Okay fun chapter to write. Mostly because I actually get to write about Melanie. She's always been a favorite for me to write about.

Picture

Sam's POV

Fredward could really be persistent when he wanted to. I know, I'm supposed to love him and all but sometimes he is just so irritating. Why does he care about this so much anyway? It's really not that big of a deal, and yeah, I agreed to date him (well, actually I crashed my lips onto his face then waited about a month for him to ask me out) but now and then I really wonder why.

"Please, Sam?" He practically begs, "You saw mine before we were even dating!"

I laugh at how ridiculously wrong that statement sounds before shaking my head, "Not my fault, your mom showed me,"

"Um, yes your fault," He argues, "You clamped your hand over my mouth so I couldn't protest or stop her, if I do recall,"

I laugh again as he continues, "I bet you were adorable,"

"Of course I was adorable," I immediately retort, "I'm still adorable!"

"So, why don't you want to show me?" he persists.

"Ugh, fine!" I finally give in, "I'll show you tomorrow, but there's nowhere near as many as your Mom has,"

"Why not?" Freddie asks, as I glare at him. Eventually, he lets it go.

I spend the night searching for the stuff Freddie wants and putting it all into an old thing I've found around my seriously disorganized house, that's actually made for this. Each item brings back memories, some good, some bad, but I enjoy the task that seems almost school-like anyway.

The next day, I meet Freddie at his apartment, knocking on the door and hoping his mother isn't home. Let's just say that Mrs. Benson is still not my favorite person and she had not originally reacted well to the news that we were dating. She may have accepted me in the long run, but it doesn't mean we look forward to seeing each other.

I let out a small sigh as Freddie opens the door, "Hey Sam, come on in,"

"Hello, dork," I push past him and flop onto his couch, Mrs. Benson has a strict "No girls in Freddie's room since he dated that Sassypants who was always breaking his heart," rule.

He sits next to me and says, "Let me see!" with a smile, gesturing to what I have clasped between my arms.

I hand him the black photo album, silently, and Freddie opens it and gasps as he points to the first picture, "They are two of you!" he exclaims.

I observe the photo he's looking at with a small laugh, the stars of the shot are two very young babies, wrapped in pink (ugh) blankets with different colored hats on, "No, no, there's only one of me," I take a closer look and say, "That one is Melanie," pointing to the one of the right side of the photograph.

Freddie's jaw drops and he whispers, "She's real!"

"Obviously," I roll my eyes at him and turn the page. They are two clearly blonde one-year-olds, identically dressed, and looking at each other. The only visible difference between the two girls is one has her hair in a tiny ponytail that sticks straight up, I point her out, "That's Melanie,"

Freddie is still staring at the picture in awe, "How can you tell?"

"Mom always put her hair in a ponytail, that's how she told us apart, and eventually, it became a habit, Melanie still wears her hair up all the time," I explain.

"And you almost never do," Freddie realizes, running a finger over the protective plastic that covers the pictures, "You were adorable," he smiles.

"Wait until you see the next one," I smirk, "You might not think so,"

Freddie flips the page eagerly and bursts out laughing. "Now, even without the hairstyles I could figure out which one is you and which one is Mel."

We're two years old in this picture and even though were still dressed the same and identical except for the ponytail and loose curls. My arm is tugging on said ponytail and Melanie's face is scrunched up in a frown and the two-year-old me is clearly smiling. "So, you were a nightmare even back then?"

"Haha," I fake-laugh, "But yeah, always was the trouble maker. Melanie was always the good girl," I motion for Freddie to go to the next photo.

It's the only family photo that can still be found around my house. Mom has destroyed every other photo with him in it. This one must have been taken just before he left, Melanie and I look like we're about 3, maybe a little younger, and we're at the foreground of the picture, sitting next to each other. Melanie looks all prim and proper, but I have a large grass stain on the hem of my dress and what looks like mud in my hair. Melanie's got an angelic little smile on her face but I'm pouting clearly bored. Our parents stand behind us, my Dad's hand on my shoulder and disappearing beneath some of my then-shoulder-length curls, my Mom's hand rests on Melanie's shoulder, being gently grazed by the tip of Melanie's side-ponytail. We're all smiling and looking like a happy family – which we were, back then. Then Dad left, followed soon after by Melanie and her fancy boarding school scholarship. It's just me and Mom these days, except for the occasional two-day visit and once-a-month phone called from my twin.

Freddie's staring at the picture with an expression on his face that I just can't explain. He's only ever heard me speak of my dad in one or two short clipped sentences that half the time I don't even realize I've said until it's too late to take it back.

My Dad doesn't look like me, both Mel and I took after Mom in her golden days (before the plastic surgery, drinks and "happy pills"), with the blonde hair and the blue eyes, but Dad is (was?) a good looking. He has red hair and big green eyes, he's tall, (damn him, why couldn't I get that gene? I barely clear the five foot line) and he has a little bit of ginger stubble grazing his chin. The photo is the only proof to my fading memories that he was once real.

Freddie's still silently studying the photo, and I long for him to make a comment on it. Finally, he turns so we can face each other, and says, "Smile," to me.

I raise my eyebrows, "Why?"

"Just do it?" He tries again.

"Don't tell me what to do Benson," I cross my arms in front of my chest.

Freddie sighs, "Please?"

He'll never shut up if I don't do what he says so instead I look at his pleading face, and remember the first time we kissed as a couple (and I mean as a couple, not on the fire escape, and not at the school lock-in), and I feel a smile forming on my face.

Freddie looks at me then back down to the photo album, and grins, "You have your Dad's smile," he informs me.

"Do I?" I ask, I've never noticed, let's be honest, how often does a person look at themselves smiling?

"Yeah, you do," Freddie shuts the photo album and places it on the coffee table in front of him. "I'd recognize it anywhere; it's always been one of my favorite things about you."

I stare at Freddie for once speechless. Most of the time I feel like I can be my normal self around Freddie, but then he says something so… sweet it almost makes me want to puke but at the same time makes me feel like a complete girly-girl.

I wonder if Freddie even knows how much his words mean to me. I mean, he probably does, he gets the whole no Dad in the picture thing, but to me my Dad was always going to be a fading memory until now. Now every time I saw a photo with me smiling or we watched our iCarly webcasts and I see my grin, I'll think of him, and not in the bad wishing-he-would-come-back-so-we-could-all-be-that-happy-family-again kind of way.

I don't know how to put into words to show what Freddie has said meant a lot more than even he could to know to me. I've never been good with words, much better with actions, so I reach one hand up and place it on the side of Freddie's face before leaning in and capturing his lips.

Freddie's shocked, he's been waiting for me to say something, maybe even to yell at him or threaten him, not kiss him. So he takes a second before he kiss back, tangling one hand in my blonde hair, and the other hand pressing against the small of my back.

When we pull away from each other to breathe, he doesn't take his arms from around me away, actually pulls me in closer and I lean my head onto his chest. "Freddie," I say quietly, but he shushes me.

"Sh, Sam," he says, "I know, "He kisses the top of my head and I silently cheer, thankful that I don't have to say anything for him to understand. Even if I hadn't wanted to do this, I was glad I had, Freddie always made his requests worthwhile.

AN: Aw. Sweet. Freddie's awesome. R&R