Title: Tuesdays with Sammy

Author: sundroptea

Rating: T – seriously, they're eighteen, Freddie is a man on the edge, and language is inappropriate.

Summary: What if Sam wasn't the one who cracked first? What would life be like for poor Freddie?

Author's Note: I'm working on the next chapter of A Complicated History, but I'm actually going out of town for a wedding, so I won't be able to post for a few days. (You won't believe me, but legit, it's in Wisconsin. I promise I will take a picture if there are fishsticks or if anyone pees themselves.) This is something I've been working on as a side project. It's definitely fluffier, and smuttier, and lighter. Certainly less serious! Really I just wanted an outlet for Freddie to be inappropriate. I hope you guys enjoy!

~begin~

He is thankful when his eighteenth birthday rolls around because it means his mother can't force him to see Dr. Roth anymore. Not that there was anything terrible about Dr. Roth; he was a nice enough sort of man, and a seemingly successful therapist. It was just that Freddie never really felt he needed a therapist to begin with, and now that he does need one, he doesn't want one who also has sessions with his mother.

Her hands are so smooth for someone with such rough, grinding edges. He watches her tie knots in string, and envies the string. He excuses himself with haste; her parting shot is something about his feminine constitution. He doesn't respond, thinking too hard about her skin and string, and the limitless combinations therein.

He is Fredward Benson, and so he is organized, and methodical, even about something so chaotic as his impending, inevitable incremental descent into madness. He makes a list of reasons he's sure he should seek help. He clearly has some sort of anxiety disorder; he can't control inappropriate thoughts, he's easily distracted, he can't sleep, his stomach hurts, he can't relax, he can't… concentrate…

"Fredcine, what is rotten with your chiz today?" He fumbles the camera, and sweats because it's rolling, they're on the air, and this is so not the time for him to be thinking about anything except zooms, and graphic effects; absolutely not how her loose top is sliding on her shoulder as haphazardly as everything about her is.

He knows it's bad when Carly joins in too. Carly gives him that sort of weird look only best friends know how to do, and it implies that she's noticed his distraction and that she will be discussing it with him at a later time. He flushes.

"Seriously, internet, our resident boy-genius (she snorts, and he flinches) and long time tech producer does seem to be slightly off his game today. If all you see on the screen is our toes, or vague tracking shots of blurry dust motes, you can blame him."

"Or beat him."

"Now, Sam, we don't beat friends."

"I said, beat him. No rules are broken."

She's talking about murdering him and he's thinking that to do that she would touch him and then he's off again. That right there is why he is quietly googling therapists out of the city, because he knows that his mother has hefty bribes out at most, if not all of the Seattle clinics for information that might concern him. Doctor-patient confidentiality is all well and good, but student loans are a bitch.

"Freddie!"

He needs to focus. Literally, the girls look smeared across the screen and he needs to be on top of that. On top of S- Oh god. This is bad. This is medication necessary bad.

Especially, he thinks if she ever finds out. He imagines the bruises. They would be such cute bruises. I wonder if I could get her to make the black eye look like a heart?

Not healthy.

"And, we're clear!" he calls out. If he were into details at the moment, which he SURELY isn't, he would notice that his voice cracked like a 12 year old, and that the noise didn't sit well with his broad shoulders, or his elongated frame. Nope, no details for him.

He decides to escape. He's got to get out of this studio, clear his head, and he's aware that he's pretty much bolting like a skittish colt, but he's a grown ass man, and he can flee if he wants to. He is flinging things from his tech cart into his shoulder satchel with abandon (his PearPad, the lens from the digicam, a pen cap- sans pen, a blank sheet of paper, Carly's reading glasses, and the workstation mouse, among other distracted choices ((he will look for that mouse for two weeks and will only find it by accident))) and not paying attention to the rest of the group who are all staring at him with some concern.

"Great show, guys!" he gabbles, mindlessly, extremely busy doing up the buckles on his now bulging knapsack. "Seriously, good work- that Gibby Says, Gibby Means bit is hilarious-"

"Freddie, we did that one last week."

He's halfway out the door. "Of course, of course, it was great! Well, I'm going to head out; got some things to do-"

"Benson!" "Freddie!"

"Can't really talk now, ladies, things, you know…" and he's gone.

Gibby looks to either side, and takes in the nearly identical expressions of consternation on the girls' faces. "Man, and they say I've got issues?"

