author's note:
edited and revised on an impulse. just 'cause. still just some post iomg, seddie fluff. what a sweet cliche.
disclaimer : disclaimed.
Jimmy Dean.
Hormel.
Oscar Meyer.
Store brand.
These are her options. She thinks the grocery store only having four brands of bacon is pathetic, a disgrace to the fine sellers of pork products. She makes a mental note to address the manager about this blatantly obvious problem in their store. Action must be taken against this atrocity. Violence if needed. Just not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.
Sighing, she grabs two of every kind (except for the store's brand because it has a weird shit aftertaste and doesn't microwave well) and tosses them in her shopping cart. They lie on top of a pack of crème-filled cookies, two canisters of cheese whiz, a pre-cooked chicken, and a pie. She looks back at the stockpiled bacon in the open refrigerator, contemplating.
If there's something you need to know about her right now it's that she doesn't like to deal with emotions. Sure, happiness, condescension, irritation, contentment. But feelings like rage, resentment, sadness, overwhelm her to a frightening degree. They taunt her, threatening to darken or change the world she tries to keep so bright.
So she hides them, as best she can anyways. Throughout the years, while clashing with her mother, or twin she figured out a way to cope, to conceal whatever deep emotion was plaguing her that day.
Food.
A Fat Cake or two when Pam and her get into a fight. Fried Chicken when she gets kicked out for the night. It genuinely helps.
She doesn't consider it binging or some other grotesque eating disorder. Just a way to comfort herself out of a negative state of mind.
She's never been good at math, but there's always one equation she's known to be true.
Food is worth more than feelings.
And if eating doesn't help (though it has about a ninety percent success rate) vandalization, breaking and entering, or theft are always options. A little adrenaline rush never hurt anyone.
Right now she's afraid her unnerving emotions are stretching into that tenth percentile. Because she's dealing with a new sensation she's trying to cover up, affection.
"Aw, screw it. I'm not the one paying anyways," She announces to herself. Her mom's debit card is the one that will be distributing the cash.
She reaches out for a pack of the generic meat, and throws it in with its brethren.
Leaning forward she makes her way to the checkout, taking her time to see if any other foods are begging to be bought. Nothing jumps out, she has her necessities.
As she passes a mirrored cooler case she allows herself to gaze at her reflection for a moment. Her posture gives her the look of a hunchback, with her striped shirt hanging loosely off her body. Her corkscrew curls dip down into the cart, the metal chain necklace she wears intertwines with the somehow open child seat. Her expression is a strange mix of dejection and anger, reminding her why she's here in the first place. She doesn't want to look any longer.
She directs her cart into the ten items or less lane. The cashier is a kid a couple years her senior. Nineteen, twenty.
She wishes Derek was working tonight. He's pretty chill for a middle-aged man. He'd been her cashier after her last blowout with Pam, for almost every blowout with Pam. He got that she didn't want his opinion on why she was there so late, throwing junk food in her cart with such force it looked as if she was inventing a new marital art. But this kid, he's sure to give her lip.
"Excuse me, miss? This lane is fo-"
"Excuse me, sir? There's no other goddamn customers waiting to check out so what does it matter to you?" She motions dramatically to the nearly deserted area around them.
She doesn't wait for his reply and begins pilling her food onto the counter irately. He accepts her patronage hesitantly.
"That's a lot of bacon…for one girl I mean."
She stares at him blankly for a moment then snorts, "That's a lot of ugly…for one face I mean." Sarcasm is her specialty in situations like this.
He frowns, but continues to check her items. She taps her fingers impatiently.
"Your total is 45.62. Method of payment?"
She yanks the debit card from her back pocket, flashes it to him and then swipes it through the machine. Aw, no. The pin. What was it? 85- Something. Ahhh. She blindly types 8501, praying its right. By some miracle it goes in. She would have to thank whatever higher power helped her pull that one off.
"Thank you. Er, have a nice day." He forces out the words in common courtesy, handing her two plastic bags. One is entirely filled with bacon.
"Sure... Mama's out!" She takes her bags forcefully from his sweaty hands, and gives the kid a salute.
Of course Pam left the door open. She always does when she has a date with Keith.
She hates this Keith. His beer belly makes him look pregnant; last time he was over she suggested naming his unborn child Budweiser or perhaps Corona, for a girl. Her mother had almost slapped her after that little remark.
All her mother's boyfriends are Keith to her. She'd stopped caring about names when she was eleven. From there on out, Pam's man candy had inherited the name of last boyfriend that had been formally introduced to her. A string of Keiths through the years, one of the few constants in her life.
She steps out of the threshold of the doorway, flinging the bags on the dirty kitchen counter. She flips on a few lights then proceeds to lock herself in.
Looking at the doorknob her mind reels back just a few hours, to the lock-in. Carly. Brad. Him. The school. The courtyard. His speech. The kiss.
