Chapter 15: iGo Home

He almost knocked on the door. After taking a moment to process what that meant, he let himself into the apartment. The lights were out. It was quiet. No one was home. He wondered if his mother was at work, and what Gunsmoke was doing if she was.

At first, it was like nothing had ever happened—nothing looked different. But the longer he was there, the more things he started to notice.

After a week away, what struck him first was how sterile it smelled. No wonder Sam always teased him. He'd never noticed it before, but it really did smell like a doctor's office or something in here.

He stood in the middle of the living room, looking around. The carpet had fresh vacuum marks in the fibers. The kitchen counters were uncluttered, scrubbed. There were no dishes in the sink, or even on the draining board. There were fresh flowers in a vase on the dining room table.

After a moment, he went down the hall to his room. The door was closed. He turned on the light and was surprised to find his bed still unmade, the sheets he'd put in the dryer were a bundle in the middle of the mattress, not even folded. Gunsmoke's cot was unmade as well, some of his clothes here and there in the floor. Freddie smirked, recalling how the man had never allowed Marissa in to clean this room during his stays here and had always returned it to its previous state on his own before going.

Freddie started a shower to wash off the sweat and sawdust and when he pulled his shirt over his head, he smelled Sam on it. The smell was probably in his skin by now. The thought made him smile. He hoped it was.

As he showered, he realized he was back to getting two showers a day after being home for five minutes. That was the way of life here, the exact opposite of life at Sam's. He thought about all the little differences between this bathroom and Sam's. There was no blond hair sticking to the counter in this bathroom, no toothpaste splatters on the sink. He didn't have to hold the thing on the faucet, there were no dead granddaddy long legs crushed in the corners, the towels matched and had no bleach stains.

After getting dressed in fresh cloths and brushing his teeth (he'd been making do with mouthwash and toothpaste on his finger,) he heard the front door open. He opened the bathroom door as his mother's laugh drifted into the apartment. It was, like, real laughter. Smiling, Freddie called "Mom?"—consciously before he stepped out so as not to spring himself (his eyes) on her. He barely got a look at the strange image of a smiling-ear-to-ear-Gunsmoke whose arms were filled with brown grocery bags when a shriek hurt his ears and Marissa had him in a vice-grip of a hug.

He returned it. "I missed you, Mom," he said, and he couldn't believe how true it was. She was already checking him over head to foot, looking for injuries, ticks, signs of disease of any kind.

"Are you okay?" she asked, looking into his eyes. He looked for it, but could see nothing in her expression that hinted meeting his eye was hard for her at all. He saw nothing but relief and love in them .With a rush, he needed to hug her again and did.

She clung back then suddenly, "Freddie Benson!" she was shrilling, suddenly the aggressive parent that all of her conferences had taught her to be. She actually shoved him, which was such a surprise, he fell back several steps. "WHERE IN THE WORLD HAVE YOU BEEN?"

"With Sam," he said—looking to Gunsmoke with confusion. "Didn't you tell her?"

The man named Clayton who'd been smiling with his mother five seconds ago was now stoic Gunsmoke again. "She means what took you so long."

"Oh," Freddie laughed—tickled that there was someone who didn't need a translator with Marissa. She had her hands on him again, was smoothing out his shirt, combing his still-damp-hair, peeling back his eyelids to check his pupil dilation. He batted her hands from his face. Old times again.

She pursed her lips, wouldn't meet his eye, admitted reluctantly, "She actually took care of you."

"I was surprised, too." he laughed. Marissa smiled slightly, but then it was gone as her eyes widened and she took his chin in her fingers, "What's this, Fredward?"

"Scruff?" Freddie asked.

"Shave it off before it's a real beard!"

"What's wrong with real beards?"

"They're dirty—ticks hide in them."

Freddie shot a bewildered look to the man in the kitchen—the bearded one—before realizing that this was one of her things. She only thought ticks were in a beard if the beard was on him.

You're unclean.

He swallowed dryly, reminded himself that she couldn't help it and refused to take it personally. She was tense and nervous again, not meeting his eye. She turned away and headed for the kitchen and the groceries to put up there. Gunsmoke caught Freddie's eye and gave him a reassuring kind of look immediately followed by a silent command shot at Marissa.

She paused, turned sheepishly and looked Freddie in the face. He saw embarrassment and heartache swimming around in her eyes. But no, those were just tears. One dripped to her cheek as she admitted with a shake of her head.

"Freddie, the things I said before you left…"

Freddie felt something harden like a reflex. Blast doors closing like Sam's walls rising. He gulped and looked away. Marissa bent forward, twisted to stay in his line of sight. She was shaking but it wasn't with any kind of crazy-woman fire. This was something he'd never really seen before, but had always felt.

"You are my son. Mine, and no one else's. You have my father's chin, my grandfather's nose, and when you smile I even see a little bit of Jenny in your dimples. Your eyes may be shaped like his but they are your eyes because Freddie Benson shines out of them and lights up my life."

