a/n: hey guys! Remember me? Okay, so this is the longest thing I have ever written. I write in Georgia font in size 9 in word (it's really pretty that way, okay) and this is 24 pages. Like, whoa. I have been writing this since March. It has taken me ages and I am FINALLY done. I never, ever expected it to be this long but here it is.

This fic is for Pip, for his birthday. Happy birthday, dear! I hope you had a nice day and that you enjoy this :)

This fic is canon-compliant up to iPWV, but I'm disregarding iOMG. Partly because I started this before iOMG aired, but also because what. the. fuck. Not happy, guys. Not happy.

Anyway - I am very proud of this and I hope you like it! Please feel free to review and tell me what you thought!

(i)

Graduation is the best and worst day ever.

They're free of school, teachers, early mornings. Sam will never have to do another piece of homework. Freddie won't have to wait for the others in his math class to catch up. Carly can focus on her performing.

But they're going in different directions. Sam's staying here. Carly's going to LA. Freddie's going to England.

Freddie's mom wails throughout the ceremony and then clings to her son for about twenty minutes during the party before he gently pries her away. Spencer fights tears all evening but begins to howl when Carly goes to the bathroom.

She escapes out to the front steps of the school, resting her forearms on her knees and checking her phone occasionally. The breeze is too cold; more than anything else she wants her bed at home. Her dress is thin and she shivers.

"Cold?"

She shrugs as Freddie drops down beside her. "Sort of."

He is pulling his jacket off but she stills him, pushing it back onto his shoulders. He frowns but brings his arms down.

"It's weird," he says after a moment. "That after today we don't ever have to come back."

"Aren't you glad?" she glances up at him. "No more Ms Briggs. Mr Howard. I can go on."

He smiles. "No more Principal Franklin either."

The silence stretches, like an elastic band squeezing every last smile away.

"I don't feel like an adult," she says finally, lamely. "I don't want to."

His fingers inch towards hers and she makes the distance, twining their fingers frantically like a safety net. She looks straight ahead, knowing he's looking at her.

"Carly," he tugs on her hand. "Hey, we've still got summer."

"And then that's it," her voice is alarmingly thick and she swallows. "No more iCarly, no more smoothies. I don't even know where I'm going, Freddie."

She looks at him, meeting his miserable gaze.

"Carly," he grasps her other hand. "Listen to me. You are talented, and strong. I know you're going to go places. Everyone does."

Her mouth falls half-open, but she remains silent.

"You're going to be fine," he squeezes her fingers gently. "You won't get left behind, I promise."

The corner of her mouth turns up slightly, reluctantly. "Why do you always believe in me?"

He blinks, then lifts his right shoulder. "I don't know. Guess it comes with the package."

He grins uncertainly for a second, pulling on her hands until she leans against him. He's warm, and she nestles unconsciously into his side. It's almost automatic; the way he rests his head on top of hers and plays with her fingers. The something that was always there in the small spaces between them seems larger, swelled, swaying on the brink of explosion. He is quiet, content to stroke his thumbs over her knuckles and her palms.

They sit for a few moments like that, the faint thump of the beat carrying on the wind. Freddie smells of discrete cologne and washing powder and coffee.

"It's cold," she remarks, threading her hand under his arm and back into his palm.

"Are you sure you don't want my jacket?"

"But then you'll be cold," she protests, and he lifts his head to offer her a smirk.

"I have an undershirt on. You've just got that dress," he raises an eyebrow. "I'll feel guilty for ages; come on."

"But your shoulder's comfy," she mumbles, screwing her eyes shut and burrowing her nose into his bicep. She feels a laugh go through him before his hands push her gently away for a second. She pouts until he drapes his jacket and his arm around her.

"There," he murmurs, pulling her into his side again. "Better?"

"Mm-hmm," her fatigue sweeps under her eyelids. "Can we stay here? For a little while?"

"Yeah," she thinks she feels his mouth on her hair, but she might be imagining it. "That'd be nice."

(ii)

Summer passes in no time; like a blurred dream forgotten within a minute of waking. September dawns with dappled sunlight breaking through the veil of browned, drifting leaves. Carly and Freddie are making their plans; Freddie accepts his place at Kings', Carly arranges audition after audition. Sam has had her cookery course organized for months and watches her friends fret, frowning over her fried chicken.

(iii)

It's October 2nd. Carly leaves for LA in a week.

Her room is packed up, her photos wrapped carefully in bubble-wrap and newspaper, her clothes on their hangers and cardboard boxes each marked in black sharpie littering her floor. Everything that was personal about her room is stored away, already collecting wisps of dust.

She finds it hard to sleep that week without the blurred shapes of all her belongings in the darkness at night. Her walls seem empty without the many photos she hung, stuck and arranged all over them.

It doesn't really feel like her bedroom anymore. She's packed her favourite duvet covers and pillowcases so these sheets don't slide over her skin properly and she can't find a comfortable position. She feels like she needs something to grasp, fold her hands over – like a stuffed animal.

She shakes her head and pulls down a pillow to hug, pressing her nose into the silken material. It's better, and she curls her small frame around it. Sleep folds itself over her.

(iv)

Spencer invites most of her senior class over for a party and rations the alcohol, checking everyone who arrives for any bottles of vodka or flasks of liquor. Carly raises an eyebrow at his sudden responsible behavior.

