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2025-01-06
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In Want Of A Blade

Summary:

Optimus is very warm, Bee notes distantly. Hotter than the conveyor without burning like the furnace. And he cuddles. A lot. It’s a little bit suffocating and takes a while to get used to, but it’s not bad.

He wonders if Optimus is lonely. Judging by how tightly his friend clings to him throughout the night, Bee is almost certain he knows the answer. He’ll just have to fill the missing gap. Easy.

Notes:

This was written entirely in one sitting so huge thank you to Bikkie for betaing this so soon after waking up you're a trooper and I love you. This was partially written out of spite because I'm sick of the fandom infantilising Bumblebee and treating him like a child when he's really really not and never has been and partially because I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about this movie <3

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

It’s a rather rude awakening, all things considered.

Optimus probably hadn’t meant to shake him quite so roughly when attempting to get him up, but the poor guy’s still adjusting to all the new upgrades that come with being a Prime, so Bee can’t really hold it against him. He set fire to some of Elita’s paperwork a few days ago just because he tripped on his own pede, setting back her workload by at least another week, and couldn’t stop apologising about it until she kicked him in the shins.

With a muffled groan and optics only half-open, B-127 twists to stare blearily up at Orion. Optimus? Optimus. No, no, Orion. Maybe. Possibly. Primes but it’s difficult to remember names this early. Rubbing the sleep from his optics, Bee sits up with tired effort, wondering what he’s done wrong to receive a visit so suddenly.

“What is it?” Voice slurred with the edges of exhaustion, Bee still does his best to inject as much lighthearted fare as he can, though not to much success. 

Optimus squats down to be more his height, scanning him over. “Why are you sleeping here?” Bee blinks back at him. “On the conveyor,” he clarifies, as if Bee couldn’t figure that out for himself. He doesn't really hold it against Optimus, but sometimes it’s annoying when other bots treat him as if he’s slow or stupid just because he doesn’t have all his screws in one place anymore.

“Where else would I sleep?” he asks with a laugh. Optimus looks worriedly back at him. Bee might have only known the guy for a day or two at most before everything went to the wastes, but that was just enough time to figure that the constant worry he sees these days isn’t the norm at all. That’s why he’s gotta hold the fort down for all of them - there’s so much stress and uncertainty in the air now without Sentinel around to guide anyone, so it’s B-127’s job to alleviate the mess as much as he can.

No matter how much it makes him want to scream until his voice gives out sometimes. 

“Bee,” Optimus starts softly, “you know we have rooms now, right? Proper rooms? With privacy and heating and really good window views?” The last part is a bit of an inside joke - one of Optimus’ miner friends had stubbornly refused to leave their awkward standing berth because they insisted it gave them a good view of some glowy rocks, so Jazz and Bee had had to convince them that the window views were better, which had been a task and a half to put it bluntly.

“Sure!” he chirps back. “But you’re still filling those up with all the sub-level workers right? I’m not gonna take a room from somebody who needs it, Oppy! I’m fine right here. Really.” And he is fine. He has a bed (kinda) and the place is warm from the furnace and he has good company and some old holovids he can watch if sleep doesn’t claim him. The shows aren’t very good, but they’re at least entertaining enough to pass the time.

Optimus looks over the room, and even with his mask still up, Bee can tell he’s frowning, a familiar frustration settling over him. It’s the same frustration he gets whenever he’s reminded of all the things they took for granted. Of all the ways Sentinel screwed them over. Nudging him with a foot to stop that spiral, Bee offers up a softer smile and an even gentler, “Hey. You still with me, Pax?”

It’s not exactly the same as when Bee zones out and loses himself from time to time, but the vacant look is familiar enough for him to know what’s needed to snap him out of it. “Yeah,” Optimus murmurs, coming back to himself. “Yeah, I’m here. Sorry. It’s been a long night for me.”

:: When isn’t it long? :: 

:: ~ Never takes care of himself ~ ::

:: Ugh he looks like slag ::

Bee whips his head over to his self-made friends. “Knock it off,” he says. “Stop being rude.”

“What were they saying?” 

“Nothing.” Bee cycles his optics, ignoring the cussing out he receives from EP-508. That one’s always had a bit of a mouth on them. “Why are you down here anyway? I’m pretty sure the Doc would have your helm again if he knew you were skipping out on recharge.”

Optimus sputters. “I’m not skipping out!” Tilting his helm, B-127 waits for him to gather his reasoning. Sure, he might be a little bit manic and talk just a little too much, but years of isolation have also taught him a great deal of patience, and nobody can outlast him in a test of uncomfortable silence. Steve and A-A-Tron would know. 

