#helsgcddess

[helsgcddess]

— VEILED SPARKS; ii

READ ON AO3 || PINTEREST BOARD (in the works)

summary: "You should be more careful about what you draw, Toria." In which an artist with a knack for seeing things she shouldn't meets a suspiciously perfect stranger with glowing blue eyes and a possessive yellow Camaro. Set during ROTF.

pairing: bumblebee/original character

word count: 2.6k

a/n— so i may or may not be obsessed with writing these two?? like i literally can't stop and honestly? you're all gonna have to deal with it bc i love them too much. this is gonna be my only active fic rn (or until my brain goes "NEW IDEA TIME" at 3am lmao) anyway! chapter 2 picks up right after our girl's weird car ride with brooks, featuring: toria trying (and failing) to have One Normal Shift at the café, an overprotective italian mom, and a certain yellow camaro being The Least Subtle Ever (chapter 3 is already in the works but shhh don't tell anyone)

warnings — anxiety/mental health stuff, vague mission city references

Mom was nearly frantic when I ran into the back door of the café. She was pacing, muttering under her breath in rapid-fire Italian—never a good sign. She nearly dropped her espresso—like that would make her stress levels better—when she saw me.

"Vittoria Marie, where the hell have you been?" She gripped my shoulders with force, her dark eyes scanning my face like she was checking for injuries. I suddenly understood why she was so scared. After Mission City, after Dad, any unexplained absence sent her into overdrive. "You're nearly three hours late! No calls, no texts! Do you even want to—" She grabbed her espresso like an addict would a cigarette, hands trembling.

I took the dainty cup from her shaking hands and downed the rest of the drink in one gulp. Mom did not need anymore caffeine at 7:45 pm.

I, however, had the closing shift. I needed the caffeine. "Dad's car shit out on me. On the side of the road." I explained as I tied up my hair, trying to ignore how the familiar scents of coffee and fresh-baked cannoli made my stomach growl. "Uh, I got a ride back to the pier, walked home and came straight here. Car's still on the side of the bend." I made sure not to make eye contact as I told her, because explaining the whole 'mysterious guy in a yellow Camaro' thing would definitely not help her anxiety levels.

"The Chevelle?" Mom's hands fluttered anxiously to her throat, where Dad's wedding ring hung on a delicate chain. "Marco's Chevelle? Vittoria, that car is—"

"—all we have left of him?" I finished, maybe a bit sharper than necessary as I grabbed my apron from its hook. "Yeah, Mom, I know. Trust me, I know."

Her face did that thing it always did when I mentioned Dad—like she was trying to hold back tears and a lecture at the same time. "We should have sold it," she muttered, switching to Italian like she always did when she was upset. "That car, it was involved in everything at that base. All those classified projects he was working on before—"

"Mom." I cut her off, tying my apron with more force than necessary. "It's just the alternator. I'll get it fixed."

"With what money?" She threw her hands up. "The café barely covers the bills, and you're still paying off that art school debt, and—"

"I said I'll handle it." I grabbed a fresh pot of coffee, needing something to do with my hands before I started sketching anxiety spirals in my notebook again. "Besides, you know what Dad always said about that car."

"Cars have souls," we said in unison—her voice tired, mine almost defensive.

Mom's shoulders slumped. "Just like your father," she sighed, but there was a fondness under the exasperation. "Always seeing magic in machines." She paused, her expression shifting to something more serious. "But Toria, after everything that happened in Mission City... maybe some machines should stay mysterious."

I thought about Brooks and his too-perfect movements, about the way his Camaro had hummed like it was alive. "Yeah," I said, turning toward the front of the café. "Maybe they should."

Mom glanced back at me like she was going to ask what I meant, but shook her head instead, disappearing onto the floor.

"Toria! Table seven needs their check!" Rosa, our head waitress, called out as I emerged from the kitchen. She took one look at my face and raised an eyebrow. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Something like that," I muttered, grabbing my order pad. The Friday night crowd was in full swing, the café filled with the usual mix of locals and tourists. Every table was occupied, the air thick with the scent of garlic, espresso, and fresh bread.

I moved through my section on autopilot, refilling cups and taking orders while my mind kept drifting back to impossible blue eyes and engines that purred like they were talking. My sketchbook burned a hole in my apron pocket, full of drawings I couldn't explain.

"Honey, you okay?" Mrs. Castellano, one of our regulars, caught my arm as I passed. "You're a million miles away tonight."

"I'm fine," I said, automatically. "Just car trouble." Which wasn't technically a lie.

"Oh no, not Marco's car?" She clicked her tongue sympathetically. "That beautiful Chevelle? You know, my Anthony might be able to take a look at it. He's always saying how they don't make them like that anymore..."

I nodded along, only half-listening as she detailed her son's mechanical expertise. My eyes kept drifting to the window, scanning for a flash of yellow among the passing cars. Which was ridiculous. It's not like he was going to just show up at the café, order a cappuccino, and casually explain why he moved like a special effect come to life.

