Yo Ho and a Bottle of Scotch

Her eyes opened and the first thing that they took in was the clean, crisp white ceiling. She was pretty sure that it was the only part of her entire life that was spotless. She just stared up at it for a time, taking it in. The beauty. The splendor. The perfection. It was a blank sheet of printer paper, unmarred by blemishes of ink, pencil, or coffee stains (or fatcake oil…those things are greasier than potato chips). It was what she woke up to every morning, and what she saw every night before she went to bed. Perfect.

The jarring blare of her alarm clock ruined the moment. Of course. Every morning. She swung her legs over the edge of her bed and immediately regretted the activities she'd engaged in the night before. Hangover central. Sure, she'd won the drinking games, but at what cost? She wasn't the type to turn down a challenge, and especially not when challenged by a pansy like Richard Marvin. Come on. His first name: Richard (dweebish). His last name: Marvin (also a first name). Sam couldn't stand people who didn't have the decency to have a first name and a last name. Really? Was it so difficult to make the effort to get a real last name—one that may not also act as a first name? Seriously, the nerd was asking for it.

So when he challenged her to a drinking game…or two…or three…or…more than three, she couldn't refuse, for being bested by a wuss of his caliber would ruin her. The mere thought made her want to punch someone.

It was a Friday night and Allen Barclay was having a party. He was a year older than her and a freshman in college. They'd dated for a short time—well, more like made out in the boy's locker room during her Biology class. She mostly did it to defy Freddifer, who was very verbal in his objections to her skipping of the class. So, in retaliation, she skipped almost every class. She also did it because Fredward Benson hated Allen Barclay.

To be entirely truthful, Sam Puckett wasn't technically invited, but she wasn't technically not invited. So she had no qualms about showing up unexpectedly. Well…she wouldn't have had any qualms about showing up either way. She was Sam Puckett after all. What a huge ass like Barclay (yeah, Samantha Puckett was well aware of the fact that he was not the best person in the world) thought about her attending his party uninvited made no difference to her. All she wanted to was to get smashed (in the easiest possible). So, her plan: crash Barclay's party and get smashed. Easy.

Yeah, it probably wasn't the best idea to go alone to a party with people who couldn't give two shits about her or her safety, but at the time, Sam had not been thinking straight.

Because Fredward Benson was on a date with Priscilla Wilkes.

Really? Priscilla Wilkes of all people. Of course, Sam could see why Freddie would want to go out with her: She was brunette and she wore skirts—she was ladylike and sweet and kind and charming and she didn't smoke weed sometimes in the abandoned lot behind the seven eleven. (Not that Sam made a habit of this anymore, but during her sophomore and junior years, she'd been going through a particularly rough time at home.) But needless, to say, Priscilla would never in a million years be caught dead in such a place with such a class of people, and no matter how hard Sam tried to change herself, she couldn't be un-Sam. And her Sam-ness was not what Freddie Benson wanted or needed. He needed a Carly Shay, but since Carly had as much interest in him as a lazy housecat has in playing fetch, the next best thing was a Priscilla Wilkes.

And Sam couldn't even hate the girl. What with the way she genuinely cared about people (including Samantha Puckett). And all that chiz. She reminded Sam of her sister, Melanie, and yeah, Sam had tried hating her to—didn't work. She only ended up realizing how much she needed her pretty little flower of a sister.

So it's easy to see why Samantha Puckett neither worried nor cared about her own personal safety when she walked out of her rickety mobile home and across the town, all the way to chez Barclay to drown her troubles in some cheap beer (and hopefully some aged and expensive scotch from Barclay Senior's wine cellar). Her Sam-ness did not allow her to care. She could take care of herself—she didn't need anyone else. On the bright side, her plan worked out pretty well. After drinking games had ceased, Sam had stumbled out back and found her way to the wine cellar, just as she'd promised herself, and began to gorge herself on the wonderful liquid courage she found there—not that she needed the extra courage…

By the time Sam had called Fredward Benson, she'd completely lost track of how much alcohol she'd consumed. Too much, to say the least.