Oh god, the kiss. It changed everything in eleven little seconds (not that she was counting.) Or if it hadn't at the time her bolting out of there sure as hell had. For the first time she could remember, she played the coward and ran a few seconds after his utterance of 'it's cool', giving a quick 'I gotta go' as an explanation. She'd stood up to thugs, bullies, anyone that had ever stood in her way, but his conflicted expression had scared her more then all of those annoyances combined.
The dork that still couldn't even hold his own in arm-wrestling possessed that much power over her.
He called her name two times. Once softly and the second time more strained, distressed almost. She didn't respond. If he'd cared he would of come after her. Something inside her had wanted him to catch up then turn her around and tell her what she wanted to hear, still wants to hear.
And what exactly does she want to hear?
Something reassuring, as vague as it sounds.
That he loves her?
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
She can't be sure.
She physically shakes her head of these thoughts. She won't let herself replay the scene again. Why do something so masochistic?
Does she deserve this nauseous uncertainty for putting herself out there? She took off her bad-ass motif to reveal sheer venerability. It was something she'd only done once, maybe twice in her life before. Is she jumping to conclusions by assuming since he didn't come after her, he doesn't return her doomed affections?
Shit, even if he didn't want to stalk her down he could've called by now. It isn't like he doesn't have her number on speed dial. All he has to do in punch in an 8.
She's confused and angry and miserable and all she wants to do is take back everything that happened that night. And eat copious amounts of bacon.
Fuck him. She's hungry.
Jimmy Dean microwaves the fastest so she starts there.
Three minutes on high, in the mean time she opens the package of cookies and begins licking the frosting out of them.
She's gone through about a dozen by the time the bacon's done. Her mind's still trying to drift away from him, to no avail.
She trudges to the microwave and empties its contents onto a paper plate. The grease is still bubbling, and she can almost hear it still sizzle slightly.
She's working on getting the second batch cooking when there's a knock on the door.
She assumes its Pam; although it's light for her knock, her mother's more of the frantic-got-to-get-in-my-goddamn-house kind of knocker.
"I'm coming, I'm coming. Keith wasn't his usual charming self, eh? Usually you end up at his place for the night, unless he finally has birthed his child and you're here to tell me the good news."
She doesn't bother looking through the peephole and proceeds to undo the latch. She's pleasantly surprised that Pam hasn't thought of a comeback yet, probably too drunk.
Opening the door, she's confronted not with her mother, no, no, no. Decidedly not her mother. Not the right gender for one. Wrong age too, this person's young. Hair and eye color are all messed up too, a brunette with matching eyes is gazing intently down at her. Definitely not the blonde haired, blued eyed woman she expected. Their statures are different as well, with her mother being tall and lanky, the visitor was slightly shorter, but filled out their height well, looking undeniably sturdy. Her mother would never be caught dead in that nerdy collared shirt either.
Yes, there was only one person this could be. Him. Freddie Benson.
"Can I come in?"
She forces out a nod, it's all she can do short of fainting.
He steps all too casually into the apartment. His calmness enrages her, while she's been trying to confine her emotions for last hour or so he seems to have none. Sniffing the air he looks around until he stops at the bacon, a small grin plays on his lips. She fights the urge to stare.
He shifts his vision to her face and her breath hitches in her throat. Goddammit, she needs to keep her guard up, gentle prods, slight insults these will be her adversaries at the moment.
Suddenly the hint of a smile drops and he's entirely serious. "I'm here to talk to you about…earlier."
"I figured as much," She mutters, refusing to meet his eyes. She walks off into the kitchen for her plate of bacon, grabbing it tightly. She shoves a piece in her mouth, using the delicious salty meat as a distraction. He follows her tentatively, keeping his distance.
"I'd appreciate it if I had your full attention." He falters on the sentence; she's not sure how to read it. Is he being patronizing?
"Sorry if I don't have the highest expectations for what you're about to tell me, it's not like everything went ideally for me back there," She snarls cynically.
"Sam, don't do this to me. Don't make me think I was supposed to know what to do in that mess of a situation. And then Carly had seen the whole thing, and you ran. That whole moment was complete internal chaos for me." He delivers his speech with such composure, it seems practiced.
"Holy what and a half, Carly! Oh god, she's going to kill me. Capital M murder me." The intensity of his statement is somewhat lost when she remembers her best friend. She hasn't exactly been the biggest thing on her mind, although she does obscurely remember ignoring her calls.
"I talked with her. Everything's fine. She did have a 'what the hell was that' moment and she was kind of pissed you didn't trust yourself enough to be honest with her, but she still just wants you to be happy."
Although glad the Carly situation is handled she stays quiet, shoving more bacon in her mouth. She hopes her adoration for the boy in front of her will dissipate with another slice. So far, no luck.
