Sambucky one shots

Got A Sweet Tooth, Come And Chew Me Up

Sam might be screwed.

He likes to emphasize the ‘might be’ though, because it leaves some hope for him. Unfortunately the hope doesn’t materialize itself today as Sam slouches up against the wall.

His lease is ending and he has yet to find a place. He has two weeks. Fourteen days.

He thinks he can manage. Plus, although Sam slightly feels a little bad about it, his friend Natasha offered her guest room up to him for as long as he needs. It’s not that he isn’t grateful or doesn’t like the idea of living with her for a bit, he’s like her “work husband” or whatever she called him the other day with a snicker. It’s just he should really have his shit together and pants pulled up, ready to deal with all of this.

But instead he’s sweaty and tired after a long day of packing not knowing the new place his stuff will all go to. He really doesn’t want to put his stuff in a storage unit, to be honest, they might reek of the smell of weed when he takes them out (in his past personal experiences, this may or may not have happened because apparently storage units, in their steel glory, surrounded by rock and gravel, are the perfect spot to hit a joint or try and grow).

So, he really needs to find a place, basically. He’s actually pretty confident in his packing abilities. He just has a couple of big furniture pieces and the essentials  left.

He grabs at the bottom of his shirt, curls in on himself slightly just to wipe off his forehead with the fabric of his shirt. With that, Sam tosses his hands to the side in exasperation and glances around at the almost empty room he’s in.

“You got this Sam,” He mumbles out loud, just for extra encouragement. In case, you know. 

His eyes catch on the spider that suddenly dashes across the far side of the room, making him grimace and lean against the wall, which accidentally bumps over the broom he propped up, hitting the wooden ground with three good clangs.

He closes his eyes and tries to reassure himself.

God, he really hopes he’s got this.

“You know I have a guest room,” She says and Sam tries not to show any emotion in response because whoops, he’s gotten himself into this again. Natasha tilts her head, dark red hair moving along with her and brushing her shoulders. She faces him slightly, then lifts her coffee cup up to her lips and takes a sip. “Right?”

“I know,” Sam confirms, offering a huff of a laugh as he rests his elbows on the counter in front of him. “You’ve told me on many occasions.”

She gives him a knowing look, because Natasha’s always had this thing where she can read people  effortlessly. Sometimes it makes him suspicious of her, other times it makes him admire her skill, and rarely it makes him wonder if he’d be better at hiding from her if he actually chose to go down his path as a social worker. Since, for some reason he thinks if he’s evaluating and helping others, it will somehow make him harder to evaluate.

It doesn’t make sense when he tries to explain it, to be honest.

Natasha hums, a small smile making its way on her face. “Because I want to drill it into your brain, obviously.”

“Oh it’s drilled,” He says, lifting up a hand to tap his head. “It’s in there, I can even predict when you’re about to say it. Again.”

“Impressive,” She comments dryly, then finishes off what little is left of her coffee, and pushes off of her seat and pats his shoulder. “Keep me posted, mkay?”

Sam fake salutes. “Will do.”

With that, she continues past him, leaving him in the break room. He’s about to let himself dig into the depths of his thoughts, all by himself now, but it’s no more than two minutes he gets by himself until he feels an approaching presence.