all the pain of yesterday, an icarly fanfic

A/N: Eh, not that pleased with this one. Just thought I'd post it. And hey, does anyone know when iHire an Idiot comes out?

…

I'm coming home
I'm coming home
Tell the world I'm coming home
Let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday
I know my kingdom awaits and they've forgiven my mistakes
I'm coming home, I'm coming home
Tell the world that I'm coming—

"I'm going home." Sam declares, sounding more confident than she feels. She's sitting at a grungy internet cafe with crappy reception and crackly phone lines, and she wonders if Mel can even hear her. Judging by the sounds she hears, her twin's out shopping. Finally she answers, voice as cold as frost.

"Did I hear you right? Home? You fucking crazy, Sam?" she snaps. Sam can imagine her pink lips twisting with scorn as she perches her skinny butt on the stone side of some boutique. "After all you've accomplished here? You're a star, Sammie. A goddamn star. Now don't fucking screw it up."

Sam swallows, examining her chipped blue nails. "Well, maybe not permanently. Just for a visit, to see mom and Carly and—"her voice breaks here, and ohgod she hates herself, for being so weak and timid and unsure. Because she knows that if she goes, she won't come back.

Where are you, Sam?

"Sweetie, do you really think they'll miss you back in Seattle?"

She says Seattle just like that, in such a snooty voice the old Sam momentarily returns and wants to punch her right across her perfect little nose. But then her vicious voice softens, just a tad.

"Sam, you've hurt them. You've hurt them all, especially Carly and Fre-"

But then she hangs up, because she knows she's made mistakes. The empty phone line sounds distant, and she hates Melanie for confirming what she's always thought.

Forgive and forget, right?

…

She spends the next day in her hotel room, her constantly ringing cellphone stuffed under the mattress. Using the hotel phone, she calls her mom.

"Well, if it isn't Sammie!" she roars from the other end. "How's Hollywood, Goldilocks?"

'"Horrible." Sam says bluntly. But her mother doesn't seem to have heard her.

"Hoo boy, Sam, Carly got me another one of your CDs yesterday. And I gotta give you this, you sure can wail!"

Sam stifles a grin. Her mother really isn't the country type, but she appreciates it all the same. It's more than she was doing five years ago. A lot more.

"Thanks, mom. Hey, how's everyone in Seattle? I haven't seen you guys since Spence's wedding."

"We're doing just fine, hun! I gotta new boyfriend. Jeremy. Hasn't got much in the way of looks but damn, he can pay a pretty compliment! Did you know I have eyes 'as fresh as the ocean's dewdrops?' I sure didn't!"

Sam laughs, and her mind flashes to the Shay apartment, with the bright decor and sculptures. Her heart burns, just for a moment, and she shakes the image out of her head.

Her mom talks and talks, from the rising prices of tattoo jobs and oh, how's Melanie? But she doesn't say the one thing that'll have Sam racing to her side in a matter of hours. She doesn't say I miss you.

"Oh, Mom, I gotta go." she says as her mother turns to the topic of her latest bikini. "My manager's calling, I think. I hope."

"Bye bye, sweetheart! Keep on wailin'!" Her mother laughs. Then with a click, the line's empty.

Sam, with a sigh of relief, slumps onto the sofa once more. She meant to call Carly- apologize for that fiasco at Spencer's wedding- but her courage, so abundant in those days long ago, fails and she settles instead for a nice, 21st century-style email.

Carlsdelete

Carlottadelete

Dear former best frienddeletedelete

Carly,

I'm sorry. I'm sorry I said all those things to you, I'm sorry I slapped you, I'm sorry I hurt you, and I'm sorry I ruined Spencer's wedding. I'm really glad you're helping my mom out, and I hope we can be friends again.

I miss you.

Sam

Send. Click. The email is something Ms. Briggs would've approved of- it's simple and to the point, two things Sam never was. And yet, as she curls up on the lumpy sofa in her sweats, eating junk and watching bad soaps, she knows there's one more thing she should be sorry for but just isn't.

Because she can't regret kissing Freddie. Her best friend's guy. In the rain on that Saturday night.

…..

