Punch Drunk Crazy

Samantha couldn't decide if she liked living in Arlington or if she absolutely hated it. She had spent the last four years living in Baltimore, and when one of her college best friends had practically begged her to take over the last six months of her lease in Arlington after getting a promotion that involved moving halfway across the globe Sam couldn't say no. Well, she could have, she just was notoriously bad at it. Still, living in Arlington had it's perks, and while she could have kept her old job she took a job from a guy she went to law school with that paid much better, and slowly she found that she enjoyed the city, or at least she thought she did. People were nice enough, and she never felt too out of place. It was close to Washington, which meant that jobs were never hard to get if she needed one. It certainly had it's perks.

Like her neighbours; two guys that had helped her move her boxes in three weeks previous. Both brunette, one tall and broad, and the other even taller, and even broader, and both quite good looking. Mike, the shorter of the two, wasn't around very often, but they would meet occasionally in the lobby or the elevator and he was friendly enough, Tom on the other hand seemed to always be around. He would always find reasons to knock on her door; Can I borrow some sugar? Do you have any milk? Even Is your internet out too? She was beginning to, in her head of course, call him the lovable scamp rather than Tom.

She had just gotten out of the shower and was wrapping a towel around herself when someone knocked on the door. Without really thinking of it Sam padded toward the door and pulled it open without even looking through the peep hole, and Tom, standing in the hallway leaning against the door frame glanced at the pink towel and flushed, “Sorry.”

Sam glanced down, her own cheeks pinking up before she shook her head, “It's fine, what do you need?”

His cheeks seemed to flush even more as he explained his sudden appearance at her door at nine in the morning on a Saturday, “I was wondering if you had any milk, and maybe a couple of eggs? I'm attempting to make breakfast.”

She couldn't help but chuckle, but, surprising both of them, she offered, “Why don't you just come in? Something tells me I'm probably a better cook than you are.”

So Tom followed her inside her apartment, which almost mirrored he and Mike's exactly. Only while their apartment was sparsely furnished, and looked like a bachelor pad, Sam's had throw pillows and pictures in frames and everything. Again he apologized for catching her at a bad time, “Sorry again for interrupting.”

She glanced over her shoulder and shook her head, telling him, “Don't worry about it. I'm just gonna go put some clothes on. Make yourself comfortable.”

When Sam returned from her bedroom down the hall she was surprised to find Tom standing in front of her fireplace, when he heard her feet on the floor he turned around and motioned to one of the many pictures frames that littered the mantle, “What'd you go to school for?”

He was referring to the photo of herself and Paula at their graduation almost five years ago, as she dug through her fridge she told him, “Law school.”

“Lawyer... makes sense.” He commented, mostly to himself, but when she raised her eyebrow at him he explained, “You're always dressed really fancy, makes sense now.”

He glanced at her, taking in her light wash jeans that almost clung to her hips and thighs, and the Harvard sweater he figured was more than just a shirt she picked up from a store, and it occurred to him that this was the first time he had seen her dressed so casual before. She was always in dress pants and skirts and blouses and blazers and impossibly high heels. He had never even seen her hair down, it was a lot longer than he expected. Sam cleared her throat, catching him staring at her, and she joked, “Well we can't all roam around in athletic shorts and t-shirts that make people wonder if we bought it that small on purpose.”

He shot her a lazy smirk, and when her cheeks flushed he made her laugh by saying, “It's not my fault I'm so jacked.”

Sometimes when they talked, even briefly, Sam could forget that he was clearly much younger than she was, and sometimes, like right now, it was so painfully obvious it made her wonder what the hell she was doing making breakfast for him when she should have just given him the milk and eggs and sent him on his way.

As she cooked he asked her, “So where are you from?”

She didn't answer, instead she turned the question back on him with a small smile, “Where are you from?”

He told her easily, “Toronto.”

“Canada?” She asked him in surprise and when he nodded she asked, “What the hell are you doing in Virginia?”

He chuckled and explained, “I play hockey for the Caps.”

She nodded slowly, and she somehow managed to keep a straight face as she asked, “That's the one with the rubber thing on ice right?”

