A/N: You know how my past iCarly one-shots have been lighthearted, goofy affairs? This…is not one of those. At all.
Disclaimer: As ever, don't own.
They are always so friendly to her here. Part of it, of course, is simple familiarity – she has been coming here every Tuesday for the past six months, and the nurses on the morning shift recognize her face – but there is more to it than that; they seem to understand, without openly admitting it, that she is the only one to whom he will listen, the only one who can soothe his anguish.
"Good morning, Miss Shay," says Dolores, the receptionist. "He's in the day room right now, with the building blocks. I think he'll be happy to see you."
And he is, indeed, constructing what seems to be a castle, his shaking hands awkwardly manipulating small plastic blocks of many bright colors. On the one hand, she is glad that he is content, but on the other, there is something ineffably sad about seeing him – once such a brilliant mind – reduced to this.
Not wanting to startle him, she lays a gentle hand on his shoulder and says in a soft, even tone, "Good morning, Freddie."
He looks up and smiles. It breaks her heart.
"I know you. Your name is Carly."
"Yes, it is. I'm glad you remember that."
"You're my friend."
"Yes," she says, as a single tear rolls down her cheek. "I'll always be your friend, Freddie."
"Do you like my castle?"
"It's beautiful," she replies, and means it.
Suddenly he grimaces and puts a hand to his temple.
"Is your head bothering you?" she asks.
"Yeah. It…hurts a lot. They give me pills to make it hurt less, but they don't work so good."
"I'm sorry, Freddie." She turns away, so that he won't see her anguished expression.
"How is…" He struggles to dig the name from his damaged memory. "…Sam?"
"Oh, God." A sob chokes her throat. "She's…she's the same as always. I'm going to see her this afternoon."
"Say hi for me."
"I will," she whispers.
/
She has been coming here, too, every Tuesday for six months; but the people who work here are not her friends. They never will be. Their faces are hard, their muscles tense, always on the lookout for a potential security risk.
Every time there is a ritual: empty your pockets. Deposit any sharp objects in the tray. Surrender your cell phone. Sit in front of the glass partition. And then wait.
At last a small blonde figure in an orange jumpsuit appears on the other side of the glass, escorted by a guard. She has a swollen eye and a cut lip. It is no surprise. Ever since she arrived here, she's been brawling with the other prisoners at every opportunity. One day she'll pick on the wrong person, and get a knife between the ribs.
Perhaps this is what she wants. Death. Penance.
On each side of the glass, they pick up the telephone handsets.
"Good to see you, Carls."
"You too, Sam."
"How's life treating you?"
"Okay, I guess. Spencer's working on a new sculpture, but somehow he's managed to avoid setting the apartment on fire. And I've been busy filling out college applications."
"Coolness."
"And...you?" she says hesitantly. "Are you hanging in there okay?"
"Hey, you know me. Queen of the exercise yard. Nobody here is dumb enough to mess with Sam Puckett."
She does not reply. Sam is lying, of course; her face tells the tale. But to point it out would wound her friend's pride. And pride is all that Sam has left.
Unexpectedly, Sam adds, in a subdued tone: "Have you seen Freddie lately?"
She nods slowly. "This morning, actually."
"Is he any better?"
She debates within herself how to answer. It might be better to lie, to avoid causing Sam any more pain. But Sam has always been able to tell when she's concealing the truth. So instead she says, simply and honestly, "No, he isn't."
"But – it's been six months! Doesn't the brain heal itself if you give it enough time?"
"Sometimes. But the doctors think…" The words are almost too bitter to speak. "The doctors think that in Freddie's case, the cognitive impairment is probably going to be permanent."
"Oh, God," Sam whispers. "I never meant to hurt him."
"I know you didn't."
"I was just playing around! Like I always do!" Sam's voice rises in pitch as the anguish floods into it. "Just a prank!"
"I know, Sam. I believe you."
"I never meant to hit him that hard! And I couldn't have known that his head would hit the table like that when he fell! I never wanted this to happen!" Sam is wailing now, her tears flowing freely. "I need to tell him that I'm sorry! I need to know that he forgives me! Carly, get me out of here so I can see him!"
"I would if I could, Sam. You know that."
But Sam does not hear her. She is shrieking like a banshee now, pounding on the glass. "Get me OUT! Get me OUT! I can't STAND it in this stinking hellhole! Carly, PLEASE! HELP ME!"
The angry guard springs forward and grabs Sam's hands, twisting them behind her back. Sam is cuffed and led away. The telephone goes dead.
Carly hangs up the receiver and stands, slowly. She realizes that she forgot to tell Sam that Freddie said hello.
But she can tell Sam next week. In her head she does the calculation. Five years and six months left on Sam's sentence equals 286 Tuesdays. 286 more times of splitting the day between her two best friends in the world, and setting foot inside the personal hells that each of them is trapped in.
It is a prospect almost too nightmarish for her to bear. But bear it she must; for they are Sam and Freddie, and she is Carly Shay – the mediator. The peacemaker. The go-between.
She always has been.
She always will be.