(Later he tells her that he wanted to show her how she helped him grow up just a little bit and she cries)

Everyone is allowed two cups of punch or one beer. Some of the guys complain and Gibby threatens to do a lap dance until Carly manages to force his shirt back over his head and turns the music back on.

Freddie is smirking into his first punch cup when Carly approaches him, leaning against the counter with her computer. She notices that his gaze flits over her in half a second and warmth seeps into her pores after it. She stands close to him, noticing the shadow of his eyelashes on his cheek and the pink of his lips.

"Hi," she has to raise her voice for him to look up. He smiles slightly and sets down his cup, eyes never leaving hers.

"Hey," he makes no effort to raise his voice but she can hear him perfectly. "Nice party."

"Thanks," she shakes her head to adjust the lock of hair falling onto her cheek. "I like your jacket."

He shrugs. "You look stunning."

She flushes, not expecting the compliment and looking away. "Thanks."

His fingertips touch her cheek and she glances back.

"No," he murmurs. "I want to keep looking at you."

Her heart rockets against her ribs and the party blurs around his features.

His eyes are so brown.

In this quiet moment she wants nothing more than his arms around her and his mouth hot and urgent on hers. But neither of them move; she is frozen from his touch and words, he content to merely stare at her, fingertips grazing her cheek.

"Come upstairs," she blurts out suddenly, unaware that the words had even been forming in her mouth. His hand drops back down to his side and he frowns slightly in confusion.

"What?" he breathes, gripping his cup of punch tightly now.

"Upstairs," she blushes, squirming on the spot. "With me."

"To do what?" his mouth barely moves, his voice deepening. She does not answer, merely flushing a brighter scarlet before shaking her head.

"Never mind," she tugs on the hem of her top. "I'll – I have to go fill up the-"

"I want to," he interrupts, making her jump. "Come on."

He grabs her hand and pulls her through the crowd up to the stairs. She goes first, edging past the tall guy from the baseball team and the pretty, snidely faced girl from the volleyball team who raises a perfectly arched eyebrow as they pass. Freddie's hand seems huge in hers; his fingers are longer, his palm wider.

Luckily nobody has ventured into her room and she locks the door behind them. Turning she finds him mere inches from her, hands twitching at his sides. Hers are already smoothing up his chest, over his shirt and folding over his shoulders. His forehead bumps hers, eyes dark and piercing as his hands finally touch her hips and pull her body closer.

"We haven't done this," she whispers. "For a while."

"That was what I said, right?" he smiles and then presses his mouth to her cheek tenderly. "I think it might be worth it."

She reaches up to touch his mouth with the tips of her fingers for a moment. They tingle when his hand tugs them away, and she has a second to process his scent as it washes over her, because he leans down and kisses her.

It is like and so unlike everything she remembers of his kisses. She recalls this taste, this soft meeting and brushing of mouths and the gentle sweep of his tongue. But his arms now wrapped securely around her, their torsos pressed together, soft curves against hard muscle – this is new, unfamiliar territory. It's wonderful.

Her sleeves are hooked over her wrists, which rest at his neck as she holds him there, just there. There is no scrambling to remove clothes, no harsh breaths, no words. Just them. It's all she needs – only Freddie.

His fingers pull at her dress slightly, but not as a signal that he wishes to remove it. Her fingers scoop under his shirt collar and hang on tightly at the same time his teeth nip very gently at her bottom lip. She moans, trying to press herself closer against him although they're not even separated by a millimetre.

Soon her chest constricts with the desperate need to breathe and she pulls away, chest heaving and breath hot. His eyes are shining and they look wetter than normal. She feels her lips pulling upwards at the corners. He cups her cheek, panting softly. She reaches behind them and fumbles for the light switch; she keeps their locked gaze.

She then leads him to her bed, feet tripping over his at least twice in her haste. His hands are constantly on her and she can feel his palms as if they are burning through her dress. She hops onto her bed (not via her mini-trampoline) and scoots backwards. He is soon kneeling in front of her, hands trailing up her shins and over her knees. In the dark she can make out his eyelids fluttering as his gaze flicks across her body for the second time that night. She raises her arms, reaching for him, and he slumps ungracefully on his stomach next to her, their mouths meeting the second his body touches her sheets.

It's more urgent now, tongues tangling and her hands fisting in his shirt and his fingers slipping the straps of her dress off her shoulders and she has no idea how far they'll go tonight but she honestly doesn't care. They both share a craving for bare skin and something, something, to hold on to as they progress into this world where they have to look after themselves.

(v)

He's gone when she wakes up and he doesn't say goodbye.

She takes the 2:34 pm flight to LAX.

(vi)

The first thing she recognizes of LA is the sheer size. Everything is huge and bright, standing out next to something that is equally eye-catching. She remembers Hollywood Arts and wonders how they must have grown up in a town so huge.

She finds herself thinking its size's purpose is to accommodate the massive dreams of the people in this town.

She checks into her motel and doesn't bother to unpack her suitcase.

(vii)

She gets a job at the Skybucks round the corner after a week and even though it anchors her in a way that unsettles her she kind of likes it. Most people are friendly and she gets along with her colleagues behind the counter while she learns how long to blitz the ice and syrup and cream for a frappuccino for a perfect smooth texture, how exactly to swirl the cream into the mugs, how to do two things at once.

