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It's three AM and Freddie Benson should be in bed. Actually, he reasons with himself, he is in bed. Just because he's sprawled across his hypoallergenic comforter, still in the clothes he wore to school the day before, doesn't mean he isn't trying to sleep. He is. Or he was. But sleep has proven elusive.
So, somewhere around midnight, when one day changes into another, he pulled out his laptop and started playing mindless internet games. He thought rows of matching shapes or blocks falling into complicated patterns would be boring enough, even for him, that his eyelids would droop. But, no. That has yet to happen.
And just as Freddie advances to level 30 on the game with the matching shapes, he hears something that makes his heart practically stop.
It's a creaking. It's slight. But it's there. That faint, high pitched sound of a hinge or a spring or a loose piece of wood. And it's coming from the hallway just outside his bedroom. Actually, it's a little bit further than that, he realizes.
It's like there's someone, or something, on the metal rungs of the fire escape outside the apartment.
There are only two reasons to be on a fire escape at three in the morning: you were either escaping from a fire (obviously), or you were breaking into someone's apartment. And since he can't smell smoke or hear fire alarms, or for that matter, Spencer screaming from across the main hall, he bets that the noise is the result of the second option.
So he does what any able bodied teenage boy would do. He hides his laptop under his bed, clutches one of his pillows in front of him like a fluffy shield, and creeps to the open door of his room, peering in the direction of the hall window. Okay, so maybe that isn't what every able bodied teenage boy would do, but he hasn't really been raised to take risks, even if he is in much better shape than he used to be.
While Freddie waits, staring suspiciously at the window the whole time, a loud sound, like metal collapsing against metal, comes from the other side of the glass. The muffled curse that follows it is said in a tone of voice that dances on the edge of his mind, so he sighs, drops the pillow, and traipses over to the window. When he pulls aside the curtain, he isn't fully prepared for the sight of Sam Puckett sprawled below. She appears dazed, her eyes unfocused, as though she isn't quite sure how she got there. Her cheeks are pink, bright spots in the darkness. And she stares upward through the gaps in the next level of the escape. It's like she's looking at the stars, but she can't possibly see them with the lights from the street reflecting off the buildings. He wants to ask what she's looking for, but he thinks it might just be a ruse to get him to ignore her. Like those rodents that think if they freeze, they won't be scooped up by a passing bird of prey.
Except Sam is not a scared rodent. And Freddie is not a calculating bird of prey.
With a roll of his eyes, Freddie takes in her disheveled appearance, the wrinkled layers of tops, the dirty jeans, and the hair that's going every which way, and he pulls the window up, leaning through the gap he creates into the cold night air.
"Hey there, Princess Puckett. Fancy meetin' you here."
His voice is a little rough. Maybe he's angry with himself for letting her scare him yet again. She seems to be able to do that way too often.
"Oh. Hey, Benson."
Her voice isn't altogether even, and Freddie can see, even in the darkness, that something is different here. Something not quite right.
"Whatcha doin'?" he asks, more as a way to make safe conversation than anything else. He is genuinely curious, but he doesn't want to upset her with accusations of attempts at breaking and entering. That could lead to her trying to break a part of him. Much to his disappointment though, when he asks the question, he sounds like that annoying little girl on that animated TV show he can't stand. He's even almost rocking on his heels as he says it.
Sam doesn't notice. It takes a concentrated effort for her to shrug her shoulders and say, "Just out for a walk."
It's then that he notices how her words sound when they reach his ears. It takes longer for her mouth to form them than usual, and there is an airy, detached quality to her voice. Kind of like Carly's impression of Sam after visiting the dentist.
"Are you high?" he asks bluntly, before his brain can catch up to warn him. Because if there's one thing he knows about Samantha Puckett, it's that no matter how bad she might get, drugs aren't really her style. For some reason, even with all her attitude and knack for getting in trouble, she is vehemently against the use of recreational drugs. Knowing this, his eyes widen in alarm when she just rolls her head to the side and stares at him. "Sam?" he questions nervously.
"Not. High," she says loudly and firmly. "But I did go to a party... They had lots of. Really good drinks. In pretty red... cups." She sighs softly, closing her eyes. "And I lost that game with the beer and the ball so many times. Who knew I wouldn't be good at that?" She laughs slightly at the absurdity of her own question.
