Thanks to all who read, alerted and favorited but especially the readers who commented on chapter 9:
Julefor, Movie Pal, Urias, jhuikmn08, mizkntuhke, , bluejay63, Darsnider, Purple550, afanofanfic, Mike2101, TheWrtrInMe, irishfan62, dulscar, Mack and sincerely sweet
As is my practice I've written to all of you that have such communication enabled.
This is the first part of the long walk home (which in my mind is now called the long talk home). I'm trying some things in this chapter and I'm breaking the walk up into parts with the goal of a richer, better product. If it sucks, hey you're out a couple of minutes.
None of my adventures have taken me to Seattle (No kung-fu treachery? No super criminals? No bus fare?). Because I have no idea what downtown Seattle is like, I've just made up the space Sam and Freddie are walking through. Any reader who knows Seattle may be scratching his or her head here. So, resist the urge to ask: "Knightro where is this place?" It's only in my head along with memories of some pretty unusual dates, some lovely sunsets and a few disturbing voices.
Several of you have said, "Why is this rated M?" To all readers I say, "I've changed it to T." So if any of you young, pure types out there are expecting your little sister's iCarly, turn back now.
If you find yourself getting bored with this one, check out the Seddieverse community started by the talented and thoughtful TheWrtrInMe. That space is collecting Seddie stories from across this board to make finding the good stuff a little easier. At least one story there, "Sessions and Sanity" by Pieequals36 deserves more attention.
Disclaimer: Dan Schneider owns iCarly. Sean Connery is James Bond, the first e-mail was sent in 1973, the cheetah is the fastest land mammal, the greyhound is second fastest. Some of these I believe, some are facts. Some are both.
Chapter Ten: The Long Walk Home Part I: (Tunnel of Love?)
Harmonica music. They hear harmonica music, forlorn and haunting, then guitar, then voice. A lone musician sits on a stool singing on a patio. Sam and Freddie stand on the outside of a short wrought iron fence at some outdoor restaurant. They listen to the singer's voice, not quite sure of the words. The lyrics mention love, mistakes made and the resulting pain.
A lovely night embraces them, shadows suspended in the distant sky by city light; warm breezes filled with the scent of distant rain stroke the skin. Sam and Freddie both like metropolis after dark with its muffled bar music sounds, traffic noises echoing off concrete walls, streams of neon lights and the endless buffet of smells from all the restaurants.
"We should get going," she says.
He says nothing but gestures for her to lead the way.
Tonight they are supposed to be talking, but they aren't. They walk side by side but they are not together. All around them are lovers, two by two. In any direction, couples, man and woman, woman and woman, man and man, many arm in arm, smiling and laughing. Freddie feels mocked by each pair. What did he do to deserve being alone? His only mistake was loving this girl walking silently beside him. He shakes his head ashamed at ever thinking of her as a mistake. Inside him anger and affection are at each other's throats, fighting like two cats in a bag.
She isn't certain what is going on. She keeps looking at him, amazed that he is here. Her earlier anger is gone replaced by feelings she cannot identify, they flash inside her like fireworks in a night sky. The last time she felt this way was at the high school lock-in, knowing there was a course of action she must take but afraid of its meaning. Talking has never been her thing but tonight she senses she must rise outside herself as she did that night. She has never resisted a fight, but her opponent now shifts and dances away in some fog just beyond her reach. She senses that fighting for Freddie, not with him is the key.
The silence between them is more than awkward but not painful. Both have things they need to say, but neither knows where to begin. He is trying to decide what he will say to her. What he has to say is complicated and he needs to get it right. She broke his heart, shattered his trust. Before he leaves her tonight he will have expressed his anger. But anger isn't all he is feeling. There is a powerful attraction, and he wonders does she feel it too? It confuses him, like waves of heat off a desert blacktop distorting the way things actually are. Tonight he wears two faces. One face tries to articulate his fury with a civilized discourse. When he practices the speech in his head he sounds like a lawyer:
Sam, I respect your decision to conclude our relationship, but I must be candid, the overall impact left me sad, angry and ultimately dysfunctional. I believe it is important that I share that data with you.
