Note: Sorry for the wait; summer reading's come a'calling. I might be a little slow with the updates.
Talking
Freddie is on his fifth piece of brownie merely twenty minutes after the over had gone off. He hasn't eaten like this since his teenage years; where he had eaten everything he could get his hands on. It makes it even better that he is now eating Carly's chocolate chip brownies.
Carly, on her second piece, watches Freddie with amusement. She sips at her milk and sets her fork down on the island. They are in the kitchen, where they have been for the past hour and a half. Carly had made the brownies while Freddie had hovered, looking to steal some of the batter. She had given him a liberal spoon of brownie batter, and had secured the bowl for herself under cook's rights after pouring most of the batter into the brownie pan. She and Freddie had talked, music playing softly in the background, while the brownies had cooked.
Now, however, after dancing around the issue, Carly wants to get to the bottom of this. She clears her throat and Freddie warily looks up. He knows her too well, knows what is coming. Carly ignores this, determined to see this conversation through. She wants her two best friends to be happy.
"Freddie," Carly starts, straightening up her posture, a clear indication that she means business.
Freddie swallows his giant bite, the last of his fifth piece, and his eyes dart around, looking for a way out. He finds it in the Pear Pod speaker sitting innocently on the island beside the half-eaten brownie pan. Scrambling madly in an attempt to put off, Freddie points at the speakers blurts out, "Who is this? It's really good."
Carly pauses, successfully distracted. She listens for a moment and Freddie with her, wondering what the heck he had just complimented. It turns out to a man singing, his voice raspy and jumping all over the place, lyrics witty and style reeking of the Beatles and other vivid past icons. It's not half bad, and Freddie wonders what it's doing on Carly's Pear Pod. Carly tends to enjoy techno-pop and boy bands with engineered voices; as well as actors-turned-singers. Freddie doesn't have much of a taste in music, though nowadays he listens to whatever harsh, loud band Sam wants to; but he knows enough to realize that Carly's cloying music is not his thing.
This song doesn't fit in with what listens to, and Freddie looks questioningly at Carly. He actually wants to know the answer now. She sees his sincerity and sighs heavily, leaning her back against the island.
She glances at her Pear Pod and admits, "Drake Parker."
Freddie's mouth drops open minutely. "Drake Parker?" he echoes, remembering some pretty boy with flippy hair and cliché lyrics, crooning into a microphone while strumming angrily at a guitar. But Drake Parker's amazing transformation from catering to teenage girls to delivering an original masterpiece isn't what Freddie thinks about. Instead, he says, "Doesn't his sister look exactly like you?"
Carly scowls and snaps, "Yes, but that doesn't mean anything!"
In high school, Carly had been obsessed with Drake Parker, Freddie remembers. She had announced nonstop that one day she was going to marry him. Then Sam had brought in a picture of Drake's little sister, Megan, who looks remarkably like Carly. Sam had said that Drake wouldn't marry his sister's lookalike. It would be too creepy and too much like incest. Carly had sulked for a whole week, refusing to talk to Sam or Freddie. She had lost her obsession with Drake Parker, but had continued listening to his music.
It had always remained a sore spot, however.
Freddie smiles and holds his hands up in a placating manner. "It doesn't," he agrees, not wanting to start an argument. Then he hesitates, wondering if he should start an argument to dissuade Carly for her goal. But Freddie doesn't do that, because he isn't that kind of guy; and he knows that nothing will stop Carly when she puts her mind to something. It has always been something he admires, but never when it's used against him.
So he waits until Carly catches on. She smiles wryly at him and asks, "So, when are you doing to propose?"
Freddie nearly flinches at the word. He breathes in, breathes out, and says carefully, "I'm thinking…soon." He blushes and ducks his head down, embarrassed. He knows that a man's supposed to be confident and sure when he proposes. The problem is, Freddie is sure Sam is the right girl for him. He just isn't sure if she feels that he's the right guy for her. Freddie scared of loosing Sam, and that's what keeping him. Plus the way his tentative plan had totally tanked thanks to an oblivious Sam hadn't helped matters much.
"How soon?" Carly asks, concerned. "Freddie, this might sound terrible, but I think you should just get it over with." She eyes him knowingly. "How many messages has your mom left you?"
Freddie taps his fingers together and looks at ceiling innocently. Inwardly, he winces. His mom has called him nonstop every day since he had purchased the ring; she wants Freddie to marry, and Mrs. Benson has long since grown accustomed to Sam.
"That's what I thought," Carly states, taking Freddie's silence for the answer it is; she nods and scoops up the rest of her brownie, daintily shoving it into her mouth.
Freddie takes advantage of this, nabbing a sixth piece of brownie and chugging some more of his own milk. Carly chews, swallows, and then speaks again. Freddie had almost expected Carly to speak with her mouth full—but that is what Sam does.
"Freddie, I think the only way you can pop the question and avoid your nerves is to," Carly hesitates, but stumbles on, "well, get it over with." Carly stresses the last four words, raising her eyebrows.
Freddie blinks, his mouth dropping open, revealing the attractive sight of half-chewed brownie. Carly wisely does not comment on Freddie's open mouth, knowing he needs time to absorb her clever suggestion.
And absorb it Freddie does. It's as if everything has clicked into place; like his Pear Pod had been set on another, foreign, obscure language, and now it's in perfect English. Freddie wonders how he hadn't thought of it before. 'Get it over with'. It's simple and genius in its simplicity. Sam isn't a romantic—or so she claims, but Freddie has made her swoon and darn it, that's got to count for something—and she understands things better when they're blunt and straightforward. Sam doesn't need fancy dinners or candlelight. Freddie doesn't need it either. All he needs is Sam, and he's willing to do almost anything to keep Sam around him for the rest of his life.
"Oh," Freddie says in a small voice to convey his epiphany to a smug looking Carly, "right." There's another plan, slowly taking form in his head, but he doesn't dwell on it. He's still floored by Carly's advice, but not floored enough to realize if this works Carly will gloat forever and ever.
Carly nods, her smug grin growing, as she says, "Now that that's settled, you're going to help me make another batch of brownies while listening to me practice."
Freddie barely restrains a complaining groan.
Carly is an insanely popular talk-show host, who meets with celebrities and prominent figures that are known world wide. The show is, of course, called iTalk with Carly and most of the tech people who work on the show had come highly recommend from Freddie. Freddie and Sam watch it whenever they can, though usually they are behind the cameramen, watching it live. Carly constantly gives them free seats, and her bosses encourage her. Everyone who watches Carly's show has heard of or followed the iCarly web show; the viewers love seeing Freddie and Sam in the live studio audience, and whenever Sam and Freddie go they get some camera time.
But Freddie sucks it up, even though he's a hopeless cook when it comes to desserts—luckily Sam prefers fat store-bought desserts and ice cream sundaes from restaurants and cheese cake from the Cheesecake Warehouse. He isn't looking forward to cooking or listening to Carly practice the questions she's going to ask her next guest; because Carly tends to repeat things over and over until she's satisfied. But Freddie owes Carly for the revelation she had just induced, so he rolls up his sleeves, ready to help make brownies.
In the end, the brownies Freddie had helped make come out burnt and smelling like Spencer's sausage-patterned socks; so Freddie and Carly laugh and finish off the good batch, listening to Drake Parker's latest album.
