The drive to the DMV had been very calm, all things considered. Bumblebee hadn’t said much on the ride over. Sam went in and plucked out a ticket from the machine, shoving it in his pocket and sitting in a creaky plastic chair. The air coming from the AC unit was sickly and dry; he could feel it in the back of his throat.
He sat slouched there, typing up and deleting a dozen or more messages to Bee, each one asking about Cybertronian thoughts around being given something very visible to attach to one’s frame. As he lost his nerve, the message danced further and further from the point. He gave up, feeling like a coward, and sent Bee a meme instead.
The Feds had insisted on all certifications being as legal as possible on Bumblebee, even going so far as to ask for an emissions test. That had apparently come to a screeching halt in the face of some Cybertronian taboo, so Sam was a little worried about how the licence plate would be taken. It hadn’t helped that when he’d asked Ratchet for some licence plate screws before they’d gone, Ratchet had given him a look that had brokered no confidence. As Sam had turned to leave, he’d said, “you sure you know what you’re doing with these?”
Sam honestly had no idea at this point, and he didn’t have the nerve to ask. College hadn’t prepared him for this. He just hoped that asking for forgiveness, not permission, was a concept also had by alien robots, because that was just how it was going to go. The screws tinked in his pocket when he shifted in the waiting area chair, machined in some alien alloy to match the Camero’s frame. Ratchet had also provided the proper screwdriver with some serious threats were he not to return it, and that sat heavy in his sweaty palm. He slipped it into another pocket. It must’ve been one the medic had made for Mikaela.
Even if he was currently speeding headlong into some massive alien faux-pas, he hoped that Bumblebee might at least enjoy the licence plate as an Earth souvenir if he didn’t feel comfortable attaching it to his frame. Perhaps he’d feel more comfortable wearing it in a baggie, like test cars on a sale lot. Maybe he’d like them on chains like a dog tag. Maybe he should’ve asked someone. He chewed his thumbnail and tasted machine grease. It was too late, he was already sitting in the DMV fidgeting with with a sweaty paper ticket in his pocket.
Eventually he was called up by a tired middle aged lady who eyed the car specifications, then his dusty crumpled outfit. and received the plate, sticker, and a few documents he wasn’t going to read.
He slipped out from the stale air-conditioned government building to the even staler heat of the parking lot, and into the perfect temperature and humidity that Bee always had always perfectly managed.
Bee made a questioning buzz at him as he strapped himself in and shoved the handful of legal documents into the Camero’s glovelocker, and he could only manage a mumble of “we’ll deal with it when we get back to base.” Bee pulled out from the lot in assent.
The Nevada desert blew past in increments of abandoned roadside attractions, dusty decrepit gas stations, and Bee’s awful taste in music. Rebecca Black and Nirvana would’ve been welcome breaks from the gaff his Cybertronian friend had managed to pull form the depths of whatever music library he’d torrented. Some indie unknown sang to him as they drove: “I’ll carry you on my back. My bones are made of steel, these bones you cannot crack.” Sam would’ve rathered his metal friend play the nightcore Parry Gripp remixes Miles had subjected him to.
Overall, anything would’ve been better than the weight of the licence plate lain on his lap, and his hands folded tight atop it. The awful music just tugged at Sam’s already frayed nerves. The press of the sticky leather of Bee’s seats into the crook of his knee felt sordid.
They were more than halfway back from the DMV to the base when Bee pulled off the highway onto a sideroad, and a furtive glance to the rearview mirror confirmed they weren’t losing a tail. Sam’s mind ran wild and then blanked. He sat stock-still, all sticky nervousness in his seat. The pleasing gentle rumble of Bee’s engine grew stronger as they peeled away from their own dustcloud towards a remote and empty turnaround.
The engine noise eased into the subsonic as Bee stopped. The seatbelt retracted and the door swung open, and a forceful billow of arid air filled the Camero’s interior. Sam was tenderly exited, very aware of every single point of contact between him and the geometry of his friend’s frame.
The sun was at an angle implying that he should be eating supper by now, but he couldn’t feel a bit of hunger in his body over the nervousness.
Now all he had to do was offer his help. Bee had said that he had wanted Sam specifically to do this, even though Ratchet had offered. He hadn’t said anything else at all. It was only a licence plate. Government issued. Bland. Not even a vanity plate, or one of the special fancy ones with the illustrations so as not to attract any attention. Everything was kind of nerve wracking with an alien, even more so than it had been with that one transfer student from school who had looked scandalised when they’d gave him a thumbs up. A smile there, at least, was nigh universal.
“Bee, you can totally just scan it and add it to your alternate mode, I have the papers here to keep in the glove locker. That’s all we need as long as it looks legit, I promise—“
Bee’s fans clicked on. And wait, wasn’t that a sign of—
Nope he was not thinking of that right now, no sir.
Before he could even begin the struggle of purging that train of thought, a text came through on his phone with Bee’s ringtone.
"You should know, Sam, that I want this very much.
"On my planet, a gift to be permanently attached to another’s frame is a sign of devotion in love, whether that be romantic, platonic, or other forms that you may not have come into contact with before. And while any facet of love is one I would adore experiencing with you, I feeling most strongly drawn to the first."
With the words out in the open, Sam felt lightheaded and replete with relief.
His friend seemed eager as he turned around, allowing him access to his trunk. He seemed to shimmy on his axles as he heard the noise of the plastic film peeling away from the stamped aluminum, and the gentle clank from Sam setting the screws into the plate made his exhaust pour out heat. The chrome of his bumper was far warmer to the touch than it ever had been, even with the scorching Nevada sun, and Sam set his phone down on the dusty ground next to him as he knelt so he could see the incoming messages.
He installed the plate one screw at a time. Bee froze as he turned the first one mostly into place.
“Maybe,” Sam said as he started tightening the second screw, “tomorrow we should go find you a frame. Something a little more personal.”
The phone on the ground flashed as he swapped back to the first screw. “What’s that?”
Sam took his sweet time peeling the backing off the sticker as he replied. “It’s like a frame for your licence plate. They can get fancy, personal. Bling and chains, y’know?”
Bee rumbled and shifted again as he sent his reply. “I would like that very much, Sam.”
“If you don’t find one you like, we can have one made. With the hush money I’m getting from the government, we can afford whatever kind of commission you want. Maybe Mikaela would weld you one if we asked nicely.”
“Wish I would’ve known you’d wanted this so badly,” Sam said, “I could’ve gotten you something cooler as a first gift than a bog-standard government licence plate.”
A text came in reply: “I didn’t know how to broach the subject with you.”
“Same with me, buddy.”
Some thorny scrub bit into his knee as he shifted. Grit stuck to his sweat, and he felt as droplets of it trickled down beneath his shirt from his neck.
“Hey, Bee,” Sam continued as he pressed the sticker into its spot, “can you feel this?” He smoothed it out with the back of his hand, pressing in deliberate concentric circles.
“Nerves can’t grow there as it isn’t integrated into my protoform. However, I imagine the screws in my bumper feel to me very much like a new piercing feels to you.”
Sam remembered the burn of the piercings he’d let grow over in his ears. The new foreign presence in his skin had been heavy and tender. He turned the screws that last little bit, perhaps just a bit too tight, then pressed into the heads with the pads of his thumbs, enjoying the shudder of his car as he did so.
Sam dusted off his hands and knees as he got up from the ground with dents of pebbles pressed into his skin.
“Well,” said Sam, “at least I didn’t chicken out and get my dad to come down here and install your plate, that would’ve been godawful.”