Her first audition almost sneaks up on her, although she knows her lines and recites them daily, varying the way her hands move and how clipped her voice is and how she sits. But she never thinks it'll actually happen, that she'll always refer to it as something in the very distant future.

She dresses in her white pumps and her crisp cream skirt and her white blouse and her dark blazer on the day, her hair in exquisite, flowing curls. She nods to herself in the mirror once before she goes out, tucking her CV and her lines into her bag. Just in case.

The bus ride is uneven and her stomach feels pummeled to death by the time she reaches the right stop and hops daintily onto the ground. Her hair is too wavy and she sneaks a glance in her pocket mirror to find wisps stuck to her forehead. She sighs, that familiar and stifling ache building behind her eyes.

Carly blinks forcefully, swiping the locks of hair from her face and arranging them appropriately. She straightens her shoulders, ignoring the odd look a passer-by shoots her, and continues forward, eyes locked on the neck of a lamppost several metres in the distance.

(viii)

She waits for an hour, her foot tapping and her knee jigging the now crumpled script on her lap. She sips constantly at her water bottle and dashes to the bathroom three times, worrying endlessly that they'll call her name while she's away. But when, at last, a tall woman with black hair and blonde roots steps into the room and calls "Carly Shay?" in an exceptionally bored voice, the latter is sitting at the edge of her seat and biting her red-painted nails.

"Yes," she squeaks a little too loudly and receives multiple raised eyebrows. She looks past them, cheeks hot and pink, before walking in the direction of the audition room.

The director is skinny and impossibly tall, youthful features prominent against his pale skin. No blemishes mark his face and his mouth is turned down.

"Name?" he asks her after giving her a one-over. She squirms uncomfortably.

"Carly Shay."

"Where are you from?"

"Um, Seattle."

"I thought so. You're very pale. Not much sun there?"

"Not loads. Not little, though," her confidence blooms suddenly. "We get enough. I just can't tan."

"I see," he raises an eyebrow. "What are you reading today?"

"It's from Big Fish," she says, the words finally reappearing in her mind. "At the end."

"Less than a minute?"

"Yeah."

He nods, slumping into a chair and waving a hand to indicate she should proceed.

Deep breath. In and out.

And she begins.

(ix)

"Have you ever heard a joke so many times," a brief pause. "that you've forgotten why it's so funny?"

A questioning gaze, a tilt of the head.

"Then you hear it again," she smiles slightly. "and it's new, and you remember why you loved it in the first place."

Softer voice, now.

"That was my father's – his final joke, I guess. The man tells his stories so much that he becomes the stories."

She closes her eyes. "They live on after him, and in that way," Another brief pause, "he becomes immortal."

A nod, and she's done.

The director looks mildly interested.

(x)

They tell her she'll be notified of a callback and she leaves the studio with a lighter step and a warmth swelling pleasantly in her stomach. Her hair begins to break from the restraints of her curls, but now she leaves them to float around her head, pushed by softening breeze that pulled her hairstyle apart earlier.

The sunlight reflects off the pale buildings with a blinding light and she cannot see for a second. Her foot catches on a slightly raised stone in the sidewalk and she stumbles. Her arms fly out in front of her, ready to slam into the ground beneath her, instead landing in the grasp of somebody else.

The light has ceased, faded back to dancing upon the autumn-dappled trees, and she sees her savior for the first time.

He's dark-haired, with defined cheekbones and slashes of eyebrows but kind eyes. He smiles, wide and bright, and she can't help but return it.

"Thank you," she says, retrieving her arms from his grip and arranging her clothes into their proper place.

"No problem," his voice is deep (like his, she recalls with an ache). "That could have been a nasty fall."

"The sun's so bright today," she chirps, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I just tripped."

He grins. "I'm Scott."

"Carly," she replies, sticking out her hand a little too promptly. He shakes it, her hand fitting slightly awkwardly into his. "Where are you heading?"

"Coffee," he shrugs. "I can't write anything without caffeine."

"I work at the Skybucks just round here," Carly informs him as they begin to walk in that direction. "I may get you a discount."

(xi)

He's from Georgia, and he's working as a movie critic in a local magazine. It turns out that she'd seen one of his reviews and had completely disagreed.

"It's about his struggle for peace!" Carly slammed her fist down on the table, drawing alarmed looks from other customers. "It's moving."

"It sucked," he grins slightly, shaking his head. "He threw a pie at the American flag. That's not moving, that's just weird."

"I cried."

"I laughed. The whole way through."

"Is that a guy thing?"

"Maybe," he slurps at the straw of his frappuccino. "I didn't like his sandals."

She tilts her head, recalling. "Oh, yeah. They were pretty weird. His glasses were cool, though."

"If I had poor eyesight," he remarks, twirling the straw in his drink. "I would wear those."

She listens to him ramble about various films, and wonders if she's found a friend.

(xii)

Sam calls her for the first time in two weeks, asking about her audition and if the Skybucks she works at is any cheaper than the Skybucks near the Groovy Smoothie.

"I got a callback," Carly replies, curled up in her motel room under the moth-eaten sheets. "So I guess it went okay."

"You blew their minds," Sam says bluntly. "Carly, seriously."

"The director looked kind of interested, I guess."

"See?" Sam sighs. "I miss you, cupcake."

"I miss you too, Sam," Carly fiddles with the hem of the topmost blanket. "Have you – how's everything? With your courses and stuff?"

