Chapter Text
September 7th 1991:
"Spike, Spike slow down!"
Slow down? The engine beneath the pedals at his feet revved in retaliation. This car didn’t know the meaning of the word. The 10 o’clock lamps flickered on, bathing the herd of supercars in a ghostly glow. The bustling sidewalks of LA did little to quell the squeal of tires. Motorists and pedestrians alike fled from the curbs. Men howled and pumped their fists, and women held their billowing skirts from prying eyes. A young mother grabbed her toddler as he ambled a little too close to the busy street.
As they lifted their gaze, they saw nothing but the burnt trail of asphalt and devilish glows of taillights.
"By Primus, Spike! You’re gonna cause an accident!"
The young brunette adjusted his rearview mirror, squinting in the glare of faux headlights. A cherry red Lamborghini was riding his bumper, and his chest bloomed with something akin to fury. It was hot, and it was angry, but it wasn’t vicious. Smoke billowed from the open windows, and his engineering button-up stuck to his skin with the western heat.
"You just celebrated your birthday, and now we’re going to be planning your funeral!"
His teeth clenched the cigar as it sizzled.
"Take it easy, Spike. Buster didn’t mean it."
With a turnover of the engine, his turquoise '67 Impala seemed to translate his blossoming anger into something comprehensible to a race almost entirely of cars.
Buster never means it.
Sparks flew as he squealed around the corner.
"Bee, I’m not angry! Trust."
“Yeah, ok kid.” Sideswipe huffed, taking amusement in Spike’s predicament.
“I’m not a kid! I’m 21, that’s a full-fledged adult who can take care of himself."
"Yeah. Next you’re going to tell me you’re Megatron."
"Would you believe me if I did?"
He jerked the wheel, but he overestimated how narrow the turn it was.
The brunette chuckled as he glanced out the window at his missing side mirror. The Impala was Buster’s pride and joy; it was his 21st birthday present, and in the ten years he’s owned it, it had no more than a scratch right below the right headlight. Until now.
"Youch. Whoops. I’ll have Dad add it to the tab."
"Attaboy!"
"Don’t cheer him on, Cliffjumper!"
"Stick it in neutral, B! Buster’s been busting my bolts with all this talk of sanctions and regulations. Who put him in charge?"
"The US military." Sideswipe beeped, narrowly avoiding a pothole.
"And Buster was just doing what he was told!"
More cheers, from a group of break dancers this time. He took a drag of his cigar. He had been on the rig his entire life, constantly trailing after Buster. He was everything that Spike adored, everything he could be; everything he wanted to be. It was only fair he enlist in the army as a combat engineer, fighting to serve in the same regiment as he.
“He had no right,” Cliffjumper began. “To say that stuff. About Spike, his Creator…. Carly.”
Spike snarled and waved his hands in front of his eyes; the smoke clung to his nostrils as it slowly disintegrated.
"To hell with him! Carly too! Ever since he became a general he’s been walking around like he has a stick up his ass. He does nothing but give orders, and he expects us to follow at his whim! He’s been a dick to Dad, to me!"
Was the smoke heavier?
“And Dad just… lets him! He rolls over like a dog and allowed Buster to feed him whatever he says.” He was burning. What was once a dull flame was a ravaging fire.
"He does it to Prime too!"
A chorus of angry engines rebuked.
"You’re going too far, Spike."
"Shut up. Shut the hell up and LISTEN. All Buster has to do is throw a tantrum and Prime is on his hands and knees."
"Spike!"
"Like a common bitch!"
"Your temperature is rising!"
"Listen kid, you best—"
"I’M NOT YOUR FUCKING KID. I’ve calmed down enough and I swear to god if you try to coddle me one more time I’m going to torch your-Jesus CHRIST!"
His jeans. His jeans were on fire. His hands flew from the wheel, aggressively patting his burning pants. Leave it to him to accidentally set himself on fire in a car going more than 120 miles per hour in a city zone.
"Spike, the WHEEL!"
Someone screamed, probably Bumblebee. Bumblebee always liked him more, and that was one of the few things that Buster couldn’t stand. Spike couldn’t have Prime, his dad, or his position, but he could have Bumblebee, and that was all he needed.
