Bee and the Boys: A happy birthday gift for RavenABlack. Spin off of Promise Not to Tell. Bumblebee thought being a femme in hiding was hard, try being the only one on base with a bunch of mech's with match-making complexes. Bumblebee/?

Rating: Teen

Image: 'Sister Mother' by GreenAppleFreak.

Note: This is NOT how PNTT is really going to end and is NOT truly a part of the story line. I just wanted to clarify that… I have had a confused reader once or twice due to these spin-offs I always seem to be doing. XD

XXX

Her engine panted and whined as she took another quick turn, her form falling into the shadows like a thief to the night. She remained there for a moment, trying to stay as still as possible. She did not need them finding her. She could not afford to be around them another moment. A silence bore itself to the halls of the base and the femme's tense form loosened somewhat. It seems they had given up the chase and she was free to be on her merry way. Slowly rising from her crouch and reading herself to make a run for the nearest exit, the scout found herself stalling when she heard a small scratching sound. Her engine stalled … it was them.

With horror filled optics she watched as none other than Kup – who was dragging Hot Rod by the elbow – made their way down the dimly lit hallway.

"Come on, let go. I'm not a sparkling anymore so stop leading me around like a lost drone," whined the other mech, his flame-colored paint job glinting from the buzzing lights above the two beings' heads.

With a grumble, the older mech released the youth who immediately rubbed his elbow. Kup paid little mind to the whining that followed afterward, the youth sounding far too much like Sunstreaker as he critiqued what Kup's dragging had done to his paint job.

"Quit whining youngling. Now where do you think Bumblebee went?" said Kup, his optics scanning down the halls for even a twitch in the shadows. Bee felt her spark skip a beat when his optics landed on her hiding place, staring and unwavering, and then before she was about to start her gallant escape, Kup looked away and towards another collection of shadows.

Hot Rod rolled his optics and then all but growled, "Will you give it up?"

"Give what up?" said the youngster's caretaker, his gaze still searching.

"This matchmaking business. I don't like Bee … in that way," said the red mech sheepishly. "I-I grew up with her… she's like a weird transvestite sister. I don't … want to … you know … make babies and stuff with her."

A grumble of 'ingrate' and a clang of metal on metal filled the hall as the younger mech was slapped in the back of the head. Hot Rod yipped at this and meekly followed his elder, whimpering something about mean old war-mechs and youngling abuse. Bumblebee, despite being nearly chased for the past two weeks by mechs just like these two, couldn't help but giggle to herself as she got up and started to Prowl's office, wanting an escort for the rest of the day so she could hang out with Sam.

It was true that she was still a bit uncomfortable about being a femme - still refusing to have a larger chassis installed, in fact - but she didn't feel unsafe. Prime made his threats early: Bumblebee was emotionally too young to breed and she would decide when she felt mature enough to carry her first. Now, there had been some stirring tempers in the beginning and even a night or two she had stayed cuddled next to her caretaker, fear in her spark. And the Heat, was still there, but it was just in pings, but rather manageable. So it was, for the past decade or so, she felt safe and unchallenged as a femme and was mostly left to herself. That is … until lately.

X-bot had gotten her first youngling upgrade and it seemed that most of the older mechs had a sparkling fetish. They all wanted a small tiny little thing to cuddle and love… and the shortest route to getting that back was through Bumblebee. The femme cringed at the very thought. What was wrong with all these older mechs – even Ironhide with his constant hinting to check out Blades – weren't they supposed to fawn over guns and explosives, not sparkling care?

She gagged at the thought of Blades. Ironhide, how could he? She had been planning on being escorted to Sam's house one evening and instead found herself with the triple-changers; a triple-changer that was not to shy about what he thought they should be spending the evening doing in Mikaela's large garage. Blade's still wouldn't tell anyone how he managed to crack both his optics and Bumblebee wouldn't tell either because she didn't want to crush her caretaker's hopes in his chosen suitor. She loved Ironhide, she really did… he just had terrible taste in mechs.

All the older mechs did, actually.

Prowl kept putting her on guard duty with Streetwise. Ratchet kept pushing First Aid on her when she came in for a coolant shot or an injury. Optimus Prime seemed to have chosen boring and stiff as a board Sentinel Prime to speak with her whenever she needed something. Kup kept trying to push his charge, Hot Rod, onto her. Powerglide had taken it upon himself to try and press the flying community onto her; the Aerialbots most specifically. Perceptor seemed to calculate all the positive outcomes of hooking up with Brainstorm. And, well, it was easy to say that almost every young-mech that was on Earth had had at least one forced or voluntary date with Bumblebee in the last month … well, almost every mech.

"Bumblebee? Is that you? Ah yes, Jolt and I wish to speak with you."

The femme froze, a deer in the headlight look covering her face when she saw Mirage turn the corner, Jolt – a young mech who wasn't much for words – trailing behind silently. She groaned in her throat and then took up a recent hobby of hers: escaping.

XXX

Bluestreak sighed once more, his door wings drooping as he watched Hot Rod being dragged along by his caretaker, Kup. It was not wide-spread knowledge, but Bluestreak didn't have much luck with caretakers. It seemed as if there was a curse latched onto his back like a creaking skeleton, its fingers reaching out and touching anyone that dared grow close to him. So … he gave up and accepted his fate. He was a youngling without a caretaker. Perhaps that was why he wasn't part of the elder mechs' matchmaking game as of late. Now, that in itself wasn't troubling to the young gunner. The likability that he'd have the guts to talk to Bumblebee would be if he were locked in a closet with her. Yah, he knew it was messed up. Usually, he was never for a lack of words; he generally always had too many things to say. It was just that with her … it was different. She was the only adult femme in existence and she would never take a second glance at him. After all, she had every available stud on base after her.