"Fine," Carly hears the dismissive tone and worries her bottom lip with her teeth. "Carly, he left the day you did."

Carly jumps at the automatic answer to her only partially-asked question. "What?"

"He left that morning. I asked his mom," Sam exhales heavily. "He didn't say goodbye to anyone."

"She lied to me."

"I had to threaten to throw away all of her antibacterial hand wipes before she told me," Sam says. "She doesn't like us much."

"He knew. He knew he was leaving at my party," A shaking hand covers Carly's mouth. "He did say goodbye; I just – didn't realize it."

"Did you sleep with him?" Sam sounds concerned. "When you disappeared upstairs?"

"No," Carly responds quietly, closing her eyes.

Hands fisting in clothes, in hair, mouths open and pressing scalding kisses to every inch of bare skin, his fingers there and his other arm wrapped so tightly around her she can barely breathe – but there are other reasons for that.

"D-don't stop," she gasps into his neck, her palm fumbling for his belt. "Freddie-"

"Shh," he bumps his forehead gently with hers, his fingertips twisting, making her groan. "Shh."

"No," she repeats. "Not quite."

"No condom?"

"Sam!" Carly goes pink. "We weren't ready. For that."

"How did you know?"

"That we weren't ready? I was scared. Too scared."

"Oh. That makes sense," Sam seems satisfied. "How's the food?"

"Fine. I normally eat out," Carly glances out to the evening sky. "I just came back from a really nice Chinese place a couple of blocks down from me."

"The place near your apartment closed down," Sam says mournfully.

"No!" Carly crosses her legs. "What? That sucks. I loved their chow mein."

"You could come back and make me some."

"I wish," Carly exhales heavily. "I'm exhausted. I've got a friend though. His name's Scott."

"Oh, really?" Carly can practically see her smirking through the phone.

"He's really funny. He's a movie critic."

"Carly! It's not like you to cheat," Sam's giggling. "Good plan, though."

"Oh, God, I didn't think of that!"

(xiii)

Scott likes to turn up at her motel room in the ungodly hours with romcoms, and she starts to suspect that either he just has an extremely warped sleeping schedule or (and she's sort of leaning on this one more) that he bats for the other team and doesn't know what to do about it so he has two beers and then drowns his sorrows in ice cream.

"Scott," Carly moans, holding the door open for him. "I'm expecting a call from my potential director any day now. I need to be perky and cheerful. It looks good."

"I need to tell you something," he's babbling, ignoring her and wringing his hands. "I know this is so out of the blue, and it's so late, but I'm out of ice cream."

"Ice cream," Carly repeats, arms folded. She raises an eyebrow. "You live in an apartment above a store."

"No! No, it's a metaphor," he kneels on her bed, hands going to his hair. "You'll be in all the movies, honey, but you're never going to write them."

"What's ice cream supposed to represent, then?" She tugs on his hands. "It's too early for my brain to process metaphors."

"Carly," he's still holding her hands. "You seem like a liberal person, but please don't freak out."

"Um," she blinks. "Sure."

"Ice cream," he screws his eyes shut. "I'm out of ice cream – I mean excuses. Reasons. For the way I feel about this, uh, guy."

Oh, she's right.

"Well, guys. In general. Just the nice ones, though," he's rambling again, panic crawling into the crevices in his face. "I hate jerks. You know?"

She can feel the smile tugging at her mouth. "Yes. Scott, I had a feeling."

He stops short. "You knew? Is it that obvious?"

"It's two thirty four am, you are holding The Holiday and He's Just Not That Into You," Carly pats his hand. "It's okay. As long as it's only my sleep you're disturbing."

He slumps on her bed, the DVDs slipping from his hands.

"What do I do?" His head drops into his palm. "He's straight."

"Oh, Scott," She sits next to him, her hand now stroking large circles on his back. "I know, honey."

"He's so nice," Scott moans, bringing his knees up and burying his nose in the crack between them. "You know? So nice I can't be mad at him. I want to be mad at him."

Her hand stops.

"I wish I could be," he continues, his voice thickening. "Just so I could feel justified in avoiding him. It's hard, when you're – when you're sort of friends."

"Unless they run away," Carly suddenly croaks. "You could try and forget, then."

"He won't," Scott says. "He likes it here – Carly?"

She's staring at the photo album she brought along with her, collecting dust from neglect on the hotel room table. The cover hides away the only face she never wants to see again but hates to look away from.

"Carly?" Scott's face is blotchy but dry, his head tilted curiously to the side. "What's in there?"

"Something I've been avoiding," she says finally.

(xiv)

Of course he makes her tell him everything, and she ends up tucked under his arm in front of the tiny motel TV, half-watching one of his crappy romcoms. The tears she longs to cry, to finally release, never come, never threaten to spill over with the hot press behind her eyes.

She thinks her career choice is getting to her a little bit.

(xv)

She gets a call from the surly director two days later, telling her she needs to be ready for a sight-read of a script at three in the afternoon. She panics, frantically searching for her blazer and then her tan leather brogues with the four inch heels while pinning her hair at the same time.

Carly knows she's not supposed to be prepared for this but she goes through her routine anyway – breathe in, out, be the script. Be the words. Bring them to life like they deserve. Like the writer wanted them.

