iTrade Places

Summary: Sam and Freddie both feel unappreciated. What better way to settle who's more unappreciated than with a bet? Seddie, T for language.

AN: So, I was watching trading places the other day (With Eddie Murphy and Dan Aykroyd; if you haven't seen it, well, what's wrong with you?), and kind of thought this would be a neat idea for an iCarly fic. iOMG is a non-issue here. My first POV story, so hopefully I can manage it.

Disclaimer: My name isn't Dan and I don't get to hang out with the casts of iCarly and Victorious :(

Chapter 1

"And that's it for another stupid awesome episode of iCarly!" Sam says, grinning widely at the camera. I angle the camera towards Carly, already anticipating the brunette's actions. After so many years of doing this, it was like second nature.

In what is possibly the cutest movement ever, Carly points at the camera and gives it her 'school teacher' look. I personally thinks she looks more like a sexy librarian. "Don't grab the candy out of that crazy hobo's hat!"

Sam sidles up close to the lens with a serious glare. "Not even if he's your dad."

"Bye!"

"We out!" Sam yells, puckering her lips and throwing up some obscure gang sign. I wouldn't be surprised if she'd made it up on the spot.

"Aaaand we're clear," I say, still laughing a little at their improvised sign off. I'm always amazed by the random things they manage to come up with since they definitely don't plan them during our rehearsals. Or at least they don't plan them around me.

Sam flops down on her blue beanbag–really, she'd written her name on it and everything–and expels a loud breath of air. "Well, I'm exhausted," she groans, fanning herself with her hands. "Hey Benson, get me a Peppy and a Fatcake, will ya?"

I raise my head to look at her. Was she serious? With how often she verbally, physically, and emotionally abuses me, did she really expect me to get her snacks? I frown over at her and snort, placing the five pound camera on my A/V cart with my laptop. "I'm not your slave, Puckett."

As if she hadn't even heard me, she snaps her fingers at me. "Today, Benson! Make yourself useful for once. It's not like you've done anything strenuous all day."

I can't even begin to imagine how my face looks at this moment. Never mind having to carry a five pound camera for nearly 45 minutes straight, but filming an entire iCarly webcast was extremely stressful. We have three separate cameras ready to go at any time, all of which have to be precisely controlled by a box that I wear on my belt. I have to come in an hour early just to queue up video clips on my laptop, download the sound effects we need that week to Sam's remote, and test the lights and microphones before every show.

If you count daily server maintenance, the transcoding and editing of videos, fan comment moderation, and the occasional replacement of studio electrical components, I hands down devote the most time to iCarly. Hell, I probably put in double the time of both Carly and Sam combined.

I feel my anger build until it begins to boil over. "Get it yourself," I snap, slamming the lid of my laptop closed a little bit too hard. For a few quiet, tense seconds, Sam doesn't move. Her long blond hair shifts first, and suddenly she's staring up at me with something akin to fury. My anger morphs into fear as I see the look in her icy blue eyes. Oh chiz.

Before I go any further, let me explain something to you about Samantha Puckett; or, as you'd better call her if you want to keep your extremities intact, Sam. To be blunt, Sam is a brute. Yeah, she's 5'3 on a good day, and yeah, she weighs all of 120 pounds, but somehow, she has the strength of a college football linebacker. I specifically indicate college linebacker because she has, on more than one occasion, tossed our own school's linebackers around like they were preschoolers for something as small as getting the last hot dog on mac 'n' wieners day. Ever since then Principal Franklin forced the lunch ladies to save at least five hot dogs just for Sam, because according to him, "Heads roll when mama doesn't get her meat."

So you can understand why I was currently praying to every existing deity for a chance to turn back time for one minute. Just one minute to make myself shut the hell up and get her snacks like a good little punching bag. She hadn't been hitting me much lately, but that didn't mean she wouldn't.

Luckily, Carly stands up and huffs, standing between the two of us. "Would you two give it a rest?" she says in that angry, exasperated tone that I still find sort of adorable even after being rejected seventy-nine times. Yes, I keep track. "I'll get it for you."

My eyes widen. "Wait, Carly–" I start, but it's too late. I slowly turn my head to look at Sam, and I swear I see my life pass before my eyes.

She slowly pushes herself to her feet and crosses her arms, staring me down with a look I've seen all too many times in the past. A look that basically promises pain and suffering in the near future.

My eyes shoot towards the door, noticing that it's open just wide enough for me to fit through if I turn my body sideways. I can make it. Sam's fast, but I'm used to running from her. Also, now that I'm a few inches taller and my legs are longer, I'm just a little bit faster. I edge around the cart to give myself a clearer path.

"Sam," I start, trying to calm her down, "I know you're a little angry with me, but–"

And then I book it. Out of the corner of my eye I see her also sprint towards the door, but I'm closer. I'm gonna make it.

