Chapter Text
To a Bumblebee in the midst of the Cybertronian civil war, the concept of being a celebrated hero of his people was a guiding light of hope in his spark, a great driving force behind his dedication to the cause - something he dreamed about. Being able to say - proudly - that he was always going to be remembered, that he was a key component in the progression, survival and liberation of the Cybertronian people, that he was going to become an unforgettable part of Cybertronian history was all he hoped for. At the beginning, anyway.
Perhaps he achieved that, and perhaps he did not – while being Optimus’ second in command may have landed him in the history datapads, Bumblebee no longer cared for the recognition- not from that, anyway. As the dust began to settle close to the end of the war, he hated the idea that his contribution demanded or deserved any greater acknowledgement- lest it overshadow the contribution of the thousands of other bots who risked, and lost, their lives in the pursuit of a unified Cybertron, and lest it glorify the horrors of war that even the Autobots had to commit.
He still hoped one day he could do something that he would be proud to be published in the annals of history- something he could hold as his own and say that he had done to make things better for his world or his people.
Recently, Bumblebee had been offered a new opportunity to fulfil that dream. His comrades- his friends- assured him that this latest assignment was going to be a turning point in Cybertronian history. Changing the path of Cybertron, Earth and the Cybertronian people forever for the better. And it would be just him assigned to this mission that his Prime had deemed ‘essential’.
When he was first informed of such a prestigious duty by Optimus Prime, he was ecstatic- a chance to be a hero as he had always dreamed, without stepping on the pedes of others- he had thought at the time. However, he sometimes wished he’d had the forethought to question the lack of detail after being offered the mission…
Looking after and ‘training’ to two human younglings and two Terran sparklings, mere days after their unceremonious onlining, was not what he thought Optimus meant by “You will be responsible for the future of Cybertronians on Earth”. Somehow that was a far grander sounding responsibility than “Terran Babysitter”. Not to mention the fact the two Terrans became five Terrans not long after.
Now of course Bumblebee LOVED the Maltos, but wrangling seven younglings he didn’t exactly choose to have (as much as he had very privately considered the thought of having sparklings of his own someday, maybe, in the far future, if he met the right bot) was exhausting. Trying to teach young Terrans and humans about the intricacies of being a Cybertronian, about life and its value as Optimus had always championed, about morals and viewpoints, about this world and the world they are undeniably tied to yet have never seen was tough. Tough for him, tough for them, tough all around.
It had all started off alright. Stressful, of course, as he got used to the role- but recently something had changed. More so than ever, Bumblebee didn’t feel like a good teacher, or a good caregiver, or even a good role model. As hard as he tried to be a good mentor (though he had, undeniably, made a lot of progress), he always felt like he was just a little lost, or simply making it up as he went. He felt clueless, like he was going to stunt the progress of these Terrans with his inadequacy as a tutor, like he was not the one who should have been assigned this task in the first place. Maybe someone else deserved that place in the great data archives of Cybertron.
Bee vented a deep sigh from his intake as he released some of the tension from his creaking frame, shoulders, doorwings and helm sagging slightly deeper into the pile of hay bales he rested upon- head tilted as his brilliant azure optics scanned the pinpoint lights of stars amongst a sea of deep, velvety black- connecting each together and finding patterns amongst them in an attempt to calm the zaps of anxious charge that fizzled through his circuits.
These thoughts had been bothering him for cycles, maybe even mega-cycles at this point, along with other niggling lines of unknown code that had appeared in his programming seemingly from nowhere. Intrusive thoughts, anxieties, insecurities bubbling to the surface, sputtering his fuel pump and tying knots in his tank as his processor spiralled further and further down the track of self-hatred for what felt like the hundredth night in a row.
The thoughts hurt- gnawed at his circuits and left him aching as if he had taken a plasma cannon blast straight to the abdomen. It disturbed his recharge: waking him from nightmares where he lost the Terrans, lost his friends, found himself back in the middle of war, where everything was a ruse and old enemies resurfaced and hurt him, hurt those he cared about. Dreams where he was alone, and that was it. Such a simple thing and yet, somehow, the dreams of loneliness always felt like the most harrowing of them all. And that just further fuelled the gripping self-contempt- overflowing his emotional processes with guilt- guilt about how being alone felt like a worse fate than the suffering of his loved ones or the continuation of the churning, traumatic chaos that threatened worlds full of innocent lives.