"I'm gonna go get Carly," Freddie announces, but he hesitates, not wanting to leave Sam on the fire escape in her current condition. Contrary to popular belief, he would care if she accidentally rolled to the side and fell through the concrete. She is small enough that she could easily slip under the rails.
"No Carly," she tells him stubbornly. "She'll be all... Carly." For a second she appears confused, as if she can't remember what they're talking about, but she recovers enough to tell him, "I just need to sleep." She punctuates her statement by rolling on her side so that she's fully facing him. Thankfully, that means she's closer to the building and in no danger of falling.
Sighing, Freddie is aware that even in her inebriated state, she likely thinks she is strong enough to tackle him before he can get back to his phone or to the front door. It's something that has always fascinated him about Sam. She's been about the same size since she was 12, and yet she could still throw him to the ground with what seemed to be a minimum amount of effort. Sometimes, he wonders if he subconsciously lets her win, if all those lectures about not hitting girls when he was four years old have somehow sunk deep down into a part of his brain that he can't control. But then, he remembers how terrifying she can be when she's angry, and he argues that her craziness must be where she draws all of that strength.
But, right now, while she's blinking up at him with those bright blue eyes, a few strands of her hair plastered to her forehead, he has a pretty hard time imagining that she's in any condition to do anything too crazy.
"You can't sleep on the fire escape," is what he tells her, not sure why he doesn't just risk her wrath to leave her alone for a few seconds so he can get Carly. Carly's always been better at handling Sam than him. And it's not like he's never disobeyed a direct order from her before. This time though, he bends at the waist, reaching for her arms, and pulls her awkwardly to her feet.
Sam is surprisingly light when she sags against him for just a moment, the lower halves of their bodies separated only by the ledge of the window. Even someone so small should be heavy when they're practically dead weight. But soon enough, she is pushing him away, grumbling words that sound suspiciously like "I can do it myself, you stupid nub." He isn't quite sure that's what she says since her voice is so low, but it seems likely.
Obediently, he takes a step back and observes her efforts at climbing in the window. When she stumbles and he reaches out to help her, she shoos him off with a wave of her hand, then immediately catches one sneaker clad foot on the sill before going flying right into his arms.
"You okay?"
"Why are my feet so heavy?" she responds, drawing out the word 'heavy' in her usual dramatic tone.
"Probably because they're full of alcohol," Freddie jokes, keeping his hands carefully on her arms as she stumbles. He tries to steer her toward the living room, but she follows the wall in the opposite direction, her fingers running along the paint, back to his bedroom instead.
"Right, right," she mumbles, seemingly fascinated by the tips of her fingers on the white walls.
Her eyes lose a little of their focus again when she reaches the doorway and gazes unseeingly around his room. She's never been in here this late before. And for some reason, it looks different at night, especially without Carly here. It seems less sterile somehow. Maybe because Freddie's mother isn't running around bleaching surfaces and yelling at her for wearing dirty shoes. Or maybe it's because her vision is blurring a little around the edges, making the room softer somehow. It has a more lived in feel than usual. And when she stumbles to the bed, letting her hands trace patterns over the hypoallergenic comforter that she usually makes fun of, she realizes that it is softer, softer than she thought.
So she starts to lean back, and basically collapses into that softness. Because this is the reason her feet brought her here instead of home, isn't it? Everything about Freddie is soft. His hair that he doesn't spike up with any of that weird gel. His hands that his mom makes sure he moisturizes on a regular basis. And his words, when they aren't aimed at her and full of sarcasm, those are soft too. As much as they might fight, she knows he isn't going to lecture her when she might not remember it in the morning. And he isn't going to yell at her for making a mistake in a shrill Carly voice. And because he's a nice guy, he's going to let her stay. And she appreciates all of that. But right now, when everything is so fuzzy, she can't be bothered to explain.
All of these thoughts run through her mind in a matter of seconds, though to her, it feels like an eternity might have passed. And when Sam looks over at Freddie again, she can't quite figure out the expression on his face, so she decides that must have something to do with those blurry edges as well, just like everything else.
"Are you planning on sleeping there," he wonders aloud with a raised eyebrow.
"Why not? You don't want me here? ...I'm the girl. Shouldn't I get to sleep in the comfy bed?" She isn't quite slurring her words, but he still can't help but notice that she just doesn't sound like Sam.