I twist my body to slip through the doorway, elation temporarily overriding my fear. My joy is short lived as I feel a strong hand around my wrist, and at that moment, I realize I'm fucked. Fucked, fucked, fucked, fucked, fucked.

She throws me back into the room with one hand–seriously, how the hell is she so strong?–and I land painfully on my back, rolling to a clumsy stop. In seconds she is on me, straddling my chest and gripping my t-shirt in her hands.

If there was a girl on top of me, I'd think this was sexy. I'd always had some sort of weird fantasy of a girl having her way with me while I was powerless to stop it. According to the therapist my mother made me see once a month said it was because of mommy issues.

But Sam isn't a girl. Not even close. Sometimes, I even wonder if she's a human. No one can eat that much food and still remain under three hundred pounds. No girl can intimidate grown men twice her size with a glare. It just isn't feasible.

"Going somewhere?" she sneers.

I idly wonder if she can feel my heart thumping from her position on top of me. "Sam, look, I know you're mad."

"Mad doesn't begin to describe what I feel right now." She raises her fist and smiles a sugary sweet smile, a smile that I've come to associate with impending injury. I close my eyes and brace for impact. I find that if I don't see it coming, it hurts a lot less. Or it hurts more. I can never remember.

The sound of a Peppy Cola can opening instantly brings relief to my ears. Sam looks up to see Carly holding a soda in one hand and a Fatcake in the other. Forgetting that she was about to pound me into the ground, she pushes me back down to the ground and jumps up, snatching both items with a grin. I scrunch my face up in disgust as she takes a huge bite of her snack cake and follows it up with a large swallow of Peppy Cola.

See, that's another reason why I can never see Sam as a girl. Okay, yeah, contrary to what I said before, I'll admit that every now and then my traitorous eyes will cast an appreciative glance over the blonde's body, because let's be honest–she has a great set of curves. Her chest had really come into its own over the last couple of years, and on those extremely hot days where she wore Carly's old denim cut-offs, her butt absolutely begged to be groped. Luckily she's usually a mean, disgusting tomboy who covers herself up in flannel and downs a pound of bacon every day so my attraction to her goes almost as fast as it comes.

I shoot the brunette a small, appreciative smile to show her my thanks for saving my life, but she simply rolls her eyes and grabs something from my A/V cart.

"What are you two fighting about, anyway?" she asks, holding out another can for me.

A sharp pain shoots through my arm as I reach for it, causing me to wince. It feels like she dislocated my shoulder. Again. "I don't know what her problem is," I shrug, suddenly feeling bolder now that I have the virtually bulletproof buffer of Carly to protect me. "But I'm sick of Sam making me feel like I'm not a big part of iCarly too."

Sam looks up at me then, that infuriatingly bored expression on her face. I absolutely hate that look.

I don't know how she does it. While my ears are burning, voice is cracking, and fists are balled at my sides, she's completely calm and collected. I'd even say that she had complete indifference when it came to most of our arguments.

Not to say that she couldn't go off, because holy chiz, could she go off. I still have the burn scars to prove it. Annoyingly, those moments are much fewer and farther in between than mine and usually only happen after a lot of pushing. Or when something she loves is threatened. Like food. And sometimes Carly.

A tiny smirk appears on her face, instantly putting me on edge. "Because you're not. Any animal with opposable thumbs and the ability to open a banana could carry around a camera for an hour."

My mouth drops open. "Did you hear that?! She just called me a monkey!" I sputter, gesturing wildly at the smug demon currently tossing her empty wrapper on the ground.

Carly, bless her angelic heart, crosses her arms over her chest and fixes the blonde with a glare that couldn't hurt a kitten. But, hey, it's the thought that counts. "Sam, we've been over this, remember? You agreed that Freddie was an important part of iCarly. You hugged and everything." She neglects to mention the part where she'd also given me a wedgie that ached for three days.

"I never said he wasn't important. I'm just saying that what the nub does isn't nearly as hard as what we do."

I'm so surprised by her statement that I can't help but choke out a strangled laugh. "Oh, please. Carly and I are the only ones who actually do any work. You just show up and squeal at the camera. Any animal with a snout and a curly tail could do that."

Sam moves to stand up and I dive behind Carly. Some might call me cowardly, but really, I'm being smart. Carly is literally the only person I know that Sam would never hurt. She won't even bother to try to separate me from Carly for fear of snapping her in half; which is a very, very real possibility given the twig-like nature of her limbs.

"Is that how you really feel, Fredward?" Sam asks, a little too innocently.

I rack my brain, trying to figure out her angle. I can tell she's up to something. I can feel it.

I'm not just being paranoid, either. I've known Sam for well over five years, and though I hate to admit it, I know her pretty well. I know how she thinks, and if Sam ever says anything that sounds even remotely agreeable, then it's probably a trap.

Still, I can't figure out what she's trying to get at, so I slowly nod my head.

"Yeah, that's how I feel."

Sam shrugs her shoulders. "Okay, you're entitled to your opinion."