Sure enough, Optimus gives in with a heavy ex-vent, dropping his helm down with the weight of it. “I couldn’t find you anywhere,” he mutters finally.

Bee blinks owlishly. “Me?” he echoes. “How come? I didn’t forget to lock the doors up again, did I? Oh man, I really hope that’s not it, Prowl would kill me if I did that again.”

Behind his mask, Optimus’ mouth ticks up at the corner. “Prowl’s not that bad,” he says, laughing outright at Bee’s harrowed expression. “He just takes things a little too seriously sometimes.”

:: You all do :: mocks A-A-Tron.

“You’re not here because I pissed him off then?”

“No, Bee. You haven't done anything wrong. I was just looking for you.”

“Oh.” 

He can’t think of any other reason Optimus would be all the way down here, then. As though sensing his confusion, Optimus vents a puff of air, shaking his helm, and moves to sit beside him on the conveyer. There was a surprising amount of room for the both of them, but Optimus seemed intent on keeping as close to Bee as possible, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Do you always sleep on here?”

“Huh? Oh, the conveyer? Yeah, I guess.”

“Why?”

Bee taps his digits. There were a few different answers to that. It was warm; he could hear the workers and machinery above him; because sometimes he thought vividly about letting the furnace take him, instead of waiting down here for company that would never come.

“Well,” he starts cheerfully, “the guys take up a lot of room, y’know? ‘S just easier to sleep here, is all. If you and D had ever stayed, I would’ve had to move a bunch of stuff around to make room, since you’re both so big and all, but for me? Just this is fine.”

Optimus’ answering nod was an absentminded thing. Most bots didn’t really like talking about Megatron around him, but Bee had never seen why it would be an issue. Orion seemed to appreciate it, at any rate. “I’m not used to sleeping on my own,” Optimus confesses quietly. “In the mines… well. You saw it for yourself. We were all packed pretty close together. D used to be right across from me and I miss -” His voice cuts out. He has to clear his intake to finish. “I just miss it, is all.”

:: The company? :: Steve wondered. :: Or waking up to his bonded? ::

Bee frowns to himself. It was a very invasive assumption, even if all signs pointed towards it being true. “Is that why you were looking for me?” he asks. 

Orion shakes his helm. “No. I just don’t like not knowing where you are, especially when everything is so… up in the air at the moment.” That made sense. Optimus preferred keeping his friends close to him whenever possible. From what Bee had gathered from some of the other miners, Orion and D had almost always been joined at the hip, unless Orion was off in the archives or something, and he’d started getting even clingier with everyone else since Megatron’s banishment from the city.

Empty-nesting maybe?

“I tried pinging your comms,” he continues, “but, uh. It doesn’t look like this place gets any real reception.” Huh. Bee had never noticed that before. Certainly explained some things though. Interesting. He’d have to remember to bring that up to the hyperactive inventor guy. Wheeler? Jackie? Something like that. One of the ex-miners. Too many new names and faces for him to remember all at once.

“Do you… wanna stay here for the night then?” 

The offer is tentative at best. Bee almost cringes at his own uncertainty, let alone the audacity. Neither Orion nor D had seemed thrilled at the idea of staying down here the last time, so Bee couldn’t see why Optimus would agree to it now, but… He had to offer something instead of twiddling his thumbs!

Optimus falls back on the conveyor with a heavy whumpf. The conveyer croaks ominously under his weight. Miraculously, it still holds up. Sturdy stuff! Whoever built it originally certainly knew what they were doing.

Instead of pondering about what could’ve led to designing a conveyor sturdy enough to withstand the weight of a Prime, Bee contents himself to settle into his friend’s side at Optimus’ own insistent prompting (re: tugging on his arm until he caught up with the program) and shutter his optics. 

Optimus is very warm, Bee notes distantly. Hotter than the conveyor without burning like the furnace. And he cuddles. A lot. It’s a little bit suffocating and takes a while to get used to, but it’s not bad. 

He wonders if Optimus is lonely. Judging by how tightly his friend clings to him throughout the night, Bee is almost certain he knows the answer. He’ll just have to fill the missing gap. Easy.

 

Filling in that missing gap is not, in fact, easy. Mostly because it means staying by Optimus’ side far more than he had been previously, which causes a few rather personal issues for him.

1: He is still adjusting to sensory input. Spending so much time in isolation, even with the occasional escape up the trash chute to get some much needed cleaner air, has made him -- sensitive to crowded spaces. Too much noise, too much movement, too many scents and moving pieces and touch touch touch.

