A/N: There is some minor substance abuse and some scenes of a (non-gory) violent nature. Just as a warning. Also, this is a sequel to Yo Ho and a Bottle of Scotch, so you might better enjoy this one-shot by reading the prequel.
No Fear
She peeked at him out of the corner of her eye.
She was beginning to admire things about him that she used to hate.
Like the way he held his pencil.
What? He held it like a dweeb, okay?
She liked it.
And the way his hair was combed meticulously; carefully molded off to the side. She really wanted to just reach over and mess it up. Just the thought of doing so made her stomach explode with butterflies. The absolutely infuriated and put-out look that he would fix her with—ooh. It gave her shivers.
When she slid her gaze to the corner of her eye again to look at him, she could see that he was giving her an odd look.
She must have actually shivered, and he must have noticed.
"What?" she demanded.
"Nothing," he insisted.
Sam sent him a 'yeah, you knowit's nothing' look for good measure before she turned back to the front of the room.
Ha, poor kid. He was probably completely off kilter due to the fact that she was actually in class. She never attended chemistry, and for some reason, she'd decided to go that day. She couldn't quite pin down the reason.
Apparently, neither could Freddie. He seemed a bit weirded out the whole time, but he went back to normal afterwards (mostly).
"So, Freddie," Carly began as Sam and Freddie approached her in between classes, "how was your date last night with Priscilla?" Sam rolled her eyes and diverted her attention to her locker, ignoring what they were saying.
Ugh. Mondays, she thought.
She threw her chemistry book (the one that she'd never opened) inside and grabbed a chicken wing off of the plate sitting on the top shelf.
What? She was hungry, and lunch had been an entire hour ago.
"Sam?" Carly attempted to get her attention.
Sam, however, did not hear Carly over her savoring. Chicken, she thought happily.
"Sam?" Freddie called her name this time.
"I think she's enjoying her chicken, Freddie," Carly mused, grinning.
"Sam!" Freddie said her name irritably.
"What, Fredlumps?" Sam whipped her face around to him as she took another bite out of her chicken wing.
"I was just confirming that we're all meeting an hour early for iCarly on Friday—to get some extra rehearsal time in."
"Whatevs," Sam replied as she threw the remains of her chicken on the platter. She then proceeded to slam her locker door shut and stalked off to her gym class without her gym clothes and without saying goodbye to either of them.
"What's up with her?" Carly wondered.
"I have no idea. She was in chemistry class today."
"No, way."
"I know!"
Carly paused, thinking carefully as she chose her words.
"Something's up with Sam."
"We're on in five, four, three, two—"
"Hi, I'm Carly!
"And I'm Sam!"
"And this is iCarly!"
Sam found herself just going through the motions during the web show, hoping that Freddie and Carly didn't notice. Neither of them seemed to suspect that anything was off, so Sam felt safe in assuming that all was well.
"And we're clear!" Freddie exclaimed as he cut the camera footage. "Great show guys."
"Yep. The greatest," Sam replied, trying to sound normal, but somehow it didn't come out as enthusiastically as she'd planned. She carefully checked Freddie and Carly's faces—nothing. Safe.
"Well, I kind of have to get home," Sam announced as she walked over to the door, picking up her backpack.
"What?" Carly asked, looking moderately befuddled. "But you never go home. Are you okay?"
Sam played it cool. "I'm fine, Carls. Just tired of looking at the nub, alright?"
"I'm standing right here, Sam."
"I know. Standing idly. Looking nubish."
Freddie rolled his eyes and went back to his equipment, shutting down for the night.
Bickering with Freddie was natural for Sam. She could always fall back into it at the drop of a hat and not fake a single moment. Not a single jibe. It was always real.
"Later, Carls. Fredwina."
It was nearly nine PM by the time Sam opened the door to Ralph's diner, a joint about five minutes walking-distance away from her house. Boy, was she hungry. She hadn't eaten for a few hours, so she immediately got down to business, ordering a burger with everything and a large side of fries.
Ralph was Sam's uncle, the sane and sober older brother to her mother. He always told Sam that she would have to make up the money for the food she ordered, but it was all show—he never made good on his threats. He seemed like a grumpy old man on the outside, but he was really a softy. As long as Sam took care of her mom, making sure that she didn't hurt herself when she got drunk, he fed the blonde teen.
It didn't take long for Sam's burger and fries to appear in front of her and she immediately dug in. Her fries were gone within five minutes. Hey, sometimes she liked to really savor her food—they were usually gone in under two minutes.