"Sam? What's wrong?"

"How's my wittle Fweddiebear!" Sam mocked.

"Sam, are you drunk?" Freddie responded, exasperated.

"As a skunk." She was a surprisingly articulate drunk.

"Where are you?"

"Cloud nine. Care to join? I'm pretty sure I could find some more of that—"

"No, Sam—stop drinking. Where are you?"

"You're not the boss of me, Fredwina! It's just a little scotch! What's the matter? Too wrapped up in your Priss to have a little fun?"

Sam could feel his glare over the phone. Unaffected and defiantly, she got up and opened the cabinet (which contained a wide assortment of liquors) and picked out another scotch, uncorking it then taking a long swig.

"That wasn't necessary, Sam."

"Yeah, yeah, Freddifer. Keep using big words—see if I care."

"You know, you should, I'm the one who's coming to save your butt!"

"Hey, I never asked you for anything, okay, nub?" Sam replied through gritted teeth as she got up.

What Freddie said next was muffled, and Sam suspected that he was covering the receiver with his hand.

"I'm sorry, but I have to leave as soon as possible to go get Sam. She's drunk."

"Hey, you have no business telling Priss about my state of affairs, Frednub!" Sam shouted into the receiver, but Freddie ignored her. The other person's response to him was unintelligible to Sam and in the background she could hear the sound of a car door being shut.

Freddie let out an exasperated sigh and the sound of a car engine being started led Sam to believe that he'd just been dropping Priscilla off at her house.

"Sam, just tell me where you are," he finally spoke after the long period of silence.

"Barclay's wine cellar. Party sucked, but the alcohol is still good, so…" She shrugged as if say 'whatever,' not realizing in her stupor that Freddie could not see this gesture. Sam heard him sigh over the phone.

"Just stay where you are, Sam. I'll be there soon." And then he hung up.

Sam rolled her eyes as she slid down to the ground and leaned against the wall, taking another swig of the scotch. "Ah, where have you been all my life?" Sam questioned the bottle of liquid. She knew that she really should have listened to Freddie and stopped drinking.

You just can't let him win, can you? Her conscience spat, disgusted with her. You're turning into her, you know.

Sam clenched her jaw in realization. She stared the bottle of liquid down for a moment before she threw it with all of her might at the far wall. Some of the alcohol sloshed out of the bottle and on to the ground before the bottle shattered—it was a rather pretty sight. The sweet drink spewed everywhere. In the back of her mind, she realized that this was not her wine cellar to destroy, but she couldn't make herself care. Barclay was a douche, anyway.

No, she couldn't care while she was preoccupied with her realization that she was, indeed, turning into her mother. Sam had had to take care of her mother while she was in a drunken stupor ever since she could remember, and she'd always told herself that she would never subject anyone to that. And here she was, subjecting Freddie to her own drunkenness.

Sam settled her forehead into her palm and tried soothe the aching headache that she hadn't realized was there until she'd stopped forcing more alcohol down her throat.

It was then that the cellar door was flung open, but it wasn't Freddie as she'd hoped—instead it was a horny, drunken couple, obviously looking for a place to be alone. The guy was carrying the girl inside bridal-style.

Oh, hell no. I refuse, Sam thought.

"Hey! Bert and Ernie! Do you mind? I'm wallowin' here!"

The girl gasped in shock and the boy, in his own shock, swung his companion around and her head came into what looked like painful contact with the door frame.

"Ouch!" the girl exclaimed. Sam broke out into a full-blown, roaring laughing fit as she watched the two scramble out of the door the way they came.

"Yeah, that's right. Run away you pansies!" she cried out as she called her laughing.

All of this effectively distracted Sam from her sulking for a moment, but as the seconds rolled by, the reality of the situation began to sink back in: Sam had failed. She had become the one thing that she'd despised, and she didn't know if she could change.

Of course, you can't change. You're mother couldn't change, you're father couldn't change. You can't change either. Why do you even try?