He flips them the double chest-pound peace sign. "Gibby out."

He is in the park.

He is in the park, by himself, in February, in Seattle, on a Tuesday afternoon and he's eighteen.

He looks like a creeper. Several mothers have eyed him warily as he sits, parked, on a bench that isn't really that near the swings. The only saving grace is that he is looking steadily at the snow-covered ground, and not the children, which makes them think he's a drug dealer and not a pedophile.

He snorts. Thank goodness Sam isn't next to him. She'd probably start shouting at him to stop being a pederast and to call his parole officer before he relapses. That wouldn't get him arrested at all.

His head drops down to his glove covered hands. Maybe he should be arrested. He should absolutely be locked away. He might have an IQ just this normal functioning side of Mensa, but he's the village idiot. He wonders why he always picks girls that are unavailable. First Carly, who needed to be pushed out of the way of a speeding Burrito-mobile to recognize any of his boyfriendly potential, and now Sam, who will, in short, murder him so dead for even harboring the idea that she would in any way ever condescend to consider him on a more-than-friends basis.

It isn't that he hasn't tried to set himself straight. This, again, is Fredward Benson, of the Seattle Bensons. He's made lists.

~An Except From The Excel Files of Freddie Benson

Reasons Why Sam Will Never Love You

1. You're you.

2. She's Sam.

3. Carly.

Reasons Why Even If Something Crazy Happened And Sam Decided To Date You This Would Never Work

1. She isn't attracted to nubs.

2. Three quarters of your shirts are striped.

3. You two argue about everything.

4. EVERYTHING.

5. You would screw it up somehow.

6. It would defy the natural order of things.

Crazy Things That You Could Potentially Orchestrate to Happen With The Intention To Defy The Natural Order Of Things

1. ?

2. Operant Conditioning- Give Sam bacon every time your name is mentioned to train her to associate your name with happiness

Grocery List

1. bacon

He just can't shake it.

Every time, he tells himself, Freddie, you're setting yourself up for disappointment. She'll never love you! Every time, he steels himself and resolves that the next time he sees her he will be realistic and he will feel nothing more than the fondness that comes with being the best of frenemies.

Every time, it's like a punch in the face, the gut –the heart- when he sees her and he's right back to that panicked rush of crazy, be-smitten longing.

He moans through his gloves. He's worse than teen melodrama. He's nineties teen melodrama. Everyone knows that was the worst kind.

"Tick bath go wrong?" He stiffens, the thump of the body next to him causing him to jump, startled.

"I told you one day your freakshow of a mother would put too much Advantix in. So… what? It burn off your leg hair?" Her voice lowers, in false sympathy. "Your man doodle?"

"Sam!"

"They're doing amazing things with prosthetics now, Freddolina. I'm just trying to help!" But her eyes are twinkling above her wind-chapped cheeks, and there was a smile on her face. He felt the familiar, by now, whiz-bang-pow to the solar plexus. He wonders what she'd do to him if he blurted out that her smile made him nauseous in the best way possible. Probably cripple him. Maybe only below the waist, though. He weighs the consequences. He realizes he's been staring at her for almost a full minute when he notices that her eyebrows have disappeared under her fuzzy orange knit cap.

"OK. Spill."

"What?"

"No 'what.' Momma came out here, into the frigid, Pacific Northwestern winter air, to check on your chiz. She is not loving the snow dripping down her neck, or the fact that the slush on this bench is now soaking through her jeans. I would like to know why you're behaving even nubbier than usual." Her gaze on him is fixed and brooks no argument.

He decides that he's going to be childish, because looking directly at her is giving his eyes the same feeling they get when he stares directly at the sun. He turns away from her and crosses his arms.

"What's it to you?"

She mirrors his pose. "Maybe I'm concerned that someone is honing in on Momma's territory."

He gapes, and whips around toward her, aware of how unattractive he must look with his eyes bulging and his mouth flapping open. "What?"

"Is someone bullying you, Fredwierd? Aside from me, I mean. Because I thought I made it very clear that you were off limits. I doubt Mike Tyson lets randoms beat on his favorite punching bag- I don't see why I would be expected to."

He withers, sitting back and letting his head fall back in defeat, closing his eyes. He sneers, halfheartedly. "Oh. Charming as usual, Lady Puckett."

"Sensitive as ever, Lady Benson."

"Look, I'm fine."