As she went to take a bite out of her burger, she looked up and happened to glance out the front of the diner and spied something peculiar.
Freddie Benson going inside of Arcadia, the oldest arcade in town and a Mecca of dorks.
What the hell?
Sam grabbed up her plate and headed for the door.
"Hey, Sammie! Leave the plate—I ain't made of money," her uncle grumbled.
"Alright, alright, Uncle Ralph," Sam replied as she put the plate back on the table. She began to walk away but then stopped, thought for a moment, and snatched her burger.
"And don't get into any trouble!"
"Okay!" Sam yelled as she opened the front door, rolling her eyes as she tore into the meat. She made her way over to the other side of the road, kicking a wayward can as she went. As she entered, she ran into a kid from school named James.
"Hey, you're Sam Puckett," he told her. Sam grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and slammed him up against the building with one hand, her burger still in the other.
"Listen, Dorkwad, you don't know me, and I don't know you, and now that we have that straight, I know that I won't have to beat your head clean off your shoulders because you will never tell anyone that you saw me here. Understand, Porridge-brain?" Sam informed him.
"P-porridge brain?"
Sam shrugged. "I hate porridge. It smells like diapers and tastes like toilet water," she muttered as she let go of his shirt and stepped back, taking a ferocious bite out of her burger. James did not move a muscle, not getting that Sam intended for him to leave, so she fixed him with a gaze that lamented his idiocy. "Well, scurry!" she barked at him, causing him to jump in terror then run away as fast as he could. As he went, he slipped on the can that Sam kicked earlier and fell flat on his face.
Sam smiled blissfully, congratulating herself internally on a job well done. Sighing happily, she opened up the door and entered the geek freak oasis.
Oh, my God. I had no idea that it was possible to smell dork. "Ya learn something new every day," she said to herself. As she looked around she noticed something disturbing: every dork within a six foot radius of her was staring. What, did she have something on her face?
"What'er'y'all lookin' at?" she growled through a mouth full of burger, threatened them with her stance. They all went back to their gaming like nobody's business and fearfully kept their eyes away from her. She put her hood up after that to keep her blonde hair from attracting too much attention.
Once she got over the dork stench and the occasional unwanted disbelieving stare from one of said dorks, Sam focused her attention on finding Freddie. It wasn't too difficult, but she did have to subject herself to more stares than she would have liked as she walked around, surreptitiously looking out for a dork in a blue striped shirt. It appeared that many of the nerds in the building almost never saw real, live girls, and most definitely not in the nerd sanctuary.
However, after about five minutes of going from game to game, pretending to play them and gnawing on her burger, she finally spotted him sitting at a table in a dimly lit corner, talking to a guy by the name of Charlie Warren. Sam knew that Warren was no good because they had always lived in the same neighborhood together, and he got involved in sticky situations sometimes. He was just…not a good guy. So now Sam was in serious mode, all jokes about the smell of dork forgotten (well, mostly).
Never mess with Sam's Punching Bag or Carly Shay.
If you do, you will hurt.
Everywhere.
For a very long time.
In a hospital.
Possibly a mental ward.
If you're lucky enough to still be alive.
But Sam did not move in to break it up. Instead she sidled over to a game a bit closer to the table and made sure that she would be facing away from the two because if either of them saw her, it was over. She strained her ears to listen to their conversation over the obnoxious game music. How the hell could people stand to play the stupid things? They made her want to curse in the name of ham. And Sam never took the name of ham in vain. That's how annoying they were.
"Enough of this small-talk stuff, do you have the money?"
"Do you have the parts?"
"Do I have the parts?" Charlie laughed to himself. "Of course I have the fucking parts. What do you think I'm running here, a circus?"
Good one, Sam thought sarcastically.
"No," Charlie went on, "I have an A-grade business here—I'm a business man, and I always come prepared."
Sam rolled her eyes at Charlie's self-worship as she shot at a highly pixeled space alien. (Seriously, the pixels were practically six by six inches for crying out loud. Why would anyone ever play one of these stinking games for fun when they could have HD MMA?)
Yes, she gave in and actually played the game. What a waste of a quarter.
"One hundred and fifty," she heard Freddie say. She really wanted to sneak a peek at the two, but she did not want to get caught spying on Warren. He, himself, was a harmless doof, but his pack of goons was not harmless. They were like attack dogs. Sam, of course, was an attack grizzly bear and could take care of herself, no big deal, but firstly, it would make a scene, and secondly, Freddifer would get torn to shreds.