He stared at her, almost surprised, and then she cracked a smile and he let out a loud laugh, “You almost had me there.”

“I do know what hockey is, but I can say I don't think I've ever watched a game.” She admitted to him, and Tom had to stop himself from blurting out that she could come to one of his games. Mike had already warned him not to make an idiot out of himself and make their new neighbour move because he had done something to make her uncomfortable.

So instead of just setting himself up for failure Tom changed the subject and asked her, sort of joking and obviously borderline flirting, “So do you always make your neighbours breakfast?”

Sam turned her head over her shoulder and smiled gently, assuring him, “Nope, this would be the first.”

“So... I'm your first then.” He stated with a wide grin.

She rolled her eyes but a small laugh escaped her lips and she knew she should have shut the conversation down a long time ago, but she couldn't help herself from telling him, “You're definitely the first strange boy to have breakfast at my kitchen table here.”

“Strange? I'm wounded.” When he said this to her she looked over her shoulder again and raised her eyebrow and he gave her that mischievous smile that had been on his face almost permanently since walking into her apartment that morning and he told her, “I'm definitely up to like... adorable helpless almost friend by now.”

“Lovable scamp.” Sam said softly.

“What?” When he asked this in amusement she shrugged and he asked, “Did you just call me a scamp?”

“So what if I did?” She asked as she turned to face him, a small smile playing on her lips and Tom, again, had to stop himself from getting up and crossing the kitchen and covering it with his own mouth. He could do it, if he really wanted to, it would be so easy, only a few long strides but he stayed seated and kept his mouth to himself.

He shrugged and told her, “You probably wouldn't be the first person to call me that.”

“Oh so I'm not the only person you bug?” Sam joked, and when he looked up at her with a small pout she held a fork out and warned him, “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” He didn't stop.

“That. Don't look at me like that.” She informed him as she brought a plate with pancakes over to him.

As she took the chair across from him Tom looked over at her, almost smirking, and asked, “Why not?”

She didn't answer right away, as if deciding how she should proceed, before Sam looked at him and told him honestly, “Because then we might not get to breakfast.”

He again sent her a smirk, and asked, “What's wrong with that?”

She shook her head in amusement, but she didn't respond. Instead they both started in on their pancakes, and ate in silence. It wasn't until they were both done, but hadn't moved from the table, when Sam finally asked what she had been wondering since he helped her move boxes into her apartment weeks previous, “How old are you?”

He looked over at her, and he hesitated, and that was enough for her, but then he answered her, “Twenty-one.”

She choked on her orange juice, surprising him, and when she calmed down she looked at him like he had three heads, “Are you serious?”

“Twenty-two in March.” Because that made it so much better.

“Oh god. Okay... I think that... this is so not appropriate and I think you should probably go back to your apartment and stop asking me for milk and eggs and things.” Sam told him, clearly flustered by his response. Younger, sure she had been expecting that, but she hadn't been expecting that much younger.

Curiously Tom asked her, “How is it not appropriate? We're two neighbours having breakfast together. What's wrong with that?”

“What's wrong with that is that I'm thirty, and the last thing I should be doing is having breakfast with my twenty-one year neighbour.”

She could have kicked him under the table when he leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest and told her, “I still don't see what's so inappropriate about that.”

Sam didn't answer him, instead she got up from the table and walked to the door, opening it, despite not wanting to. Tom followed her, also against his own desire, and once he stepped out into the hallway she told him, “You should really stop coming over here for things.”

He seemed to be as stubborn as she was and as he headed back toward his own apartment he told her, “Not gonna happen.”

So Sam closed the door to her apartment and turned around, staring at the two plates on the kitchen table and she sighed. Every part of her had been ready to drop her clothes when he had been here, hell, she even still wanted to go to his apartment and see if maybe he still tasted like the maple syrup he had poured on his breakfast. But, as usual, her head was louder than her body, her head was the smart one. Her body was screaming at her to forget it, who cared if he was nine years younger than her he was cute and she was so pent up. But her head was just a little bit louder, and it was telling her to forget about whatever thoughts she had about her neighbour since moving in. It wasn't gonna happen.