Warm fire filled Freddie's chest as stinging water filled his eyes—it was all so powerful and embarrassing that he snorted lightly, "Way to be lame, Mom." Gunsmoke even chortled silently.

"Well, it's true," she insisted, smiling despite herself as Gunsmoke shook his head at teenagers.

Marissa pulled Freddie into another hug, dragging his head down to her chest like she'd held him as a child. He went with it, registering vaguely that he'd never take his mother's hugs for granted ever again.

She kissed his damp hair, said against his scalp, "I have always loved you more than anything or anyone—" Freddie's eyes flicked to Gunsmoke. His back was turned. "I'm sorry you felt differently even for a second," Marissa gasped. "The past has just been so close recently—I—"

"Mom, ssshhh," Freddie said, giving her a squeeze. "I get it. It's okay. I know you love me. I love you too…"

…

When Carly was home from school, Freddie slipped over to her apartment. Not only was he due to be there to start sitting up for the show tonight, but she was one of his best friends, and he owed her some explanation.

"Hola!" he called amiably when he stepped into her living room. Spencer was stretched out on his couch, watching TV. The older man lifted his head, smiled hugely, "Hey, long time no see!"

"Yeah, how goes it?"

"Um'Kay." Spencer shrugged. Freddie noticed the sculpture of cell phones in the kitchen. "Hey is this No Signal?"

Spencer rolled off the couch, sprang to his feet, "Yeah! You likes?"

Freddie wandered over to it, and stared at it pensively. It was made entirely out of cell phones ranging from the huge ones from decades ago all the way up to the sleek and sexy Pear Phone. Some of them were shattered with bare chips and wires showing, others looked perfectly fine except that he'd painted the screens to read No Service or have icons of antennas with red X's through them. The pile of cell phones was in the shape of a man's face, his mouth open in a grotesquely huge and twisted scream. His eyes were swirls.

This had been inspired by Freddie's father's final words. Disobedience must be punished.

Spencer was at his side, watching him apprehensively—an artist eager for feedback. Freddie looked up at him, nodded. "I like it."

"Yeah?"

"It's awesome."

"Thanks,"

"Where's Carly?"

"Upstairs," Spencer answered, his dark eyes snapping to some imperfection on his work that only he could see. He began picking at something as Freddie made his way up to Carly's room. Her door was open, she was on her couch, history book in hand, reading required chapters.

"Freddie!" she cried, closing the book and springing to her feet. Suddenly, she was all up on him, whacking him on the arm with the flat of her palm. It was actually painful.

"Where. Where. You. Today?" she demanded. "And where's Sam? I know you two are in love and I'm happy for you but you can't just DITCH school and for a whole week in a row! What Freddie heard was that they couldn't ditch her for a week.

"We're going tomorrow, promise," he said.

"Oh," Carly lost her stern attitude. "Well, good. I've really missed you guys."

"I'm sorry we ditched you," he said. "And I'm so sorry about all that stuff I said about the show—"

She waved a hand, embarrassed, went back to her couch.

"I just had to deal with some stuff," he explained.

She scoffed, "Sam has told me that much—but she kept saying it's not her business to spread around."

"She was right."

Carly's face was all questions and he couldn't leave it at that. She was too good of a friend. Since she'd told him the story about her mom leaving, he decided to tell her as much as he could without telling her too much. He wandered over to her bed and sat on the corner of it.

"Mom told me about my dad," He said. Now she looked really interested but he chose to ignore that and said,

"He died last Friday."

She gave a start, offered a sincere. "Sorry."

He nodded. A moment passed and she laughed, went over to her vanity table. "Your mom was freaking out all week."

He tried to make his laugh sound not so forced. "Yeah, I went kind of AWOL on her."

"Don't do it again, it could kill her." Carly said as she got on-line.

"I've been informed." He laughed.

"Where's Sam?"

He explained about Julio and how they'd gone with him to build houses, and suddenly, without provocation, he was explaining how Sam was doing it to help her mom out, and how her laziness isn't as bad as she pretended it was. Carly was giggling.

"What?"

"Nothing." She quipped.

"What?" he asked again. His friend swirled her chair around and wagged her dark eyebrows. "You're gushing. It sounds like you're crazy about her."

"I am!" he gushed again. She laughed in surprise and Freddie flopped backwards onto the mattress. He pushed on his eyes, a smiled making his ears move back it was so big, "She's so great, Carly! I mean, when it's just the two of us she's not mean or gross—she's beautiful!"

"Awwwwe," Carly said. Freddie sat up and Carly had a weird look on her face, like she was looking at puppies in a store window. "Tell me more!"

Freddie realized Sam wouldn't have been giving too many details, wasn't her style. But it was his. Carly was his friend and he was eager to talk about it, to brag, to gush, to show his excitement. Maybe it was girly, but he didn't care. He told Carly all about the little things, the way she didn't whisper in the dark, or the way she smiled when she said the truth, or how she'd finally used that lilac scent because she wanted to smell girly for him.

