A/N: I don't own iCarly. I do own a lot of chapstick and I once bought a package of fizzing soda flavored candies because they were labeled in Spanish and I thought it was fun to say 'Refri Bala.' But none of that has anything to do with this story at all. Anyhow, this is basically just a Spam love fest set just after iQuit iCarly. It's fluffy, it's unrealistic, it's a bit silly, and if you don't like that and you choose to read this anyways and then you complain to me, I'll… well, I'll be terribly unsympathetic and probably rather rude because I did warn you. Moving on! Read it, review it, copy it and write it in calligraphy, print it and use it as a napkin… You know the drill.
Luckily for him, he was alone when the thought hit him.
He was sitting on the couch, listening to Carly, Sam and Freddie talk in the kitchen. He'd been fretting since they came inside after Carly and Sam were nearly killed by a window. Maybe fretting wasn't the right word. What he'd really been doing was sitting on the couch, staring at the blank television, wondering why he was fairly calm about the fact that his little sister had almost died, but the fact that Sam had almost plummeted to her death had his palms sweating and his fingers trembling.
The thought had hit him without his even looking for it. He'd been thinking maybe his mind was trying to protect himself from the real fear about Carly's near death experience. Evidently, his subconscious knew better, because a little voice piped up in the back of his head – you love Sam.
At first he was unbothered. Of course he loved Sam! She'd been around for years and she wasn't hard to love. She laughed at his jokes, she appreciated his cooking. Why shouldn't he love her?
You love Sam, the voice intoned again.
He glanced at the three teenagers, his eyes focusing in on the tiny blonde. A flutter of affection made his heart speed up.
And then he understood; he loved Sam.
So he made spaghetti tacos. That was the first thing he did after he figured it out.
In retrospect, he realized it probably wasn't the best first move. In retrospect, he realized he probably should have gone to his room, shut the door, and had a nice talk with himself about how it seemed he was in love with a sixteen year old. In retrospect, he realized he should have gone to his room, shut the door, and told himself that it was wrong.
Luckily for him, he didn't do that. Instead, he made spaghetti tacos.
They were delicious spaghetti tacos though. Or, Carly, Sam and Freddie said so. To him they tasted like shock and guilt. If you've never tasted shock and guilt, they don't taste very nice. Very bitter. Too much salt. Not like chicken at all.
Luckily for him, the others were too busy stuffing their faces to notice that he only took one bite.
When the spaghetti tacos were gone, he deliberately took a very long time washing dishes. And that was wrong, too – he should have been in his bedroom, letting the teenagers talk and convincing himself that it was no use to torment himself with images of his sister's bestfriend, curled up in his arms. But he wasn't. Instead, he was stubbornly scrubbing every last bit of spaghetti sauce from a pot.
And alright, maybe he knew he should have been doing that as he scrubbed the pot. Maybe he just wanted to stay in the same room as her for a little while longer. Maybe he just wanted to cling to the fantasy that his new found love wasn't entirely hopeless. Maybe he just wanted to allow himself to imagine the possibilities a little while longer before he went to his bedroom and shut the door on such thoughts. Maybe he just wanted to enjoy the way her voice sounded now he knew how he really felt for a little while longer before going to his bedroom and making himself forget all those feelings. Maybe; so he scrubbed his pot and told himself that after some sleep he would be reconciled with all of this and would no longer torment himself about her.
And if that didn't work… Well, then he would just scrub pots anytime she came to the apartment.
Which was all the time.
He would scrub pots all the time.
Luckily for him, there were plenty of pots to scrub.
The pot was clean. There was no spaghetti sauce on it. He glanced towards the couch where Carly, Sam and Freddie sat together, smiling and chatting happily. Then he narrowed his eyes at the pot and dropped it in the dirty dishwater almost – not quite – okay, fine, not at all – on accident. "Whoops." He muttered. "Well, now that's dirty again." He began his methodic scrubbing once more.
Luckily for him, no one was actually paying him any attention.
It was nearly midnight when Freddie left the house and even then it was only because his mother arrived to complain that he hadn't had any vegetables that night. "Bye, Spence! Thanks for dinner!" Freddie called as his mother ushered him out the door. Spencer raised one hand in response.
He would have to stop washing dishes soon. He couldn't keep up the pretense that they were dirty for much longer. His hands were wrinkled from the water and the smell of dish soap was beginning to make him nauseous. Besides, he'd been scrubbing the same pot for what – an hour? Two? And the methodic movement of his hand was no longer soothing. In fact, his hand was actually beginning to hurt from holding the sponge.
Luckily for him, he could hear Carly and Sam talking about going up to bed. He wasn't surprised Sam was staying the night; slightly bothered by the fact that he'd have to try and sleep when he knew she was just a flight of stairs away, but not surprised. He continued to scrub slowly as the two girls went upstairs, calling a hoarse 'goodnight' in response to their cheerful ones. They didn't seem to notice any change in him – or maybe they did. He had avoided looking at them all night, so it was hard to say.
When they were gone, he rinsed the pot slowly in case they came back. After fifteen minutes of rinsing he decided it was safe and set the pot aside to dry. Then he went about shutting off lights and slowly made his way to his bedroom.
At first he just stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest as he stared at his bed. And then he straightened up, whipped his shirt over his head, kicked his jeans onto the floor, flicked the light switch and stumbled across the dark room into his bed.
He couldn't sleep. No matter what he did, two thoughts continued to run through his brain.
You love Sam. What are you going to do about it?