And he knows that his sense of old fashioned values agrees with her, but this is Sam, and the idea of her spending the night, or at least the next few hours, in his bed has him slightly unnerved. And not even in a bad way, which makes the entire thing all the more disturbing. There is no reason that Sam, in his bed, with her curls wild around her face, should seem so... alluring.
She's Sam.
And mostly evil. Not to mention drunk.
"I can fix up the couch for you." He doesn't really answer her question, and Sam doesn't really notice.
"Yeah... I can't wait to see your mom's face when she wakes up and finds me there in the morning." Sam presses her lips together, making an Mmm sound, then she laughs softly. "Morning," she says the word again. "Mmmmoorn. Inggg." And then she giggles in a very un-Sam like way, and Freddie can't help but be amused.
"My mom's not home," he admits, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "She's covering for one of the other nurses tonight. She won't be back for a while." And he doesn't know why, but saying those words out loud to Sam sends a rush of heat to his face. It isn't quite embarrassment; it's more like nervousness. He and Sam have never really done well when they're alone together. Bad things tend to happen.
"Too bad," Sam remarks before laughing again. "She would love to DETOXIFY me." She says it just like that. All bold and capital letters in a perfect imitation of the domineering Marissa Benson.
And again, Freddie feels himself pushing down a smile. This part of Sam, the sarcastic, teasing part, has always made him laugh, even when he doesn't want to admit it. It's even better when she isn't hitting him or cutting his hair or locking him in closets.
"Alright, Puckett," he breathes, finding his garbage can and placing it next to the bed where she can see it, "You can stay here. Just don't throw up on my bed."
"We'll see, Benson. We'll see." She smiles tiredly at him, and he just knows he's going to have to wash his sheets in the morning. She'd vomit on them just to spite him. And since he thinks Sam is well on her way to passing out for a while, he heads for the door, but her sleepy voice, now laced with a bit of something else (is that fear), calls out, "Where you goin'?"
He hesitates in the doorway, not used to hearing her voice come out quite like that. Not only is it still airy and confused, but now, it's even a little needy. "I'm going to get you some water."
His plans of laying on the couch and giving her some space are completely forgotten when he sees the relief flood her face and she manages a simple "okay."
So he walks to the kitchen and fills a spotless glass with filtered water from the refrigerator. And for a moment, he leans his head against the stainless steel of the door, letting the cool temperature seep into his skin. For some reason, he's suddenly sweating, and he doesn't understand it. Sam is going to spend the night unconscious, so there's no reason for him to feel so anxious. Just because she's in his house doesn't mean she's in any position to shave his head or poison him. Everything should be fine.
And just before he leaves the kitchen, Freddie remembers a cautionary tale, from Spencer of all people, about people not getting enough carbs when they're drink, so he grabs a pack of salt free crackers just in case.
It's a good thing he does because Sam is still awake when comes back, though she hasn't moved too much. Her hands are clenching and unclenching his comforter, her eyes are loosely focused on the ceiling, the lids opening and shutting periodically, just like her clenching fists. He can tell she's trying to think, but her alcohol addled brain is not exactly making it easier for her. She rolls to face him, and he winces when he notices her sneakers are still on, getting dirt, and whatever else Sam tracked through the Seattle streets, all over the end of his bed.
When he cautiously hands her the water she downs half of it before slamming the glass on his end table so hard, he's surprised it doesn't shatter. But Sam does usually have a good instinct for how much pressure to put on something before it breaks. She grabs the crackers from him, devouring six in just two bites, and goes back to staring at the ceiling. Thinking that she's done with him, Freddie shuffles his bare feet against the carpet, preparing to leave again. He should know though, after her earlier question, she doesn't really want to be left alone.
"Were you one of those kids?" She pauses to try and get her thoughts in order, and the next part of the question comes out closer to her normal voice. "The ones with the stupid stars on the ceiling? You were, right, Fredweird?"
He doesn't know how she manages to hold so much hostility in her when she is clearly exhausted and inebriated, but the words are spit at him just like always. And he doesn't deny it.
"Yeah. For a while," he admits. He grabs his rolling desk chair and moves it to the side of the bed so he can get comfortable. He's still a little wary about getting too close.
"I bet. You had one of those... nubby little maps. And you put all of the stars in. Exactly. The. Right. Spots."
He doesn't have to say anything there either, because Sam knows him too well. Instead, he remarks, "My mom was so mad. She kept telling me that glow in the dark stars would give me cancer. When she had painters come in, they couldn't even get them off. I used this special super glue. They had to paint right over them." Freddie chuckles. "I thought she was going to have a stroke."
