she’s still pouting. actually that’s the understatement of the century. john made her leave work one day because zoe was in such a bad mood she almost threw a wrench through the plate glass window at the front of the shop. it was freshly painted with this month’s special advertisement on it and john wasn’t having any of that, so off she was sent, with twenty bucks pushed into her hand and “go drink it off or somethin’” whispered into her ear as a warning.
and she did. not at ace’s. she hasn’t been there in almost two weeks. instead she’s stopping at the corner store and depositing twenty after twenty in their till in exchange for cheap whiskey and a pack or two of smokes.
she’s got her earbuds in more often now too, and not a soul would say a word if they found out she’s got that ridiculous soundtrack sam plays at the tattoo shop so often.
she might be punishing herself, a little bit, for acting so stupid. for hitting him. for hurting her best friend. she wants to think he is, at least, but their text messages have been missing that certain… something they always had before. everything is way too straight-forward. there hasn’t been a single meme or ridiculous picture sent between them in — too long.
it was just a kiss and she just… reacted. horribly. painfully. he bled. she did that. and now it’s almost all she can see. she can’t close her eyes anymore without seeing that look of — she doesn’t even know what it was. was it shame? was it … what was it? the kiss itself was… PERFECT. unexpected, but still better than any others she’s ever had. and yes, she does attribute that to the fact that it was Sam. anything with Sam is automatically a million times better than anything without him.
it’s becoming more and more apparent that her entire life, every aspect of it, is better because of him.
it’s savage garden today. and again she’s not in a great mood. realizing the difference between two weeks passing by while he’s gone to the tattoo convention she bought him tickets to for his birthday, and two weeks gone by where they’re still in the same town, she’s driving past his studio to get to work every day ( no — its not ‘out of the way’. what are you talking about? ) and she knows she could end this awkwardness by just showing up and making copies of paperwork and booking him a few sessions from the never-low stack of messages he has of people wanting appointments.
things could be normal.
things could be good.
she could have him back.
she just doesn’t d e s e r v e him.
buried wrist deep in an engine with the gentle voice of the lead singer of savage garden crooning ‘i want you’ in her ear, it takes her a minute to realize everyone around her has gone still.
russ isn’t welding away in his corner anymore, and taz and randall have stopped, both staring off towards the big bay door she just pulled this car in through a few minutes prior to beginning it’s disassembly. the crackle of the front office speaker pulls her full attention finally, first looking there and seeing dean about to cry from trying not to… laugh?… and john just smiling smugly from his chair and looking the same direction as everyone else.
the music stops and her eyes follow everyone else’s — just in time to hear her name.
and when she sees sam standing there in… a suit?… with sunflowers?… tugging at his collar like that…
her stomach does this swoop-drop-twist thing.
her hands start wiping against her jumpsuit, streaks the thighs more than they already are and she blows stray hair out of her eyes, pulls her earbud out to hang from the zipper in front of her chest.
“h-hey sam. what’s up? what’s — uh…” she points, at the flowers then eyes him up and down, finger following, as she walks a few steps around the car and stops. “… you look…. wow.”
somewhere in the semi-functioning consciousness that seems to have ducked to the back of his mind - sam is aware that he’s just given his brother, and to a slightly lesser extent, his dad and the other guys in the garage - enough ammunition to last several decades. he’s not going to live this down. ever.
dean is going to crucify him.
which is okay - because if this doesn’t go the way he hopes it will, sam will gladly help him along with the task. literally. if - by some miracle, it does - then at least sam might scrape a little dignity together. but right now - anything along the lines of saving face or pride is waaaay out of the window ( not that he possessed either in great quantities to start with ). this isn’t about anyone else, or anything else than zoe and sam... about maybe trying to fix this... thing. he’s not sure it’s broken. but he does know it’s not... right. it’s not - them.
he has - prepared for this. kind of. has been talking to himself - trying to pluck words out of the air that would encompass everything he wanted to say. funny - at times like this - language seemed like such a... limited thing. if he could possibly take how he fels and bottle it up and hand it to her - if she could just - know... it would make this a hell of a lot easier. as it is though, he can’t. so he’s stuck with the words. and those words in turn - seem to be stuck in his throat. irony... he’s an artist. and artists are supposed to be - creative and fluid and... all sorts of things... but he’s not a lyricist. not a poet. not a wordsmith of any kind. which is probably why his jaw swings open onto silence as she turns around and gives him ‘a look’. he’s not entirely sure what ‘the look’ is saying - so... lets just hope it’s not a bad impression ( and that the water from the flowers hasn’t left a stain on the suit )...
and zoe? she looks... great. with her hair bunched up into a messy bun and a greasy coverall. he’s pretty sure the t-shirt he can see underneath his is one of his. and that’s - that’s not a bad thing. besides - his shirts always looked better on her anyway. she kinda looks - pretty much perfect. it feels like -- forever -- since he’d seen her ( at least face to face, because there were enough photos of her in his apartment, in his shop, in his car even ).
-take a moment. just breathe. think about why you’re here.
....she’s pointing? FLOWERS. right. you brought flowers...
his arm jerks out - the stems quite possibly crushed slightly in the tightness of sam’s slightly clammy grip.
super smooth. very suave. ten points for gryffindor.
goddamnit. pull yourself together.
“i mean - they’re an apology. they’re... i mean... i’m... i just want to do this -- properly.”
there is another breath and somehow, he manages to peel the lid off his courage - yank it out and shove some of the nerves back in the box.
“what - i mean - is that what happened was kind of a mess. it was wonderful. and a little sore. and entirely a mess. so this is me askin’ zo... probably long past due - will you give me another chance, and maybe i can get it right. you’re my best friend. and i miss you - like... crazy.”
a small pause and he takes just the smallest step forward. she hasn’t gone for the gun in the lockbox. and she hasn’t thrown a wrench at his head yet - so maybe it was going well?
“i’d really like it if we could - go out. on -- a date. a proper, uh - date. so... do you think you might want to... go on a date... with me?”