Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. I did not write this story to be slander, nor do I make any profit from it.

Warnings: AU, slash, sexual situations between two men.


Part One



He's sitting on a cracked stool in some rundown bar with a cliched name, a warm and sweating glass of Coke in his hand, because even if his eyes scream that he's seen the world, his facial features are enough to tell the waitress he's underage. His gaze is dull and focused on nothing, the shadows under his eyes proof enough that he hasn't been getting enough sleep to keep his body running.

Not that he gives a shit, anyway. All he cares about is that the glass in his hand is too warm and too tame to help him escape whatever the hell it is he's running from, and that he's surrounded by other unfortunate insomniacs who are glaring at him as though he has invaded their territory. Like they could crack his skull in half without much effort.

He would like to see them try that, honestly. Because if some murderous, evil robot couldn't do it, then the expressions on their faces when they realized they couldn't, either, would be well worth it.

And God knew Sam Witwicky can use a laugh right now, even if it is at something stupid.

He tenses at the brush of a hand on his shoulder -- jerks around to the sight of a surprised, blonde-haired waitress with far too much make-up on. She forces her shock back quickly enough, plastering a fake smile on her face.

"I think your ride's here, honey," she says gently, but all he can hear is a disgusted snarl. He doesn't blame her, really. He must look as terrible as he feels. "A yellow Camero? Keeps flashing it's lights and honking..."

Bee.

"Yeah, that's me." He doesn't even bother to thank her as he stands up, fishing in his pocket for just a minute before withdrawing the ten his father had given him for the arcade with Miles. He snorts and shakes his head as he drops it on the bar and heads towards the door. He can't remember the last time he played video games.

Probably last month, before this whole thing started.

Sure enough, Bee is waiting for him in the parking lot, engine rumbling soothingly as the passenger door swings open to let him in. He enters without a word, sighing as it slams shut, saying nothing as the Autobot Camero takes off to the dark road.

He doesn't ask where they are going, just curls up against the flawless leather seat as they go, trying valianty to keep his eyes from closing at the lull of his car. Bumblebee flips the radio on a few minutes into the drive, flipping through various channels, pausing occasionally to see if there is one Sam wants.

He says nothing. Just burrows deeper into the seat and stares out the window.

He few minutes later, and he recognizes the roar of Optimus' semi-truck -- a quick glance in the rearview confirms his guess and reveals Ratchet as well.

"We are concerned." Bee answers his unspoken disgruntlement with a rough voice. "There is something wrong with you."

"There is nothing wrong with me, Bee," he responds softly. The stars are practically dancing in the overhead sky. "I'm just tired."

Static briefly rolls over the radio, Bumblebee's equivalent of a snort.

"Ironhide came up with a solution. After much thought, Optimus and I agreed. Ratchet is coming along to make sure that it works." And that catches Sam's attention, because there should really be no reason that a human requires alien medical attention, no matter the circumstance.

"Bumblebee-," he starts to warn, but is cut off by a blaring rock song on the radio. Muse. How appropriate.

They ride like that for a little while longer, and by the time they stop Sam is physically banging his head against the headrest of the seat to stay awake. It's with a start that he recognizes Will Lennox's house -- the creamy white walls and dirt-covered grass. The garden is fading without Sarah's touch, he notices, but then remembers that Sarah and Will's daughter, Annabelle, aren't there anymore.

"Sam?"

The passenger door has opened, like a doorway just for him. At the same time, the porch light turns on, basking the path from Bee to the front door in a dim, welcoming glow. He can barely see Will's frame against the screen door.

But he sees it all the same.

"Get out, Sam."


To be continued


Drop a review and lemme know what you're thinking about it, please? I'll have part two up soon ... how many parts would you like it to be? :)

Always,

Me