A/N: Here it is, my second attempt at iCarly. I've taken a lot of time to think about the genre, considering how badly my last fic went over with some folks, and I think (and hope) that my comedy/drama/romance writing has improved... I hope... lol. Anyways, if you're feeling nice enough to take the time and write a review, please, give me your honest opinion, because I want to do better! Thanks... I'll put some more stuff at the end, haha.

Disclaimer: I don't own either the show iCarly or the band Airbourne. I do, however, still own a pair of footie pajamas from when I was like five... which is awesome...

Sam Puckett:

He's been hiding something. I just know it. And I'm willing to bet it's something nerdy, too. My dork sense is totally off the chart. So, naturally, I have to expose whatever it is, and make fun of him for it. It's practically my job.

Every weekend or so, sometimes Friday, sometimes Saturday, the dork has been taking off to do... something. It started off nonchalantly enough: every now and again his mental patient of a mom would call him home early, and neither me nor Carly thought anything of it, because, like I said, she's crazy. Bonkers. Off her rocker. You get the idea.

But then, I caught him in the lie. She hadn't been calling him at all! See, one time, after the nub took off from a desperate call from Mommy, he forgot his backpack. Now, I was all for hiding it someplace and laughing while he freaked out about it, but Carly wouldn't let me. So, because she demanded payment from me for spending the night, I ended up taking it back to the nub's house.

But, the thing was, when I knocked on his door, and Mommy Dearest answered, I knew from the look on her face that he wasn't there. She had this whole confused thing going, like she was surprised (and maybe not in the good kind of way) to see me, and, I don't know, I could just tell he wasn't there. So I shouldered the back pack like it was mine, and I asked: "Did you call Freddie about five minutes ago?"

And, you guessed it, she said: "No! Why? Is everything alright?"

So I took the back pack and hid it after all, without anyone suspecting that I had stumbled onto Freddie's secret. Oh, and that's not the only bit of evidence I got proving it, either! See, because I'm brilliant, I wrote down the time and date when he pretended to get a call from his mom, then stole his phone during the school week and looked in his past calls list. Nothing! Nada. Niet. No phone calls from Mommy.

And that's where I am today! He's walked out, with another (I'm sure of it) fake call from his mom, and I'm gonna tail his ass to figure out just what our young, nerdy junior without a driver's license sneaks out to do when he thinks no one is watching.

"Well, I think I'm going to follow the nub's example, tonight," I say, "I gotta hit the road. Mom's expecting me home tonight."

I keep my expression calm and collected as I watch Carly's eyebrow pop up, a clear indication of her disbelief. "Your mom? Really?"

"I'm just as surprised as you are," I say coolly, with a slight shrug of my shoulders for effect. "But she insisted. I dunno what to think."

Her left eyebrow stays firmly planted halfway up her forehead, as a slow, yet unsure smile spreads across her face. She leans back, her eyes drifting away from me as she attempts to process the information. "Well, ok then. I'm just so used to you staying the night on the weekends. And most weekdays, too, actually. It's going to be lonely here tonight, I guess."

I offer another light shrug, letting my liar's instincts take over as my face drops into it's trademarked neutral expression. I kick in cruise control as I stand up, tossing her a little wave before striding casually to her door. I have to get out of here fairly quick, so I can tail the nub before he gets too far off. We exchange good-byes, though hers still carries a bit of suspicion, and I'm out the door, no more then two minutes behind Fredwierd.

My hand drifts to the outside of my jeans, clamping tightly over the cell phone firmly lodged in the pocket, feeling its reassuring outline through the thick, rough denim. Oh yeah, Mama's getting pictures. I move as quickly and quietly down the stairs as I can, slowly poking my head out of every blind corner before committing to it, making sure the nub isn't there.

I realize as I clear the last flight of stairs that Lewbert isn't in the lobby. A niggling worm of curiosity eats its way into my gut as I pry the cell-phone from the super tight pants, flipping the clamshell open and checking the time. 9:07! Incredible! The nub has actually timed his escape to hit just after Lewbert calls it quits for the night! A sort of begrudging pride replaces my earlier curiosity as I realize that I've rubbed off on the nub, at least a little bit. It's a smart move. Lewbert is the type of jank who'd call his mom if he saw Freddie sneaking out in the night.

