Work Text:
Sam admired the sleek form of his best friend gleaming yellow in the afternoon sun, still dripping water on the asphalt of the backyard driveway. As usual, the combination of hot car, badass robot guardian and person I love so much I think my ribs are crushing something important made his breath quicken and elevated his heart rate.
"You're a sex machine, Bee," Sam said, a familiar joke between them by now, and Bee preened, revving his engine proudly.
Once the words had passed his lips, though, for the first time the tongue-in-cheek compliment left him feeling uncomfortable. Bumblebee must have picked up on the sudden cooling of his arousal, because he sounded tentative when he said, "Sam?"
On Cybertron we were gods; here, they call us machines. Sam hadn't seen the confrontation between Sentinel and Optimus, but he'd been present at the debriefings when Optimus played back the recordings, and the contempt in the old Prime's voice had made him cringe.
"Maybe I shouldn't call you that anymore, huh?" he said with a little laugh. Bumblebee chirped questioningly. "A machine, I mean."
The radio spun and crackled for a moment before Bee clicked it off and rolled away. Sam stepped back, giving his friend room to transform.
When he'd finished, he crouched down in front of Sam, black and yellow hands dangling between his legs. "But we are machines, for lack of a better word."
Sam frowned. "Sentinel didn't seem to agree, Bee. He said it like- like it was an insult, like we were insulting you." The last thing he wanted was for Bee and the others to think he thought any less of them for being inorganic, for them to think he viewed them the way Galloway and his kind did. The thought made his throat tighten uncomfortably. If he was hurting Bee unknowingly...
Bee's optics dimmed to a softer blue, warm as he looked at Sam. "Sentinel didn't know you as we do. There is no word in your language to differentiate between an inanimate machine and a living one. That is no fault of yours. We take no offense at it because we know you and the others, and we know that you know us."
Bumblebee tilted his head thoughtfully. "When Ironhide goes on missions with Colonel Lennox, sometimes Will tells his men to 'get in the truck.'" Sam could picture it easily, Lennox barking orders at his men while he organized humans and Autobots alike. "Ironhide does not mind because he knows that Will considers him a friend, and because he knows the conventions of your language. It is not the same as when an outsider refers to our alt modes as if they are all that we are.
"When those people talk about me, I am 'the Camaro,'" Bumblebee continued matter-of-factly. "It is easy to tell when they consider me little more than that." Sam winced and raked his memories for any time he might have done the same. Bee's antennae perked up in amusement as if he knew what Sam was doing.
"Have I-"
"No," he murmured.
Sam sighed, relieved. Then, suddenly, "But I call you, like, 'my car' and stuff." Bee gave a metallic hum that sounded like a cello string conducting electricity. "Does that... bother you? Is that bad? Cause if it- I'd rather know, you know? I'd rather you tell me."
Bee regarded him silently for a moment, and Sam began to panic. God, he knew he called Bee that all the time. He'd never meant it in a disrespectful way, but 'my car' was awfully close to 'the Camaro.' He just wanted that connection, that claim on Bee that no one else had. Okay, maybe it was a little possessive, but he just, he wanted to-
"The fact that you worry makes your worry unnecessary," Bee said fondly. In the midst of his rising agitation, Bee's statement made no sense, and when he looked up, eyes focusing again, Bee was leaning over him.
He managed to avoid whimpering as Bee collapsed around him, and held his breath as he was whisked around on sliding metal, flipped end over end until he landed in Bee's driver's seat. He expelled the breath shakily once everything was still.
"I really wish you'd stop doing that."
"You love it," a woman's voice teased. Sam choked on a laugh and dropped his forehead to the steering wheel.
They sat in silence for a few moments as Sam's heartbeat slowed, then the radio clicked on quietly. There were a few bars of a slow-strumming guitar, then a muted snick as Bee turned it off again.
Sam blinked at the uncharacteristic reluctance, but the speedometer gave him no hints. "Bee?" He hooked a finger over the ignition in encouragement.
Sam heard the soft hiss of Bee's air circulation systems kicking in, but the radio remained silent. He'd about given up and was thinking he should leave his friend to his thoughts when the mellow guitar started up again.
"I may not have the softest touch / I may not say the words as such / But I'm yours."
Sam closed his eyes and felt his throat tighten all over again. He brought his hands up to wrap them around the steering wheel, holding his friend, his guardian, his car as best he could while Bee hummed and clicked and whirred to him softly. Sam imagined he was saying something similar in his own language. Sam breathed slowly, loving this moment, loving Bee.
"You're mine," Sam whispered hesitantly into the steering wheel, fingertips stroking the leather, and Bee rumbled contentedly.
---