The next day, her mood takes a definite dive. She snaps at two little girls wanting an autograph and yells shit as the taxi she's trying to flag down passes her without so much as slowing down. Her manager calls- two more live concerts next month, sweetheart and how 'bout that new single you promised? And to top it all off, her email inbox holds only the usual bucketful of crap her fans and managers and stylists and spokespeople send her. So as she rounds the street into a cobblestone alleyway, only the shock of seeing one person can shake her out of her funk.

"Gibby?"

And Gibby it is, curled up in the side of the alley with a thumb in his mouth and a dull blue suitcase perched beside him. Seeing her, he lets out a choked cry and jumps to his feet. His eye is bruised purple, but Sam is much too astonished to notice his befrazzled state. Running up to her, he envelopes her in a hearty bear hug. She has enough sense by then to hurriedly hug him back.

"Gibs, wh-what're you doing he—"

"Sam! Ohmigod, finally. I was beginning to think you'd never show up. I've had a hell of a night, let me tell you. Holy shit, it was awful. First this really weird hobo chased me with a water gun and a lizard then these hookers came by and started dancing, and then a really big dog—"

"—Gibby, slow down! What in chiz are you doing here?"

Gibby takes a deep breath. Other than the dishevelled hair and torn clothes, he looks just the same as she'd last seen him six months ago. She feels a lump rise to her throat at the sheer familiarity of him, how he, at least, doesn't scream Hollywood. She leads him to a park bench nearby, and when they are comfortably seated around a ring of artificial grass, he continues, talking over the tinkling fountain and dog walkers nearby.

"Carly got your email." He says, voice suddenly pained.

Sam swallows. "So?"

"So, she spent all last night trying to write something back to you."

Somehow, Sam isn't surprised. Carly is never hasty—she doesn't believe in the do-it-and-be-done-with-it method Sam is so fond of. But she asks why anyways.

"She couldn't think of anything to say." shrugs Gibby, fiddling with a blade of fake grass. "So she called me, and seeing as I was coming through town anyway, I offered to come talk to you for—well, for her." He finishes lamely, staring into the hazy sky. A heavy veil of awkward silence settles upon them as Sam digests this information. She knows she's missing at least three meetings and a promotion speech, but at this point she just doesn't care. The shock of seeing Gibby on the streets of LA is shocking enough, and she doesn't know if she can take any more. But of course, her stupid mouth talks anyways.

"What'd she say?"

Gibby doesn't reply right away. His dark eyes are unfathomable in the morning sunlight. Finally he turns to her, his voice flat, and tells her.

"She doesn't forgive you, Sam. She says she can't."

…

In some ways this is better, she tells herself as she orders a cab to take Gibby to her hotel room. It's like Mel said, I'm a star. If no one needs me at home, I can concentrate.

She walks dazedly to the 30-story building labelled Schneider Capitol Records, and as soon as she steps into the building, Emmett Trinket grabs hold of her arm.

"Ms. Puckett! Finally!" he gasps, forehead beaded with sweat. "We were getting awfully worried about you, miss. Three hours late, my, my! We were getting ready to send someone after you, and you've missed some highly important meetings too, you know!" he finishes somewhat sternly. "Come along now, come along!"

Sam sticks her tongue out at the back of his balding head as he leads her to a conference room. The whole building is a blur of sounds and the aroma of expensive coffee, and Sam is just beginning to realize how much she hates it all.

Oh, I think you've known for a while now, Sammie…

"Now, Sherri will be out in just a second to talk to you, so just sit tight." Emmett pants, seating her down in a leathery chair and rushing away again. At his words, Sam groans outwardly. Sherri, with her fakey-niceness and obsession of crash diets, is not someone she wants to talk to right now. But to her relief, her waiting time turns out to be a lot more than one second—more like an hour, judging by the shiny digital clock nearby. Finally, as Sam is considering ditching the meeting, grabbing Gibby, and taking him to a strip club to just loosen up (hey, the kid had a rough night!) the clear door opens and in walks Sherri Jenkins, blond hair bouncing, followed by her group of stylists.

"Sam, hun!" she chirrups brightly, kissing her on both cheeks. "You look ravishing, sweet, I wish I had your cheekbones. Just a few appointments for today, m'kay? Eyebrows could use plucking, don't you think? And Marshall is wondering if you could possibly write a song that would lengthen your fan base just a tad-maybe get the guys rocking to your beat as well, hmm?" and she does a awkward sort of dance, grabs Sam by the shoulders, effectively pinching them, and steers her out, all the while humming the tune from Not that Far Away.

…...

She finally returns to her hotel room at half past one, feeling only an odd numbness in place of her usual exhaustion. She slides the card through the slot and walks in, only to be hit with a deafening melody she can just barely distinguish as California Gurlz. The room is a mess-a colourful liquid is staining the carpet, shirts and boxers are everywhere, and a lizard is crawling through all the debris. Gibby, however, is nowhere to be seen.

"Gibby, what the hell?" she hollers over Snoop Dog.

Gibby's cheerful voice floats to her kitchen. "Yeah, I'm gonna put that on next. Just give me a second."

"No, you idiot! What's all this crap?"

Gibby emerges, holding a mountain of fragrant pasta, looking reproachful. "I thought you'd be hungry when you came back, so I made some blue cheese parmesan with garlic bread and pomegranate cider. There's no need to call it crap." he says defensively.

"No, not the noodles. The lizard, maybe."

"Oh, that's just Billy. That hobo I was talking about gave her to me."

"How d'you know it's a her?"

"Well, I lifted it, see, and—"

"—never mind." Sam interrupts hastily. The pasta smells heavenly, and though it's way too much carbs after 9 PM, she finds herself sprawled on her dining room floor and shovelling forkful after forkful of Italian food into her bulging cheeks. The food revives her; the colours in her cheeks are brighter than they have been in the last six months. It's as if she's eating away all the depression of the last couple months, and Gibby watches with a kind of admiration in his eyes.

"I'd forgotten how much you can eat." He comments when she pauses for breath. Sam just shrugs, and the plate is soon empty. She glugs down the cider, and feeling full, she turns to Gibby. Her eyes are sparkling again. Opening her mouth, she lets out a long belch.

The corners of Gibby's mouth quiver.

And suddenly they're both laughing and laughing, pounding on the linoleum tiles and clutching their full stomachs, until their ribs ache and their throats are sore and Gibby's iPod is playing- blearing, rather- Party in the USA for a second time. They sit like that for a while, in comfortable silence. The chuckles reside into shaky giggling and that into hiccups. Then another noise fills the air. It's choked and animalistic, and Sam realizes she's sobbing.

Gibby needs no explanation. He just takes her into his arms and he holds her, until she knows that he knows. They sit together, clutching each other desperately. And she can feel his love for Carly and hers for Freddie seep together and then he's crying too.

"Gibs?" she says shakily.

"Yeah?" he answers, his deep voice unsteady as he tries to stop his tears.

"We're real messed up, aren't we?"

It doesn't take him long to answer. "Yeah. We are."

…

The next day is cloudy. The sky is opal, with dimples of gray, and the heavy air laces around Sam. She's cancelled all her appointments for the day (Sherri's extremely gullible) to take Gibby to LAX. The ride is silent, and their red-rimmed eyes and tousled hair look almost comical to sleep-deprived Sam.

Gibby's going straight back to Seattle, the so called "job interview" he had planned having been mysteriously cancelled, and Billy the lizard sits comfortably on his shoulders. The driver, after being mercilessly shot down in an attempt to get Sam's autograph (and maybe a number too, sweetheart?) sits in dead silence, occasionally shooting nervous glances in their direction as though Sam would start scratching him again.

And as for Sam- she slips a hand in the pocket of her Ridgeway High hoodie and feels the slip of paper- as well as the passport- inside. She isn't sure if what she's doing is exactly right. But it sure as hell can't be more wrong then the life she's living now.

They pull up to the airport. Gibby surveys the scene around him with deadbeat eyes so unlike his usually animated ones, hugs her stiffly, and says the traditional wellIguessthisisgoodbyeSam. And he turns- but before he can walk into the bustling crowd, Sam tackles him. Her eyes are glistening with unshed tears as she holds up a one-way ticket to Seattle, Washington State. Gibby looks at her with wide eyes. His dry mouth curls into a smile so much like his old one Sam is afraid he'll try to take off his shirt again.

"Is that-are you-"

She laughs, the tears tumbling down her cheeks once more.

"I'm going home, Gibby."

And the raindrops begin to fall, soft and misty around the two as they laugh and cry.