I move quickly and quietly, all ninja-like, to the front door, peering out against the night sky for some sign of Fredwierd. Damnit, Freddie, why did you have to wear a black shirt, tonight of all nights? As silently as possible, I slip out the front door, my gaze intent and focused on the fairly blank night scene that spreads out before me. Random spatterings of people stroll casually across the street, the leftovers of a busy weekday commute, folks ready for the weekend. The moon's real bright tonight, and it's dull, silvery light offers up a dim but clear view of the streets before me, mingling easily with the pungent yellow of the street lamps.

Then, suddenly, my Nerd-dar goes red as I see the dork walking quickly and nervously across the street. His steps are stuttered and unnatural looking as he tries to hurry around the block corner, his face darting up apprehensively towards the building. I feel a slow smile dribble across my face as I realize that he's looking up at his apartment, scared out of his mind that his mom might peep out the window and see him out without permission.

Then, his form disappears totally behind the dull crimson brick of the high-rise across the street. Immediately I take off, painfully aware of how loud my sneakers are against the damp, sullen pavement. I fly past (or, kind of through) a couple, holding each other sickeningly tightly, pressing myself flat against the harsh brick, carefully watching the form of Freddie make it's way down the street.

I take a deep breath. Ok, Sam! You always wanted to be a crazy super-ninja, now's the time to act on it! I casually step around the corner, flipping the hood of my jacket over my head, and walk about thirty steps behind him, like I'm just some strange girl headed randomly in the same direction. He doesn't turn around, doesn't give me any indication that he's aware of me behind him, and a smirk glimmers on my face. Oh, yeah! Total spy!

But then, the nub stops off, and sits down at a bus stop. It's a little bit crowded, but I see the bus approaching at the far end of the block, and realize that I have a really short amount of time to make it to the bus before he gets on it. Damnit, Freddie! I thought you were way to scared and cautious to ever even think about taking a bus! Especially not at night!

The monster bus approaches, spraying harsh, exposing light over me and my surroundings, and I can barely make out Freddie getting in and sitting down near the front. I break into a run, hoping, praying that the rumbling growl of the bus will be enough to keep anyone's attention from me as I shoot behind the bus stop, jumping through the back doors just as the driver begins to close them. They squeak noisily behind me as I flip around, quickly taking a seat as far back as I can manage. I end up squirmed up against this huge fat guy, hood over my head, slinking down as far into the hard, uncomfortable chair as I can manage.

I can feel a cold sweat form on the underside of my palms; I clench and unclench them as I stair at Fredward, shake his legs nervously, stair totally forward, without glancing back. C'mon, Freddork, don't turn around, it'll totally spoil my fun if you catch me following you!

The whole bus trip pretty much goes this way: me praying and praying that Freddie will be unobservant enough not to notice me, while he continues to look antsy and nervous about something. At one point, his gaze drifts sideways. My breath catches in my throat as I try my hardest to dissolve into the hard, unforgiving cushion, but he stops short of turning around, and wrings his hands together as he stairs out the window. The held air suddenly wooshes out of me as he turns back forwards, and it hits me that I've been so worried about him seeing me that I haven't even been annoyed by the massive guy breathing through his mouth sitting beside me.

Then, all of the sudden, the trip is over. The bus grinds to a halt, and he slips out of his chair, walking idly to the front door and stepping out. I realize as I slip out the back door that I haven't been paying attention to where we are; the bus has been driving and stopping for at least twenty minutes, and I've been so terrified that I have no idea even in which direction we've traveled.

That's why I'm really surprised as I step out of the bus, and feel myself surrounded by night-life. Bright neon from clubs and bars tears into the darkness of the night, overshadowing the natural shimmer from the moon and painting the wet streets all sorts of different colors. My eyes dart back and forth, taking in the hum of the happy, partying crowd and the searing glare of the signs, all advertising fun of some type or another.

Suddenly, I remember why I'm here, and desperately try to root through the crowd to find Freddie. After a little pushing and shoving through the buzz of folks, I finally see the nub, making a bee-line for a club at the edge of the street. Immediately, I tear off after him, moving with the flow of people to see what he's doing.