"Toria!" Rosa's voice snapped me back to reality. "Order up for table twelve!"

Right. Work. Normal, human work in our normal, human café where nothing weird ever happened except my mom's experimental fusion desserts.

I balanced two plates of fettuccine and made my way across the café, nearly dropping them when I caught a flash of yellow through the front window. But it was just a taxi, because obviously it was just a taxi. Get it together, Toria.

"You sure you're okay, tesoro?" Mom asked as I passed the register. "You look... jumpy."

"I'm fine," I said for what felt like the hundredth time. "Just worried about the car." And the impossibly perfect stranger who might know something about Dad's classified work. And the way his car had felt alive. And—

The bell above the door chimed, and I nearly got whiplash turning to look. Just Mr. Romano coming in for his usual evening cannoli. Definitely not a suspiciously attractive blonde with government secrets and weird eyes.

"That's it," Rosa declared, appearing at my elbow with her scary-accurate timing. "Go take your break. You're making me nervous just watching you."

I started to protest, but Mom joined in. "Yes, yes, take fifteen minutes. Get some air." She pressed a fresh espresso into my hands. "But stay where I can see you!"

I rolled my eyes but took the coffee and headed for our little outdoor seating area. The night air was cool against my skin, carrying the salt-tang of the bay mixed with the endless parade of tourist food trucks along the pier.

Settling into one of our wrought iron chairs, I pulled out my sketchbook. The margins were filled with him—the sharp line of his jaw, the too-perfect sweep of his hair, the mechanical precision of his movements. But something was off about the drawings, like my pencil was trying to capture a form that kept shifting. None of the doodles were finished—the pages were the same thing—one page full of his jaw, another of his hair, and his eyes wherever I could fit them.

The café's patio lights cast warm pools of gold across my sketchbook, turning my rough sketches of Brooks into something almost ethereal. I was trying to get his eyes right—they never looked quite human enough on paper—when a flash of yellow caught my attention.

My head snapped up so fast I almost spilled my espresso. A beat-up yellow Volkswagen puttered past the café, its engine coughing in a way that would've made Dad wince. I slumped back in my chair, torn between relief and... something else. Disappointment? That was definitely something to unpack later.

"Real smooth, Toria," I muttered to myself, adding more shadow to Brooks' impossibly perfect jawline. "Nothing says 'totally fine' like jumping every time you see a yellow car."

A group of tourists walked past, debating loudly about which pier had the best sourdough. The fog was rolling in from the bay, thick enough to blur the streetlights into hazy halos. Perfect mood lighting for sketching mysterious maybe-government-agents and their suspicious cars.

I glanced at my phone. Still no service, which meant I couldn't even Google "weird military guys with glowing eyes" or "what to do when your dead dad's car attracts government attention." Not that I was planning to. Much.

"Five minutes!" Mom called from the doorway, because apparently I still needed a timeline on my breaks at twenty years old.

I took one last sip of espresso, trying to focus on normal things. Like how I was going to afford that alternator. Or why my sketches of Brooks looked more like technical diagrams than portraits. Or why every passing engine sound made me think of—

"No," I told my sketchbook firmly. "We're not doing this. We're going to go back inside, serve pasta to tourists, and not think about weird guys in yellow Camaros."

I shoved my sketchbook back in my apron pocket and headed inside, nearly colliding with Rosa as she balanced a tray of tiramisu.

"There you are!" She steadied the desserts with practiced ease. "Your regulars are here—the college kids at table nine. They're asking for you specifically."

Sure enough, the corner table was occupied by the usual Friday night study group: three exhausted-looking art students who'd discovered our café's student discount and unlimited coffee refills last semester. I grabbed the coffee pot and made my way over.

"Let me guess," I said, taking in their scattered textbooks and desperate expressions. "Finals week?"

"Worse," Mia groaned, holding out her empty cup. "Portfolio reviews. Save us with your caffeine and carbs."

I started refilling cups, trying to focus on their familiar chatter about professors and projects. Normal college stuff. The kind of stuff I should be dealing with if I hadn't dropped out after... everything.

"Hey, what happened to your car?" Jake asked, dunking a biscotti in his fresh coffee. "Noticed it wasn't in your usual spot when we walked past."

"Alternator issues," I said, which sounded better than 'possibly attracting government attention according to a suspiciously perfect stranger.' "It's, uh, getting fixed."

"My cousin's a mechanic," he offered. "I could give you his number—"

The café's lights flickered, just for a second. Outside, an engine rumbled, deeper than normal, almost—

I wasn’t finishing that thought.

"I should check on my other tables," I said quickly, already backing away. "You guys good here?"

I didn't wait for an answer, diving back into the dinner rush with maybe a little too much enthusiasm. The next two hours were a blur of pasta orders, coffee refills, and definitely not looking out the window every time I heard an engine.