He starts up again after seeing she has nothing to say, "When you vanished, I wasn't sure what to do. After I talked to Carly, she gave me your address, told me to do what I knew was right, and then went to make sure Spencer wasn't dead." His mouth quirks slightly upward as if remembering, but it hurriedly drops as he continues, "I didn't want to go yet, I didn't know what to say to you, I needed to figure things out. So I fiddled with the Mood Face app and thought. About us."
"You know I never asked you for your life story." Maybe it was foolish to assume he needed to rush after her for things to work out. Maybe things can still work out.
"You're ruining the moment."
Her eyebrows raise slightly, entertained that their banter still applies to every conversation they have. She's absorbing his words though, wondering in which direction he'll head them in, still just as nervous. Her stomach is now populated by a billion butterflies, which isn't boding well for the food she's trying to cram in.
"So, what's your point?"
"I was getting to that." His façade is breaking; he's starting to sound irritated, conflicted, and something else she isn't sure how to define. "So like I was saying, I was thinking. Going over moments I've shared with you, trying to let myself think of you, as like, you know…a girl. That could be my girlfriend. "
"And your conclusion?" She means to send the words out in a sardonic tone, but they end up sounding all too anxious, sincere.
A silence of anticipation blossoms between them, she desperately wants to relieve the tension. She wants to say something clever, but her mind is frozen. It's going to be up to him to break the quiet.
"I don't know," He takes a step forward, trying to make eye contact with her.
Her stomach drops slightly, is that good, bad? It sounds like more uncertainty, which she's clearly had enough of this night.
He continues to approach her; she busies herself putting another pack of bacon in the microwave, not wanting to seem as obsessed with his three word answer as she is.
With her back to him, she still hears his footsteps on the concrete, coming ever closer. When he finally stops she can almost feel the warmth radiating off of him.
"But I want to know, Sam. I want to know if this game we've been playing is just a ploy for something deeper. I want to know if we could work." He puts a subtle emphasis on the 'we', she picks up on it.
He places his hands on her shoulders; she almost jumps at his touch. Quickly, he spins her around; she's astonished at how easily she lets herself be controlled by him.
"And that means?"
"Sam, I want to go out with you."
Oh god, his face is really close to her's, and everything has turned strangely intimate. His words are buzzing in her head. He wants to go out with her. He wants to know if they could work, if she could be his girlfriend. Their bodies are literally centimeters apart now. It's overloading her. Suddenly, impulsively, she punches him in the gut, and then moves a few feet to the left, hopping up to sit on the counter. "Personal space, Fredward? Ever heard of it?"
He doesn't clutch at his midriff as she anticipated, just rubs a hand over it lightly. His expression appears amused. "So I take it you're glad?"
She smirks at him, "You know you're a complete nub for thinking I liked Brad." She's slowly processing the information thrown at her. It's relaxing, all the stress she'd been storing up is now dissipating into contentment, relief.
"Yeah, you cleared up that rumor pretty fast."
The microwave dings, she moves to retrieve the food but he beats her to it. Plating the bacon, he hands it over.
She looks down at it, frowning. She has no urge to eat it. Weird. Very weird.
"Want some?" She asks nonchalantly, offering the plate to him.
He appears more shocked then he did after the kiss, "What?"
"You heard me."
"No, you have to be kidding. This is like a test, right? If I take some you'll beat me to a bloody pulp."
"No, loser. I'm not kidding, just take a goddamn slice of bacon."
He eyes her suspiciously, but does as he is told. She does nothing to stop him. He bites into it slowly, taking his time to chew and swallow. When he's done he lets out a tiny laugh.
"Woah. This is a day for the history books. Sam Puckett shares her bacon. If that isn't a blatant sign of love, I don't know what is." Setting the plate down, he wraps his arms around her, tightly embracing her figure.
Her pulse is going crazy; her mind is exploding, overloaded by the situation. Somehow she allows her arms to return the gesture and rests them around his back.
"Don't get used to it; this is a one-time thing." She mumbles while one of his hands moves up to play with her hair.
Suddenly, she realizes he has flip-flopped her equation. Become the exception to her rule. While it might work while dealing with her family, with him it is entirely different.
Right now, one thing can't be more true to her:
Feelings are worth more than Food.
When Pamela Puckett stumbles home at eight that morning she's greeted by two, fully-clothed teenagers asleep on her couch, cuddled into one another. One of those teenagers happens to be her daughter, Samantha, and the other, well, he seems familiar but she's not entirely sure. Next to them lays, a paper plate littered with bacon.
She's not sure what to do, but two ideas come to mind. One, being to throw the bacon on the two kids, ordering the boy out, or two, to let them sleep and simply smile at the joys of young love. Or whatever the hell this is.
She watches as the boy, subconsciously moves his hand onto Sam's shoulder, fingers curling around the fabric of her shirt.
At that moment she makes her decision, and walks out of the room, a small grin plastered on her face.