He rolls his eyes as the words echo in his brain.
The other face is hungry, the words from that face are not calm, they are hot, urgent whispers in the ear with a vocabulary that bubbles up from below his waist.
"So how was your flight?" she asks. She knows it's lame, but the conversation needs to start.
He cannot believe Sam Puckett is doing small talk, but it's better than Freddie's State of the Relationship Address or his "sleep with me" murmurs.
"We ran into an iCarly fan."
"What is that? They are like everywhere! I wonder how that chick from Totally Terry deals with those chizheads."
He takes a little offence at the term, "She wasn't a chizhead, she was very sweet."
Sam feels a twinge, "That's guy talk for she was hot."
Freddie shakes his head at the illogic of her statement, "No, guy talk for she was hot, would be 'wow, she was hot.' I mean, yeah, she was cute, but she just liked iCarly." He remembers lots of these kinds of conversations with Sam, but he never understood them very well. What he understands is the soaring sensation of just being with her again. He clearly realizes just how much he misses her company. It's like a lost limb has been restored. Every exchange with her feeds something in him, fuels some engine.
Sam has to press down the totally unreasonable feelings that bite inside her. "Gibby put the moves on her like he did the waitress tonight?"
Freddie laughs. "Yeah, he tried, but she had more in common with me."
A tornado of reactions, none of which she can justify, spins up inside her, "Well, it's nice that Gib lets you have some action."
"Ac…? That isn't what I meant— she, well, like me she was more attracted to you and Carly."
"Oh." and Sam laughs lightly. For her there is relief that he did not meet and fall in love with this woman, although neither the fear nor the relief should matter at this point they aren't together. She doesn't know what they are.
Sam's laugh is a soft, richly feminine emission and for just a second Freddie closes his eyes and walks in her sound.
"You're still attracted to me and Carly?" she asks, and she is at once embarrassed for asking and afraid he will say, "Just Carly, really," even though that fear should be long dead.
He hears something in her voice, his answer here may be pivotal, he feels that more than thinks it.
"You're joking right? Have you seen you and Carly? Major DOING!"
She feels a warmth rush across her cheeks, "Well, it's pretty hard to be attracted to someone who's been a rag to you all night."
"Don't talk about my ex like that," he says with a smile.
"I was talkin' about Carly," and she gives him a playful tap in the solar plexus. She is surprised at the plated muscle she feels but that is secondary to just getting to touch him.
He sees the tap coming and tenses for it. Suddenly the hundreds of thousands of captain's chair and bicycle crunches are worth it. He is equally aware of a desire to touch her again. These sensations interfere with his purpose for talking to her, but they are like some addiction, he needs more.
"Heck Puckett, you raging around, me bruised and aching -it was just like old times," He gives her shoulder a gentle bump, and that simple connection sends sparks through each of them.
"That's kind of depressing," his touch is so delicious. Sadly, the only way she can think to contact him again is to hit him and she knows that has to stop.
"Not to me," he says, his hand actually tingles where it touched her. He is being pulled by some insane gravity that he cannot fully comprehend. Putting his arm around her would feel so right just now.
She inhales like someone about to plunge underwater, "I wanted to say I was sorry for…"
He almost interrupts with a vicious, "for dumping me? For flushing us down the toilet?" he is surprised by the fierceness of his reaction, but he is silent, letting her continue.
"…y'know, being so rough on you tonight and stuff," her voice trails off and he can barely hear "stuff." That isn't good enough she tells herself. There is more, much more to say. She has a mountain of regret to move and she is shoveling with a spoon.
This is his moment; he should tell her now, spray a hose of his resentment and bitterness, open up and let all the ugly fury torrent out of him in a boiling current that sweeps her away. But he doesn't. He holds it in. Once he speaks his mind it will be really over and that prospect is chilling.
"'S cool," he replies.
The conversation stops as they arrive at a broad, multi-laned street. The motor traffic before them is bumper-to-bumper now, congestion caused by some kind of accident in the intersection ahead, cars loiter, churning up noxious fumes like people clustered in some designated smoking section. Windows are down and various musical tastes vie for supremacy. One car with blacked-out glass rumbles a thunderous bass noise that shakes the bone. There are sirens in the distance. The result is a symphony of noise that reflects the feelings and thinking in each of them.
