A/N: Why, Hello! I wasn't expecting to write more on this story; I was completely content with leaving it an oneshot. But after 'nudgepleaseshutup''s review, I was inspired to write this, looking at the situation from a different angle. Oh! Also, thanks to 'The Color Is Blinding'! I really appreciate it when I'm given positive feedback.

I've put a few references to the pilot and a reference to iPsycho, if you squint a little.

Oh, and the parentheses are Freddie's thoughts. This chapter is a bit darker, with deeper mention of abuse, so if you don't want to read it, I won't be offended.

I don't own these characters, blahblahblah, but this idea for this plot bubbled up in my head, so I consider it slightly copyrighted.

Enjoy!

It's u n a v o i d a b le .

For as long as I've lived in Bushwell Plaza, I've been known to have a crush on Carly Shay.

She's practically the first girl to ever notice me, to treat me like a human being.

The first time I ever laid eyes on her, she was wearing a pink dress, pouting to big brother Spencer that it was itchy. He, trying to cheer her up, joked back that if she kept up itching, she'd have to pose like that for a sculpture.

I got to see a flash of their father; he was in uniform, pressed and official. The man was in and out before I was given a formal introduction.

I was shy and my mother made me sanitize myself to the umpteenth degree before putting three pairs of potholders (and rubber gloves) on when delivering a vegetable puree casserole (that looked like puke in a dish) over to my new neighbors.

I drooled (not over the food!) and she giggled, pulled out of her pouty mood.

I was smitten.

A few months after meeting her, Spencer gave me full time permission to come by, even showing me where the spare key was kept.

(And then took it away when you would stare out the peephole in your door, waiting to see Carly get home)

Then she came along.

I barely remember how it began, but here was this girl, picking locks, raiding fridges, seeming to be Bushwell Plaza's most frequent non resident inhabitant.

Oh, the bruises.

She pushed me into lockers, yanked things from my hands, and slammed me effortlessly to the ground.

(And don't forget the nicknames)

I lost count; she's called me every condescending name in the book.

(Even though she forced you to realize she's a girl, not an it.)

It ticked me off at first. It drove Carly crazy. It made her smile grow.

And then I just got used to it.

She was so used to telling me what I could and couldn't have (Carly) that I just wanted to prove her wrong. I wanted power over her, wanted the upper hand for once.

I had it all wrong.

Carly and Sam were both sick one week – "We're never sharing smoothies again!" – and I decided to do the Good Samaritan thing and deliver their homework to the both of them (with a little extra, because they deserved it.)

Carly always came first. She was always first. I was rewarded with an "aww, Freddie!" and a sweet little hug. Her little plastic bracelet immediately took its rightful place on her wrist, and I couldn't help but feel good about it.

(But why the guilty feeling?)

Then came Sam's house. Sam doesn't do homework; she'll probably throw me and the work straight out the door, shattering my eardrums with her screams again.

Reaching her house, I could tell something was… off. Climbing up her steps to her porch, I peered into her house. Used to being in love with Carly, I knew how to sneak around. Sam taught me a thing or two on how to keep my guard up – I've grown to keep more defensive as the years've gone by.

Peering into their living room, all I could see was a mess. Things knocked over, blankets and pillows strewn everywhere, and Sam was no where to be found.

This freaked me out. A lot. I needed to get in there, needed to make sure she was okay.

When I heard her yell, I knew she wasn't okay. I've heard Sam yell a thousand times at me, and this sounded different. D e f e n s e l e s s .

I was about to pull a Gibby and break down the door, but the door was unlocked and I rushed into the room.

It was the sound of Sam's yell that led me to the kitchen, to reveal the scene at hand.

"Mrs. Puckett?" I gasped in shock.

In front of me was a scene I wish I could erase from my memory completely.

Sam was on the floor, curled up into a ball, as Mrs. Puckett was standing over her, obviously drunk; empty vodka bottle in hand, fist at the ready.