He looked up and slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. He was almost nose to nose with concrete. The tires shrieked, rubber burning against pavement, but the car didn’t stop; fishtailing, surging forward like it had a mind of its own.
He and his father were the first to find the Autobots in their stone coffin. Sparkplug himself had tripped over Prowl’s hand and activated Sky Spy, queuing everything that would ever be. He had faced the likes of Rumble, Starscream, Megatron?
Was this what people meant when they said “Your life flashes before your eyes?” He was going to crash. He was going to die.
No. Not here. He lunged for the wheel, fully locking it to the left. He braced for impact.
“Of all the hare-brained, stupid things you could’ve done. Have you completely lost your mind, boy?“ Sparkplug sputtered. Optimus stood by his side, shadowed only by Buster, who could only stare at his car in disbelief. The gemlike turquoise paint was skinned, leaving only the silver body work. Luckily, the interior had been reinforced by the Autobots years prior, for fear of their human counterparts fleshiness. They hated the car, what it represented, but they would make damn sure it could protect thier charges. Wheeljack was poking and prying the broken vehicle, cataloging the repairs, parts that needed to be replaced. Bumblebee took a knee besides spike.
“Do you have any idea how close you came to dying?! To killing someone else?! You think this is some kind of game? It’s a god damn miracle Buster pulled enough strings to let you keep your job- What was that.”
Spike looked away; it hurt to crane his neck. Everything from his head to his toes was sore, and his fatheres grey hairs and aging face excacerbated his bone deep weariness. He loved his father. Most of the time.
“Did you just roll your eyes?”
He shrugged. Then came the slap. It wasn’t too loud- nothing compared to an explosion, or a gunshot, but even the insects stopped their warbling.
Optimus’ face, despite being the the least expressive of the bunch due to his mouthplate, was frozen in disarray. Bumblebee’s door wings practically swept the ground. Wheeljack dropped Busters car, and Buster, finally tore his eyes away from his mangled possession. His expression was hard unreadable. Spike’s jaw ached, and his eyes stung. He would not cry.
“Go home.”
In the Witwicky household, that would usually be followed with a whimpering "Yes sir." But Spike didn’t have it in him. Not today. He silently turned around, favoring his left leg and limping toward the direction of his home. He had to be at least two miles away, but he would be damned if he asked anyone for a car ride after that. All he wanted to do was be alone and cry. Or punch something. Probably do both.
It only took 10 minutes before the hum of a thousand-year engine masked with the throaty baritone of a 1970s Camaro. He was glad Bee upgraded—the Beetle was always a bit cramped, and he just didn’t seem like a Beetle to Spike. He continued to walk, albeit a little slower.
The Camaro pulled up beside him, matching his pace. The door opened, and Spike stopped. The car stopped too. It only took a beat, but Spike slowly maneuvered himself into the passenger’s seat, reveling in the alien warmth that caressed his muscles. He wanted to go home. It seemed that he wouldn’t be taken home.
He awoke with the cold cutting of engines. The door creaked open, slowly exposing Spike to the cool, night air. It was still dark, probably only an hour since his chewing out—maybe less. Spike slowly exited the vehicle. The stars were so bright for such an impossibly dark night. He tapped the tip of his boot on the ground.
Bumblebee spoke first.
“Do you want to talk?”
Spike brushed off his sleeve.
“Alright.”
The door opened once more, but Spike did not go inside. He limped toward the hood before bracing his hands right above where Bumblebee's spark would be. He fumbled for a bit before heaving himself atop the hood. It was chilly, but the tickle of the wind against his skin was welcome. Sleep crept at the edges of his vision. It must be really late if Spike was falling asleep with Bumblebee; he would usually challenge himself to stay up as long as possible—a feeble attempt at keeping up with his alien comrades who had no need for sleep.
“I love you, Bee,” Spike said, yawning into his hand before rolling to his side.
Bumblebee could feel Spike’s slowing heart rate, and he felt something restless in his spark stir.
“I know, Spike.”