Sam laughs with him, at first. But soon she is examining him skeptically. "They still up there?"
"Yep."
"How come I can't see them? White paint. Shouldn't they still glow?"
"Yeah, but it's dark, Sam."
"Why are they called glow in the dark stars. If they don't glow in the dark?"
Her voice is petulant, and so confused by the conversation, that again, Freddie finds himself smiling, running a hand through his hair. This is one of the most civil conversations they have had in a long time, and of course, it happens while she's drunk.
"They only glow because of the chemical reactions caused by the amount of light they absorb during the day," he starts to explain.
"Ugh." She cuts him off with a groan. "Such a dork." But then, she must process what he says because she adds, in a whisper, "if you... turn the light on for a minute... will they glow?"
"Probably."
So quietly that Sam isn't even aware he moves, Freddie stalks to the light switch and flips it to the on position. She blinks in the sudden influx of light, spots dancing in her vision, the lets her lids fall shut. She counts to fifty slowly in her head, which must actually be a full minute, because that dull red on the other side of her lids disappears.
"Sam?" He whispers, probably thinking she finally fell asleep in that single minute of brightness.
Opening her eyes in response, Sam is pleased to find tiny pin pricks of neon yellows and greens underneath the horrible white of the paint.
"Awesome." She breathes out slowly, then in, methodically tracing the lights before they can fade. "So, tell me," she commands, and it's even less airy than before.
"Tell you what?" Freddie asks, confused at the authority Sam is again radiating. She keeps floating on the verges of passing out and fighting with him.
"Tell me where the things are."
Now, it's Freddie who is blinking like he isn't sure what's going on. He wonders if drunkenness is contagious.
"The things?"
"You know." Sam lets out a frustrated sigh. "The things!" She gestures weakly with one hand toward the small spots on the ceiling.
And Freddie understands. He settles back into his desk chair, propping his feet on the bed so he can stare at the ceiling with her.
"Okay..." he starts, angling his head slightly, "see those spots there," he points his hand to an area vaguely to Sam's right, "where there are three in a row?"
Sam squints and grunts an affirmative.
"That's Orion's belt. The two stars up above them are his shoulders, and the ones below them are his feet." Freddie's voice is soft, and he hopes she doesn't ask him for too many more constellations, because there are only a few that he actually remembers. His obsession with astronomy didn't last as long as the stars on the ceiling.
"Who's Ryan?"
"Orion," he corrects automatically.
She reaches out a foot to kick him in the leg, but just misses the fabric of his sweatpants. She huffs, but she can't really be bothered to try again, and she may even be smiling a little bit.
"He was a hunter... in Greek mythology. He was so good, that he even went out with Artemis. Uh, she's a goddess of some stuff... like hunting." Freddie clears his throat and sneaks a peek at Sam. She's watching him, waiting for him to keep going, her breathing even. "He ended up as the lost hunter, wandering through the heavens after he died. Zeus put him up there." He's a little afraid she's going to say something about his nubbish qualities for knowing these things, but she gives a jerk of her head and her shoulders, almost like a nod.
"How'd he die?" Rolling onto her side like she did on the fire escape, Sam is facing him again, the stars on the ceiling forgotten.
"Uh... there's a couple different versions of the story and historians tend to debate which one-"
"Freddifer, just tell me one."
And even though there are a lot of different stories to pick from, Freddie can only remember two, so he tells her the one he thinks Sam will like best.
"Apollo, he's the god of the sun? He's Artemis' brother. And he gets jealous that Artemis spends so much time with Orion. So, when he sees Orion swimming one day, he bets Artemis that she can't hit Orion's head, the only part of him they can see, from where they are. Artemis shoots him right through the eye with her bow and arrow, kills him."
He expects Sam to chuckle, make some comment about how clever Apollo is, but while he looks at her, her eyelids slip shut, and she tells him, "Artemis sounds like a nub. All she had to do... was say no."
"Guess some people can't resist a bet," Freddie whispers, lacing his fingers together behind his head, trying to appear as though he is staring at the ceiling again instead of watching her out of the corner of his eye.
If Sam was sober, she'd probably get that he is talking about her. She'd probably punch him, then throw him on the floor for good measure. But she isn't, so she doesn't. Instead, she burrows her face into his pillow, her voice becoming muffled against the fabric.