"Samantha, you screwed up again, you brat. I told you to never let anybody in, but it looks like you whored up enough to bring a guy home. Not bad, but he doesn't belong with trash like you." She sneered in Sam's face, disgusted.

I don't think I could've been more stunned if I tried.

Sam just sat there, her hands over her face, trying to protect herself. I wanted nothing more but to tell her that it was going to be okay.

Luckily, my arrival diverged her attention from Sam, and she began trashing the kitchen, pulling out everything in search of more alcohol. When she discovered two large bottles (Vodka? Whiskey? Tequila?), she brushed past me, grumbled something at Sam, and stormed into what I assumed as her bedroom, slamming the door.

I move over to where Sam is on the ground, bending down to speak at her level.

"Sam," I say softly, not sure where to begin.

She wipes her eyes, and looks past me, "I need to get this cleaned up" she says, referring to the mess surrounding us.

I was dumbfounded. (The regular Sam would've made fun of you for the look on your face, and the use of that word).

I stared at her; she was pale, bruised up and with flushed cheeks.

I took charge with most of the cleaning; I knew that if I said that she couldn't help at all, it would defeat her false bravado.

After, I helped her over to the couch, checking out her injuries and feeling her burning hot skin of fever. She wouldn't look at me, ashamed.

Blankets, pillows, Gatorade, a box of Girly Cow Band-Aids, and an untouched bowl of soup later, my wordless actions finally willed her to speak.

"Freddie. Please, don't tell anyone. What you saw here today… I'm strong. I don't want anyone thinking otherwise."

"Are you joking? Sam, she's an alcoholic! She's abusing you! You need to tell someone!"

She just looked at me with this sad smile, and said, "Your mom smothers you, but you don't ditch her. You still love her anyways, because she's your mother."

I couldn't quite respond to that.

I stayed with Sam a long while after that, getting her anything she asked for, brushing away her tears, telling her the answers to the homework questions (she never actually needed them, she just needed a place to concentrate), and giving her that tiny charm bracelet I found; a tiny purple pig dangling from it (not the plastic kind, she's always been your lucky charm) and watching her fall asleep.

I promised to keep Sam's secret. I couldn't let her be vulnerable.

The tables t u r n e d.

I would drop everything when she texted me, rushing over to check up on her at second's notice, going through boxes and boxes of Girly Cow Band Aids.

And then things changed.

Tacos.

Well. Taco trucks to be fair.

When I pushed Carly out of the way in the street, I knew it was the right thing to do.

(Meaning that if it was Sam, you wouldn't hesitate a second either)

I enjoyed kissing Carly. She was the first girl I proclaimed my love to, and now she wasn't just bacon.

(Since when do things Sam say get stuck in your head?)

Ever since then, Carly realized that I was what she had been missing all along.

(And Sam?)

Sam and I were close, but that drifted.

I was at her house less and less, mainly just for emergencies now, spending more and more time with my girlfriend.

It was hard with Carly around to talk to Sam, my texting to her at a minimum.

(No matter how bad you wish it was more)

Denial.

So maybe I've let it slip a few times about minor feelings for Sam.

(Minor?)

I'm happy with Carly. Everything's in its place, and I'm comfortable with it.

(What's missing?)

Sam will always be my best friend, but no matter how much I've fallen for her, I can't ruin what I already have, it's unthinkable.

(She's slowly f a d i n g into the background, you need to pull her back in)

No matter how much conversations I have inside my head while laying wide awake at night, it's a lose-lose situation; and its selfishly unavoidable to cause hurt to one of these two amazing girls.

(Sam's strong. She can handle this… right?)

Well, there you go. Hate it? Love it? Want to just scream in Seddie frustration? Let me know; click that tiny comment button and drop me a line; it is truly and honestly appreciated.

BTW, I've been toying around with a story on my ancient laptop called iAngst. It loosely follows this, but with Melanie in the story as well. Ideas? Get at me!

Thank you in advance!

- ihearyou (: