A/N: Okay, so I have no idea what this is. Sam may seem way OOC, but I really see her as an insanely complex person who hides behind a rough exterior. (Haha, look at me psychoanalyzing a fictional character—should I be worried...?). Anyways, I kind of don't like it at all. I just couldn't stop myself from posting it. Ahh, I really need to stop rambling. Lemme know what you think!
Disclaimer: There's no possible way that I created the genius that is iCarly.
it's never simple, never e a s y
(She's a first-rate actress).
She feels like anything could happen because there's just something magical about the twinkling stars above her head, and because there's something infinitely mysterious about the ethereal glow of the moon on her face. A gentle breeze sends a lone blonde curl to tickle her cheek. The quiet surrounds her and she stares into the vast lake with a look of intense determination. The thoughts in her head fly around like honeybees—some sting her with brutal vengeance, some just flutter along, and others are sweeter than honey. She's frustrated with her introspection and flings a shining grey rock into the rippling water, causing chaos in the tranquil lake. Of course she creates chaos. It's what she does best. Sometimes she wishes she could cause a little less chaos, a little less pain. Everyone always takes her at face value, but nothing is ever what it appears to be and she hopes more than anything that someone other than picture-perfect Carly Shay—who, of course, can't help but see the best in everything and everyone—can see that (what she won't admit, even to herself, is that she has a specific someone in mind).
She hears someone approaching her in the damp grass of the lakeside. The person sits next to her silently, and for a moment she feels a dull ache in her stomach. The brunette boy cuts into the quiet with a soft, "Hey, Sam." She's surprised that he knew where to find her and that he's even there in the first place, but she can't let him see her surprise, so she feigns indifference.
"Fredward," is her only response.
"I'm sorry, Sam," he says, "I don't know what I did, but, whatever it is, I'm sorry." He pulls up a blade of grass and she can feel his eyes boring a hole into the side her face. "And if it's not because of me, you can talk to me, Sam. Even if it is me that's bothering you, you can still talk to me." She snorts at that, but he still continues to talk, "You're, like, my best friend. I know you'd never admit that out loud, especially in front of other people. That doesn't mean it's not true."
"I'm fine, Fredgrass," she hisses when she gets thoroughly bothered by his insistence that she should talk about her feelings. He shouldn't be there—he's not supposed to care. And she's not supposed to care about whether or not he cares.
"Don't give me that bull-chizz, Puckett," he replies quickly, but not harshly. "I see that there's something wrong, and I'm not the only one. We're worried about you." He tosses the grass into the water, and it only barely causes a ripple.
"Yeah, so why are you here instead of Carly, Fredsap?" she retorts.
His grass floats on the water, soft and vibrant and healthy. Her rock sank to the very bottom, cold and shining and hard. They don't work. Or, at least, they shouldn't work.
"Carly didn't know where you'd be, and I wanted to talk to you myself," he says matter-of-factly.
"How in the name of all that is ham would you be able to find me when Carly can't?" she asks incredulously.
"I dunno," he shrugs. "I pay attention?" he says it like it should be obvious. "I happen to know you pretty well, Sam." He knows her better than he knows anyone else. He's enraptured by her, and he's come to grips with the strange attraction that pulls him to her. It's terrifying and exhilarating, all at the same time.
She dismisses the fluttering, bubbly feeling that she feels when he speaks and spits out, "Can it, Fredward. You do not know me."
"I know you better than you think, Samantha," he responds. "And I can tell when something is wrong. You don't have to keep trying to hide it from everyone."
"You don't know what you're talking about." It comes out a lot softer and a lot more vulnerable that she intends it to. She sneaks a glance at him, and curses herself a million times over for doing it. "I don't have anything to say to you," she says in monotone after moving her gaze back to the lake. It has to be the biggest lie that she's ever told, and she's told a heck of a lot of lies.
"You don't have to be strong all the time. You're human. It's okay to be upset," he sighs in resignation, "but I'm not going to keep pushing you. You know where to find me when you decide that you're ready to finally lean on someone."
She's silent after he says that, and he takes it as his cue to leave her in the peace and quiet. She can't help but wish that she wasn't so prideful and that everything wasn't so freaking complicated. (Is it really?) He wants more than anything to stay and figure out why she's bothered, but he knows it'd just make things worse. His footsteps grow softer until they've finally faded into the dark behind her. She wonders when they went from cut-and-dry adversaries to whatever the fat cake it is they are now.
She can't figure it out, and she's frustrated as she steps barefoot through the grass to her car. She pulls the door open and slides in. Somehow, she feels herself coming apart at the seams. She leans her forehead on the steering wheel and gathers herself together before she turns the key in the ignition and drives home.