Carly glances back at me, and I can see that she is just as confused as I am. Our fights never end this easily. Ever. She turns back to the blond and tilts her head, an action that never fails to make me smile.

"That's it?" Carly asks, unable to ignore her curiosity. "You don't have anything else to say?"

"Nope."

Carly and I look at each other one more time before separating. If I was being honest with myself, I feel a little disappointed that Sam had given up so easily. There's just no...closure. No screaming, or yelling, or pain. You know? I'm not a masochist or anything, but it just doesn't feel right if one of us gives up so easily.

I move to go back to the A/V cart, and right as I turn my back, she speaks again.

"Your opinion is stupid, though."

Aaaand there it is. The usual snide comment. My blood instantly began to boil, and I can hear it pump powerfully in my ears. I don't know why I let her drive me so crazy; I really don't. We've never cared all that much about each other, and frankly speaking, Carly is the only reason I even bother to be in the same room with her. I grit my teeth and run my hands through my hair, fighting to keep from shouting. All while ignoring the small sense of elation I feel in the bottom of my stomach, of course. "You know what? I don't even care. You have no idea how much work it takes to be me and do what I do."

A grin instantly slides onto her face. Fuck. "That sounds like a challenge, Benson."

She's looking at me with this aggravatingly smug glint in her eyes, and I already know how I'm going to answer.

"That's because it is."

"Here we go," Carly sighs, throwing up her hands.

Sam saunters up to me, poking a strong finger directly into my solar plexus. Ow. "Okay, Freduardo, how about this: What if you and me switch places for a week? You find out what it's like to be cool for once, and I'll see what life is like at the scum covered bottom of the food chain."

My anger instantly evaporates, instead being replaced by an indescribable feeling of fear. What the hell? I couldn't be Sam. No one could be Sam. Being 'cool' according to Sam meant ditching classes, rolling around in the mud, and just generally being an all around douchebag of a person. All Sam would have to do is act civilized for once. Somehow, this bet seemed to be largely in her favor.

The worst part, though, is that I can't back down. If I don't do this, she automatically wins, and if she wins, she'll never let me live it down. Chiz, she still brings up the time I accidentally wore my mother's blouse to school in the 6th grade. How was I supposed to know that girls had buttons on the left side of the shirt and guys had buttons on the right?

My lips twitch upwards as an idea pops into my mind. There was only one way to get her to back down, and it was full proof. "That's one webcast. We can't accurately judge each others' effectiveness in our new roles just from that. Two weeks would be better. No, a month!" This time, I can't stop my smirk. I know her. She'll never agree to be a 'nub' for a month.

"You want me to be a loser for a whole month? No way can I stand that!" she yells, her tough facade cracking for the first time. I have her.

"Don't think you can win?" I tease, grin widening at the panic steadily growing on her face.

She growls through clenched teeth and my smirk unconsciously drops. Uh-oh. "Know what? Fine. We switch places for a month and then Carls here will judge who did a better job of being the other person. You're on, Benson."

At the mention of her name, Carly's head snaps up from her phone. At some point during our fight, she'd plopped down on her own bright pink bean bag and started Splashfacing. Not that I could blame her. "Oh no, I'm not getting in the middle of this," the brunette says, waving her hands in front of her face.

"What if we get Spencer and Gibby to judge too? They're pretty unbiased," I offer.

She seems to consider this for a few seconds before deepening her frown. "Fine," she sighs, rolling her eyes like she's doing us the biggest favor in the world. "Why can't you two just agree to disagree like normal people?"

Sam's eyes twinkle with mischief. "Because he's wrong, that's why." The smug look on her face pisses me off. Stupid Sam. She spits in her hand and sticks it out at me. "So we got a deal or what?"

Frowning, I grab her hand and shake it. The slightly sticky wetness still grosses me out, but I'm used to it considering that we bet something at least twice a month. "Deal. Starting tomorrow, I become you and you become me. I hope you can give up pork for that long since I barely ever eat it," I smirk, taking delight in the mild flash of panic that flashes across her face.

"And I hope you enjoy spending extra time after school for detention three times a week. Don't worry, Benson, detentions don't show up when you apply for colleges. Just try not to get suspended, alright tough guy?" she says, slapping me on the cheek a couple of times to wipe off her spit before plopping back down on her beanbag chair.

I barely hold back a groan. I'd forgotten how often Sam got into trouble, which basically meant that now I'd have to get into trouble. Great.

"Benson, get me another Fatcake."

A brief wave of anger passes over me, but I go downstairs and get her one anyway, a small smirk on my face. It doesn't matter. Today is the last day for a month that she'll be able to boss me around.

Come tomorrow, I'd have my revenge.

AN: Hmmm. Not super happy with this. Writing from someone's perspective is hard. I'm also not sure if I want to keep writing in present tense since I usually write in third person omniscient. Or whatever it's called, I never paid much attention in English