the humidity more tolerable. Sam was outside, bucket and sponge in hand as he prepared to give 'Bee a much-needed wash of his alt mode, and he had been mildly surprised to find Will and Ironhide there already, surrounded by drying water and soap bubbles as sponge and bucket had been replaced by wax and cloth.
“Are you supposed to be doing that?” he asked, a bit dubiously – because really, he was not going to be an accomplice in defying Ratchet's orders, not even if it had been 'Bee – but Will just shrugged.
“No hard work, 's what he said. This is fine.”
Sam nodded and settled down with bucket and sponge and yellow Autobot guardian and tried not to stare at the glaring scars that marked Will's exposed skin, or the deep, jagged cuts that still showed through the new coat of black on Ironhide's alt mode. It would heal, Ratchet had said. Ironhide's limp and marks, and Will's scars, and the burns and broken bones they had all suffered. Another month and the last of the scars would be gone. The physical ones, at least. Sam still woke up occasionally from nightmares, and recently the visions of Megatron and Barricade and Starscream had been joined by the bodies of his friends, burned beyond recognition, Bumblebee reduced to melted metal as some 'Con or another had taken down the building, and-
He took a deep breath, forcibly banished the image, and then resolutely bent down to soak the sponge and forced a grin at the pleased purr of his guardian's engine at the first touch of warm, soapy water.
Safe. They were safe. 'Bee was safe, and Optimus, and Will, and Ratchet, and Ironhide, and all the others, and while it had come close before, they were still okay and he was not going to worry about what-ifs and could-have-beens. There were plenty of things to give him nightmares without adding more to the list.
He wasn't sure how long it took him to notice the hum. Bumblebee's radio was silent for once, but Sam had been caught up in his own thoughts, and it wasn't until words were added that he finally noticed the sound – and then he spent several moments just staring as he realised it was coming from Will, focused on Ironhide and with Sam and Bumblebee long forgotten again. It wasn't loud, but Diego Garcia was quiet, and Sam had learned to listen from long exposure to Bumblebee's radio.
“-I opened up the glove box and that's when I found the note; the date was nineteen sixty-six and this is what it wrote: He said, 'My name is Private Andrew Malone, and if you're reading this, then I didn't make it home.'”
Sam's hands tightened reflexively on the sponge, water running between his fingers, and the images came unwanted – Bumblebee with torn leg and silently begging him to take up the Allspark and help, Jazz torn to pieces, Optimus in the forest, dead by 'Con hands to keep Sam safe. Ironhide in stasis lock with face plates almost melted beyond recognition and cannons reduced to twisted bits of metal, and Will kept in artificial coma with large flakes of burned skin falling off of exposed flesh and half of his insides replaced with plastic as they fought to keep him breathing at all, and Sam had spent that night in the bathroom, losing what little remained of his dinner. Those images weren't nightmares and Sam dreaded that. They weren't nightmares, because it had happened, and they couldn't just be dismissed, because if it had happened before, it could happen again, and Sam had become too familiar with realities to believe that they would all make it home when the war was finally over... himself and Bumblebee included. He tried not to think about that but the thought was still there, that it was supposed to have been an easy mission, that he might have tagged along to learn the ropes, that 'Bee might have been there to protect him. They had lost fully half of the human Alpha team in what was supposed to have been a simple job, and only Ironhide's massive plating and Sideswipe's insane reflexes had kept them from losing an Autobot or two as well, and it could have been him and 'Bee, and Sam reached out with one hand to touch his guardian for reassurance, metal warm under his fingers.
“'But for every dream that shattered, another one comes true; this car was once a dream of mine, now it belongs to you. And though you may take her and make her your own – you'll always be riding with Private Malone.'”
The cloth kept moving, almost reverently as Will made his way across the large surface of Ironhide's massive alt mode, and Sam stayed silent as he heard another sound join the quiet words – a low rumble, almost too low to be heard at all, and even looking at the two, Sam couldn't quite get himself to believe that the sound came from the Topkick's engine, humming along to its human companion's song as it continued.
It was Ironhide. Ironhide. Four metric tons of grouchy, grumbling, trigger-happy destruction did not hum.
Except, apparently, when it did, and if it surprised Will at all, he didn't show it.