For the first time since he left the iCarly studio, I'm able to clearly see his face, albeit from a safe distance away. He stops to stand in line for a place that looms just out of my field of vision; he still bobs nervously, but I realize upon staring in at the nervous, half-smile that lights up his lips, the bright sheen that his brown eyes have taken on, that he's more excited then nervous. What could he possibly be so excited about, here in Pioneer Square?!

I set myself on a long, roundabout path to see what the building is that he's waiting in line in front of. I hit the block opposite the line, with his back safely to me, before finally allowing my gaze to drift off of him and the crowd and up to precisely what's going on.

Glaring letters read "Fenix Underground", bright and shining, up above me, casting the ground all around me in a pale kind of green light. I realize with a knot of confusion and a total lack of understanding that I've been to this club before. It's one of the bigger ones in Seattle, one of the ones that some of the more hardcore rock shows come through. But... but that can't be right! What the hell is Fredward Benson, the nerdiest nerd that I know, doing here? Whose he come here to see?

But that has to be where we are! Freddy is by far the preppiest looking kid out here! The line is filled with long hair and tattoos; dark rocker t-shirts, shredded jeans, the whole stereotypical Seattle rock scene of piercings and body ink. And he's standing in line with them like there's nothing out of the ordinary!

Dazed, and more than a little confused, I allow myself to fall back into a patio chair set up in front of a Starbucks a little ways off. The chilled metal wraps around me as I ease backwards into it, staring at Freddie in line, all thoughts of remaining unnoticed forgotten. This is a highschooler that still takes regular tick baths. This boy has every second of every day planned out to the letter. He fearfully and meticulously avoids the unknown as much as possible. That's half the reason I like hanging out with him so much: my spontaneous, carefree nature tears holes in his schedules like nothing else could or would, and I love watching him react.

Now I feel like I'm the one being thrown for the loop. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, a guy I've never seen before steps up and claps Freddie warmly on the shoulder. His hair is littered with greasy, lethal looking spikes, and his shirt proudly displays the letters AC and DC separated by a combination of a giant lightning bolt and the snarling face of a guy with devil horns and a schoolboy uniform. A fuzzy soul-patch leaks from his bottom lip into his untrimmed stubble, and he sports jeans that look as though they went through a hellish washing cycle with bleach and razor blades thrown in for effect.

And Freddie, the nerd I thought I knew, turns around and greets him with a huge smile on his face. They clasp hands all bro-style, hugging with their arms in between them. Their mouths flap open and shut as they exchange words that I'm too far away to hear, all grins and laughter, before Freddie, Freddie, the only kid in the polo shirt and khaki pants, throws out the devil-horns all rock n' roll style.

Oh that's it. The second he disappears into the club, Mama's buying herself a ticket to see exactly how he does with all these rocker-types.

It takes almost thirty minutes for him to get into the club, but that's fine, I'm willing to be patient for this. It's time to score me a ticket and see what the band is that Freddie snuck out to see! I slip out some cash from my pocket to the vendor (which, in all honesty, probably came from Freddie at some point anyways), and he slips me a ticket printed out in thick, cardboard-ish paper. The word "Airbourne" is spelled out violently in bold black type over the surface of it, stamped on from some sort of industrial strength printer. Where do they decide on these things, anyway?

The name stirs some sort of recollection way deep in my memory. Some kind of gritty rock band from Australia. I can vaguely hear some segments from different songs play through my head; frustration rips through my mind as I realize that I've heard this band before, somewhere, sometime, and that I just can't remember who they are or what they sing!

Oh well. I'll find out soon enough.

The club is nearly pitch-black inside, totally darkened all except for the blinding glare of the industrial lights looming over the stage. The opening act has already started playing; by the looks of the sweat dripping off of the shirtless bass-player, it's been for a little while already. The crowd stirs slightly to the beat, swaying and jumping a bit, but the singer's voice is flat, and the buzz from the guitar is too thin and reedy to really stand out, and I can see why they don't seem more excited. Opening acts. Puh.

Acrid smoke mixed with the dim stink of old sweat coaxes my nostrils, bringing a bit of the rocker out in me. A slight smirk sparks across my face as I remember all the shows that I've been through all the years, from modern pop straight up to the local punk scene. Hey! Don't you assume that Mama doesn't know how to rock! I'll have you know that I've dated several different band members (mostly bass players, for some reason), and I've moshed and surfed and dived as much as anyone!