But Optimus is a friendly bot. He knows seemingly everyone and is always on the move to check in with them. He keeps up with as many goings-on as possible, much to Elita’s exasperation, and seems to never stop moving for long. 

That would be fine, if not for problem 2: Bee is small. Even after getting his cog, he notices that, among all the throng of Iacon, he still comes up the shortest. There are other minibots like himself, of course, but all of them are at least a head taller than he is, which means he has to take a faster pace to keep up with Optimus’ larger strides. It’s annoying, especially when he’s still trying to convince some of the populace that he is not, in fact, as young as they think he is.

His third and final problem is both the simplest and most aggravating: B-127 is, at his spark, an explorer. He loves nothing more than to wander off and get lost in the city’s streets, using only his wits and dusted-off survival instincts to find his way back again. 

Optimus does not like him doing this. “Sentinel still has followers,” he informs gravely. “We can’t risk getting ambushed without backup.”

Bee and Jazz are both of the opinion that Optimus is being too cautious. Prowl and Elita disagree with them. It’s a constant point of contention. And now, with his desire to stick as close to Optimus as he can get away with, B-127 has even less of a chance to map the city’s streets and crevices than he did before.

His heel taps rapidly against the floor; his head bobs to music only he can hear; his optics catalogue minor details of the room they’re in. The shade of paint used on the walls. Twenty-three cracks spiralling out across the ceiling. A load-bearing wall, tilting ominously inward. He sends a message off about that last one, receiving an affirmative ping in response, and turns his attention back to the data files Optimus and (he squints) Chromia are sorting through.

Sparkdates, if he remembers correctly. They’re looking for inconsistencies between various records. B-127 fails to see why that would be important, but then he fails to see why time in general is important these days. No point counting it when you have no way of fixing a broken chronometer.

“This one.” Chromia points to a name on the screen. Bee leans around her to see if he recognises the name. He frowns. Shrapnel sounds familiar enough but he can’t quite place where he’s seen or heard it before. “It says he was sparked on the fortieth cycle, but in the job records, he’d clearly been assigned to the sublevels before then.”

“He’s not the only one,” Optimus murmurs to himself. “Nearly everyone assigned to those hidden sublevels have fake sparkdates, if they got a sparkdate written down at all.”

Chromia’s frustration is palpable through her EM field. That’s another thing they’ve all been getting used to. Apparently, getting a cog means getting a whole new way of blasting your feelings to everyone in a ten foot radius, and learning to control the pulses is a headache for all of them.

Surprising to everyone, B-127 has found it the easiest change to adjust to. He’s had deca cycles of practise internalising things, he supposes. 

“-- even know how old he is?”

Whoops. Looks like he missed part of this conversation again. Annnnnd they’re both looking at him. Are they talking about him? They’re definitely talking about him. He gives a jaunty little wave to Chromia who frowns back at him. Not an annoyed frown, more one of confusion. He gets that a lot, he’s found. 

Optimus cocks his helm. “Bee,” he says, “do you remember what cycle you were created?”

B-127 wracks his processor. “Uhhh.” Well damn. That’s a hard question to answer. “Kinda? Not so much the exact cycle, but I remember some things that were different to how they are now.”

Chromia crosses her arms. “Explain.”

Arms stretched behind his helm, Bee stares up at the ceiling, following the cracks in the plaster. “The sublevels weren’t a secret, for one thing,” he says, drawing a sharp noise from Optimus. “And there was a lot less gold around the place. I remember… one of my first jobs was applying gold plating to pillars and stations. The High Guard were still around too, sort of. I didn’t, like, meet them firsthand or anything, but I saw them flying around sometimes, or whispering with other bots in the crevices. Why?”

“That makes you older than Shrapnel then,” Chromia states mostly to herself before picking up a stylus and writing notes. Bee pushes his EM field against hers in a silent question. She jerks a digit at Optimus, who looks shocked. “Means you’re about twice his age, give or take some cycles.”

Huh. Well how about that.

“I need to sit down,” Optimus says faintly, falling heavily into a chair that B-127 hastily shoves under him. 

“...I did say I wasn’t as young as you thought,” he reminds him.

“Yeah,” Optimus replies distantly. “I guess you did. Sorry.”

Chromia’s work continues largely in silence after that. Optimus’ field is troubled. Bee doesn’t know how to help, because he can’t figure out what caused it to begin with. He wishes Megatron was here. Megatron would know what to do. 

It isn’t until they’re leaving to deliver copies of Chromia’s findings to the hospital that B-127’s age comes up again. “You really weren’t kidding about how long you were down there for, were you?” Optimus’ voice is quiet. Subdued.