The bus ride to the studio is similar to the first, except she's a little calmer and her outfit is different and it's kind of cloudy today, with no wind and a slight warmth settling in the trees and in between the cracks of doors. She gets a seat at the back and turns on her music; she barely listens, the mantra breathe, be, bring to life running through her head over and over again until she thinks the words will burst from her mouth, her ears, her eyes.

She hops off the bus after five stops, her brogues hitting the sidewalk with a soft click. She almost trips on the edge of a slightly raised pavestone but manages to brush it off quickly, holding her head high and paying attention to her surroundings and the people milling aimlessly around her.

Her hair stays in place, her shoes are shiny and she doesn't trip. It's almost perfect.

(xvi)

The director's name is finally revealed to her – Steven. Never Steve. Ever.

Steve raises an eyebrow at her when she flushes pink as her name is called but otherwise seems less appraising than her previous encounter with him. He passes her the script and she takes it, fingers trembling slightly.

"Here's your partner for this read-through," Steven says. "Hey, Freddie, what's the matter with you?"

No. No, there's no way.

She turns, and pain lances through her as if her heart has just recoiled.

(xvii)

He's taller, paler. Maybe it is true that the sun never shines in England. There are shadows under his eyes and he's too thin and when she actually looks right into his eyes he's so miserable she wants to cradle him in her arms forever. But he left. He left and didn't say goodbye. The familiar anger sets in, making her eyes sting and her fists clench.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses, folding her arms over her stomach. His eyes close momentarily, mouth opening and shutting once.

"Hi," he finally says hoarsely, and his voice is even deeper and she wants to settle into it and sleep.

"Hi?" The tears are coming, she can tell. "That's all you have to say to me? Hi?"

His eyelashes flutter as he looks away, flitting towards the director who is frowning, but looks sort of interested. He makes a motion with his head to continue.

Freddie sighs. "I missed you."

The tears finally break free, one slipping down her cheek and more following. She sniffles and tries to wipe them away, smudging her makeup. His hand moves suddenly but is immediately tugged back to his side. His eyes are locked on hers.

"Don't say that," she says brokenly, forcefully. "Don't you dare."

"Carly," her stomach plummets when he says her name. "Carly, I'm sorry-"

A sob escapes and she runs from the room, Steven calling her name and Freddie chasing after her, his shoes slapping on the linoleum floors.

"Carly, wait!"

"Leave me alone," she wipes fruitlessly at her face, sobs now shaking her torso. "It was easy enough before."

They're in the lobby of the studio now, alone except for the receptionist who is snoring quietly into a huge book of records. She turns to face him, eyes still streaming. He stops short two feet in front of her, barely panting compared to her heaving breaths.

"No," he shakes his head vigorously, his gaze boring into hers. "It was the hardest thing I've ever done."

"Why?" she cries, and suddenly she realizes that all the answers she needed, all the reasons she didn't know, are right here. "Why did you just leave? What did I do? Why wasn't your phone on?"

"I got a new phone," he says blankly. "I knew I'd cave. I knew I'd pick up eventually."

"Why would that be so bad?" she seethes, tears slowing slightly.

He slumps in a plush armchair, burying his face in his hands. She doesn't follow, focusing on the mess of his hair for the minute before he finally speaks.

"I'd have to say goodbye," he mutters. "Like, the real words. And I figured that if I didn't there would be less chance of this – of this coming to an end. I couldn't –"

He swallows audibly. "I don't think I could handle that. Losing you."

She folds her arms, feeling a fresh wave of tears creeping over her.

"You already have," she choked out, turning on her heel and only just seeing his expression crumple.

(xviii)

The director is waiting for them, inspecting his nails for any collecting dirt, when they file back into the room at last. He offers them yet another raised eyebrow, taking in Carly's now slightly tidier but tear-streaked face and Freddie's tense jaw, but then motioning them into seats.

"You guys know each other?" he then asks. Freddie and Carly blink at him and he suddenly cracks a smirk. "Nice show. I liked the emotion."

He studies them both for a moment.

"You got the parts. Both of you," he grins slightly manically at their wide eyes. "This'll be fun. I like the chemistry. The characters have a lot of that. And history, too. Which you two clearly have."

"But," Carly starts, searching desperately. "But-"

"Okay," Freddie says suddenly, making Carly whip around to stare in outrage at him. "When do we start?"

"Freddie-!"

"When do we start?" He repeats, louder this time. Steven fishes for two plump packs of paper and drops them into their laps.

"Scripts," he informs them after Carly frowns down at her creased skirt. "You start in two weeks."

Carly glares at Freddie, snatching her script and cradling it to her chest. "Where's the set?"

"It's all in there," Steven inspects his nails briefly. "There's an insert. Anyway, that's all for today. I hope you two will have come to a compromise by then. I don't appreciate bickering."

Carly and Freddie stand, turning for the door. With a tilt of his head (his hair shifts slightly – it's longer) he indicates that she should go first. Her eyes narrow one more time at him, feeling the heat of his smoldering gaze thread itself into her bloodstream before walking out of the door.

(xix)

She's hiding behind the counter at the Skybucks, preparing a non-fat latte with extra shots, when she hears his voice again. It's been a week since the infamous callback. She walked out of the building and he didn't try to follow her again.

"Hi," he's saying quietly, and she grips the styrofoam cup a little tighter. "Chai latte? Tall, please."

She had had one that morning and the knowledge that she knows what he's about to taste like makes her stomach clench.