But still, I'm kind of taken aback by the scene here. The club is pretty big, a nice sized open floor in front of the stage, slowly filling as people trickle in from the door. All of a sudden I realized that, as I've been sitting here reminiscing, the band that was opening has left the stage. The lighting of the room gradually brightens, revealing the crowd as the dim hum of talk begins to replace the harsh noise of the band.

I let myself drift to the back of the room, and my mind fills with Freddie. I felt an hour or two ago that I knew him so, so well: his little half-smirk that would alight his face when he felt he was being clever, the sheer innocence of his expressions as he would get excited talking about some nerdy tech stuff that most people would keep to themselves, the way my implied threats could get him to do anything... It all feels like it's been pulled out from under me a little bit. I'm so confused, but, I realize with a shock, it's not in a negative way. I realize that maybe I don't want to know everything about Freddie, the ins and outs of how he works, because maybe, he's more fun if there's complexities to him that I haven't found out about yet.

And as I lean casually against the cold, hard concrete of the venue wall, taking in the rocker scene in front of me, memories spark unbidden, deep within me. Nervous words and smiles, desires, a forced laugh... a kiss.

No, no no no, I exorcised those demons long ago. Freddie is Freddie, and I am me. End of story. Sure, we (and by we, I mean I) have fun, and we hang out all the time, and will continue to, but all I have are empty feelings from the memory of my first kiss. I wanted it to be special, and so it was, and I only feel the way that I do because he is a close friend of mine. That's all there is to it, I figured it out way way long ago, and I'm not going to start digging them up now, just because the dork has surprised me a little.

Besides, it wouldn't work, right? I mean all I do is torture him, and that's all I want to do. I've said it myself, I love making fun of him, and I will continue to do so for as long as I know him. That's the way it should be! He could never, and should never, have to put up with that in a girlfriend.

Dimming lights suddenly jerk me back to the real world, accompanied by the powerful, unified roar of the crowd. Is the main act ready already? I grin and move my way up forwards, waiting to hear what this Airbourne group sounds like. The band members idle across stage nonchalantly, as though this was the most boring, average occurrence in the world, gripping their respective instruments, strapping up. I laugh a little bit at the lead singer, who looks like some leftover from the eighties: he's decked out in actual, honest to God, leather spandex pants, and he's already shirtless, without having played a note! At least these guys have to have a bit of a sense of humor.

I push my way into about the center of the crowd, close enough that I can see the faces of the band members clearly; the drummer eyes the other members of the band, bringing his drumsticks together. Four wooden clicks trace rhythmically through the air, and the big intro begins.

The crash cymbal explodes as he smashes his stick against it, the bassist thumbs the top string of his instrument to life, and the guitarist's fingers walk around the fretboard, forcing music from the wall of amplifiers stretching across the stage. The music is simple at this point: an easy, melodic lick over the crash of the cymbal and the buzzing powerchords. It's pretty, and I wonder for a second if these guys are actually some melodic metal emo band.

Then, the singer/guitar player approaches the mike, easing forward, his eyes alight with determination and mischief as he opens his mouth. His voice comes out harsh, gritty, and hoarse as he screams: "Stand up for rock and roll!"

And it all happens at once. The crowd immediately springs to life: a massive, pulsating animal, jumping and flowing to the beat of the music like some kind of monster. White letters blazing the word "Marshall" vibrate visibly as the stacked wall of amplifiers screams out a thick, meaty buzz of distorted guitar as the drums shatter and clang through a beat that is as fast-paced as it is pissed off. The bass rumbles, thick and muddy, like some kind of tortured beast, slapped and clawed angrily by the snarling musician holding it, and the singer/guitar player comes back to meet up with the mike again.

His voice is high-pitched, gritty, and forced, like a barely controlled scream as he belts lyrics I can't understand through the PA system. As he sings, my ears hum and buzz, protesting the wall of noise that thunders across the audience. I feel the familiar rush of adrenaline leak through me, feeding my already aggressive nature, and I thunder face first into the middle of the developing mosh pit.

I slam and pulse against sweaty, meaty bodies, pushing and shoving and glorying in every moment of it. Images more than memories flash across my eyes, occasionally magazine-like photos of the band, occasionally snapshots of blurred smiles and bared hands flashing the unique symbol of rock and roll. The breathing human mass screams joy and freedom, the band plays thunder and lightning, and I'm just one person in a sea of fun and craziness.