“Nah.” Bee looks him over, considering. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

He’s getting pretty good at reading Optimus’ expression through his battle mask, Bee thinks. Mostly because his finials keep moving. A lot. “Yes,” says Optimus after a beat. “I don’t like thinking about anyone being stuck on their own for so long.”

In the back of his mind, there is a distant, fuzzy memory. B-127 is barely a deca cycle old. He is alone. He is lonely. He is yelling himself hoarse. There was a time, probably, when he hated being down there too. Now it’s just his norm and he has no strong feelings one way or the other.

“I wasn’t alone,” he says cheerfully. “I have the guys, remember?”

Those finials move erratically once more. They settle at half-mast, pointing backward. He isn’t happy but he isn’t about to press the issue either. Optimus’ field is comforting. B-127 pushes against it; teasing. Happy. Reassuring. 

“I guess you do,” Optimus agrees mildly. Then, changing tactics: “You sure you wanna come with me for this, Bee? I know you’re not a fan of medics.”

“It’s not the medics,” Bee tells him. “Just don’t like the vibe of the place is all. But hey! I said I’d keep you company and I’m a mech of my word!”

Optimus’ field turns amused. Bee can imagine him smiling under the mask. “You can stand outside the room if you want.”

“Oh thank Primus.”

Optimus laughs at his deflated relief. B-127 counts this as a win.

 

The hospital visit is fairly short, all things considered. As promised, B-127 stays standing outside the room, chattering to a few of the waiting patients as Optimus discusses Chromia’s findings with Lifeline. She’s a good medic, from what Bee knows of her. Admittedly, most of that knowledge comes from Elita, who refuses to divulge much about anyone outside of a curt and crisp, could be a lot worse or not as bad as the other guy is.

Except for Lifeline. Lifeline had gotten a whole detailed monologue about her skill and bedside manner, complete with a personal recommendation from Elita herself. “If you ever need a place to decompress,” she’d told him faux-casually, “Lifeline’s office is the place to go.”

B-127 may not be the best at navigating social conventions, but he’s neither blind nor stupid either. When Lifeline emerges from her office, he asks, “So what’s with you and Elita?” with such a blunt lack of grace it would’ve made even Prowl embarrassed by association. Lifeline freezes, gears cycling as she buffers.

Optimus, however, quickly takes him by the pauldrons to usher him out the building with a nervous laugh and quick apology-excuse for his behaviour. Bee frowns up at him. “What?” He asks. “What did I do wrong this time?”

“You didn’t --” his friend stalls. Stutters. Pulls him away from the crowd. “You didn’t do anything,” he says. “It’s just not something you’re supposed to ask about.”

Oh. Well that’s stupid. “Why not?”

“Mechs like their privacy. It’s rude to just go digging into their personal lives like that.”

“Jazz does it all the time,” Bee points out. 

Optimus sighs. His finials twist, fanning outward. A sign of his hidden delight. He’d look a lot like Prima, B-127 thinks, if he had the same wings on them. “You think Jazz is good with bots?”

“Ye! He’s the best in my opinion. Super cool too. I get along with him pretty well, he’s just kind of a lot to deal with sometimes.”

Optimus stops walking. He puts his hands on Bee’s shoulders, leaning down to look him optic to optic, face oddly serious. “Never, ever, say that to Prowl. You do not want to see that argument.”

Okay. So that’s new. He files that tidbit away for later use, primed (hah!) and ready to shoot if a meeting ever gets too boring again. 

Satisfied with Bee’s slow nod, Optimus takes his hand and continues leading him down the halls. B-127 cannot remember the last time he ever held servos with someone who was living. He squeezes, experimentally, and gives a happy skip when Optimus squeezes back.

 

Staying by Optimus’ side so closely is a rather enlightening experience. From a distance, Iacon’s newest Prime seems perfectly put together, if a little awkward and inexperienced. From B-127’s newest vantage of observation, however, it becomes clear just how much Megatron’s absence is affecting him.

There are over a dozen instances wherein Optimus glances to his left, or otherwise leans in that direction, as if expecting somebody else to be there to meet him halfway. And each and every time he’s reminded of that missing cog in his machine, his optics dull, his field closes, and his voice turns more into a Prime than it does a Pax.