Sam sat staring at the wall for God knows how long, thinking about this before the door opened again. This time, however, she didn't look over to see who it was, mostly because she already knew it was him, but also because she couldn't put forth the effort. She was immobilized.

"Sam." She heard his voice, and it echoed in her ears as if he were speaking into a barrel. She did not respond. She heard him sigh, probably because of her absolute stillness. "Alright, come on."

And then Freddie picked her up. Somehow, it wasn't corny when she was the one being carried. Freddie eventually managed to open the car door (with much difficulty since he was carrying Sam), and slipped her into the passenger seat. He reached around her carefully and buckled her seatbelt. The next thing she knew, the car was starting and they were moving. Sam didn't know where they were going, nor did she care to notice. It was only when they began to pass the some familiar dirty trailers that she realized that he was taking her home, and despite the fact that she didn't really like it there, it was the choice preferable to his apartment. Sam didn't want to risk anyone there seeing her this way—especially Carly.

The car stopped in front of her place. There was no movement. Just breathing. Staring. Seeing.

Then she turned her head and saw him. Something beautiful. Something she didn't deserve. Sam knew that she rarely got what she deserved. She deserved hell sometimes—she knew it. If it weren't for that one saving Grace—that one Goodness. The Goodness that accepted her Sam-ness… Sam wondered momentarily if that same Goodness was in Freddie.

And when she looked at him, she saw it.

And then she began to cry.

In front of Fredward Benson.

And she turned away from him, wiping furiously at her face.

And she felt his hand curve around hers.

And she felt an odd feeling in her stomach.

And her chest.

And in her throat.

And she kinda liked it. She sorta-kinda liked it a lot…

The memory of last night left Sam with a wry smile on her face. She stared, dazed, at the flashing blue numbers on the clock. 7:00 AM. Why was her alarm clock on anyway? It was Saturday morning. Must have forgotten to turn it off. Oh, well.

Suddenly, the flashing and the blaring stopped. Freddie was sitting up on the floor, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his pointer finger. Sam didn't know what time they'd fallen asleep, but it couldn't have been more than five hours prior. As she was wondering, Freddie picked himself off of the floor, grunting as he did so.

Sam wanted to ask him where he was going, but she didn't want to seem clingy, so she clenched her jaw closed. Tightly.

"Ugh, my mom's probably freaking out," Freddie explained as he took out his phone and proceeded to turn it on.

Oh. "Oh." Sam thought it first, and then was too lazy to think up something different to say out loud.

Freddie gave her a weak smile as he ran his fingers through his hair and tried to smooth out his shirt, patting his pockets for his keys; a jingle that signified that they were, indeed, still there.

"Thanks for picking me up last night," Sam said quickly and quietly, trying to avoid looking him in the eyes and failing. Freddie's weak smile turned into a genuine smile. And Sam felt like the luckiest girl in the world. Many times, he'd smiled at Carly or Priscilla in the same way, but never her—not until right then. So she really couldn't help it when she got up boldly and smashed her lips against his. It only took her half a second to realize what she was doing.

She was macking on Freddie… Shit.

Sam backed up as quickly as possible and sat down on her bed. Freddie just stared for a moment.

"Sorry," she whispered quietly.

And then Freddie surprised Sam by swooping in and gently brushed his lips against hers. However, he did not move for a total of eight seconds.

When he finally did pull away, they were both smiling. Ugh—they were a couple of cheese balls! Can't get any cheesier than that.

And this only made Sam's smile grow wider.

"That, Princess Puckett, was the first time you've ever said 'sorry' to me and meant it."

Sam looked away and shrugged her shoulders. She briefly mused that the name 'Pirate Puckett' would probably be a better fit for her than 'Princess Puckett.' After all, she was often pirating junk from other people.

"Yeah, whatever, Fredweirdo. Just don't expect it to ever happen again."

Freddie sat down on the bed next to Sam, leaving about two inches between them and looked at her with a playful grin on his face.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Princess."

Well, maybe 'Princess' worked too.

A/N: Just a one shot I felt possessed to write. I just love this pairing right now! :) Not betaed at all—all typos are my own, so sorry about that.