Disclaimer and Stuff: Okay, I couldn't resist expanding this piece of drabble. No, I do not own Transformers or anything else that you might recognize, except for the crazy idea of Sunstreaker giving Sam art lessons. Yes, this might seem OOC.

Art

Sam liked drawing. He wasn't all that good at it—in his opinion—but it was something he enjoyed. He never told anyone, until he lost his sketchpad and later found Sunstreaker looking through it. Five minutes later, Sunstreaker was teaching him how to draw "properly."

"You have talent. Stop wasting it."

"Okaaay." Sam looked at his sketch pad. "So, no more stick figures?"

Sunstreaker glared at him.

"Hey, they were good stick figures!" He defended.

Sunstreaker carefully flipped open the book and pointed to a drawing of a stick figure, then flipped to the next page over, revealing a very detailed and realistic sketch of Optimus.

"Okay, no more stick figures."

Sam had a secret, something he never told anyone. He liked to draw, and he had several sketchbooks filled with drawings, the contents of which ranged from simple stick figures—he loved drawing those—to highly detailed sketches that were nearly life-like. Some of it was abstract, there were several pages dedicated to nothing but tiny doodles and some were drawings of what he thought Cybertron would look like. He didn't think he was all that good, and never bothered to get a second opinion.

Then he lost his sketchbook at the Autobot base while he was staying for the weekend while his parents were on holidays.

"Come on, come on," Sam muttered, running his hands through his hair distractedly as he looked around for his sketchbook. "Where'd I put it?" It wasn't in his room, which meant he'd left it somewhere else in the base. With a sigh, he left to hunt it down.

He'd been looking for close to twenty minutes before he found it in the rec room, held Sunstreaker, who was staring intently at the small—to him—pieces of paper. Sam froze. For one, someone was actually looking at his drawings, and two, it was Sunstreaker.

The yellow mech looked up, and his optics narrowed. "These are yours?"

"Uh, yeah. Can, um . . . can I have it back?" Sam asked hesitantly, wary of the massive fingers pinching his book.

"You have talent."

"What?" Sam blinked, unable to believe what he was hearing. Sunstreaker was complimenting him?

"Stop wasting it." Sunstreaker growled.

"Uh . . ."

Irritated, Sunstreaker sent a huff of air at the book, flipping the pages to a drawing of a stick figure. He glared at Sam. "Stop wasting your talent with this . . . garbage."

". . . You don't want me drawing stick figures? That's kinda funny, since I thought they were my best work." Sam muttered.

Sunstreaker flipped to the next page, pointing at a sketch of Optimus. "This, human, is far better than that atrocity." He snapped.

"Can I have the book back, please?" Sam asked wearily. "I mean, I just do it for fun, and I'm not even good at it, so why—GAH!"

Sunstreaker grabbed him and dropped him on the table, pulling out a datapad. "Sit." He snapped, optics narrowed dangerously.

Sam gulped as he followed the order. "Err, what are you doing?" He asked timidly.

"Giving you art lessons."

"Oh. That's cool." Sam blinked. "Wait, you're giving me lessons?"

"I was an artist back on Cybertron." Sunstreaker said flatly. "Now, pay attention, human."

"My name is Sam." He muttered, pulling a pencil out of his pocket.

"Before we begin, I'm going to set out some rules for you to follow. First, no stick figures."

"They were good stick figures!" Sam defended.

Sunstreaker glared at him, and he winced.

"Fine. No stick figures."

"Second, never let me hear you say you're not any good. You're not bad, just an amateur. And third, no one else hears about this."

Sam nodded hurriedly. He wasn't all that keen about anyone else learning he drew, so keeping silent about the lessons would be easy to do.

They soon developed a pattern. When Sunstreaker wanted to give Sam a lesson, he'd tell him by glaring at him for a long period of time. The "no stick figures" glare. When Sam wanted to ask him for a lesson, he'd hum the first bars of "You Are My Sunshine" whenever he got close enough to Sunstreaker for him to hear it.

Sunstreaker soon started teaching him how to paint, then moved on to Cybertronian techniques. Sideswipe, of course, knew about the lessons and enjoyed calling Sam "Sunstreaker's Apprentice" or "Padawan" at every opportunity he could find. Their secret was so well kept that even Bumblebee didn't know about it, and he was Sam's guardian.

And then Sunstreaker, very calmly, as if he weren't killing Sam with horror and embarrassment, announced, in the middle of an official meeting, with everyone—Autobots and humans alike—attending, that he'd taken Sam as his apprentice, as was the custom on Cybertron.

"And that concludes the briefing."

Prowl was just winding down the meeting, and Sam was just about falling asleep from boredom, except, of course, he was the Autobot Ambassador, so he was supposed to stay awake and pay attention.

Sunstreaker raised one hand, silencing the tactician and making Sam frown in confusion.

"Yes, Sunstreaker?" Prowl asked, doorwings twitching at the unexpected interruption. "Is there something you'd like to say?"

Sideswipe snickered, and realization hit Sam like a ton of bricks. He leaped to his feet, eyes widening in horror. "Sunstreaker, you slagging piece of rusted scrap! Don't you dare!"

Sunstreaker smirked slightly. "Samuel Witwicky is my apprentice. I've claimed him under Cybertronian laws."

"I'm gonna kill you." Sam muttered, wishing he could just fall into a hole and disappear. "I am so gonna kill you."

"Your apprentice in what, exactly?" Optimus asked slowly.

"Art."

". . . What?" It was Lennox who broke the silence.

"You weren't supposed to tell anybody." Sam hissed, glaring at Sunstreaker. "Why did you tell them? You didn't even want to tell them!"

"Your previous "work" was an embarrassingly pathetic waste of talent." Sunstreaker said flatly.

"Just for that I'm drawing you as a stick figure!" Sam grabbed a pen and one of Glenn's papers from the hacker and began drawing stick figures with a vengeance before flinging the paper at the yellow mech and stalking over to the raised ramp that led to the door. "And even if my drawings were "a waste of talent" does not mean you get to blurt my secrets out for the entire world to hear!"

Mirage gave Sam a considering look. "You must be very talented."

Sam stopped, two feet away from the door. "Um . . . no, not really."

"Sunstreaker took you on as his first apprentice. That says quite a bit about your skill level." Elita tilted her head to one side. "He was famous on Cybertron—his paintings sold for millions of credits, and for all of the artists that flung themselves at him, he never bothered to give them the time of day."

"Err, that's great. I'm just . . . ah . . . going to go have a mental breakdown . . . preferably in a closet, so, um . . . yeah. Bye!" Sam quickly made his break for freedom, eager to get away before anyone could start interrogating. He'd just made it outside when his phone buzzed, signalling a text. It was Bumblebee.

Why didn't u tell me?

Sam sighed. I didn't tell anyone. It didn't seem so important, just something I did for fun. Sorry if I hurt your feelings. We good?

He got a smiley face in response, and he smiled back at the phone.

Then his smile faded. He still had to explain this to Mikaela.

"Slag."