Their silence continues as she leads them across a shuffling parking lot of glowing, crawling cars-a kind of pop art river of automobiles, all shining metal, shimmering lights and thrumming motors. He is cautious as they weave between the bumpers, but he cannot keep his eyes off her exquisite behind as it swings in those black pants. He questions his motives here. He is not thinking he is feeling. Anger and arousal wrestle. He wants to hold her, squeeze her, yell at her, shake her and taste her. He does not trust himself and only she has ever created this reaction in him. It thrills and mystifies him.
He notices one older man behind the wheel of a beat-up truck with a sleeping woman seated beside him. The man is clearly watching Sam, admiring her with his man's eyes, he notices Freddie looking and the two meet in the air for a split second. He gives Freddie a thumbs up, and Freddie gives a slight, acknowledging nod.
She hears Gibby's voice between her ears, "He loves you," and she wonders what that means, if it even counts for anything. She feels like she has to fix everything and when she feels pressured her temper begins to bubble and pop like sauce heating on a stove. She must control that reaction. Angry Sam cannot help anymore tonight.
They mount the opposite sidewalk and continue further into the city. Freddie takes a run at moving this ahead by saying, "I want to ask you something."
"Watt choo wanna know?" she says in one of her many iCarly funny voices. For some reason he can almost taste an Uber Blueberry Blast coldly stinging the roof of his mouth.
"You seem to be in a better mood now, I mean, compared to earlier this evening."
"Yeah, I break a few bones and I calm right down."
"Decking me wasn't enough to chillax you?" As the words leave his mouth he is aware the flames could leap up again but he is also aware that tonight he is at maximum density. He will be heard this last time regardless of the reaction or result.
He does not look at her face to see the regretful curl to her lips as she says, "Yeeeeah, I shouldn't have done that—like I said, sorry."
Sam Puckett saying she's sorry again? How often has he ever heard that in his life, now twice in one night? It does not make him feel better and that surprises him. Does he want an apology? What would he do with one? Record it on his phone and listen to it over and over on pudding night at the old folks' home?
"Rough day at work?" he asks.
She snorts, "Rough couple of years."
He nods, "Yeah, I can relate."
She marches into the mouth of an alley. Freddie halts. The opening between two rows of buildings is like some architectural wound. The view ahead is a wet and greasy strip, a dirty gash on the face of the street. Shadows twist at odd angles creating eerie shapes. Down the narrow, gloomy strip are cones of light separated by pools of black. Steam rolls out of vents and hovers above the ground. The smell is bad, wafting up from dumpsters and hobo pee on the bricks. Something large and furry scurries into the murk.
He looks ahead, immobile. She is suddenly aware of what he is thinking. She has forgotten the near telepathic connection they had at times.
"Shortcut," she explains looking back. "Scared?"
"Y'know, the only reason I can think to walk in there would be to bring my parents so they could be murdered and make me into Batman," he says.
She laughs, "Your nerd is hanging out."
"That's nothing, want me to blow my train whistle?"
She rolls her eyes but the joy on her face is unmistakable. His train club defined nerd better than any dictionary. Yet this nerd's smile is like some heat ray that sets her blood on fire. The mention of Batman stirs a memory, something special she has not thought about in a long time.
They hustle ahead into the oppressive passageway. A clattering noise is being created by a large African American man with a gleaming shaved head and gigantic biceps as he empties a massive plastic tub into a dumpster. The thunderous racket it makes seems to announce the advent of the garbage god.
"Evenin'" he says, "beautiful night, ain't it?" his voice is a phlegmy rattle.
Freddie nods in agreement, "Sure is" he says, walking.
"Yeah buddy, gonna head home for some Bow Chicka-Wow-Wow on the ruth."
Freddie is not clear if the man is going to have sex on the roof or on someone named Ruth, but he reflexively replies, "Yes, that seems like a good idea," his words bounce off the man's back as he retreats inside.