The last customers finally cleared out around eleven, the bell chiming weakly as the tipsy tourists stumbled into the fog. I flipped the sign to 'CLOSED' with maybe a bit too much enthusiasm.

"Don't forget to—" Mom started.

"Double-check the back door's locked, run the last load of dishes, and count the register," I finished, already grabbing the cleaning spray. "I know, Mom. Same as every night."

She hesitated by the door, her hand going to Dad's ring again. "I can stay and help."

"Mom." I gave her my best attempt at a reassuring smile. "Go home. Take a bath. Stop stress-baking cannoli at midnight. I've got this."

After another five minutes of motherly hovering and three more reminders to text her when I was done, she finally left. The café felt different after hours—quieter, but not in a bad way. Just me, the hum of the refrigerators, and the lingering scent of garlic and coffee.

I went through the closing checklist on autopilot: wiping tables, sweeping floors, counting the register while trying not to think about alternator costs. The dishes clanked in the industrial washer as I checked the coffee machines were off and the ovens were empty of Mom's stress-baking experiments.

The fog pressed against the windows, turning the streetlights into blurry halos. Perfect atmospheric lighting for sketching mysterious strangers, if I wasn't elbow-deep in sanitizer solution.

"Just one more sweep," I muttered to myself, dropping the last clean dish into the rack with a clank. "One more sweep and then you can go home and have an existential crisis about glowing eyes and impossibly alive cars in the comfort of your own room."

I grabbed the broom, humming off-key to the classic rock playlist Dad had made for closing duties. The same one that used to play in the garage while he worked on the Chevelle. The same Chevelle that was currently sitting abandoned on a dark road, probably attracting all kinds of attention I really didn't want to think about.

The front windows rattled slightly—just the fog rolling in from the bay, definitely not an engine idling somewhere nearby. I definitely didn't look up expecting to see yellow paint gleaming under the streetlights.

I finished the floors, counted the register one last time (old habits die hard when your mom texts to remind you), and grabbed my bag. The back door locked with its usual stubborn jangle of keys.

As I rounded the corner of the building, a flash of movement caught my eye. Something yellow disappeared into the fog at the end of the street, too quick to be sure. But the lingering rumble of an engine—not quite normal, not quite mechanical—echoed off the old brick buildings.

"Nope," I announced to the empty street, clutching my keys like they'd protect me from government secrets and strange men in muscle cars. "Not dealing with this right now."

But I still found myself sketching engine sounds on my walk home, trying to capture that impossible purr in graphite.

The fog had turned the familiar streets of North Beach into something out of a noir film—all hazy lamplight and shadowy corners. Good thing I had my scuffed Converse and anxiety-induced speed walking to protect me.

Every few steps, I could have sworn I heard an engine—that engine—rumbling just out of sight. But every time I turned to look, there was just more fog and the distant sound of tourists by the pier.

"This is what happens when you spend too much time talking to cars," I muttered, fishing my sketchbook out as I walked. Even in the dim light, Brooks' impossibly perfect features stared up from the page. I'd drawn him too many times for someone I'd just met, but something about him begged to be captured. Like if I could just get the lines right, I'd understand what he was.

A yellow glint caught in my peripheral vision, there and gone so fast I might have imagined it. The sound of an engine purred through the fog, somehow managing to sound protective.

"Okay, that's it." I stopped under a streetlight, addressing the seemingly empty street. "If you're following me, that's super creepy. If I'm imagining you following me, that's probably a sign I need more therapy. Either way, not cool."

The fog swallowed my words, but for a moment—just a moment—I could have sworn I heard what sounded like an amused rev of an engine.

"Great," I sighed, picking up my pace again. "Now I'm having conversations with invisible cars. Mom's totally going to love this new development."

The rest of the walk passed in a blur of fog and maybe-imagined engine sounds. By the time I reached my apartment, I'd filled three new pages with sketches—mostly of impossibly blue eyes and the way light seemed to bend wrong around Brooks' edges.

I kicked off my shoes, dumped my bag, and collapsed onto my bed, surrounded by the organized chaos of half-finished paintings and sketches of Dad's car. The ceiling fan spun lazily above me, casting weird shadows that absolutely did not remind me of yellow Camaros disappearing into fog.

My phone buzzed. Probably Mom's nightly "are you alive" check-in.

But the number was unknown, and the message made my heart skip:

Unknown: Your car's been moved somewhere safe. Alternator's fixed.

Unknown: You should be more careful about what you draw, Toria.

I stared at my sketchbook, still open to detailed drawings of a man who moved like machinery and eyes that glowed like something from Mission City.

"Well," I said to my empty room, "shit."

[wiintersoldierrps]

Hey guys !! Just letting you know that I’ll be starting a team of the B.A.U. on my writing blog, @helsgcddess !! I’ll be making moodboards for all the characters and a little backstory on everyone as well.