Nothing. That was what he was going to do about. Absolutely nothing. He was going to forget. Forget that he ever realized it and go back to treating her like the bestfriend of his younger sister, because anything else was wrong. He was almost old enough to be her father. Not quite. But almost. And that was wrong. So it was wrong to imagine her crawling into bed beside him every night, wearing a ring that he'd given her, helping him raise his children…
Wrong.
He was just going to have to get over it. He opened his eyes to stare at his ceiling in the dark room, swore once, and rolled onto his side.
And then someone knocked at his door. He prayed it was just his imagination, because generally late night knocks on his door meant that Carly was sick or that she thought she'd heard something in her closet and needed him to go look.
He didn't have the energy to deal with either one. He lay very still, staring at the door. The knock sounded again. With a long sigh he sat up in bed. "Come in." He called.
The doorknob turned slowly and a stream of light slipped in as it opened. "Spencer?"
Luckily for him, the girl standing in his doorway was not Carly.
He just stared at Sam. The light from behind her streamed through her long curls, illuminating her face in his dark room. She seemed to glow, though her expression did not match the strange luminous quality that the light gave her. She was frowning; she looked both worried and mildly annoyed.
He didn't allow himself to look at what she was wearing, because he already knew. He'd seen her pajamas before. They were the same as Carly's, because she never bothered to bring her own. One oversized t-shirt that didn't even reach her knees. Up until now the bareness of her legs hadn't mattered. Up until now she'd just been Sam. Up until now….
Luckily for him, the fact that she was at his door had him worried and it was easy to ignore her devilishly unclothed state. Honestly, if she was going to insist on being sixteen… He shook himself from his reverie. "What is it, Sam?"
Her lips twitched at the worry she heard in his voice. He wasn't sure why that should please her, but he was glad anyways. She stepped into his room, shut the door behind her. He lost sight of her as all the light left the room. "Carly is snoring." She said, "I can't sleep. Your couch sucks. I'm sleeping in here. Move over!" He'd been trying to figure out her location from the sound of her voice, but now, as she nudged his bare shoulder, he realized he'd failed.
He considered arguing with her, but it seemed he didn't have the strength. Obediently, he scooted to the other side of the bed, his heart pounding as he felt her slip beneath the blankets. She was too close to him – he was sure it was breaking some sort of law. But then, maybe not. Maybe he should just let himself enjoy this. He lay back on his pillow and glowered up at the ceiling once more. The room was quiet except for the sound of his and Sam's mingled breathing.
He turned his head to the side to look at her and found she had her back to him. Her long hair was spread out across the pillow wildly. Tentatively, he reached out one finger and touched one of the curls.
"Spencer?" He had to bite his tongue to keep from swearing; he'd been sure she was asleep.
"Sorry." He said quickly, turning to stare at the ceiling again. There was a moment of silence and then he felt her rolling over so that she was facing him.
"Spencer?" She said again. He couldn't bring himself to look at her. He made a quiet 'hmmm' noise and fixed his gaze firmly on the beams of his ceiling. "Spencer, I didn't come in here cause I couldn't sleep."
He blinked, cleared his throat. "What?" He said slowly. "So Carly wasn't snoring?"
She laughed and the sound made him smile. "No," She said, "She was. But that's not why I came in here."
He knew she was waiting for him to ask why she'd come in, but he wasn't going to do it. He wanted to know more than anything, but he wasn't going to ask.
"Spence…" Her voice was quiet. He turned his head slowly to look at her. She was propped up on one elbow, her head resting in her hand as she watched him. Evidently his attention was what she wanted, because she smiled. "I came in here because I was worried about you." She said, "And… because… I just wanted to be… with you." She sounded almost shy as she finished the sentence, but her eyes never left his.
He wasn't sure how to respond. He wasn't even really sure what she meant.
Luckily for him, she knew what she meant and she knew exactly how she wanted him to respond.
She moved closer to him, grabbed his arm and slowly wrapped it around her. Slowly she stretched her neck up to touch her lips to his. It was a fleeting kiss. It lasted only a few seconds and then it was over. Still, he was fairly sure it was the best kiss he'd ever had. He was fairly sure he'd never have a better kiss. He was fairly sure of a lot of things, but none of them made much sense, because now his brain was beginning to feel like goo.
"Spencer?" Sam said, hovering above him.
"I think," He said, speaking very slowly for fear that he might explode, "that my brain just melted."
She paused; her brow pulled together over her eyes. "Is that bad?"
And then he laughed and a smile split his face. "No." He said, "No, that's very, very good." And he pulled her to him and pressed his lips to her forehead. She tried to move up, to find his lips once more, but he stopped her with a long sigh. "But Sam…" He said, "We can't…"
The smile she'd worn only seconds before slipped from her lips. "I know." She said, "I know we can't. But can we just… lay here? Together?"
He couldn't turn her down. He didn't want to turn her down. He pulled her close, so close that her head was tucked beneath his chin and her fingers trailed lightly over his chest. "Of course." He said, kissing the top of her head. "Of course."
They lay there together for a little while and then Sam cleared her throat. "Spencer?" She said. He was seconds away from sleep, but he managed a sleepy response. "I turn eighteen in two years."
He laughed and squeezed her to him lethargically. "Lucky for me."
She yawned, nestled closer to him. "Luck has nothing to do with it." She said, "You and I are fate."
They were both so tired, so close to drifting away, but he had enough energy to whisper the three words she'd been waiting to hear. The three words that meant he would wait two years for her. The three words that meant he would always be there. "I love you." He said.
She yawned again. "I love… ham."
And that was good enough for him.