A/N: A tad rushed; I usually take weeks to write a thing, but here's a little something. Takes place on Cybertron after PR. Smokescreen x Bumblebee, ficlet, weird kink, puke warning.
May be using Smokescreen as a therapeutic vessel to alter my perception of things like grief, loss, anxiety and vomiting, yadda yadda. I went a good few months without one attack like that, but it suddenly happened earlier this week. Feels good to get this out of my system. This is why writing is so neat, man. Isn't writing so wonderful? Anyway, here's Wonderwall. (Happy belated birthday, Skymachine! This-a one goes out to you—What would the world BE without your kink plague bombs. Getting people into all kinds of shit, man. Respect.)
Smokescreen started slightly in his seat and looked up at Bumblebee. "Hey," he said back, internally wincing at how much static was in his voice.
Bee heard it but didn't ask anything yet. He sat on the berth and let a servo rest on his friend's backstrut. Smokescreen's plating was tight and his field fluttered like a moth in a jar.
Things had been busy. The good kind of busy, though. Working all day long with the Vehicons to get shelter built, charge so low by nightfall that sometimes they didn't even have the energy to hit the washracks.
Everything was coming along nicely. Cybertron was glowing. They were home. Sometimes Smokescreen got a little emotional about it. Somehow he felt guilty and uneasy. Like he had a tank full of rocks and tar.
The older bots had a lifetime of memories here. They knew what it was like to live normal lives. To pay the bills. Stay up late to avoid expediting another long, wistful day of work.
To greet another bot with a hello instead of a blaster.
Bee pulled him close. "You okay?" he asked, faceplate in his friend's neck for a little nuzzle.
Smokescreen responded to the closeness immediately, wings flicking at first in tired confusion and then holding the other mech right back.
"Yeah," he said at first. "No. I mean—I'm fine, I feel like scrap but I'm not—uh—"
"Hey, hey," Bumblebee pulled back a little. "S'okay, Smokes."
"Sorry." Smokescreen's servo went on top of his head as he cringed. Bee always caught him when he was about to ramble. It was a nervous thing. He never wanted him to feel nervous when talking about anything, so he tried to reassure him verbally from time to time. Catch him and slow him before he chases his tail.
Thing is, Smokescreen didn't know what he was nervous about. Everything was fine. Right?
"I thought I got over it," he said, and didn't even know how that had been wrenched from the back of his processor.
He thought about Optimus every sol but he hadn't cried about him being gone in a while. It was hard on everyone. But they had to start moving. Everyone managed to find a little place in building homes or newspark nurseries, or processing fuel for 29 hours straight, etc., that helped them not break down when they remembered he was gone.
Smokescreen felt so guilty when he realized that he'd actually forgotten he was gone. He felt guilty that he was happy even though Optimus was dead. Then he would start thinking about Ratchet alone on Earth and the way Wheeljack holds his cube every morning and kinda looks up and out there like he's trying to say something. That would spiral into knowing their human friends would be long dead by the time Cybertron was back to being a thriving planet.
And down the drain he'd go, following the white rabbit.
He'd been doing so well. He was doing well. He was happy. Where did this come from?
Bumblebee squeezed him without a word, though his energy field seemed to have a lot to say. Mostly it said, I understand.
Smokescreen relaxed so much he almost shock-cried. Bee was so amazing. Bee was so amazing, they were home, they had OIL BATHS, and again Bee was so amazing and Smokescreen felt stupid but he was happy and that was okay, damn it.
He went right ahead and kissed Bumblebee, who bwooped with the intent to sabotage.
And Smokey fell for it because he always did, and laughed.
"C'mere," Bee suddenly vocalized low. His optics were doing the thing—THE THING, HE WANTS TO DO IT.
Spark racing, he felt like someone had kneed him in the gut and before he could pull away from Bee hungrily coming in for a proper kiss—he purged—
Right there in his boyfriend's mouth.
It was like it happened in slow motion.
When time returned to normal, Smokescreen whipped his helm away and spluttered the rest of it out on himself.
"SMOKES—" Bumblebee's entire body went rigid and sharp and all he could do was stare and sort of grasp the air.
"I'm so—" His glossa felt like a dead whale and Smokescreen turned to purge again. "Frag, Bee, sorry! Holy slag."
They were covered in half-digested fuel.
When Wheeljack barged in looking for something to smoke, they ended up spending half an hour trying to convince him that this WASN'T what "the kids are doing these days" and that it had happened on accident. They weren't some purge-freaks!
The Wrecker was practically in tears by the end of it, and finally left them alone.
They cleaned each other up with drooping doorwings.
"At least I feel better. We could frag in the washracks?"
Bee tried to ignore that little voice that said you dirty frag.