And Mrs. Benson would have a cow, and no one wanted to listen to that.
So Sam stayed put for the time being.
She heard the rustle of paper and suspected that Charlie was counting the money.
As she waited to the conversation to continue, Sam began to notice something that she hadn't noticed before. There were several men, stealthily stationed at different points of the room, some skinny and tall, short and stout, big and burly, et cetera, et cetera. Five in total. They were Charlie's "goons" and all occasionally threw glances at the table. They seemed to be waiting for something.
Oh, great.
The sound of rustling papers ceased. "Nice doing business with you," Charlie said smoothly. Then the sound of a chair scooting back and the footsteps of a retreading Freddie. Sam watched him until he went out the door. And then she watched the goons follow him.
Uh-oh.
Sam looked about herself discreetly and made for the front door as well. She stepped outside just in time to see the last of the men turn the corner just down the street in the direction one would take to get to Bushwell Plaza. Sam had been hoping that it was all a coincidence that the goons who were eying Freddie just happened to leave after he left, but now she knew for sure that it wasn't.
Aw, sweet chiz. I am not in the mood for this, Sam thought as she followed. When she finally reached the same corner, she carefully peeked around it to observe first. The goons were walking up behind Freddie casually.
Freddie, however, did not look so comfortable with the situation.
"H-hey," he stuttered. "It's a-uh—nice night?"
And then they were all over him.
Beating. Yelling. Screaming.
The screaming was Sam.
She ran around the corner, screaming her war scream, and for a moment the testosterone halted and looked at her with open mouths. Sam jumped on one of them and was glad that they were a bit slow to react. Freddie took advantage of the distraction that Sam provided and socked the tall, burley guy who had a hold of him in the face, causing the man to reel backwards and fall to the ground, his head hitting the pavement with a loud smack. He went out like a light bulb. Freddie turned to another of the goons, who was looking on in shock. The man hadn't had an opportunity to shake the initial surprise off and finally snapped into action, engaging Freddie.
All the while, Sam was pummeling the crap out of the one she'd jumped on until he fell to the ground, groaning and whimpering in agony.
"Stay down!" she ordered and he moaned in response, but did not move. She turned around and found herself face to face with another goon. He ducked her swing at him and she threw her body backwards to avoid getting hit as he swung back at her. However, she ended up backing into another of the men and he trapped her in a bear hug. She cried out angrily and flailed. The guy she'd been fighting a moment before grinned cockily and turned back to Freddie, who was still fighting one of the other goon. Now it was two on one. Freddie had an 'oh, crap' look on his face as he attempted to fight them both off.
It didn't work.
One got the upper hand, then both of them got the upper hand. And they were beating on him like no tomorrow.
Sam cried out angrily as she fought the goon's embrace, but she was unable to break it, and Freddie appeared to be losing consciousness. Sam had to think quickly. She hadn't wanted to resort to this tactic, because she considered it a cop out—she liked to win her fights fair and square, but their lives were on the line. And besides, fair had been thrown out the window the moment Warren had sent five of his men after one seventeen-year-old high school student.
Sam stealthily coordinated herself, getting her leg and foot into position, tensing up her leg muscles as tightly as she could, and when the moment was perfect, her leg shot upwards from behind and struck the thug right in the nuts.
He cried out and was off kilter for a moment, but Sam did not waste even that. She turned around and reeled her head back, then forward, striking him as hard as she could in the head with her own.
HOLY MOTHER! she thought as he fell onto the pavement and did not get back up. That hurt like hell, but it was worth it.
Sam then wheeled around on the two guys who were still beating on Freddie, who was most definitely bordering on unconscious. Sam bounded over to them in one giant step and leapt onto the bigger one's back, pounding on his head immediately. The other one did not, however, leave Freddie to help his buddy, as he was too occupied looking through Freddie's wallet. He probably assumed that the bigger thug could take care of Sam, a petite blonde teenager.
Oh, how wrong he was. Within a moment, the guy was on the ground, barely conscious. Sam sauntered over to the other.
"Hey! Bean-head!" she taunted. …Well, his head was shaped rather like a bean. It would have been extremely amusing in any other situation. The man looked up at Sam, stupefied for a moment before he stood up and went for Sam. But she was beyond ready for the attack and through with the whole thing. She built up the tension in her arm and shot it out as he came close, hitting a pressure point in his neck. He cried out in pain one second, and the next, he was unconscious, on the ground.
And there was silence. But only for a moment. Then Sam began to hear her own breathing again, and then cars in the distance. Wind blowing through trees.