Another deep vent fell from the parted silver-grey dermas as optics fluttered shut and a servo reached up to cradle his helm, rubbing gently at a sensory horn as he tried to stave off the beginning of a rotten helmache. The tiredness from disturbed recharge cycles certainly did not help his jumbled processor or the deep sense of aching wrong-ness in his spark. What was wrong with him? He’d been through traumatic events most couldn’t even imagine, and yet looking after some kids was too much for him?
A quiet, angry grunt passed his clenched dentas followed by a hiss of air as armour plates settled ever further into the golden pile of hay.
Maybe he should just tell Optimus that it was too much for him, that somehow the stress of caring for sparklings was worse than the terrors of war.
Perhaps he was just not a good enough mech for the job.
Not built for anything other than being a loyal scout.
…
The click of the Maltos’ front door shutting and latching into the frame broke the wallowing silence of the still night and jerked Bumblebee’s chassis into rigidity. Like a child caught with contraband, or a prey animal in the headlights of a vehicle, his cables tensed, and he remained as still as he could- hoping to be unseen by whoever had left the abode… Or, as unseen as a big, bright yellow robot could be.
Perhaps ignored, instead. Maybe they’d think he was recharging.
The silence extended for a moment after the click, but Bumblebee’s keen senses soon detected the soft thud of human footfall starting again. Human footfall approaching him.
“Bee?” Came the soft, concerned voice from the small organic by his side.
Bumblebee remained quiet, hoping to feign recharge.
“Bee... I know you’re awake, I heard you before-- while I was working. I just want to talk, is that okay?”
Yet another sigh parted the bot’s dermas as a great servo shifted from its rest on the bright yellow helm of Bumblebee down to the bale below, optics opening as Bumblebee’s form turned over so that he could focus on Alex, now stood by his side. A twist of derma and lightly furrowed but raised optical ridges were Bee’s feigned attempts at a smile to ease the human’s worries, but it was obvious that it didn’t work.
“Sure, Alex, what’s up?” Came Bee’s response in a faux-cheery tone, the tiredness in his vocaliser unmistakable.
Alex took another step forwards and looked over the Cybertronian’s tired features before tilting his head slightly and furrowing his brow in concern.
“I’m worried about you, Bee; you’ve seemed off recently, sad even- is something the matter? I want to help…” Brown eyes glanced back at the house before returning to Bumblebee. “Usually when one of my family is sad, I will cook them sopas, or lumpia, or lugaw- things that warm the heart and the soul- and talk to them about what worries them…” Alex paused and let out a light sigh. “You are my family too, but you can’t eat anything I cook for you, and no one has taught me Cybertronian cooking…” Softly, Alex smiled as he looked at his friend. “Well, not yet anyway!” He chuckled, before the light-hearted lilt was cleared with a gentle cough, attempting to return to his caring but serious tone. “So, please, Bee, know I’m here for you. Is there anything you need to talk about, my friend?”
Tentatively, Alex reached out a hand and placed it upon one of the digits of Bumblebee’s closest servo, and a small, but genuine smile crept onto Bee’s faceplate.
“It’s nothing Alex I… Ah… I just haven’t been recharging well, that’s all.”
“Insomnia is not simply nothing, Bee! Rest is important for all of us, even you, the amazing Bumblebee!” A small hand squeezed around Bee’s cool metal digit, and another reached to softly pat the back of his servo. “You asked us the other day if it was okay for Ratchet to visit to give the Terrans a checkup; he’s coming tomorrow right…?”
“Yeah, he should be here tomorrow.” Bee replied with a nod.
“He’s the greatest medic-bot that ever lived, I’ve read all about him! Surely, if you have some concerns, you should speak to him.” Alex’ voice was excited, confident and instructive at the same time. “I bet you, Bee, that he could fix you right up.”
A warm, fatherly smile radiated up towards Bumblebee from Alex, as tiny, fleshy hands pet his own giant metal servo.
A tired nod bobbed the yellow helm as Bumblebee thought about the suggestion.
“That’s… Actually, a good idea… Thank you, Alex, I’ll do that.”
“Just take care of yourself, Bee. I like to know my family is happy and healthy- don’t forget you’re a part of it too.”
“I will, Alex, I promise.”