Work Text:
"-and Bee told me he'd like to meet you, so, Miles, Bumblebee," Sam said with a wave of his arm at the inconspicuous Camaro. "Bumblebee, Miles."
"Wait," Miles said, holding up a hand to stop Sam. "You said he told you? I thought you said he couldn't talk." Sam startled. It didn't seem strange to him anymore that Bee both couldn't speak, and did. He was about to launch into his explanation of satellite radio and an internet full of mp3s of every song ever made, when Bee interrupted him with a loud beatbox.
//Yo. Yo. Uh. Word. Adjective. Pronoun. Adverb. Run on and on and on. Where my gerunds at? Parenthetical.//
Sam gave Bee a mild look, used to being exposed to bizarre music he'd never heard before. Miles looked at Bee like he had just invented language itself and it was the most amazing, fabulous thing he'd heard in his life.
Sam knew that look. Having discovered a new obsession, Miles would now likely force Bee to speak at him in musical code for the next few hours. Sam crawled into Bee's backseat, resolving to at least get in some light dozing while Miles began his black belt level grilling session.
Well, Bee'd brought it on himself, really. He could deal with Miles on a sugar rush of discovery without him.
(After Miles left, Bee refused to speak another word for almost two days. Sam laughed at him unsympathetically, and took the opportunity to drive Bee just a little recklessly on the empty roads around Tranquility. If you had the chance to do that kind of thing with a no-nagging guarantee you took it.)
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