Oh, yeah! My kind of night!

The singer/guitar player flies into a solo, notes streaming from the amp, high-pitched and screaming. As the guitar wails, cries, and screams the fun that it's having, the audience responds in kind, jumping up and down with even more energy. My fumbling hands shove some shirtless, tattooed guy away, as I smile and go for it!

I guess I really don't need to describe it much more, because that's really what the majority of the show is. There are no ballads. No mercy! Only the fast-paced scream of classic pub rock, complete with muddied, screaming, raunchy lyrics, solos, and 4 or 5 chord songs. I love the rush and energy and primal fury of these kinds of shows (in case you can't tell), and I have a much better time than I thought I could possibly have following Freddie on his surprisingly un-nerdy adventure.

And then, of course, inevitably, I run right into the nerd in question. I realize as I put my shoulder into the mosh that the fabric under my fingers is way too coarse and thick to be a rocker tee, but too thin to be a jacket, and as my eyes fly open, I see Freddie's confused, shocked, and above all, mortified face. His mouth drops open emptily as he stops throwing any force into the mosh, his eyes widen and I see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows nervously. I let go of his shirt, suddenly realizing that it's literally dripping with sweat (I make a mental note to ask him how he hides his sweat-drenched shirts from his mom), as a victorious and impish smile works its way across my face. He mouths the word "Sam?", but the music is too loud and too powerful for the sound of the word to reach me.

But, despite realizing that would be a lot of fun to make him sweat out the rest of the show, wondering if I'd tell Mommy or Carly, I feel a flutter, powerful, and deep in my stomach. I see the muscles of his shoulders clearly against the damp outline of his polo, and his expression strikes me as so damnably, unbearably cute that I have to fight the impulse not to touch him again. I realize fully, starkly and totally, that this show isn't out of character for him at all, and stabs of pride mixed with... something else... flow through me at the fact that my nerd has snuck out of his apartment to go see a rock show.

My hand grips the fabric of his shirt, almost of its own accord, pulling him closer. His expression suddenly changes: the fear becomes less palpable, replaced by nervousness and anxiety as his mouth closes slightly and his eyes hold unwaveringly to my own. I coax him forward, realizing with total certainty that my actions are probably half-motivated by the rock-induced adrenaline, yet strangely not caring as he comes within centimeters of my face. His breath feels hot and alive against my face, his arm, suddenly brimming with confidence (it's got to be the rock), snakes warmly behind my back, tucking me close.

And, in that moment, I'm not aware of the sweaty mass of bodies and music, the jarring rhythm, the primal joy of the mosh pit, the blazing rock n' roll surrounding us at every angle. It just ceases to exist, and there's only this boy, holding me close, and the warmth budding pleasantly in my chest.

I lean a little bit closer...and....

Push him, mercilessly, back into the pit.

What? Just because I'm all high off the show doesn't mean that I've lost my senses! What did you think I was going to do?!

I half-expect his gaze to darken and harden in anger, but instead, a totally natural and boyish grin alights his features, as he charges wholeheartedly back into the mess of rock. I feel his smile reflected on my face as I follow suit, pushing him probably harder than I should several times on the way.

You got me runnin', wild and free!

Runnin', wild and free!

The lights on the inside of the Taco Cabana are harsh and bright against our darkness-adjusted eyes as I shift and squirm into the uncomfortable plastic bench seat. Freddie suddenly turned normal almost as soon as the guitars punch stopped streaming through the amps, becoming nervous and embarrassed at the fact that I caught him. So I, because I'm brilliant, took advantage of the situation and made him buy me food.

I grin hungrily as Fredwad comes back with a massive, steaming quesadilla, which I promptly dive right in to. The meat, salty, warm and tender, seems to melt in my mouth and I shiver with the pleasure of it. Well, at that, and the anxious expression that's wormed onto Freddie's face as he waits for me to talk. Finally, he speaks into the silence.

"Ok, fine, I'll bite," he says, his voice hoarse and grainy from the show, "How? How did you know I was sneaking out?"

I force a hunk of cheese and tortilla to the side of my mouth before saying, "because I'm a ninja. Or a spy. Take your pick."