Sam bursts out laughing, "Oh you dork," she does an exaggerated imitation, "Yes, that seems like a good idea."
It is like they are seventeen again, "What? What am I supposed to say to that?" he asks with faux outrage.
"Uh, you don't have to say anything," She feels a long empty, Freddie-shaped space inside her filling.
He stops and looks at her, he physically aches. He wants to prolong this journey because the prospect of good bye is the most frightening he can envision, "Can we walk side-by-side?" he asks.
"I guess. Why?" she is excited, why would he want to do that? What if he wants to hold her hand? You are an adult, Puckett, get a grip.
"Because my mother told me that's what a gentleman does when walking down a filthy, hepatitis and sepsis laden alley with a lady."
Another iCarly voice, southern, with a fanning hand gesture springs out of her, "Why Mr. Benson, ah do declarah, please turn off that charm."
It feels like the sun just came out. There she is, he thinks. This is what is missing from his other dates, from Ashley, and Tammy and that girl from accounting with the incredible legs. Whatever it is, it just popped out and winked at him.
Sam resumes her normal voice, "Your mother would have a cardiac if she knew you were in this alley."
"I arranged some pillows under the antiseptic covers in my room, she thinks I'm dreaming of my next disinfection," he wiggles his thick brown brow in a clear mockery of his neurotic former home life.
She laughs and it feels wonderful. She has forgotten how often they laughed together. He has made her laugh more tonight than she has laughed all year, and she blinks back tears. No, you are a Puckett, she thinks. She is reminded how his words could make her cry. Once again, Batman comes to mind as she recalls something incredible Freddie did for her.
"Do you remember that letter you sent me when we first started dating?" she asks.
He considers it, ultimately shaking his head. "Mmmm, no, why?"
"In it you told me we were like Batman and Catwoman, and you made sure to tell me that you were Batman."
He chuckles and nods as the memory rises to the surface "Oh yeah, I got really worked up about that letter. I remember I wanted to be sure I was the guy in the relationship."
"Uh, who else would you be?"
He shuffles, a little boy movement, "Well, this is going to sound pretty weak but I felt kind of dominated by you. When we first dated I wasn't sure about my role. You, well, you had—have-a very powerful, uhm, viewpoint."
She is startled at that statement, but suddenly the depth of his commitment, the enormity of what they once were shines like a star. She swallows a massive chunk of shame and does what she does when there is too much feeling involved- she bulls ahead. Freddie's letter was a source of connection to him and she leans on it now.
"I never told you how much I loved that letter, how much it meant to me."
He nods again, "I worked hard on it. I was so excited by our being together, and confused by-us. I didn't know who I was with you, who I was supposed to be. You were my friend, and I cared about you, and I was a seventeen year old boy in the grip of his hormones. I remember being obsessed with seeing you walk around in panties. Did I put that in there? Oh wait, I forgot, you hate that word—sorry."
"I'm a woman finishing college now, Fredstick, I don't have word issues. And yes you did mention me walking around in my underwear."
"Then say it."
"Say what?"
"Say panties."
She shakes her head, lovely lips forming a smile that begs to be kissed. "You also asked me why I didn't weigh 300 pounds because of how much I could eat."
He notes that she does not say "panties" and makes a little check in the "Freddie Wins" column.
"I did not say any such thing."
"Oh yes you did."
"Really? Wow. I must have been incredible in the sack to make up for that."
That sentence falls to the oily, trash filled alley floor between them. She says nothing and he feels mildly embarrased. Then he realizes he is flirting with her and condemns himself for sending a mixed message. Focus he thinks, but cannot begin to choose what he should focus on. Anger? Attraction? Another Batman reference?
She wonders if he is flirting and she is frozen to the filthy pavement unable to decide what to do. She wants to say so much that it all jams inside her creating silence. She reflects on how poor her dating skills have always been. She wonders if that is why she started loving him, because he seemed to accept her despite how she was always lacking. She hears the sound of water running under a sewer grate. The memory of his letter pushes her ahead.
"I read that letter more times than anything else, even books for class that had tests."
"So you read it once?" he says with a smirk.
