Hi you all! This is my first fanfic EVER, so please be nice (haha, it's fine). I seriously hope you guys like it and if so, I'll carry on. If it's utter rubbish, I'll go back to the drawing board! ;) So please, tell me what you think of it! -CPTC xoxo

An Apple a Day Keeps Tim Away

She had lost it. Yes, it was our pure as a flower's scent, sweet Sammie who had completely lost it...

Long nights had been a tale as common as Clover's fairy tale anniversary, two days ago at W.O.O.H.P, and all of its best agents were hard at work. Men in dapper, crisp suits buzzed through the hallways against blinding sea-blue walls- which had a certain intimidation almost as intimidating as Jerry had been the past few days. Monotonous office lights hummed in a chorus made of boredom.

Tim breathed heavily; his head down and his neck moaning in stiff pain. How could he have been the only one condemned to do a majority of paperwork when it wasn't even one of his specialities? Additionally, he wasn't even allowed any mobile devices as he worked to the bone because as Jerry put it, it somehow 'jeopardised the integrity of W.O.O.H.P's finest agents', whatever that meant.

"I'm so sorry Sammie," Scam blurted aloud. "I can't even call or message you; nothing!"

Hastily, Sam aggressively popped the cork of her glistening hard cider bottle as a dragged sigh escaped the corner of her mouth. Tim had assured her countlessly that he would be back before midnight, yet there was still no sigh of him when the clock struck one. This had happened every night like on an endless recorder; only this recorder recounted Sam's miserable monotony.

"Tim," she hoarsely groaned, vexation obvious in her tone. "It's about one and I'm alone. You swore that you'd join me for dinner! Well, now it's cold. Have fun having date night with your fruitless paperwork."

The bleep of her voicemail on her phone confirmed the end of Sam's message to her partner. Even though it had only been six months of cuddling and sweet nothings, Sam profoundly knew that Tim was her soul mate. She felt it in her bones; she felt it in her blood; she felt it in her heart. However, she hadn't been feeling anything lately; the intoxicating alcohol numbed any sense of emotion inside of her. Some might've chosen wine as their poison, but not Ms Simpson. According to her, wine was the blossoming fruit of love, whereas hard cider was the withering symbol of neglect. So it flawlessly fitted.

It was the last drop of the bottle when the redhead's vision went ridiculously blurry.

"BOOM!" The clamour of sound alerted her that she had bumped into the wall, but it was already too late. An absurd, raucous laugh filled the chic living room and rang throughout; it was the only sound the house ever heard. Sam tried to get up but helplessly fell flat on her face. Laughter was heard again. Then, she not only crashed into their Art Nouveau-inspired sculpture, (which Tim and Sam bought after giggling at it for what seemed like hours on a break to Paris, outside an endearingly stunning boutique) she then continued her destructive path toward a copy of Munch's The Scream- the exact canvas size in all its glory.

Whilst Sam swayed her hips in hopes of ending up in a passively seductive position, (it really wasn't at all) she began in a drunken babble, "What big eyes you've got, Mr...urm...Mr Scream!"

"Not the talkative type, hey," Sammy slurred after a moment. "That's okay, I know you're just playing hard-to-get!"

Her voice shrieked with delight -somewhat resembling her four year old cousin when she had an insufferable sugar rush- as she figured out why the oil painting didn't reply to her nonsensical remarks. The elbow she heavily leaned on against the canvas must have whined in pain as she winced a little. Carrying on her way up the empty room, it was as if someone hit the 'play' button on a DVR while watching her humorously idiotic movement. Arms flew everywhere in trepidation of switching on the glamorous spot lights; beads of sweat poured silently into her now stinging eyes, and her body elected to bestow upon her imperial blue and raging red bruises. What a night it had been.

The next thing she noticed (in her not very observant vision) was the door cricking open as she snapped her head in its way. Somehow, that was the only fluidity she could muster within her movement, yet it was still a small victory. A looming shadow fell upon her small fame and in that moment, she felt smaller than ever. Fury didn't course through her veins anymore, nor did pain; only delirious happiness -which she knew she'd be very sorry for later.

"Hellooo," she cheerfully cried in her baby-blue night gown. "Do you mind if...if...if... I could maybe, like, flash a torch into your face because all I see is darkness?"

The weightless form seemed to nod oddly as it took a step closer. Suddenly, Sam felt a warm, tingling sensation against her cheek. Yanking away, the brain of the temporarily clueless redhead began ticking. Deep down, she knew that that intruder was not wanted in her penthouse. Only, she didn't quite know why.

"Sammy," the silky voice of a man started. "I'm so sorry I never was able to..."

"Is that you, Mr Scream," Sam absentmindedly cut in, talking louder than needed. "I did look for a microphone so that I could hear you speaking, but I think... I think that it's for me to remember that I forgot Timmy and I don't have one."

She had lost it.

Tim stood there, unearthly gobsmacked. What the hell was his Sammie playing at?

"Samantha," he inquired, smirking and figuratively regaining his dropped jaw. "Don't go all juxtaposed literacy on me, please, I've had an incredibly tough night at the office."

He smirked like a cat did when it knew its dinner was a paw away and an easy target because he had thought he'd figured out her little, amusing mind trick. Unfortunately for him (or fortunately, in someone else's opinion), he hadn't smelt the

brutal beverage on the tip of her tongue.

Staring, baffled by his question -as if she had asked to magically invent a time machine on the spot- she slowly attempted to understand the flowing words like a toddler being told off for putting glue on the caring teacher's chair. Nonetheless, none of it clicked.

"I can't... I won't," a stammering Sammy mumbled. "You can take the microphone, just leave me alone!"

Quickly, Tim had made up in his mind that he better go inside and sincerely talk to his long time girlfriend before the neighbours called Beverly Hills' cops. But, actually getting through the threshold of their exquisite, grand door was another problem. She just wouldn't budge. Although Scam had his jaunty suspicions, he still soothingly tried to coaxed his baby into moving. None of it worked. So, he did the only rational thing to do at one-thirty at night; he all too easily picked Ms Simpson up in one, quick swoop and carried her lovingly to their three retro red seater near the superlative flat screen TV. That is when he smelt it...

"Woah," Scam hollered, chuckling more to himself than anyone else. "Now, what have you been up to, Missy?"

With twinkling, curious jade eyes, Samantha couldn't tell the difference between an exclamation mark and a question. The complexity of it seemed to send fathomless neurones to her face and it answered by tugging a simple smile of weak knowledge on her lips.

"Oh Sammie," Tim's eyes softened at the sight of her adorable smile. "I'm so sorry that I wasn't with you... But, then again, I can't tell if you're cuter in sobriety or inebriation."

The light snoring noise from the redhead told him that she fast asleep since his arms had cradled her into a delicious slumber. Endless teasing was how she was going to pay for breaking lamps, vases, and shattered, vibrant bottles of cider the following day, but he truly didn't mind her breaking them.

A smug look played on his face as he mused how comically crazy a drunk Samantha was capable of, "Don't worry, I'll never leave you like this again, without me. Instead, I'll make sure I come home so we can get drunk together..."