"Carly, chai latte, tall," Myra, her colleague for this shift, hands Carly a mug and she tries to avoid the eyes she can feel trained on her. "Come on."

"Sorry," she mumbles, placing the non-fat latte on the counter and returning to the machine. She presses the buttons in a languid way, knowing that he likes a dash more milk and half a shot of vanilla.

She's tried to stay mad, tried to let the anger bubble up and tear the pictures in half and hide the photo album away. Yes, she still shudders into the pillow when she remembers waking up alone the morning she left. She still wonders if there was more alcohol in him than she thought when he was kissing her and holding her as if she was the most precious, treasured thing in his world.

But the guilt that rises because of what she said, because she said he'd lost her, because she'd lied-

She wrenches herself back to the present, snapping the plastic lid onto the cup and passing it straight into his warm hand. She looks up and finds him halfway round the counter, bouncing awkwardly on the balls of his feet.

"Can we…." he bites his lip, glancing at Myra behind her. "Can we talk?"

She glances up at the clock. Her shift is over in five minutes. Convenient.

"Myra?" she turns and sees her colleague waving her away, mouthing he's cute and smirking. Carly scowls back before following Freddie to the door.

He holds it open for her, of course.

(xx)

They end up on a park bench, with a foot of space between their thick jackets and gloved hands. It's cold for October; the wind no longer sweeps away the crumbs of humidity left by summer, it batters windowpanes and whines through browning trees, letting the cold seep into crevices.

"So," Freddie blows absentmindedly through the hole in the lid of his coffee. "You remembered. How I like it."

She nods, her hair tucked into the back of her neck. "It's not that hard to remember."

She hears him shifting, feels the warmth from his body move slightly closer. "Thanks. For the coffee. I appreciate it."

"You're welcome," she murmurs, clasping her hands in her lap and glancing up at him. He's staring at her, fingers clutching his coffee. "I didn't mean it. What I said before – before he told us."

He visibly relaxes, eyes shutting. A brief smile graces his features. "That's a relief. I – I couldn't sleep this week. I had a plan. To make you like me again."

A laugh is stifled in her chest, but she allows a lopsided smile too. "I still like you, Freddie. I mean, you'd know if I didn't."

"You'd have told me to get lost by now," he smirks at her, taking a sip. His lips are red, swollen against the cold, matching his ears. He looks adorable – but she'll never tell him that.

"Probably," she bites her own lip, dragging her gaze away from his mouth and to some children toddling around with a ball in their hats and mittens. "How's England?"

"Lonely," he says after a moment, finally looking away from her. "They're nice, and there were a few guys I hang out with, but – I missed it."

"America?" He grins.

"Sort of. They say weird stuff there," he sobers. "I missed feeling like I could talk to people. I was homesick. And I knew I couldn't tell anyone."

"So you left?"

"Temporarily," he shrugs. "I told them my mom was really sick."

She gives him a look and instead of looking guilty his eyes are suddenly overcome with something incredibly sad.

"What's – what's the matter?" her brow furrows, her fingers reaching out for his. He shakes his head.

"I just – I just really missed you," he says hoarsely, tugging on her hands until their fingers twine messily together. "I thought about you all the time."

He's much closer now, and she can see teardrops collecting on his eyelashes that brush against his cheek when he blinks. Her throat is closing up, a lump lodging itself there.

"Me too," she breathes, letting her free hand place itself on his chest. His heart is rocketing. "It was hard not to."

His knuckles brush her cheek, leaving her skin tingling in their wake. His pupils are so dilated she can't see the chocolate brown of his eyes but she knows it's there – it's okay. She remembers.

His eyes soften briefly in the moments before his mouth meets hers.

(xxi)

He leads the way back to his motel; she's never held someone's hand so tightly before. They climb into the elevator, linked hands tangling in their coats before they're kissing again, mouths hot and open and desperate. He's panting against her tongue, pressing her against the railing and fumbling for the button for his floor. She tangles her fingers in his hair, grateful for the extra length.

There's more to hold on to.

He groans into her kisses, his hold on her tight but not painful, not rough. His hand is steadying on her hip, the other cupping under her neck and sending jolts of electricity southward. At this point boys tended to move their hands upwards but Freddie doesn't move his hands –his lips are doing their job properly.

His kisses were always like this – soft but bruising, needy but languid, as if he's drinking her in and wanting all of her from one kiss and that's the only way. His mouth fits hers perfectly, moving over hers in a familiar, electrifying rhythm, and she sighs, melting into his broad chest.

He's playing with her hair now, toying with the curls at the ends. He bites slightly on her bottom lip and she whimpers when he slides his tongue over it, soothing. The elevator chimes, and they separate themselves, breathing heavily. He grabs her hands again and pulls her out of the doors. The hallway is blissfully empty, and they stumble over each other, trying to walk and reattach their mouths at the same time. He slams her against his door when they reach it, kissing her while she searches for his key in his jacket pocket. She eventually finds it and passes it to him, her hand fisting in his shirt when he goes to unlock the door.

They tumble into his room, shedding coats and scarves and gloves within ten seconds. He hoists her on to the bed, so she is kneeling at the edge and he's standing in front of her and his bed is high enough to make their noses level and kissing a lot easier. He bumps their noses together before capturing her mouth with his again, his arms wrapping around her in a hug. He clings to her, his kisses slower now. He's mumbling something into her mouth, trapping it between their lips.