He sighs, exasperated and annoyed by the fact that I so easily exposed him. His eyebrows furrow together, knitting wrinkles between his deep brown eyes as he frowns, and that damned fluttering starts up in me again. Ugh, is this never going to go away?

"Come on," he pleads, "At least tell me how you got to the show. Did you know beforehand where I was going, or did you just follow me?"

I let a grin flower across my face as I take my time chewing the food in my mouth, savoring the flavor, and the warm dribble of juices down the back of my throat. Oh man, was I hungry! Rocking out and being a ninja takes a lot out of a girl.

Finally, after at least a minute, I answer him. "Fine, Fredwina, if you're going to be such a girl about it, no I didn't know where you were going, so I followed you. I've got to say, I'm pretty surprised. I didn't figure you for the closet rocker type. Now, because I answered your question all nice and sweet like, you have to tell me how you came into all... this."

The sentence comes out a little more antsy than I mean it too, but the oblivious Freddie doesn't seem to notice, as his face darkens into a deep crimson as he stares away at the floor. His voice, hoarse as it is, still manages to come out a bit nervous and embarrassed as he opens up his mouth to speak.

"Oh... I don't know. I had just over-listened to the music I had on my PearPod, and I wanted something new, so I started rooting around in SplashFace for something new. I didn't know what I wanted, so I just kept looking around, 'til I finally saw some live performances of this hard, fast-paced rock. It started with the Hives, moved into some of the classics like AC/DC and Aerosmith, and... I don't know, I just loved the live videos and the stage shows. It just kept evolving, into Jet and Buckcherry and the Vines and all sorts of things..."

His fingers drum anxiously on the table, his gaze shifts every which way but towards me, and I realize that he's about to really open up to me. I put down my half-eaten quesadilla, letting a little (just a little!) of the warmth that's been running through me all night soften my expression. Despite everything, despite the fighting with him that I love to do, I can sense that this is a hard and revealing moment for him, and I don't want him to feel censored. Somewhere, deep in the pit of my stomach, I realize that this might be a big moment for the both of us.

"Ok," I say, managing to keep my voice hard, "but sneaking out to see them in concert? Come on, you told me that the last time you tried that, you ran back home because you saw a hobo!"

"I... I..." he stammers, "It just... it brought out... something... in me, that I really didn't know was there. It made me feel wild, and crazy, and like I could do anything, and I loved it. I feel like my life... like everything I do, really, is so structured, so organized and regulated, that you're one of the only things that ever surprises me, and when I watched these bands go nuts on stage, and when I heard the music that was so hard and fast and wild, well... it was like I could break free of that. So, a couple of months ago, I learned that the Hives were going to play here in Seattle, within a quick bus trip from the apartment..."

He hesitates, and, for the first time in his confession, he looks at me, straight in the eyes. I realize that he's afraid that I'm going to shoot him down now that he's opened himself up like this, and despite all the quick zingers that shoot through my head, all that comes out is, "Go on. It's ok."

This seems to answer some of his fear, as a slight smile lights up his features. "Well.. I wanted to experience it. It wasn't enough for me to just watch the videos on SplashFace or listen to the headphones with the volume jacked up all the way, and I thought you would mock me if I invited you and Carly, and I didn't think you would want to go. I bought the ticket online, and, up until the day of the show, I didn't think I would actually go. And when I faked a phone call from my mom and walked out of the building, I didn't think I would actually get on the bus. And when I got off the bus and walked into the club, I didn't think I would stay. And when the show started, I didn't think that I would actually like it. But I did... and... I more than liked it, I loved it. It was... just so freeing! I felt like I was bursting out of the rest of my life, and that I could be wild and crazy and all those things that I'm not. I made friends at the show, and they invited me to shows out in town, and it was so great, because they were so cool, and nice, and friendly, even though they were all hardcore rockers and I was just some highschooler." My mind flits back to the spikey-headed punker who bro-hugged him in line. "And after the show, when I snuck back, I felt so... so rejuvenated, like I was ready for anything, and I could go through all the structure and order with a big smile on my face, because I knew that when it got to be too much, I would just sneak out and go to a rock show."

He finishes his long speech, and his eyes appraise me warily, waiting to hear how I'm going to react. I try to smirk, but the butterflies in my stomach refuse to be silenced any longer, and they push the half-smile into a full-fledged grin.