"I almost finished it," she replies the play between them making her head swim. She does not mention his letter made her cry or how it frightened her. In that letter he told her he "wanted it to last" yet, it still ended for the first time in that elevator where she almost gave herself to him.
"I never knew that," he says. He is remembering the letter and how she did seem to draw closer. But they still broke up for the first time in that Bushwell elevator. That first break-up of many was by far the dumbest, but it set the stage for a retrenched friendship. After the break-up they grew tighter, bonded, they seemed to work together better. That night was the first time they exchanged, the words, "I love you." The memory runs through him like voltage, he swallows, his mouth suddenly dry.
They stand there, looking at each other.
"We should get going," they each say, or something close, then laugh nervously. He gestures ahead and they walk side by side. She waits for his hand to reach for hers but it does not come. Something inside her withers a little.
They walk into the steam that billows from vents and covers the alley floor. The white clouds cling to them, the rising temperature causing a conflict of moistures, perspiration meeting condensation, a sauna effect.
"I feel like we should be wearing leather coats and walking in slow motion toward a big showdown," he says.
"Wait for it," she advises.
"Huh?"
She does not explain, letting the air answer for her as the rot smell in the alley changes. Suddenly there is a parmesan cheese aroma, invisible, unmistakable, surrounding them. He slows.
"Whoa, that's incredible," he says.
"Ain't it cool?" she responds. "We're behind a bunch of restaurants and all the kitchen vents empty back here. She matches his pace, taking a deep breath, savoring it, she releases a tiny moan, and that noise seizes him, his hips twitch slightly.
"Next will be barbecue," she explains, and as they progress into the weird, heated darkness sure enough a smoked meat redolence embraces them. She moans louder this time, her head back, eyes closed as she fans the wet air to her face with a lifting motion. He is staring at her hands illuminated in the tungsten light from overhead. Her nails are beautiful, feminine. He remembers his surprise at how softly her hands could touch the first time they were not used to slap his cheek but to caress it.
She is drifting ahead, in the grip of her food intoxication, "now Chinese," she declares and teriyaki and soy scents fly on unseen wings into the air of the nasty alley. She is almost floating; she is magical, sensual, licking her lips, lost in the saturated atmosphere. He looks at her, blonde hair blowing in the moist, savory mist. He remembers brushing that hair, the silken feel in his fingers. His heart is slamming in his chest.
She continues like walking in a dream. He is aware of her shape, and memories of holding her, bare flesh pressing together, sliding wetly makes him tremble. He swallows again as urges rise and swell inside him. He draws in a large pull of the food soaked air. Would it be so bad to put his hands on her, bury himself in her neck, her lips, in the flesh of her-would she welcome it?
"Hey Benson! Check this out."
She is standing at the edge of a black pool where the light doesn't dare go beside an expensive parked car idling in the half gloom. The windows are up and fogged over, two bare, toes-up female feet press against the back passenger side window. The feet make strange fleshy circles in the sweaty glass that change shape in time with alternating pressure from the naked legs that vanish in the blurred interior. Club music throbs out of the vehicle drowning out other, primal sounds.
Sam stares at the scene.
"Uh, Sam?" he says to her.
"Can you believe they are back here in the Valley of Chiz doing it?"
He coughs as shame and sexuality clash like wild animals in his skull, "Uh, yeah, no class, get a room," his voice is cracking slightly. She is more than that, he reminds himself. Once they were friends, lovers, partners. What are they now?
"Sam, what are we now?" he asks.
If she even hears him is unclear as his question is lost in the noise from a violent eruption ahead.
"Dammit Amber!" A man's voice barks.
The shout from deeper in the ally is violent and comically Sam and Freddie jockey for position to protect the other. They exchange amused glances.
"I'm Batman," he reminds her.
"Catwoman don't need Batman for the protection," blue eyes flash bolts into dark chocolate pools as their eyes meet. For the briefest of moments they exchange something powerful and unnameable.
The next sound is female and shrill.
"Why didn't you just do her on the dance floor, Greg?"
The steam clouds part and they see a couple, maybe a little older than themselves. Both are dressed for a date and they look garishly out of place in the vile brick, beer and bile environment of the alley. They are arguing.