She presses harder against him and the mumbling stops. His hands unwind from her slightly and he begins to gently lay her down, placing her carefully. His hands rest on her knees and he stares down at her, crouching over her legs. He kicks off his shoes and leans forward to rest his hands either side of her.

"Hi," he says breathlessly, swollen mouth turning up in a lopsided smile.

"Hey," she reaches up to touch his shirt collar.

"You have such pretty eyes," he murmurs, his gaze soaking up her features. He leans down and kisses her now closed eyelids, his breath ghosting across her nose and forehead. She lets her eyelids flutter open and finds his doe-eyes staring in open adoration down at her.

"So do you," and she's tugging on his collar, her fingers burrowing underneath it and holding on for dear life as his mouth meets hers again. His hands are stroking up her sides, caressing her, one staying on her waist and the other hooking under her thigh so he can wrap it around his waist. She arches up into him and he gasps into her mouth.

Suddenly things become a lot more heated and his tongue is twisting into her mouth and she's fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, pulling them through the slots and uncovering more skin to touch. She can feel the hardness of his muscles sliding under her fingertips gently as he kisses her. He bites softly around her bottom lip, making her arch upwards into him.

"Take your shirt off," she whines into his mouth, her fingers shaking too much to do it herself. She feels his hands pushing hers away and his weight lifting off her for a moment. She stares up at him with half-lidded eyes while he hurriedly unbuttons his shirt, wrenching it off his arms and throwing it over to the chair by the window. When he returns to her arms she rolls them over, hands braced on the mildly built but extremely defined muscles of his chest.

"When," she hisses into his mouth. "Did you get these?"

She kisses the grin that spreads on his mouth and she's smiling too and their teeth clack together once but his hands are on her hips and then one is threading into her hair to hold her head in place and she feels so safe.

"Same time the voice got lower," he breathes when they part for air, eyes dark but shining. She laughs, remembering when he wrestled with her on the floor of their studio and managed to pin her down. The memory is fuzzy, blurring round the edges; it seems like a lifetime ago. She captures his bottom lip between her teeth and he inhales sharply, his tongue, hot and damp, gently prying her teeth away and searching for hers. They start to kiss again and the air suddenly feels humid, pressing down on her back and creeping under her shirt.

Losing the clothing seems best.

She reluctantly pulls away from him, reaching for the hem of her top and pulling it over her head. She thanks her lucky stars that she wore her nice blue bra as his nearly black eyes drink her in.

"You're beautiful," he says softly. She tries to imagine what she must look like – mussed hair, swollen mouth, cheeks and neck flushed and eyes bright. She bites her lip and smiles slightly, dropping her top on the floor and settling back into the arms that are now reaching for her.

He tucks his nose into her neck, his mouth gliding along her collarbone and dipping slightly lower. Her necklace dangles between them and she fingers it, wondering if she should take it off. He shakes his head slightly and her heart stumbles, once, twice, when his lips brush the tops of her breasts.

"Freddie," she croaks, and he's pushing her upwards into a sitting position, pressing his forehead to hers.

"We don't have to do anything," he says, head slightly tilted and his eyes big and bright. "I've never-"

He goes pink, his gaze flicking momentarily at the crumpled sheets. "I've never done – that before."

"Me neither," she replies, reaching for his hand and locking their fingers together. "I'm scared to."

"That's okay. I think everybody is," he kisses the palm of her hand and then her wrist, before dropping her hand altogether. She stares at him, hair curling around her face in a terribly unkempt fashion. "Can I kiss you more, though?"

She nods, and she meets him halfway, tucking her fingers into his hair when he pulls her onto his lap. He wraps his arms very tightly around her and kisses her very, very slowly in the faded sunlight of his motel room.

(xxii)

They get up and Carly puts her shirt back on and then he orders pizza for lunch, because he hasn't got a whole load of money with him and he doesn't know any restaurants that Carly wouldn't wrinkle her nose at just that tiny little bit.

They eat it in bed (over the boxes because Carly refuses to sleep in a bed full of crumbs and the remnants of cheese and tomato) and make full use of the complementary mints. They end up kissing for about an hour, the pizza getting colder and lonelier beside them. She can feel the arousal like swirling fumes in her stomach and she can sense it in the heat between their lower bodies but it never peaks, only simmering gently.

"We're doing a movie," she blurts out randomly at one point as he's biting gently at the skin on her neck. "Together."

"We are," he mumbles. He's sleepy now, drowsiness muffling his voice slightly. "Are you ready for it?"

"Sort of," she says, her hand stroking his hair lazily. "It should be fun."

"It's a romance movie," he says, bringing his head up and waggling his eyebrows at her. "Lots of romantic scenes."

She rolls her eyes and he grins at her before nuzzling back into her neck.

"I like cuddling," she says, and he tightens his arms around her waist. "Why didn't we do this before?"

"Platonic best friends don't cuddle," he mutters. "Unless they're drunk or heartbroken or girls, I think."

"Boys can cuddle," she pouts. "They did on Glee."

"They were in love, sweetheart," he says. "I wish I could have cuddled with Gibby one time. He looked really cuddly."

"He's comfy," she agrees, fingers now massaging his scalp gently and her thumb shaping over his temple. "Like a teddy bear."

"Am I comfy?"

"I don't know; you're on top of me."

"You're comfy," his words slur, his breathing now slow and even. It's not even three in the afternoon yet but she smoothes her hand over his hair for the hundredth time that half hour and falls asleep too.