No, damn it! No! I should be mad at this! The nub lied to me, and to Carly, and that's a problem! So what if we would have poked fun at him about it, we're still his friends, and I know for a fact that I would have loved to see the Hives play! I mean, sneaking out is one thing, but he shouldn't have lied to me!

But, as I see the innocence of his gaze, the clear fear of censure, I just can't hold on to the hard feelings. He can't meet my eyes, but he has this approachable and huggable expression on his face, and my stupid chest tells me that I should wrap my arms around his shoulders and laugh about it, instead.

But, I won't! Because I'm Sam Puckett, and Sam Puckett doesn't behave like that.

So, I do what I always do.

"Good lord, Fredward, stop looking like you're going to go to jail! It's just sneaking out, everybody does it, yeesh! Only you could make sneaking out to see a rock show into something nerdy."

He cocks an eyebrow at me, clearly taking a little offense, which brings the familiar impish smirk back to my face. As he opens his mouth to retort, I idly flick a loose piece of beef from the paper plate onto his already filthy shirt, promptly shutting him up. His expression tightens into that familiar irritation, which sends a wave of happiness up through my spine. Man, the rock show adrenaline really sticks with you for awhile, doesn't it?

"I just can't get over the fact that you took a bus, at night, to a nightclub," I admit, before letting mock fear dribble into my voice as I ask: "I mean what if you were approached by a bum?"

His irritation dissolves into some kind of weird pride, and I realize with a smile that he's about to do something nerdy. He says, "Oh, I got that covered," and pulls out a shimmering black canister, a little bigger than a chapstick, from his pocket. I realize that it's a can of mace, and laughter bursts out from my chest. His pride darkens really quickly, which only makes me laugh more.

"Holy crap, Freddie! A can of mace? What are you, a pretty little girl?" I ask, through peals of laughter, "It's even got a little keychain on it! Like it's meant to go into a purse!"

He looks at the canister, confused, before saying: "What? I don't get it. What if someone tried to mug me?"

The giggles begin to subside as I bring a hand to my eye, wiping away a tear. "Oh boy, carrying that around, you'ddeserve it!"

His brows furrow even further. Man, I'm shocked they're not stuck like that, for how much I see that happen. "That's... disrespectful!" he mutters lamely, which only causes me to shake my head.

"So Freddie," I say with a sigh, thinking back to the show, "Does this mean that you don't like the Plain White Tees or Cuttlefish anymore? I mean since you've suddenly turned into this hardcore rocker and everything." Man, the sarcasm just comes through, no matter what I say. I must admit, it's one of my better talents.

He eyes me with that angry expression, which, I've got to say, just brightens my day, and asks: "C'mon. Do you really think that I would just lie-"

"Yes, yes I do," I interrupt, folding my arms.

He looks a little startled, before saying: "Oh... well, I didn't. I still like them, and I still like the pop stuff, I just like this stuff too."

He pauses, looking at me with an odd expression on his face: one that defies every expression I've ever seen from him. The irritation has fled, and his eyes stay firmly focused on mine, the deep brown of them seeming to look straight through me. He frowns a little, almost with guilt, as he leans forward, resting his chin against a propped up fist. I begin to feel uncomfortable, but not in a totally bad way; fear rushes up and down my spine, wondering if he's about to say something that will change us forever. It brings warmth to my face, as I realize that I'm blushing a little bit.

"Sam... I'm.. Look, I'm sorry... that I lied to you," he says, as his face turns a color of pink that matches mine, "I shouldn't have. I don't regret sneaking out, but... but you're my friend... kind of... and I shouldn't have lied to you."

Oh, damnit. Damnit, damnit, damnit. My heart melts in my chest at the apology, something I'm totally not used to, and the butterflies that I can't seem to evict from my stomach go crazy. A lump rises, hard and painful, in the back of my throat, but it's not out of sadness... It's warm. And it feels... nice. I feel... nice. Oh man, I hate this fluffy stuff!

"Don't worry about it, Freddie. It's ok," I say honestly, using his preferred name in an odd sort of compassion. It's all I can force out of my mouth, even though I feel like I should say more.

