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Many vorns ago, on a planet far beyond the Earth’s stars, Bumblebee had a family.
He couldn’t remember their faces, or the sound of their voices, but he was sure they had existed at one point. Bumblebee could vividly remember the warmth of servos cradling his helm, the shimmer of sunset rays on dirty windows, always to be cleaned later.
Bee was sure he had parents, a sire or a carrier. Somewhere lost in the rubble of a loved home or in the remains of a park reduced to a crater. He was sure their ashes were lost in the history of war, a mention of them in a footnote or even a grainy picture, unfocused with worn edges.
They must have loved him dearly, he was sure. The way the human parents cared for their children, with gentle touches and caring stern words. With long work days and tireless nights fueled by a primal, intimate love unique to each family unit.
Sometimes, Bumblebee could still see his parents. When parked across schools during scouting sessions, as children rushed home only to be held back by worried caretakers to prevent injury near the road - or Primus forbid, a fatal incident. Bee could imagine his caretakers then, in the slight frowns and warm hands.
He could see it clear as day:
A tiny him - perhaps chubby from excess energon treats snuck under tables and more food than he could ever imagine - rushing around the crowded roads as bots swerved by. The noise of the bustling city a comfort one would learn to tune out, a buzzing reminder of life around them. His caretaker, eyes attentive as they watched him run around like the brightest star they’d ever seen.
In his young fury and enthusiasm, spark still innocent with wonder, he would attempt to rush ahead. Perhaps to a sweet shop down the road run by a sweet old couple, frames creaking as they reached to pinch his cheeks as he looked at the rainbow of colorful treats around. Or perhaps a library, filled corner to corner with all the knowledge in the universe at the tips of his digits, knowledge he would pass for granted as he searched for comics or rentable games.
Before he could run off, a firm servo would grab him by the scruff of his neck, painlessly bringing back into their strong frame, optics alight with worry and so much love. Don’t run off like that, they’d childe, you could get hurt- or worse. Their servos would stay, still firm and sure, and Bee would let them. I don’t know what I’d do if you got hurt, they’d lament, You are the most precious thing in my life, my dear.
He’d smile at them, and like a good child - a loved child - he would promise to stay close. Hand in hand, they’d continue their walk down the roads, smiling at the other bots passing by, music from a home nearby drifting in the wind. A small moment he would likely forget by sunset, but would remember fondly standing over a worn grave or a hospital bed many vorns later, reminiscing on the good old days of childhood.
He used to stay near schools or playgrounds longer than other locations during his shifts, if only to dream of himself in the children's shoes as they lived their perfect, love-filled lives. Stomachs full and eyes bright, sun rays illuminating the sweat on their skin, backpacks full of homework on world peace or the ecosystem of some far away tundra. Parents near to tend to their every need, to kiss every pain away, to love them endlessly and unconditionally.
He only stopped lingering when a Decepticon had spotted him, lost in his perfect world of painless embraces. Bumblebee would never forget the fire that arose, smoke covering everything in soot, what started as a sunny day tainted beyond recognition. The looks of the children, frozen in terror as their parents rushed them to safety. As he fought, he faintly wondered if his caretakers had run like that, if they held him to their chassis as war broke out around them, Cybertron burning to ash.
He wondered if they were the reason he survived at all.
He wondered if he should be grateful.
He didn’t feel grateful. Not most days, anyways.
Regardless of the reason, or the love behind each action and sacrifice, Bumblebee was certain he had a family once.
He could remember it through the ache across his limbs as he lay in the medical cot, stiff and cold with white lights chasing away any semblance of comfort.
As Ratchet or First-Aid worked to keep him stable, his tired, aching mind would remember:
When his optics closed and his audio receptors rang, his mind could confuse the cold, medical graze of the medic’s servos as something warm and familial. The lingering of touch in the morning, gentle as he rose from a peaceful dream. Breakfast awaited him in another room as his caretaker caressed his face lovingly, no pain to be found. Bee could trick his mind into believing the medical jargon from the medics was a gentle good morning, love. He could picture the soreness in his limbs was due to just waking up, perhaps after a prior day filled with play or sports practice.
He could picture the bandages being a blanket from his childhood, frayed and slightly discolored from use, being tucked gently around his frame to protect the lingering warmth of the sunrise. The blinding white would turn yellow in his optics, bringing color to posters on walls and toys thrown about. Get ready for school, his caretaker would remind him, and pick up this mess, silly, we don’t want you tripping and getting hurt now!
He could hear it, how the ringing would turn into the buzzing of a city or the cries of an avian nearby. The distant roar of war turned into something mundane, like a cyber-hound barking or traffic near an interstate.
Wake up, kid- it’s time to get up. Distant pleas from bots around would sound less distressed- playful, even, if he had enough medication flowing through his veins.
When Bee would wake up - still cold, stiff, and miraculously alive - he knew his dreams weren't simply dreams, but distant memories. Something bittersweet from his childhood that his mind would conjure to bring peace to his aching spark.
It had to be real.
The warmth, the noise, the love.
It had to be. He wouldn’t remember if it weren’t.
He was sure he had a family- regardless of the tangibility of distant dreams or the logic proclaiming he had been orphaned upon his emergence like many in his generation, Bumblebee was certain he once had a group to belong to. Not by duty or responsibility, but by love fueled choice.
Sometimes, even on the rare occasion the Autobots gathered in groups, he would humor himself with his fantasies:
He could picture it. They were all distant relatives - faces molding into something more picturesque, like a commercial on tv or even vintage magazines - gathered around for a festive meal, smiles bright and laughter in abundance. Instead of war plans they would be betting on teams in the next big sports event, predicting not the distance and trajectory of missiles but of cubes being thrown across stadium arenas. The screams of war would turn into cheers as their teams scored in the last second, an impossible feat that demanded celebration.
The blaring of alarms would become an oven timer, trying to bring attention from the joy in the living room to whatever delicious dish was cooking in the oven. The burning of bodies and buildings became a simple kitchen incident, something left to cook for too long. Cries of grief became a joking imitation of mourning for food they could easily replace. No harm done, someone would comfort, we can always try again!
Nights in the cold would become camping trips, relatives from everywhere gathered around to gaze and marvel at the constellations above. The older telling tales of great myths turned into stars or stars turned into lovers. The young would laugh and beg for more stories until eventually sleep claimed their small frames, minds dreaming of the fun they were bound to have the next day.
The screams to run across the battlefield and away from danger became couches trying to win a silly game between neighboring schools, parents cheering behind fences, months of practice building to one single moment of great victory.
Bumblebee could imagine it.
Even if his spark remained cold and the idea of belonging to a proper family slipped further away the more he aged, he could imagine it. If his dreams were the only place he could have his perfect family, he would stay content because many vorns ago, on a planet far beyond the Earth’s stars, Bumblebee dreamed of a family.
A family just for him in his sliver of paradise, and maybe that was enough.
It had to be, because it was all he would ever have.