First attempt at tackling Seddie. Hopefully I didn't mangle them too badly. There will be a few more chapters to this. No more than five though, I'm thinking.
The wind nips at Freddie's skin a little bit too insistently to call the night perfect, but when has anything Sam's dragged him into ever been ideal? He shoves his hands into his pockets and pulls his jacket close. The shadows are long and menacing – the kind his mother has spent a lifetime warning him about. Somewhere back home in Seattle, he's sure her neck is prickling with prospect teeters between vaguely terrifying and fairly amusing. A little bit like spending time with Sam past a dimly lit diner that he fully expects to revisit before the night is out, Freddie contemplates the few vaguely defined similarities and the many contradictions between Sam and his mom. He's heard about guys ending up with carbon copies of their parents. Read about it as well. He's woken up in a cold sweat at the prospect of a wife like his mom as well. A lifetime of 'colouring between the lines' as Sam has sometimes dubbed his upbringing; Freddie doesn't think he could take it.
Maybe that's why he's allowed Sam to talk him into attending the very exclusive, very underground and very illegal MMA fight tonight.
Sam's love affair with MMA – violence in general, actually – hadn't been a passing fling during high school. If anything, the obsession is thriving stronger than ever now that they're in College. Grudgingly, Freddie's found himself considerably more enthralled in the blood sport recently. Mostly because of Sam's enthusiasm, but also a little bit because Shelby Marx has finally made it off the tiny regional shows. Her face has been all over the promotional material for the glitzy Las Vegas fights that Sam is constantly invading his apartment to watch on cable.
Freddie's been swimming around in his thoughts for longer than he'd thought. Looking up from the pavement, Sam's building is veering into green and from the one time he's been inside, much cleaner than he'd expected, the place is hard to miss. A little bit sadly, Freddie acknowledges that it's the kind of place Carly would have picked if she hadn't been swept away by Europe's still remembers the day Sam came back from Hollywood, all bright eyed and bereft of her usual snarl. She'd been so excited about living with her best friend.
That nights video chat with Carly – the one where their best friend had tearfully informed them she probably wouldn't be coming home – had almost killed Sam. He remembers the hollow look on her face, the one that wasn't happy or sad or angry or bitter, but somehow all of them at the same time.
She'd slept on the Benson couch for a solid week after that, watching Freddie like a hawk and ignoring his mother. He's still mostly sure that enduring a week of being a Benson had been Sam's way of ensuring he didn't flee for Europe to join Carly.
Trudging up the steps, Freddie shakes his head. It's so like Sam to skirt around expressing her feelings verbally. He can count the amount of times she's been real with him on his and pointedly avoiding ringing the doorbell that Sam absolutely detests, Freddie raps his knuckles against the door. Nonchalantly, he rocks back on his heels and waits for her to come blowing through the door with all the grace of a tornado.
Several minutes pass without a suggestion of movement, but then the door is flying open. Predictably enough Sam is peering back at him, hair tumbling wildly over her shoulders. Briefly – maybe before she's registered who he is – Sam's eyebrows are drawn down in irritation at having to answer the door. After a beat, her features soften slightly and she nods in greeting. "Benson." She says simply enough.
"Ready for some mindless violence?" Freddie asks, grinning a little bit.
"When am I not, Fredwina?" The left side of Sam's mouth lifts up, dragging a smirk across her lips. Without preamble, she lunges forward, brushing past Freddie and slamming the door all at instinct is to protest, but then Sam is grabbing the cuff of his jacket and yanking him toward the footpath.
There's a hot dog cart parked three houses down from where Sam lives. As it draws closer, Sam tugs at Freddie's 's been the primary target of her mooching for the last six months – a lot longer if one doesn't include Spencer and Carly. As such, Freddie's already reaching for his wallet by the time they're in front of the hot dog vendor and the man's expectant grin. Sam orders three chilli dogs and Freddie mindlessly drags a twenty from his wallet. Between the man's grin and his experiences with Sam, Freddie is sure this particular vendor's location isn't a coincidence. He probably followed Sam home after a particularly profitable week. She's probably funding the guy's dream vacation or something.
"Benson." Sam's voice cuts through the air, pulling Freddie from his thoughts. Turning to her, he realises that she's jabbing a chilli dog in his direction. A grin overcomes Freddie's face as he accepts the admittedly delicious smelling food.
Without warning, Sam sets off again and Freddie jogs to fall in line with her. Taking a bite from his chilli dog, Freddie's eyes blow wide open and then make a quick shift to Sam.
"There aren't any onions in this!" He exclaims loudly.
Sam looks over at him sharply, blue eyes steely and grey. "Nobody likes onions, Frederella. Don't go getting your panties in a bunch. You're not special or anything." Sam informs him, taking a bite from her onion riddled chilli dog.
Freddie fights the urge to mention this to her, but Sam is a strange creature. He knows better than to question her motivations. Turning his thoughts to something else, Freddie wonders when exactly Sam had made the change to his order. It must have been while he was zoned out. Taking another bite and chewing thoughtfully, Freddie wonders if things had been like this between Carly and Sam. He wonders if every token gesture of kindness to pass between them had been shrouded in denials from Sam. They continue to walk and Freddie continues to wonder. He doesn't really have a problem with the way things are; it's more of an idle curiosity than anything.
The hot dog cart is a spec in the distance by the time Freddie has finished eating. Sam's kicking at whatever debris are scattered in front of her, having demolished her chilli dogs by the time Freddie was halfway with his one. Looking over at her, he can't decide if the look on Sam's face is contemplative or just bored. He's known her for years and mastered three fictional languages in that time, but Sam, despite being his she's a still something of a mystery.
"Geez, it's about time Fredward." Sam notes, meeting his gaze. Almost immediately, Freddie feels his cheeks heat up. Her gaze, piercing and so, so blue always puts him on edge.
"Hey, you try eating without chewing each mouthful twelve times around my mom." He complains more out of habit than any real sense of outrage. "Old habits are hard to break."
Freddie swears he hears something like 'don't I know it' pass through Sam's lips. He's about to ask what she means when an entirely different and much louder sentence emanates from her lips. "Hey look, the club is up ahead!" Sam blurts out, probably looking for an escape as well.
It's a diversion that Freddie is grateful for. The serious side of Sam, sometimes quiet, occasionally neurotic and always a little bit insecure, scares him more than anything. For all of his posturing about wanting her to be real with him, Freddie just feels relieved when Sam takes hold of his sleeve and charges forward.
It's so much easier to be a coward and watch sports with her than it is deal with problems and emotions and everything in between.
If you enjoyed it or have any ideas for the next chapter, drop me a review :)