"Tell me some more."
And he knows she isn't really listening after he tells her about the Big Dipper because she doesn't say anything in response, but he keeps going. He talks about the only other constellations he knows, a few of the Zodiac signs, and then he falls silent, just sitting in the dark with Sam, waiting, and watching her. He doesn't even bother pretending that he isn't anymore. Her eyes haven't opened in a while and she hasn't shifted her position on the bed. In fact, the only movement is the rhythmic rising and falling of her chest as she breathes. There's a piece of hair that falls in front of her face, and it twitches every time she breathes out.
There's a part of him that thinks he should push it out of her face, that he should cover her with a blanket, all of those things that you do for a girl when she falls asleep. But this is Sam. And Sam has never, ever, qualified as a normal girl that you treat like you would anyone else that you pass in the hall at school. You don't pay her compliments to get her to be nice. You bribe her with meat. You don't defend her in a fight. She knocks the other guy out herself. You don't offer to help her with an assignment. She expects you to do it for her. That's just the way she is.
Instead, he edges carefully to the end of the bed, and ever so gently, removes her shoes. It's only, he tells himself, to keep from getting anymore of the Seattle sludge she dragged in on his comforter. Since she hasn't thrown up on it yet, he might not have to wash it after all, and he would rather be safe than sorry. He sets her shoes on the floor, and chuckles softly when he sees that her socks are two different colors. It shouldn't surprise him. And maybe it doesn't. But they are so drastically different. A faded red on one foot, and a deep blue on the other. Maybe she got dressed in the dark.
"Freddie?"
It's so soft, and so unlike her to use his name instead of an insult, that he thinks he might have imagined it, or worse, that she's talking in her sleep. And he definitely doesn't want to know the kinds of dreams she would have that involve her saying his name. Dream-Sam would probably be chopping him up into small pieces and feeding him to her cat Frothy.
"Sam?"
"Sometimes... you're not that big of a nub."
He stands at the foot of the bed, his mouth hanging open, now certain that his mind must be playing tricks on him. He must be more tired than he thought. Sam only gives compliments when she needs something in return. And she knows that he wouldn't kick her out. She has absolutely no reason to say anything nice right now. When he recovers from the shock, he tells her "thanks," but he's not sure that she hears it anyway, so he adds, for good measure, "sometimes, you're not that big of a psycho either."
And Freddie smiles, walking over to the closet, and pulls a blanket down from the shelf. When he returns to the bed, he drapes it loosely across her, taking a second to brush that piece of hair out of her face, even though he told himself he wouldn't do it.
Just when he moves to sit back down in his chair, one of her hands wraps around his wrist, and she mumbles something into the pillow.
"Sam, I can't hear you," Freddie whispers harshly, scooting the chair closer to the bed.
She mumbles again, and this time, all he gets out of her is "I need-" before she sighs, and he knows she is asleep again.
It could have been anything. That's what he thinks while he sits there, his eyes heavy. She could have wanted to tell him that she needs him to make her bacon and eggs for breakfast, that she needs some more water, that she needs to go home, that she needs to go to the bathroom, that she needs to talk to Carly...
But just for tonight, or this morning, Freddie decides to imagine that what she needs is him. Just him. Just like this. It's a nice feeling, being needed. Even if he's only imagining it in his head. And he watches her, making sure her breathing stays even, until the sun starts to come up and he can't keep his eyes open any longer.
A/N: So, a few things here. 1. I'm aware that the idea of Sam getting drunk has probably been done time and time again, but I feel like she's the most likely of the three main characters to drink just to prove she can, and then wind up in over her head. 2. If you've read any of my Hannah Montana stuff, you'll notice that I like to have people climbing in other people's windows. Maybe it's because I never did it myself. I don't know. It's a classic device in the world of teen drama. I love it. 3. I know it's a little cliché to have Mrs. Benson not at home when Sam comes calling, but I feel like it's plausible. To an extent, Mrs. Benson trusts Freddie. Especially if she expects him to be asleep the entire time she's gone. It's everyone else that she doesn't trust. She probably calls to check on him on all of her breaks. 4. I decided to try something new in writing this. It's all present tense and mainly passive voice. I wanted to see how something like that would read, since in writing for school we always get the instructions to be active, not passive. It's interesting to see how it turned out.