Over.
And Sam could think normally again.
She looked down at Freddie.
He was dressed like a doof.
Sam laughed as she picked up his wallet and stuffed it into one of the pockets of her cargo pants. It was all she could do to keep other possible emotions from getting through. Sam squatted down next to Freddie and reached down to check his pulse. It was strong. She let out her breath in a one big gust. She looked around and noticed a box that Freddie had been carrying. Sam approached it and when she saw what was inside, she laughed out loud. Computer parts. For the computer he was planning to build from scratch.
"I cannot believe you, you nub," she said, shaking her head. Sam sighed and looked around.
Now what?
When Freddie woke up, he noticed a funny smell. What? He also noticed that he was laying on something pricklier than his bed sheets, so he knew that he was not safe in his home. He peeked one eye open and saw the sky. Stars.
Well, now he had deduced that he was outside. Great.
As Freddie sat up, he felt excruciating pain flare up…well, everywhere.
"Aw, butternut," he groaned.
"Welcome to the land of the living, Freddork."
Freddie snapped around and saw Sam about six feet above him, lounging on a jungle gym.
They were at the park, about five minutes from Bushwell Plaza. Sam was looking away from him, up at the heavens. The stars were bright tonight—for a city at least. It occurred to Freddie that he was not in the place that he last remembered being. To his recollection, he had been leaving Arcadia and was walking back towards his car, which was parked in the least sketch lot that he could possibly find. On the way back to the car, he remembered being attacked, Sam showing up, and then getting beaten into unconsciousness. Now he was in a park near Bushwell.
What was going on?
"Sam, how did we get here?"
"Your car."
"My c—how did you find it?"
"Panic button."
"Oh… Where's my stuff?" he asked, suddenly anxious.
"Relax, Freddichini. It's all in the box behind you."
Freddie twisted around and spotted the box. He sighed, his heart rate beginning to slow.
"What time is it?" he asked.
Sam sighed as she dug in her pocket for something and produced as set of keys that she held out at arm's length, then dropped. They hit the ground next to Freddie and he realized that they were his. He picked them up and looked up at Sam, noticing that there was a cloud of smoke hanging in the air around her. He watched her lift something to her lips, inhale, and then watched as a stream of smoke exited her lungs through her mouth. The funny smell he'd noticed when he first woke up suddenly made sense.
"It's eleven o'clock," she finally replied.
"Sam, what are you smoking?"
"Go home, Freddie."
"No." He paused as he tried to come up with a way to phrase his question. Even with all of this consideration, he stumbled over his words. "Are you…? Well, what I mean is… Is that...?"
"Yes, Fredward, I am smoking weed," she said irritably as she craned her neck around to look at him. "Now get the fuck home. I'm sure mommy dearest is freaking out right about now."
Freddie got to his feet (painfully) and glared at Sam. "You don't scare me Puckett. Something's up with you and I'm not leaving until I find out what it is."
Sam sat up on the monkey bars and slipped down, landing gracefully. She turned to Freddie and fixed him with the scariest and most serious expression she could muster. But he didn't budge. So she walked up to him and got into his personal space hoping to intimidate him.
"You helped me out, I helped you out. Now we're even, Benson. There's no reason to pretend that we actually care about each other."
Sam was, of course, referring to the night she got drunk at Allen Barclay's party and called Freddie. He rescued her by coming to get her and then took her home. Now she'd rescued him and taken him home. Even.
"What? Sam, what the hell are you talking about? We've been friends since we were thirteen. How can you say that we don't care about each other? You know, the least you could do is speak for yourself!" he finished angrily.
Sam felt her heart flutter at his words and the feel of his warm breath on her face, but she quickly squashed the feeling and took a step back to take a drag from her joint. Freddie reached out and grabbed her wrist, sending her a pleading expression to stop. Sam rolled her eyes in response, but complied by dropping the joint on the ground and putting it out with the toe of her shoe. After she had done so, she threw Freddie an 'are you happy now?' expression. She took a deep breath and let out a discontented sigh as she reached up to rub her temples. She needed to sit. To think.
Sam walked over to the swings and sat down on one, but did not actually swing. Freddie simply watched her from where he was standing for a moment before following her over to the swings and sitting on the one next to her. There was no speaking at first—Freddie could sense that conversation was not what Sam wanted, so he sat and waited for her to speak first.
"You don't have to stay here, you know," she finally offered.
