Disclaimer: I do not own anything from iCarly. Those rights belong to Dan Schneider and Nickelodeon.
Author's Note: One-shot! This time, moreso from Nevel's perspective. Enjoy!
Pairing: One-sided Carly/Nevel, slight subtext of Carly/Freddie
Obsession, reprisal, and on the rare occasion, desire.
All these thoughts, actions, theories, lead him back down the familiar, winding pathway, twisting and turning until it leads him back to her. She's managed to dig her way under his skin and no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to shake her.
And oh how he's tried.
xXx
The scent of earl grey tea floats through the air, the delicate bitterness soothing his nerves only by a mere fraction.
He glances at the timer on the lower left-hand of the screen, fingers lazily trailing over the keys, typing in the familiar URL. When his index finger reaches the enter key, he pauses, though his eyes never leave the screen.
It's a contest of wills and this time, he's determined to succeed, to refuse the siren call beckoning him to her domain. Leaning across the desktop, he takes a sip from his porcelain mug, the herbal beverage scalding the back of his throat.
Perhaps that will be enough to draw him away from this lunacy tonight.
The seconds tick by, each one longer than the last, as the deadline inches closer. He can feel the pressure escalating, his brow furrowing in irritation as his hand trembles, aching to just press the key and submit.
With a frustrated sigh, he slams his hand down on the keyboard, images of a bubbly brunette and a snarky blonde filling the screen. His jaw hardens with every laugh that emanates through the speakers, yet he can't look away.
Somehow, when it comes to her, he always loses.
xXx
Thump thump. Thump thump.
The sound begins in his chest, each beat louder than the last, until he swears the tempo is practically reverberating off of his skin.
He can see her now, dark eyes glowing with fire and passion, petal pink lips perfectly composed into an irritable pout, as he tries to retain his nerve. Before he can get a word in edge-wise, she thrusts the legal documents at him, demanding his signature.
The lack of trust is almost… cute.
Rolling his eyes, he produces a fountain pen, dotting every line with an almost practiced flourish. The fine print, the legal jargon, all of it is meaningless as long as the outcome is the same; a single kiss.
This isn't the moment anyone dreams of, it's not the picture-perfect image of forgotten dances and soft wishes and warm embraces. But this is the only moment he has, and if it has to be laced with acid, he's willing to accept the pain.
He practically foists the papers upon her, the promise ringing off his lips in a shrill accusation, reminding her of the cost. She only smiles in response, ripping off her coat and revealing the harness clinging to her like a second skin.
All of his protests seem to die away in his throat as he watches her glide through the air, her joyous laughter filling the dark alleyway. As the sound begins to die away, he rubs his chest, mulling over her escape strategy. Of all the lousy, underhanded things to do…
His heart only seems to beat louder.
xXx
The newspaper clipping is faded and yellowed, yet the image is burned in his mind.
Soft arms were wrapped around an injured boy, eyes fraught with panic and dismay, while dozens of corn-flour shells litter the ground. This one moment, forever preserved in time, shows more emotion than he thought she was ever capable of.
It would be an insult to his intelligence to daresay that this was simply concern one shows an injured friend. This, he knows, will prove to be the spark that will someday ignite the flames.
The thought of this is too vile for words, a repellent flavor that seems to grow with time. Why could she never look at him this way? Though his actions may be a bit uncouth, does that mean the sentiment is any different?
And sometimes, he acknowledges that she never was his, that she'll never want nor care to know how he really feels. That all of this, is just some grand delusion he's dreamt up, and that no amount of medication will cure the heavy feeling welling up in the pit of his chest.
On these days he just sits and waits, watching the walls patiently, waiting for them to collapse.
xXx
Hope.
As he sits on her couch, dripping water onto the floor as the condemning eyes of her companions surround him, it is the one shred of salvation he clings to. It is the idea, the faintest notion, that despite his surly demeanor she will be willing to help him reclaim what little is left of his life.
After all, this is the only refuge he has left now.
Her umber orbs are just as accusing as the rest, proving that his actions of yelling at an innocent bystander are just as malicious as she knows him to be, yet somehow, he prays, they will relent. That perhaps she will see he isn't always as proud and ruthless as he may seem, that he is made up of the same flesh and blood as she is.
That maybe, out of all the strange and unusual phenomena in this world, he does have a heart after all.
Her resolve seems to momentarily waver, eyes uneasily circling her group of comrades, until a consensus is reached. A shoe is placed before him, filled with half-drunk punch, his nose wrinkling up in disgust at the very sight of it. With the remnants of his dignity, his hands clutch onto the dirty sneaker and place it to his lips.
If he has to swallow some poison to prove himself to her, so be it.
xXx
Days elapse into weeks as he buries himself in his work, desperate to salvage the remains of his website. Soon, he knows he will have to forfeit and admit that despite his best efforts, nothing can sway the backlash his actions have caused.
After all, even she couldn't save him.
The thought fills him with a peculiar sense of emotion, swirls of spite and rapture blending perfectly into a haphazard medley. He eyes the monitor warily, afraid of what he may do. After years of fruitless endeavors and squandered plots, he's managed to pull away from the dregs of her control.
To succumb once more would be foolish.
He attempts to work on the latest set of coding for his blog, tries his hand at a round of solitaire, anything to avoid the inevitable. After thirty minutes of unsuccessful distractions, he visits the bane of his existence once more.
The counter on the upper right-hand corner seems smaller then he remembers. Since when did they lose viewers? Scrolling down, he looks for the recent webcast, only to find that the last show was weeks ago.
The title is even more alarming than the time-stamp; iGoodbye?
His stomach begins to twist and writhe in knots; every word that passes her lips fills him with more dread than the last. Not only is she leaving her show, but she's traveling miles away, to Italy; it may as well be worlds away.
The ache in his chest seems more acute than ever before, until he feels as though he should be gasping for air; funny, he isn't. He sinks back into his chair, watching the rest of video with glazed eyes, his comprehension slowly fading away; after a few moments, he raises one arm and seals shut his laptop, not daring to look upon the screen.
Her words hang in the air until he cuts off the lights.