His mouth opens slightly, as though he's suffering from the same thing, and I know, with a knot of apprehension, that he's going to talk about the moment we shared at the concert. He's trying to ask me if I was just trying to play a joke on him. He's going to say something about the flush across my cheeks, or the way I looked at him, or the way I accepted his arm around me. He's going to put me on the spot, and I'm either going to admit something that I don't know if I can, or I'm going to make a joke that will hurt him in a way that I don't want to. And, either way, things will change. Our love-hate relationship, balanced precariously on a tightrope, will disappear forever, melting into a damnably solid and stable version of either hate, or love.

God damn it, I want both!

I force a smile to my face, painfully splitting my cheeks with it, before cutting him off with: "You know, you're a pretty good mosher. For a nub, that is."

He looks at me, his deep brown eyes meeting mine, and he closes his mouth. A slow, half smile spreads across his face, but it isn't his usual half smile. This one is weird, because half of it seems sad, and the other half seems thankful. I realize that, in the pit of my stomach, I feel the same way. A big part of me, maybe the better part of me, wants to talk about it. Wants to tell him that, maybe, somewhere, I've got some feelings that I've hidden deep down.

But not tonight.

"Thanks," he says, and I can tell he means it (which is weird, I mean, after all, it was basically an insult...) "You moshed pretty well, too, which surprised me. A mosh pit seems too friendly for you."

The smirk on my face naturalizes, as I flick another piece of dead cow at him. "Whatever, Freddork. Just make sure that you invite me to the next show."

To my surprise, he picks up the offending beef, and pops it into his mouth.

"You know, I think I just might."

A/N: Alright, there it is such as it is! Like I said in the last iCarly fic, I've never written in such a lighthearted comedy fandom like this one before, and it's really hard to stamp out the leftovers from a past style of writing. I really feel like I have a much better understanding of the way iCarly and Seddie (Seddie rules! XD) should be written now (though I could be wrong... lol), but I still felt like I needed to start from something that I both love and understand, and if there's one thing I both love and understand, it's rock music (in case you can't tell from my penname, hahaha). When I first had the idea for this fic, I was terrified that I had Freddie pegged way wrong in wanting to go see a show like this, but I really think that it suits him, I mean, after all, he always seems to be chafing at the structure and order that his mom and his life kinda throws at him, and fast-paced rock like this is a great way to be free and wild for a couple of hours on a weekend. After that, the only thing I was worried about was writing about moshing, which is pretty violent (though the people you meet in a mosh pit are always so nice and friendly! It's wierd...), but I tried to emphasize the fun it is instead of the violence, and I hope that that went over well.

About choosing Airbourne as the band: all I knew initially was that I wanted a straight up rock band (which is hard to find nowadays [not that there's anything wrong with the modern music! I like it just as much as anybody! {I'm just throwing this in here so I can go this deep into parentheses :D}]) that was famous enough that people have heard of them, but not so huge that they can't play an intimate club like the Fenix Underground (a real club, and very famous, but I don't live in Seattle and I don't know what it looks like, so sorry if I absolutely butchered it's description, haha). Course, whenever anyone thinks of straight up rock, typically the first two bands they think of are 1) AC/DC and 2) Kiss (I love how AC/DC is still so popular, even in shirt form!), but those two bands always play at huge sold-out arenas for like $100+ for a ticket, and I wanted somebody modern. Airbourne fit great because they are basically AC/DC the sequel, and I could also have them play a show with no ballads to it (not there's anything wrong with ballads, I love 'em too, I just didn't want any for this fic!).

Phew, this is already so long, but there's only a little more I wanna say! To those who my fic offended last time, I'm still deeply sorry, and I hope that this fic is a move much closer to where I wanna be with regard to this fandom. I wanna get it right, but if I'm still way, way off, I might leave iCarly alone, because I certainly don't want to write a bunch of crap, lol.

Last notes (I promise!): If anyone gets the aggressive blonde dating a punk rock bass player joke, I'll send you a cookie (Disclaimer: cookie will be virtual and in spirit :D). Also, I actually play a rock instrument, and I'm curious if anyone can guess which one it is. I tried to avoid talking too much about it, because I wanted to give the other instruments their due, but I'm curious to know if I succeeded enough that no one else will guess. Also, last but def not least, please review! Click the green button and write about what you thought! I wanna know if the fandom is thinking that I finally got iCarly at least more right!!!

Thanks again,

RockaRoller88