Freddie shook his head and spoke softly. "Sam—"
"What the hell were you thinking doing "business" with Charlie Warren, Benson?" She interrupted what she knew would be a mushy and thoroughly painful (and annoying) moment.
Freddie was speechless. Just the way Sam liked him.
"He's a fraud. He pretends to make friends with you, make you think that he is a good and trustworthy guy so that he can get to know something about you, then he robs you. That's what he does, and you, the straight-laced, 4.0 computer geek, completely overlook this. If you'd wanted to make an under-the-table deal for some damned computer parts, you should have asked me for help. I'm an expert when it comes to my neighborhood, you know." She emphasized the word "neighborhood" with air quotes.
Freddie sighed. "I know, alright." He also knew that even though Sam put up a front, it was impossible to completely hide the fact that she cared for him. It had always been true and it still was. So he felt like he could take his chances. He was fed up with avoiding this particular subject. They'd been avoiding it all week.
"Sam, what did our kiss mean to you?" He could sense how tense she got in the wake of his question, so he waited. She didn't respond for a good sixty seconds.
"What about Priscilla Wilkes?" she muttered.
"What about Priscilla Wilkes?"
"Whadaya mean what about her, Fredweird? I thought you were all into the Priss."
Freddie fixed her with a thoroughly confused stare. "What?"
Sam rolled her eyes and Freddie adopted a frustrated look in place of his confused one.
"What would give you that idea?" he demanded.
"Hello, earth to Frederly! You went on a date with the chick last Saturday. You know, the night I got completely jazzed."
Freddie shook his head, smiling as he took in a deep breath.
"Oh, come on, you and Carly were talking about it earlier this week. I'm not deaf, ya know."
"Well, that's not your problem, Sam. Apparently, you just don't listen." Freddie grinned, shaking his head.
"Hey, dipwad. Keep doing that condescending head-shake-smile thing and I will break your legs."
"Alright, sorry," Freddie assured her fearfully. "Listen, Priscilla and I were not on a date. We had a project to do for Calculus, so we went to the library. I drove her home. I told Carly this when she bugged me about it on Monday. Why is this such a big deal?"
Freddie looked at Sam the whole time he was speaking, and all the while she'd decided that her tennis shoes were a particularly interesting thing to look at. Sam obviously did not want to speak on the subject anymore, but Freddie would not get off of it unit the whole thing was settled. Usually, he would avoid anything that she was even remotely uncomfortable with because he liked being able to walk. This was different.
"Sam."
She looked at him quickly out of the corner of her eye, but he waited until she turned her face to look at him before going on, asking the same question again.
"What… What did our kiss mean to you?"
Sam scoffed.
"Jeez, Fredward. Could you be any more of a girl?"
"Sam." He was slightly exasperated.
The blonde was silent. She looked away from him and up at the stars. She began to swing. Had to think. (She hoped that he understood this.)
What did it mean to her?
She remembered the kiss—two kisses, actually, from the week before. Both in one night. There hadn't even been any tongue! She sneak attacked him first, then he…
She knew why she'd done it though—why she'd kissed him like that. When she got up that morning after getting zonked the night before and she saw him on her floor, she'd been overwhelmed with some emotion. Feeling. Ew. Sam did not like feelings. She especially did not like dealing with them. But anyhoo, the wave of emotions just crashed over her and pop! Right on the lips.
Sam knew for a long time that she'd cared for him on some level. They were frenemies, but for the longest time, she felt like they were hovering between frenemies and… something else.
And then it struck her as she swung back and forth.
Back and forth.
Oh, chiz.
Samantha Puckett was in like with Fredward Benson.
She dug the toes of her shoes into the mulch and brought herself to a stop. Sam peered over at Freddie. He was still staring at her, waiting.
"It meant a lot," she mumbled.
Freddie reached over to the chain of Sam's swing and put his hand over hers.
Sam hesitated. "Do you… likeme?" She looked as though she were sucking on a lemon as she forced the question out.
"Do you like me?" Freddie smarted playfully as he bumped her arm with his.
Sam was not amused. She glared at Freddie and then fixed her gaze ahead of her at nothing in particular.
"Oh, come on Sam. Why do you have your panties in a bunch now?"
"You know I hate that word, Benson," Sam warned.
"Panties."
Sam hit him in the bicep. Hard.
She thought she saw his eyes gloss over with tears of pain, but he managed to blink them away.
They were both silent for a time.
"Sam, please. Tell me what's wrong. As much as I wish I could, I can't read your mind."
"Maybe I don't want to talk about it, Benson."
"Too bad."
