Notes: I'm probably not the first to say that I feel kinda old watching this show and loving it as much as I do. Saturday night I fell in love even harder, and now I'm doing something I thought I'd never do for a live action fandom: write fic. I guess it's because I felt like I might insult the actors or something. But FFnet has a surprising wealth of decent fic for this fandom. So what the hell. This is based on my analysis of the episode. We start off with Freddie daring to pull a prank on Sam as though to say "I can play your game" and end it with a mutual moment of trust. (Lyrics at the end are from the song and artist Freddie writes on the index card, aka iKiss theme music.
Usual disclaimer applies: Dan Schneider owns it.
i'm Convinced
When did you start looking at Sam Puckett with a little less fear and a little more wonder? Who knows. You're a strong believer in the theory of relativity: that is, for younger people time tends to drag on. So it could have been whenever without you really noticing. Well, you noticed. Gradually. But there was no bang!, no special effect like the ones produced by any given button on Sam's iCarly remote.
"It'd be too weird if you didn't make my life miserable all the time." Isn't that what you'd said?
That was just the way the universe worked. Your teachers were sadists, your mother is overprotective, and Sam Puckett makes taking the Mickey out of you every five minutes or less into something not unlike an art form.
"Hey, Benson, have you considered suing your brains for non-support?" comes her slightly harsh voice. "You were staring off into space, dude." And maybe a hint of concern? Yeah right.
It's Thursday afternoon between classes, and you've been thinking. Thinking about Sam sitting on the window sill with wind blowing her hair back. She's not beautiful. You won't be the first to admit it, even. Her jawline is set like a solid right hook, her eyes are nearly always narrowed, ready for a fight. But there's something about her that feels warm. You catch a whiff of light citrus perfume as she walks off, and it triggers the memory again through your olfactory senses.
You probably miss the bulk of her insults the rest of the day because you're trying to shake the fragrance away. At some point she mutters something about how you must be daydreaming about Carly if you're too distracted to whine about her being mean.
"She'll never love you," she calls over her shoulder in a sing-song catcall as you disappear into your apartment. You roll your eyes, annoyed. Lately her last resort statement has been making you think. To someone outside of your circle, it would seem like the cruelest thing to say. And maybe it had been, the first few times. But hey, it's not like anyone had to work hard to convince you that it wasn't true. Not even a growth spurt and a slightly more confident attitude changed anything. You couldn't stop being the new you any more than you could be someone completely different. Carly wouldn't be interested.
You've decided that it's a great joke. There you are, standing in front of the mirror, combing your hair and only half listening to your mother as she reminds you that she'll be home late, so eat the vegetables she's leaving for dinner, take a bath, take your vitamins... You're wearing a smirk because Sam Puckett has no idea. You're only pretending that you still pine for her best friend. You'll keep doing it until it seems like she might not rip your limbs off if you so much as suggest that she doesn't hate you.
Didn't she feel how intentional that kiss was?
It was better than you'd thought it would be, even though you hadn't been able to touch her. You'd be so dead.
"Hey, FredWeird, spacing out again?" she whispers in class, leaning over her textbook, hair spilled like a swamp of dirty blonde. "Don't let you mind wander - it's far too small to be let out on its own," she adds with a chuckle, sinking back into her seat. The citrus lingers again.
"At least I have a brain," you hear yourself retort automatically.
You can hear the smirk in her voice and she shoots back: "Brains aren't everything. In fact, in your case they're nothing."
You decide that since Mrs. Briggs is looking your way, this isn't time for a verbal spar.
"This week you have a composition report," she begins, tossing the short tense red hair out of the frame of her glasses. "It will be worth thirty points, and I expect you to incorporate sensory details and other writing elements we've been discussing. The topic is firsts, as in the first time you did or experienced something important."
It's only a spit second, but you lock gazes.
"I'm going to write about our first iCarly webcast," Carly announces later in the day from the kitchen, rummaging around for things to make lemonade with. "What about you, Freddie?"
You glance around at Sam, who is pointedly ignoring you.
"I'm not sure yet," you confess truthfully. You'd like to write about your first kiss, but you've pretty much promised to pretend it never happened. "Maybe about the first time my mom took me to the Space Needle." You shrug.
"What, did she try to drop you from the observation deck?" Sam quipps, still not looking up from her piling higher sandwich.
"Shouldn't we be discussing skits for the next show?" you begin, unequipped with a proper come-back. As usual.
"I think you two need to do another Wake Up, Spencer. It's been a few weeks since we had one," Carly says nonchalantly, though you suspect – and are right – that she's onto the slight tension. You shrug, holding out your hand when she passes you a glass of lemonade. "I guess. You sleeping over here tonight?" you ask, directing your question at the pinned up section of her honeyed hair.
"Sure," she mutters. "Three o'clock, Benson."
You amuse yourself for the rest of the evening that she'd say something similar if you dared ask her out. By dinnertime you've all managed to arrange four more live segments and a few video clips sent in by viewers.
You think about how you're going to sneak out of the apartment that night over dinner – something with spinach – without your mother noticing. She doesn't openly admit to watching the show, but now and then she seems to mention things that she could have only found out by logging onto the home computer while you're out.
You worry for nothing, though, because she's heavily asleep by ten, when you drift out of sleep. Sam mentioned wanting to do a "lawyer nightmare" type thing for Spencer. "Make him think he's late for a trial, and make up ridiculous things about the case and who he's defending," had been her exact words. Personally, you thought it was brilliant. "If we're lucky, we'll get him spouting law jargon that makes no sense," you'd replied with a smirk.
