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He had been fighting for so long, he'd never realized how difficult it was to stop.
He kept looking for Decepticons. They hadn't all been destroyed, after all. Starscream had gotten away, and who knows how many others there might have been, too far away to answer Megatron's call; or how many might have arrived from space, far from the watchful eyes of the Autobots? In this planet teeming with the biological humans and their servitor machines, they could disguise themselves as anything. Any helicopter overhead, any vehicle he passed on the street--any kitchen appliance ... wait.
Ok, that was just stupid.
He snorted softly to himself. He was starting to sound like Ironhide. A Decepticon toaster? He didn't think so. Decepticons were an arrogant bunch--by and large they took forms that were useful, menacing, powerful. Forms that stroked their vanity as the self-proclaimed lords of Cybertron and any other planet unfortunate to attract their attention. Like Earth.
Although Frenzy ... well, there was an exception to everything.
The problem, he decided, was that while he didn't regret staying on Earth with Sam, these days he just had too much time to *think*. Everything seemed too quiet, too peaceful ... he kept waiting for the other shoe (it was an odd human expression, but it made sense of a sort) to drop. Not to mention it seemed absurd to him that a valiant creature like Sam Witwicky, who had managed to *kill* Megatron--a concept he still found more than a little boggling, though he certainly had never doubted the little human's courage--anyway, a creature as exceptional as Sam still had to go to this 'school' for fully one-third of each Earth day. But that was the way humans did things. He could go speak with Optimus about his worries, but he knew the Autobot leader would counsel him to patience. Ironhide would simply launch into 'back in MY day' story/lecture number 62,548,291 (Bumblebee had been counting), Ratchet would care more about his repaired legs than any boredom or incipient paranoia, and Jazz--
He stopped short in silent grief, remembering. Jazz was dead.
Jazz wasn't the first friend he'd had die because of the Decepticons. He probably wouldn't be the last. But still--it was hard to remember, sometimes, that Jazz wasn't just off on some other mission, some other planet. That he'd died, ripped in two by Megatron, and there'd been nothing any of them had been able to do to help him. Bumblebee hadn't even known until ... afterwards. After they'd won.
At least for now.
Jazz would have called him a worrywart, told Bumblebee he was being paranoid, told him to 'get the lead out' and leave some rubber on the road to relieve his worries. Bumblebee almost wished he could take that advice. Instead he sat by the curb, silently waiting for Sam to get out of school.
Bumblebee let out a soft sigh, not caring about what any passing humans might think of the uncarlike noise coming from the sleek yellow Camaro.
He missed Jazz.
And he couldn't stop looking for Decepticons.