Sighing, Bluestreak decided that staying in the rec. room watching everyone else play suitor was not the best thing for his self-esteem right now; he was going to go back to his room. He really didn't like being alone, but it was probably best for now. He didn't want to be reminded of the corpse on his shoulder and the Caretakers it had taken from him.

Too bad for him … he decided to take the hall that went past the supply closet. The gunner wasn't even allowed a pathetic squeak when a pair of yellow arms suddenly lashed out and pulled him in to the closet's shadows, the door slamming shut behind him.

For a second, Bluestreak tried to thrash and escape whatever had captured him. Except, the thing was that had so rudely captured him, decided to throw him down into the corner quickly followed by a blinding light in the youth's optics. The young gunner threw his arm up to tried to shy from the light that was threatening his optics. He couldn't see who had captured him, but there were two of them … and one was trying not to giggle.

"W-who is that? Hot Rot? Is that you?"

The one form nearly fell over in a fit of laughter. The other merely crossed his arms over his chest, not amused.

"Did Ratchet send you?" came the non-giggling specter. "Does he know we are in here? Does he know we are raiding his stash?"

Bluestreak blinked, his optics still trying to adjust to the bright lights, "What... I don't know what you are talking about. I mean I was just walking by and then you…"

"Shut it, youngling," shouted the non-giggling form before he turned to his companion. "Bro, I don't think Ratchet sent him."

A giggle and a hiccup escaped the other form. Then with a rustling sound the other lurched forward, Bluestreak choking as none-other than Sideswipe wrapped his arms around the gunner's neck, the stench of medical-class high-grade filling the youngster's sensors. W-were these two stealing the Hatchet's secret stash, again. Did they have a death wish or something?

"Nope," giggled the red twin as he continued to hug the petrified looking youngster. "He would have – hick – sent First Aid or Red Alert to get us. He's just a spy … a big mouthed spy."

For a second, Bluestreak was flabbergasted by what had come out of the drunken mech's mouth, but before he could even direct the yellow not-drunk twin towards the truth, Sunstreaker was glaring at him. And that was why Bluestreak was still in the closet with a broken com. link … five hours later. It seemed that the twins knew how to recalibrate the doors so they could only open from the outside. They, apparently, thought Bluestreak would go and snitch to Ratchet about who had been sneaking his medical high-grade. Slaggers didn't they know how much Bluestreak hated being locked in confined, dark, spaces.

Places like these reminded him of things from his past … things he did not want to remember. Bluestreak felt a choking sob rising in his throat, a memory of one of his old caretaker's coming to mind. There was a flash, a gurgled scream, a cascade of energon down his face as his keeper took a bullet for him. The youth put his hands over his audios, trying to block out the next memory: the whispering of another of his dying Caretakers as he held the gunner on the battle field, the two of them mangled and broken, bleeding into one another.

'Why was it always like this? Why did the memories always come when he was alone? He didn't want to recall his nightmare or his failures. He-he needed someone to save him from himself.' Thought the youth to himself before he start to cry, his limbs shaking as another memory came. He quickly pulled his knees into his chest and prayed it away, prayed for anything.

Perhaps this time, Primus had heard his silent plea, because that was when the door was thrown open, a golden form falling in like some grace-filled angel to chase away the nightmares. For a moment, Bluestreak just stared up at her and Bumblebee just stared back, both in shock.

Bumblebee was the first to speak, "Ugh, sorry, was this your hiding spot first? I-I'll just find another hiding spot to hide in and all. Ugh … okay."

Yet, just as the golden dame was about to rise back to her feet and perhaps try to escape some other would-be suitor, Bluestreak did something he thought he could never do. Speak to her; speak to Bumblebee.

"P-please don't go," his voice choked, his whole form shivering like that a lost child. "I-I don't want to be alone anymore."

Bumblebee, hand inches from the door handle – unknowingly damaged – found her limb falling away, her gaze falling on the other youngling. For the first time in a long time, she didn't just see a mech which could be a probable bed-mate she didn't want. She saw herself. She saw that scared form she was about a decade ago; afraid of everything, even herself. She, better than anyone on base, knew the deepest level of sorrow: self-created loneliness. For years, she had locked herself in her own birdcage, singing of a world she had locked herself out of.

Slowly, as if readying herself to sit on glass, she sat down beside the weeping mech. She stared at him as if looking for a grabbing hand or a trick set up to fuck her over. There was none, just another sorrowful soul. With a soft whisper of, "I understand," she pulled the mech into her chest, allowing his head to lie upon her chassis. And for the first time, she was not disgusted to have a mech so close to her spark, her heart.

And that was how he found them, Ratchet, when he went to get some supplies out of the closet: Bumblebee holding the gunner close, their fingers intertwined as they both slept dreamless recharges.

"And that sparkling," said Ironhide softly to the sparkling on his lap, the little being's optics wide with a blanket wrapped all about her like a cobra, "was how your creators first met. Now, let's go see if Ratchet is still punishing those nasty uncles of yours. You'd think of all the times Ratchet has caught those two stealing high-grade they would have stopped by now."

The little sparkling merely giggled on Weapon Specialist's lap, her blue optics sparkling.

XXX

Paw07: Short, sweet and to the point. RavenABlack requested a happy-birthday fic about a mommy-Bee with either Outback, Deadend, or Bluestreak as the daddy.

Update: Made a few spelling corrections.