It works out perfectly. It has to be the best Wake Up Spencer ever because after shouting that he's late for the trial and he's defending an ape, he actually stumbles out of bed and starts digging through his clothes for the suit that no longer fits him and starts pulling it on over his pajamas and crying out "OBJECTION! My client does have the right to throw bananas at the jury!!"
You're relieved that the show goes off perfectly. She even manages to sneak in some insults for you between commentaries. ("I don't know what makes you so dumb... but it really works." "Do you have an empty feeling - in your skull?")
Then, when the show is over, Carly leaves the room, calling over her shoulder that she'll bring snacks up to share while you all go through the comments.
"I really appreciate you keeping things normal, but could you lay off on the stupid jabs? Carly's going to say something if you push it too much," you toss out as you start to run the internet systems check. You've learned, after having the comments page crash twice in the past. You look up when she doesn't retort, and she's glaring at you fixedly. She's mad. You weren't ever supposed to mention that again, her glare says, not even in a roundabout way.
"You hope she will," she says flatly. " 'Cause then that'll mean she's sticking up for you." She's leaning her weight more on one foot, her hip jutted out, left arm gripping her right elbow, right hand hanging at her side. "She'll never love you."
You remember the first time she said that to you. The first time when Carly wasn't around.
("I wouldn't say 'never'... "
"Yeah, well I would. Face it, Freddork." Her smirk a stark curve against the sharpness of her hardened jaw. "Why bother?"
"Well, if you looked at it from my point of view – "
"I'd like to," she quipps hastily, "But I can't get my head that far up my ass." She saunters away.)
"You know," you say then, "You don't say that often. Only when it's crucial." Her right hand tightens into a fist. You should back away. Instead, you step around your equipment cart toward her. "And you know what?" You ask, your voice strangely even and in control, "You're right. Carly knows it and I know it. You're right, Sam. She'll never love me."
She drops her left and it, too, becomes a fist. "I hope you're not trying to make me feel guilty," she snaps. "I've played that round with you, remember?"
You want to laugh.
"You know what I think?" you continue, ignoring the way she's taking a half step back and her fists are raised above her waist now. "I think the one who doesn't know is you. I think you say that to convince yourself."
You duck the punch. Just barely.
In the morning, you put up with your mother fussing over the smallish bruise at your cheekbone. You know how Eddie Kaspbrak felt.
When she corners you to put the ointment on it, you smell that faintly warm citrus spray on her clothes.
"Mom, is that a new perfume?" you ask.
"Yes," she says absentmindedly, focused entirely on the injury.
"Could you... wash it off?" you say, voice defeated. You don't want to be rude, but since the fire escape, you don't want that smell on anyone else but her.
"Oh! Are you having allergy symptoms?" she inquires at once. You shake your head quickly, but the damage is done, and it'll take a fair twenty minutes arguing that you don't need medicine.
"I should have thought that a strong perfume could give you a headache!" she murmurs, dabbing at the bruise just once more and disappearing into the bathroom, declaring she'll wash it off and go exchange it for something else on her way home from work. Just before you go to meet Carly to walk to school, you manage to spray a dark smudge of it onto an index card. It's folded in half and tucked into your History textbook.
Sam isn't speaking to you at all, and hasn't been since Friday after throwing the punch. But when you go over to greet Carly, Sam is there, her hand clutching her Pearpod (If You Love Somebody Set Them On Fire Dead Milkmen displayed on the screen) and she says, "What are you doing here, Benson? Someone let you out of your cage?"
Carly smiles a little, and she looks relieved. You didn't tell her exactly why Sam had stormed out, but the familiarity of Sam's tone seems to put her at ease. You want to love her for it. You sort of do. But love changes. And it hurts.
During History you sneak the card out from between pages 52 and 53 and ignore the section on whatever World War it is you're supposed to be studying. Sure, you have an A in the class, but it's not your favorite subject. You contemplate writing her name on it, but dread anyone finding it. Instead, you write in careful script: Running Away, AM.
Carly isn't with Sam immediately after school. The stairwell is more crowded than the lockerfront, so you get to wander over to her without any witnesses. She gives you a stare that isn't quite on par with Friday night's glare and slams her locker door closed.
"I know we said we'd never mention it again," you begin, and she crosses her arms, digs the toe of her sneaker into the linoleum. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders in long, loose waves.
"And we're not going to," she says shortly. "We're going to forget it ever happened."
"What if I don't want to forget?"
She raises an eyebrow, tightens her finger grip into her forearms. "Then I'll have to make you forget." There's a warning edge in it. You don't care.
"Sam."
"Why would you want to talk about it?" her voice threatens to break or pitch. You can't tell. "Why would you want to remember that it happened?" Her mouth opens and closes in a spasm that indicates she would have let an insult fly. She wants to. "Are you always this stupid, or are you making a special effort today?"
"Sam."
"What, are you trying to ask me out or something?" It's supposed to be a jibe. It's supposed to put her in charge and steer the conversation away.
You close your eyes, take a deep breath.
"I'll buy you pie," you say.
Your eyes are still closed, but you distinctly feel her gaping at you. "As much pie as you want," you add.
"Pick me up at seven," she says finally. When you open your eyes she's standing closer, unreadable look in her eyes, the soft scent of citrus around her.
I don't know if I'm gonna change I keep running away
Wasting time and another day
Even from the good things