Why does she always push people away?
Why is she so afraid?
Why can't she be happy?
The blonde girl walks straight to her room when she gets home and shuts the door with a gentle click. She leans her back on the closed door and slides down slowly like the crystalline tears that have begun to trickle down her cheeks. The questions hammer into her and she aches inside. After she's touched the ground, the trickle is more like a waterfall and she just can't seem to stop, but she tries—oh, she tries so very hard. She's strong, they say. She's the invincible Samantha Puckett. What do they know? Sure, she can be convincing. She can take down an army of truckers with nothing more than a straw and a slab of cheese. She has her own parole officer. Her cat is borderline feral. She's a Puckett, for crying out loud (and you don't mess with them unless you want to disappear)! She tries to make sure that no one can see just how tired she is. Apparently she's not very good at that, either.
Portraying a specific image is exhausting. Most say that her violence is her outlet. They are so very wrong. Violence is merely part of her façade—okay, and maybe she has some anger issues sometimes too, but whatever. She's so much more than the stereotypical bully that everyone seems to think she is. She's afraid, so she hides it.
She only ever lets herself break in the dark. It's so much easier to hide in the shadows.
She doesn't know why it's nearly impossible for her to express her real self to anyone other than Carly. She just…can't. For some reason, she hasn't even been able to talk to Carly latelI y (it may have something to do with the fact that she feels insignificant in comparison to her brunette friend, but the blonde's not one to psychoanalyze, so she just brushes it off as a mystery) and the silence is ripping her to pieces.
She can't figure out what's wrong with her. She can't figure out why she wants to talk to Frednerd. She's inadequate—in her mind, at least. She's so busy hoping that someone will someday see her as more than just a blonde menace that she's blind to the fact that they already do. She doesn't think she wants to know why there seems to be a hole in her chest when he's not around, because it would never work out. He's not hers for the taking, and it's just wrong for her to care about him.
She wipes her eyes and stands up, disgusted with herself. "Enough with this jank chizz," she mutters. She's stronger than this pitiful habit of wallowing in despair. She snatches her keys back up off the floor.
She decides that she's going to see Freddie. She's tired of this ridiculous rut and she's going to fix it. Even if she can't embrace what she feels for the boy, she can talk things out with him. He deserves to know, and he might just make her feel better like he already always does.
She's not sure how she knows exactly where to find him, but there he is. He's sitting on the bench that has Sam loves ham carved on it in the park right next to Bushwell Plaza. It's one of her favorite places, especially at night. She walks over and plops next to him, running her fingers over the familiar carving. Her fingers graze something foreign and she stares down in confusion. Freddork loves pork is directly underneath it, newly scratched into the wood in Freddie's neat scrawl. She gasps when she reads it and he smirks when he sees her reaction.
To anyone else, it's small. It's silly. But to her? To her it speaks volumes.
Maybe she's the one who's wrong. She looks up at him, and her heart beats faster. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. With each beat, it echoes in her head. She shakes her head to rid it of the confusion and her hair flies everywhere.
He's mesmerized by the gentle golden glow of her wild curls. He sees that her eyes were wet with tears not long ago and it bothers him. He would ask why she's fighting it, but he thinks he already knows the answer. He silently resolves to do whatever he can to bring out the real Sam. The one he can joke with, argue with, laugh with, yell at, agree with, and (dare he say it?) be in love with all at the same time. She's been the strong one for so long, and she's worn herself out. It's his turn. She deserves a break, and he's going to give her one no matter how much she tries to resist. He knows she doesn't think they work, and that she possibly thinks that she's some sort of pariah to him. He's just going to have to show her that she's horribly wrong.
He meets her gaze and there's something like electricity flowing through the chilly night-air.
"We can't, Freddie. We just can't," she whispers and shuts her eyes. Her breathing is erratic. "We don't work." Her eyelids flutter back open to see that his gaze hasn't wavered.
"We can. It won't be easy, but nothing worth it ever is. No matter how hard it is," he replies with a tone of finality and intertwines his fingers with hers. He rests their hands on top of their carvings. "We work a lot better than you think. I'm not letting you go." He sees the surrender in her eyes.
He's so intent on entering into that unfamiliar territory that she decides to just let go of it and let him deal with. She's grateful that he's spared her from the long emotional discussion—for now—and marvels in the way that they can communicate so well with so few words. She leans her head on his arm and feels the stress and uneasiness drain out of her. If she's going to fall, he's going right with her.
That's when she realizes, they're Sam&Freddie and they're right.