Carly was in the middle of a long drawn out "awwwwwe" because of that last one when in through the bedroom door sauntered Tough Sam eating salami. She was dressed like she'd spent the day in bed. She stopped when Carly turned big sappy brown eyes on her.

"What?"

"Speak of the devil," Freddie said, standing from the bed. He didn't put his arms around her—in case Carly counted as the public she didn't like displaying affections in front of. Sam looked from Carly's puppy expression to his flushed cheeks and put it all together. She shoved him, "Telling lies about me, Freddifer?"

"No," he said, "I'm telling our best friend the truth about you—us." He corrected himself with a gush before he could help it.

Sam tamed a smile and rolled her eyes. "Don't bug me, Benson. I'm enjoying this salami too much."

Carly gave her tomboy friend such a sappy look that Sam actually took a step away from her, but Carly caught her in a tight hug. "I'm so happy for you!" she cried.

Sam gasped for air, "Okay, Carly, geez, it's not that big of a deal."

"Not that big of a deal?" Carly echoed, holding Sam at arm's length to look from her to Freddie. "Sam, you're in love! That's a very big deal!"

Sam wouldn't look at anyone, blushed as she admitted, "Yeah, okay, it is."

…

Walking Sam home before the sun went down, she wrapped her arms around him the moment the door was closed behind them and they were alone in the hall. "Think you can stay over tonight?"

"Hmmm," he really liked that idea, but he sighed, "I think my mom needs me to stay home tonight, prove I haven't left her forever."

"Yeah, I guess," she shrugged and he laced his fingers through hers, swung their hands between them. "Besides, I should give you some space."

She rolled her eyes, "I told you that wasn't what it was about—"

"I know." He interrupted, "But I don't want you to get tired of me."

She scoffed, and he pulled her closer. He put his forehead on hers. "I'll miss you, though."

Sam's shining smile suddenly died, her eyes hardened and she shoved him away, kicked him in the shins, "Keep your hands to yourself, ya nub." She said.

Confused, Freddie looked over his shoulder to find that Gunsmoke had stepped out into the hall. He carried his bag in one hand. He was leaving, the jungles of South America were calling.

A smile broke Gunsmoke's features as he looked from Sam to Freddie. "You can really pick 'em, Fred."

Freddie laughed, didn't say it out loud, but she was the one that picked him. And he couldn't believe his luck. Sam drifted respectfully around the corner so that Freddie could say his goodbyes.

"So,,," he hooked his thumbs in his pockets. "You're going home?"

Gunsmoke nodded.

"Well, I'm glad you were here," Freddie said. Gunsmoke nodded again.

"Could you—" Freddie cut off, unsure how to continue.

"If you have something to say, just say it."

"I was just going to say that—" Freddie laughed, and to his embarrassment, it was kind of a wet sound. He looked at Gunsmoke. "You're the closest thing to a real dad that I've ever had, and I want you to be in my life more."

Gunsmoke blinked rapidly, but maintained composure.

Something passed between the two men, an understanding that dragged Freddie a step forward and Gunsmoke a step toward him, into a loud hug, palms clapping shoulder blades. Freddie lost all his breath and tears pricked his eyes. Gunsmoke released him with a final tight grip on his shoulders.

Gunsmoke headed to the elevator and Freddie experienced something he hadn't felt in a week, since before Sam revealed who her father was.

He and Sam had something in common again, bad ass fathers. Freddie felt better, a weight lifted. He was okay. He got what he wanted—equality with Sam. He didn't need any more than that.

Gunsmoke rounded the corner, giving a curt nod to Sam as she passed him on her way back to Freddie's side. "Have a good trip," she said with a mock salute. He returned it, one side of his mouth quirked up.

Freddie wrapped his arms around Sam, and tried to imagine what would have happened if it hadn't been this week, of all the weeks in his young life, that he found love.

"You know, you saved my life this week," he said gratefully, taking her hand. He didn't care if he got another bruised shin. He wanted her to know how great a friend she was. To his surprise, she didn't kick him. Or even meet his eye.

"You saved mine," she said lowly.

Freddie's eyebrows came together as he pondered the meaning of that. A week ago, he never would have thought it would be necessary to save Sam Puckett from anything. He'd have put good money on it that Sam could've handled anything with one of her butter socks, one of her kidney punches.

But that was Sam as the world knew her.

He didn't want to think about what could have happened this week if she'd been on her own. Carly being unintentionally judgmental while Pam was even more out-of-whack thanks to Ol' Max, and dentist appointments would've been looming ahead while droopy eyed strangers waited at home… Sam would've had nowhere to go at the same time that the safe life with her father she'd given up was made closer thanks to a stupid school project…

Freddie knew with stomach-dropping certainty that the real Sam (his secret Sam) wouldn't have survived all of that. She would have hardened all the way through.

Suddenly speechless with a dry throat, all he could do was silently thank God for the small miracle of timing.

Sam shook her hand free, glancing shyly from under her thick lashes. Then she gave a little shrug that was anything but casual. But that shrug said it all. She was just returning a favor; they would always be equals.

FIN.