"Yes. My, do you ever look fine- slumped over in the snow, by yourself, with only the mothers, their children and eventually the police for company. And that exit before! That was the epitome of mental health and stability." How a person could snap their fingers sarcastically, he can't understand, but she manages it, even through wool gloves. "Hey! I know! Let's call CrazyCakes and tell her what a great job her son is doing at existing today!" She reaches into her pocket for her phone, and this snaps him out of his sulk, his hands coming up to grab hers automatically.

"Sam, stop!" he orders, and as she grins up at him, his heart stutters in his chest. She dislodges him, but puts the phone back and it occurs to him that he just gave Sam Puckett a direction and she followed it. That's… new.

"So?"

He is blank. He's still reliving the feeling of her hands pressed in his, even through two layers of gloves. He wishes he had bought those thin, cheap ones instead of the warm, soft, brown leather ones he was wearing. His response reflects his wandering attention. He parrots, "So?" back to her, genuinely confused.

She looks exasperated and he wants to duck.

"Your damage, Benson, what is it?"

The irony of the situation isn't lost on him. His damage is sitting here interrogating him in a blue and yellow plaid peacoat, an orange knit cap, bright purple gloves and absolutely no idea. He would laugh if it weren't so depressing.

It's not long after that, and they're in second period study hall. It doesn't seem to worry her, or the presiding teacher, that Sam has study hall fifth period, so he decides he's not going to get himself worked up about it, either. He's just happy she's here, even if she is flicking little bits of orange peel at him. She's aiming for his open backpack and not his head and it makes him giddy because maybe that means she's warming to him.

He knows he's pathetic. He does.

"Pssst."

He is extremely busy, not with the AP Government reading he has laid out oh-so-convincingly in front of him, but picturing Sam feeding him slices of orange (he's lost his mind.).

"Pssst."

She'd never share food with him, even an orange. He could be dying of starvation, and she would still suck the rind dry before she threw it at him.

"Pssst!"

But still, if he squints, he can imagine it, sort of. His head would be in her lap and she would tangle her fingers in his hair. She would maybe lean down and kiss him while he chewed and she would taste like sunshine and sticky orange juice and-

Something smacks him directly between the eyes, and he jumps a foot into the air, blood in his cheeks. Some people look up briefly, but turn back to their studies almost right away. It's just Sam and Freddie again. It usually is these days.

He sees that Sam threw her half eaten fruit at him. It landed pulp side down and left a stain that smeared the words in his Gov book beyond comprehension. He is most certainly not staring at it besottedly, if you're interested. He mans up enough to play the game, and glares at her.

"Are you seriously ignoring me?"

"Ignor- Sam, this is study hall! What did you want me to do, sing you an ode?"

(He pictures it and knows just the song. One of his earlier ideas to win her over had included a serenade at some point. "Lake of Fire" might not seem romantic, but it is badass, and he thinks that would win him points.)

"If you do I will hurt you. With pain."

"Then what?" he hisses, all too aware that while Mrs. Langerstrom can't be bothered to notice an unauthorized addition to her classroom, she is watching him with a hawk-like eye, ever ready to give him detention for the slightest of provocations. He blames the parent teacher conference freshman year, when his mother had confronted her about the menagerie of creatures she had kept in her classroom. ("When you stay away from the wild and pets, you are winning one of life's safest bets!") Not pleased with the proximity of such dangerous and disease infested creatures as hamsters (vermin!), garter snakes (snakes!), various birds and lizards ("Never trust anything with hollow bones and you won't die, pecked and alone!"), and, horror above all horrors, a butterfly terrarium ("Fredward Benson! You will not touch those revolting creatures. They mutate in pockets of their own regurgitated… fluids! Filth!"). His mother's diligent efforts (including contacting the School Board, Animal Control and the state of Washington's board of health) had led to their forced eviction. Now all that's left of Mrs. Langerstrom's Zoo of the World were fading memories, and two tacked up pictures of her Gila monster (codename: Zilla). With all the time she'd formerly spent caring and feeding her hoard, she now devoted to making Freddie's life miserable. He wondered if she'd rigged having him in her homeroom for the past four years, or if the universe really hated him that much. She was the one teacher in the whole school who applauded, even encouraged, Samantha Puckett's cruel streak, at least where it concerned putting him or his belongings in peril. Right now, she has her entire body turned in their direction, without even the slightest hint of shame. She is watching the two of them with the same feral anticipation that the Romans must have felt in the seconds before the lions were released.