Sam raised an eyebrow at him. Freddie knew that, normally, it wasn't the greatest idea to fight fire with fire, but he hoped that it would work with Sam. Because Sam wasn't a normal girl.
"What did you say, Benson?"
"I said 'too bad.' You tell me that our kiss meant a lot to you, then you hit me. I'm tired of you playing with my emotions, Sam!"
"Oh, for ham's sake, I'm screwed up, Freddie!" she hollered. "I beat people up… mostly you. I drink, I sometimes smoke pot, I'm an underachiever, and I a blonde who hates to wear skirts."
"Sam."
"What?"
Freddie smiled as he leaned in to her and placed a chaste kiss on her lips. She froze.
"You are not screwed up. You're beautiful."
"God, Benson. You're such a fruit cup," Sam ground out, trying to hide her satisfied smile."
"Yeah, you do all of those other things, but look at the context."
"Context?" Sam sniggered. "Nerd boy."
"I love that you could take down an 800-pound sumo wrestler, and I don't mind that you beat me up."
"I guess that means that I need to beat on you harder."
Freddie grinned at her comment as he went on. "Sure, you've done some pot and drank. At the risk of sounding like a complete, utter, cheesy jack-wagon, you can come to Carly or me for anything, Sam, Anything."
Sam just stared. I was always sort of unspoken knowledge that they could talk to each other about their troubles—after all, what are friends for? But hearing it made Sam feel so much better that she couldn't even muster an insult.
"And as for brunettes and skirts," Freddie said as he got up out of his swing, "I have come to appreciate blondes and cargo pants too."
"Dweeb," Sam muttered as she stood as well.
"Yeah, I like you too, Samantha Puckett. OUCH!"
"That was for calling me you-know-what."
"Aw, come on! I promise to never call you that in public!"
Sam glared.
"Okay, okay, sorry. I promise I won't do it again."
"Good boy."
They walked back to the jungle gym and Freddie picked up his box.
"So, need a ride home?" Freddie offered.
"Nope. I'm staying at your place."
"What? Sam, my mom would have kittens."
"Don't worry, Benson—I won't molest you in the dark of the night."
"How about we stay at Carly's? I'll tell my mom that Spencer and I are having man-to-man bonding time."
"Yep. You probably need it. You're more of a girl than I am."
"Oh, Sam," Freddie said as he slung his free arm around her shoulders. "Have no fear. I won't interfere with your regular man-to-man time with Spencer—OUCH!"
"I am a lady, Benson," she said caustically. "Female."
They stopped by Freddie's car and he opened it, setting the box on the back seat, and closing it again.
"Sorry to burst your bubble, Sam, but you're no lady."
Sam clenched her teeth and looked away. That hurt. And Freddie could see right through her. He scrambled for the words to fix his mistake.
"What I meant was that you're not a lady a-and that's good. You're Sam."
"Yeah. If I were a lady, I'd be like Priscilla Wilkes. Ugh." Sam shivered at the thought. Freddie knew that this was her way of forgiving his word blunder.
"So, Puckett," he popped the P abruptly, "you never answered my question."
"Jeez, which one?" she asked as they slid into the car, which she started up immediately.
"Do you like me?"
"How do you make these air vents open?" she wondered aloud. Freddie reached over and opened it for her. Sam smiled wryly.
"Thanks."
"So?"
"So? What?"
"Oh, don't even."
"So, what? What do you mean by 'So'?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
"So also sounds like sew, like with a needle, Benson. And sow, as in gardening and all that vegetable junk."
"Horticulture?"
"Sure."
"For the love of God, Sam, do you—?"
"Yes! Alright?"
"Yes, what?"
"Don't push it."
"Sorry."
"Not as sorry as you will be."
"Beat me as much as you want, but it won't make me sorry."
"Dude, you are one kinky mo-fo."
"You love it."
Sam grinned and tried to hide it by smacking Freddie in the back of the head (while they were sitting at a stop light, of course).
Freddie wiggled around in his seat as if he were feeling around for something that was missing.
"Sam…where's my wallet?"
A/N: I hope y'all liked it! It took a while to finish. I edited it myself and only went through it once, so there were probably several mistakes that I missed. I know, I always say that, but I get things out faster when I just edit it myself rather than wait for someone else to edit for me... :) Anyhoo, I always enjoy your comments, so bring it! :) I enjoy your reviews, even if they are just one word: love, hate, stupid, ridiculous, unbelievable, crazy, fritos. Whatever. I just like to know that there are actual people out there reading! Thanks so much for your time!