Bee can never hope to replace Megatron. He can never be a working cog. He is not a seamless gear like Elita. Not a well-oiled engine like Prowl, nor the perfect sweet burn of high grade like Jazz. B-127 is… he is…

…

There’s still lifeblood staining his hands. His pedes, his chassis. His knives, which he has yet to put away. Sentinel still has followers; but it had been a Quintesson that had almost taken Optimus’ head today. If B-127 had not been so close to him, it might have. They never should’ve made it into the city. That’s what Steve tells him. A-A-Tron says they surely have a traitor, to which EP-508 scolds them for being so distrusting. 

B-127 feels nothing. 

He felt nothing when he killed Sentinel’s forces a week ago, and he felt nothing when he was cutting down Quintessons earlier that night. He can kill other bots without batting an optic. Can kill Quintessons without thinking over it twice. He revels in it, even. Feels a joy and rush in his spark that is at odds with most everyone else. He wonders if this is how it started for Airachnid too.

If Sentinel, like Optimus, had ever wrapped her in a hug and thanked her for her service saving his life.

Optimus finds him on his conveyor. The furnace has long turned cold. He kneels. Always puts himself the same level as everyone else. It’s endearing. “You okay?”

Bee smiles easily back at him. “Of course.” His helm tilts sideways, his sensory panels popping out with a click. “Are you?”

“Physically? A few dents. Nothing serious.” That’s good. “Personally though? Tired, I think. No casualties either, unless you count Ironhide’s wounded pride.”

“What’d he do?”

“Screamed at a pitch high enough to give everyone a ringing helm for the next few hours at least.”

“Oof.” He puts away his knives. Optimus holds his hands again. “You need better security,” Bee blurts before he’s even finished conceptualising the idea. Optimus just looks at him. He almost continues with D would agree with me and just barely stops himself from being so insensitive. What he says instead is, “Do you have a room yet?”

“Do I have a -? Yeah. Yeah, yes, I have a room. It’s modest, but the bed is comfortable enough. Good view of the city too.”

Windows. They’d make too clean of a shot for a good sniper. Bee doesn’t know where all these old protocols are coming from - what he was made to be is still a mystery to him - but he doesn’t question them either. So long as he can keep his Prime safe, that is all that matters.

::Just like Airachnid:: EP-508 preens, seeming pleased. Steve manages to convey concern despite his lack of emotive features and A-A-Tron is just happy to be rid of him finally.

“That’s great!” Bee beams back at Optimus. “Because I’m getting kinda sick of sleeping down here, so, y’know, if there’s room and you don’t mind too much I was thinking maybe I could stay with you for a while! We could be roomies. I promise I’m good at it. You won’t even notice I’m there most of the time. The guys’ll tell ya.”

Optimus is silent for a long time. 

B-127 moves into his room. Steve and A-A-Tron like the sublevels just fine, so Bee leaves them down there, but he brings EP-508 with him, to Optimus’ amusement. “Sorry about the mess,” Optimus says sheepishly once the door has closed behind them. It really is a mess. The whole place is strewn with half-done projects and files upon files of data. Maps on the walls, an arcade machine in the corner, a thick dented piece of hanging metal for boxing.

The dents are the same size as D-16’s fists. Bee measures his own against them. “Please don’t hurt yourself,” Optimus begs. Bee grins. Aims a punch into D’s own marker. It does hurt, but it’s a hurt he controls. “You can keep using it, if you want.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Nah.” Optimus shrugs. “I could never get the hang of it. May as well be useful for someone.”

There are no obvious vantage points from the window he can see. He isn’t really a sniper though, so it’s possible he’s missing things. The curtains will have to do for now, until he can figure out a way to convince Elita to try every angle with her own rifle without giving too much of his own frantic thoughts away.

Optimus is happy enough to leave him getting acquainted. He points him to the wash racks. Bee still isn’t used to having them as an option. Bee is as quick and methodical here as he had been in the sub-levels. When he emerges, clean of Quintesson grossness, Optimus is muttering to himself by the bed. 

He looks up when Bee clears his intake. “Do you have a preference?” he asks suddenly. Bee stares blankly back at him. “For sleeping,” he clarifies.

Oh. “Nah,” Bee shrugs. “Not really. I would like the window though.”

Optimus’ mask slides away, baring the scar Megatron left behind on his face. He’s smiling. “Pretty sure that counts as a preference, man.”

Bee takes the side facing the curtained window. As with the night before, it doesn’t take long for Orion to cuddle around him, face hidden in his B-127’s back. Bee holds his hand. He does not let go the whole night.

 

(B-127 is a blade being sharpened. He vows to keep Orion alive.)

Notes:

Fun fact this was originally supposed to be an explicit Opbee fic but very early on I realised it worked much better from a platonic angle instead so huzzah you all get rare platonic fic from me for once! You're welcome