"Amber, let's just go back in and start over okay?" the speaker is disheveled, off balance, drunk.
"Why? Afraid your little skank will leave before you can get her number?" She leans toward him, her teeth exposed like fangs.
"Amber…" he says wearily.
"You're a liar, Greg! Like every guy ever!
Sam slows, she is listening now, Freddie slows as well, unsure of what to do. Working bars he has seen this scene so often he knows it goes nowhere good.
"What else have you lied about, Greg!" she is taunting him, daring a response.
Greg's eyes narrow as he spits out, "That skirt does make your ass look big. It looks like a damn sofa cushion."
Freddie winces. He has thrown enough Gregs out of bars to know the alcohol is driving now.
Suddenly, the girl, Amber, looks at Sam, "Hey! Your guy lies, right?"
Sam shakes her head, "No."
Freddie looks at Sam sideways, What guy? There's a guy? She didn't say anything about a guy! I'm walking around like a horn dog with some other guy's girlfriend? This night is insane!
Amber shrieks, "Like Hell! They all lie! They say what we want to hear so they get what they want," spit flies off her painted lips as she yells.
"Not all of them," Sam says. Her voice is confident, experienced.
"Amber! Knock it off, screw them, this is just us."
Freddie starts to walk, but Sam remains, like she has walked into the middle of some movie. He stops and looks back at her, "Sam, c'mon, this is none of our business."
Sam is frozen, deeply invested in the argument of two strangers.
"Go to Hell, Greg, married men don't look at other women."
"I'm married, Amber, not dead!" Greg, his eyes watery and fire engine red, says to Freddie, "Hey buddy, you lie to yours, right?"
"Uh," Freddie responds, he remembers Sam's words just moments ago: you don't have to say anything.
The man wobbles, the liquor making him sloppy on his feet, "Ha! See Amber? Guys have to lie to keep the crazy from getting TOO crazy. Hey dude, don't get married, it's a chick's license to let herself go!" He points at Amber, "See that butt? That butt used to be fine."
"Screw you Greg! I had your baby!"
"Yeah, that sure fixed everything. Next time ask me if I want to give up sleeping through the night. Ask me before you just decide you want a family, flippin' talk to me Amber!"
Amber makes a throwing gesture and Freddie hears something crash off to his left as she hurtles bawling into a doorway
"Chiz. Amber! I'm sorry babe!" Greg yells as he stumbles after her.
Sam gets her wish as Freddie's hand suddenly grasps hers and he begins a forced march toward the street lights blazing in the opening ahead. She runs to keep pace as he appears to be in flight from something that only he can see.
To say they exit the alley is inaccurate. The alley seems to vomit them out into the artificial glow of the city at night. Freddie looks back into an oddly impenetrable darkness. It hadn't seemed that dark going in. It is like he just walked out of some fever dream. He and Sam are both moist with sweat and condensed steam. He releases her hand as soon as they are out of the tunnel.
He mops his face with his forearm, "What. Was. That!" he seems to be asking the clouds above or the asphalt below as much as Sam.
She stares at her liberated hand. The disappointment she feels is almost tangible.
Finally, after a long silence, still staring into the alley he says, "Uh Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"Where are we headed?"
She makes a stabbing gesture with her finger indicating the street ahead.
That isn't what he meant.
The long walk continues…
A/N
The letter Sam references in this story actually exists. I wrote a story called, "iCan't Send This" which is posted on this site (Hint: chapter five is the one you care about). If you are curious, check it out. It's only your life that might change. Great literature isn't just in schools and libraries and Amazon anymore.
Chapter eleven, The Long Walk Home (Part II: The Park) is next, but remember along with writing fiction I am also The People's Champion, a defender of truth, justice and reasonable gas prices (many of you know how well I'm doing on that front). A new threat has been discovered by my operatives. It is something called "The Unspeakable" I don't know exactly what it is, but the threat to everyone is clear, as is my obligation in such circumstances. This may interfere with my ability to, as we say in Fanfic, "update soon."
If you read this far, drop me a line.