"Don't you take that tone with me, Fredabella!" Sam's blue eyes are flashing dangerously, and he is struck by how goddamn sexy she makes unspoken threats of physical violence sound, and then immediately wants to kill himself, because who thinks that? He flushes and shifts uncomfortably in his seat before mistakenly catching Mrs. Langerstrom's gimlet eye and freezing. He wonders if there's a way for him to bang his head against the desk quietly enough that Mrs. Langerstrom wouldn't consider it to be disruptive to her classroom. Being the same woman who'd once given him a week's worth of lunch detention because he'd dragged his pen too loudly across the paper, he didn't have high hopes.

"Sorry!" he caves, of course, because staying mad at her, ignoring her, and holding out on her are three things Fredward Benson is incapable of doing. He barely mouths the words out of the corner of his lips but he sees Mrs. Langerstrom light up in triumph. She raises her detention pad in the air and waves it significantly in his direction. Sam smirks, and makes an aborted attempt at stifling it. He groans, defeated.

"Looks like you're in with the detention posse for the next, oh… I'd say week or so, if the looks of that furious scribbling is anything to go by."

"Aww, man!" He slouches, pouting. Sam chucks him on the arm, unintentionally giving him a seriously awesome glimpse down the front of her dark green hoodie. He knows his face is going red, but he tries to ignore it.

"It's not so bad, Frannie. Look on the bright side! At least you can look forward to the honor of my oh-so-pleasant company after school. I got detention through Friday." This does change the situation somewhat, for him, but he can't admit to that, can he? He would then have to explain that his idea of looking forward to her company these days has frequently included imagining her attacking his face with her lips instead of her fists.

"How? You were just crowing yesterday about how you'd made it through an entire Monday without –I quote- 'Getting caught for anything worth getting caught for'!" He tries to avoid further punishment, and leans toward her as he lowers his voice. He gets hit across the face with a wave of blonde hair and he's lost again. Oh god, if we're the only two in detention, and Mrs. Briggs does her usual take role-take off deal, we'd be alone in a classroom. I've always wanted to make out with Sam on a teacher's desk. Or in a student desk! Or at all… God, maybe I can get her to call me Professor Benson! Anything as long as I can get my fingers into her hair…

She stands, jerking him from his reverie. "Luck ran dry. So will Howard's carpets… eventually." He gawks at her a little, especially when Mrs. Langerstrom does nothing but wave merrily at her. He splutters, because in the next second she's back to glaring at him and pointing back and forth between him and her eyes.

"Welp. Looks like Momma's work here is done!" Sam turns to go. He is dumbfounded. Why she would go through all the trouble of crashing his class if all she was going to do was get him detention? No pain? No physical injury? He brightens considerably, secretly hoping his orange peel theory isn't so far off. He remembers she was going to say something before he interrupted.

"Wait!" He abandons all pretense of secrecy or tone modulation. In for a penny, in for a pound, that's his motto. Or it will be, one day, when he has a motto. She pauses in the doorway holding a Poptart she didn't have a second ago. He sees Tommy Lino sigh and mournfully lick his fingers for any stray remnants of what he'd intended to be his breakfast.

"Djessssss?" she trills, uninterestedly.

"What did you want to ask me before?"

"When?"

"When you accused me of ignoring you? You know before you got me in trouble?"

She shrugs. "Oh, that. You have a spider in your hair."

He jumps and swats at his head frantically. "What? I do not!"

"Yeah, ya do. It was on the piece of orange I flicked at you. It's fine. The ones with the red bellies aren't poisonous, right?"

She leaves him there shaking his head wildly from side to side, as Mrs. Langerstrom has an orgiastic moment of wild punishment abandon, detention slips flying through the air like confetti at a parade. He'll probably be parked next to Sam for every detention through college; she must be off her game. She didn't think that one through.

For all the thought he's given where she's throwing her rubbish it hasn't occurred to him to analyze the fact that she came after him, into the snow, when everyone knows that Samantha Puckett likes warmth and meat (they once lost her when they were fourteen and were legitimately worried she'd been Sam-natched until they found her underneath the radiator, fast asleep, snuggled up around a bucket of chicken. It was so adorable even fourteen year old Freddie didn't give her a hard time about scaring them. They just let her sleep and dream sweet, carnivorous dreams.). Sometimes Fredward Benson can't see the forest for the trees.