Bumblebee made an insistent sound at his side, and Sam looked down and realised he still had the wet sponge in his hand, and he turned his attention back to his yellow guardian.
“Sorry, 'Bee,” he murmured affectionately and patted one door as the Autobot made a low, approving rumble. “Good to see them better, that's all. Nice to see them out of the infirmary again.”
“The buttons on the radio didn't seem to work quite right, but it picked up that oldie show, especially late at night.”
Not Will this time, and Sam looked up sharply as he realised that the voice had come from Bumblebee's radio, and he wasn't sure how to react to words that fit entirely too well with everything he had experienced since the first time he sat behind the wheel of a banged-up, yellow Camaro.
“I'd get the feeling sometimes, if I turned real quick I'd see, a soldier riding shotgun in the seat right next to me.”
Fingers brushed gently against one side mirror and Sam rested his head against the warm metal of the door for a moment, just enjoying his guardian's presence. “I'm not going to leave you, 'Bee,” he promised quietly, and he wasn't sure if that was why Bumblebee had picked up on that part of the song, but it felt right to say and he needed to put words to it and make that promise, because it was 'Bee and he deserved it. “I'll be careful. I know I'm fragile, I know I'm a squishie, I know it's dangerous out there. I'll be careful, 'Bee. I promise. I'm still me. Still Sam. I just... want to be able to do something useful now. Not just scream and run. It's my planet, too. I want to help.”
The sound from the radio was half agreeing acceptance and half mournful objection, and Sam offered a small smile as he continued to wash the yellow expanses. “Besides, I have you. We kick aft together.”
Still the low sound of quietly sung words joined by the soft hum of an engine from the Topkick and its companion, and Sam kept listening, because there was something comforting about it. It wasn't meant for them and he doubted Will even noticed their presence there anymore, but it was comforting nonetheless, reassurance that something was all right, and right now he needed that.
“One night it was raining hard, I took the curve too fast. I still don't remember much about that fiery crash. Someone said they thought they saw a soldier pull me out - they didn't get his name, but I know without a doubt: It was a young man named Private Andrew Malone, who fought for his country and never made it home.”
He liked the song and he didn't, uncomfortable with the refrain but still unable to keep from listening, and he didn't like to think about similarities that were too obvious to ignore, even if it was probably why Will was singing it in the first place, and maybe it was a Ranger thing, maybe it was a NEST thing, maybe it was just him and Ironhide being who they were, with a morbid taste in songs and too used to the realities of war.
“But for every dream that's shattered, another one comes true. This car was once a dream of his, back when it was new. I know I wouldn't be here if he hadn't tagged along – oh, thank God, I was riding with Private Malone.”
The song died and Will patted Ironhide affectionately on the hood before the Autobot transformed, slow and careful with injuries still not completely healed. Sam was starting to get an inkling of the whole situation – enough, at least, to realise that he probably didn't want to be able to understand it all, didn't want to know if Lennox considered it just a matter of time, if Ironhide had told stories about comrades long gone, or if it was nothing more than a morbid bit of humour between two veterans who had seen and survived too much already, and Sam turned his attention to Bumblebee again and continued his work with the sponge with a vengeance and 'Bee said nothing but merely rumbled soothingly.
He wasn't going to think about it. They were all alive, all fine, and in another month, there'd be no scars left to show. Things could get slagged soon enough as it was and Sam knew that, too, and thinking about it before he had to wasn't going to help anything.
A familiar sound of motion as Ironhide picked up his human charge, and it was only the fact that Sam's ears were already strained from listening that he heard it at all, a murmured echo of the song from Will clearly aimed at Ironhide before the mech carried him off, and Sam went still for a moment.
“Thank God I was riding with Private Malone.”
There was the sound of heavy footsteps against concrete as Ironhide moved away, towards a hangar nearby...
And then they were alone.
* * * *
A/N: The songs – I didn't use the full lyrics, obviously, or I'd still be writing on this beast -cough- :
1: A Cybertronian lullaby
2: John Parr - St. Elmo's Fire (Man in Motion)
3: Baz Luhrmann - Everyone's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)
4: Elvis - A Little Less Conversation
5: David Ball - Riding With Private Malone