(xxiii)

They wake up to Carly's phone trilling obnoxiously on the bedside table. Carly reaches out blearily while Freddie blinks against the dim light still just filtering through the drab curtains.

"H'llo?"she croaks, her throat dry.

"Is this Carly Shay?"

"Yeah," she sits up properly, fighting a smile at Freddie's disgruntled pout. "Who am I speaking to?"

"Judy," the woman sounds shaken, her voice cracking. "I'm – I was Steven's assistant."

"Oh," Carly shakes the sleep out of her eyes and watches Freddie burrow back under the covers again. "Is everything okay?"

"He's-" Judy breathes in deeply. "He's been in an accident."

"Oh my God," Carly raises her hand to her mouth. "Is he –I mean, is he all right?"

"No," Judy replies shortly but thickly. "No, he died, Carly."

"Oh – oh my God," Carly clutches her phone with both her hands. "Oh, Judy, I'm so sorry."

"Movie's off," Judy chokes, and then the dial tone fills Carly's ears.

(xxiv)

They sit in silence after she explains the phone call to him, sitting a foot apart (but it feels like more than that).

"Are you going to go back?" she asks, finally, her voice denting the vast quiet. He swallows and licks his lips.

"I – I have to go back anyway," he says. "My stuff's there. And my mom's supposed to recover."

She nods, exhaling through her nose and then climbing out of the bed.

"Wh-where are you going?" he reaches for her but she's too far away, now. She heads for her coat and he stumbles to his feet. "Carly!"

"I have to stay," she whispers. "And you have to go."

"Ever heard of long-distance relationships?" he tries, panic creeping into his voice. "Carly – please – let me write down my email and phone number and then you can call me every day."

Her eyes squeeze shut. "Freddie."

"Please," he attempts to take her hands in his again. "Please don't go. What about – about this?"

He gestures wildly between them, his breath hitching. She clutches her coat to her chest and wrenches her gaze to the window.

"I can't."

"I love you," he's crying. He's crying and she can't look at him. "I love you, I love you."

He's never, ever said it out loud before – not once in seven years of knowing each other – and it propels her out of the door faster than any goodbye would have done.

(xxv)

She doesn't cry.

She expects a waterfall, a torrent, when she gets back to her motel room, but she just stares at the wall and hugs her photo album close to her as if she can squeeze the memories away.

(xxvi)

Her next two auditions go terribly and she starts calling Sam every day and Spencer every other day.

Sam tells her that nobody makes it the first time and she's still fucking amazing and if they can't see that, she's better than them and their stupid production. Carly scoffs at this and clutches her scripts tighter between her black nail polished fingers.

Spencer tells her about his art and that he's dating someone who he kind of wants for the long haul.

"See," she says, smiling even though he can't see her. "You're growing up."

"I am a grown up!"

"Only in age," she settles further into her pillows and listens avidly while he tells her about his BottleBot sculpture meeting a 'lady friend'.

She's working at the bookshop two doors down from the Skybucks and her shifts are literally right after each other, which makes things exhausting but also a lot easier to co-ordinate. Scott takes her out a few times a week and she starts to like the taste of white wine a little too much.

She's never drunk; only ever rather tipsy. Scott gets drunk; off his head, completely plastered drunk. She giggles while she drags him home and snorts into his shoulder at his moaning about feeling sick and then rubs his back in silence when he pukes into his toilet. They settle into a routine and she moves her things into his guest bedroom after two weeks.

Scott is tidy and a morning person and refuses to admit he's still hurting; she notices all of these within about two days of living together, but not necessarily in that order. He talks in his sleep and the same name crops up twice every night (she counts them while she tries to drift off).

She sleeps very little and keeps a bottle of wine by her bed to sip at two am when everything is quiet and lonely.

(xxvii)

She never gave Freddie her number but she stares at her phone sometimes, resentment flaring when it stays silent.

Her ninth audition actually works out and she's an extra in a TV series; she has two lines which she has to snap coldly to the desperate, breathless protagonist while he chases a friend. They do three takes and the actor playing the protagonist asks her out after the second one.

"No, thanks," she says, her fingers tapping on the screen of her phone. "I'm not – I'm not looking for that at the moment."

"I bet I could change your mind," he drawls, his hand on her knee and trailing upwards.

"No," she snaps, and he looks mildly affronted before getting up and stalking away. She rolls her eyes and checks her text messages again- nothing.

(xxviii)

She's okay now, money-wise. Her dad put some more money into her account before she traveled to LA, and now she buys the weekly groceries for the house she shares with Scott. He sits hunched over his laptop most days while she mutters lines from scenes to herself over dinner (Scott is a terrible cook), perfecting the lilt of her voice or the sharpness of her tone.

Scott never asks about Freddie and Sam never mentions him when she calls (she says something about Spencer having problems moving the car in the studio and her voice cracks and Carly changes the subject). Carly tries to forget that one afternoon and night when he wrapped her up in his arms and she felt more whole than she had since she left Seattle.

She auditions for a community theatre play and gets the lead role, which is surprising because she thought she'd fucked it all up (she forgot her lines and turned up five minutes late to the audition after hers). It's a modern version of Romeo & Juliet and she hates her character and the guy playing Romeo isn't attractive at all; but he's sweet and blushes when Scott appears to pick her up – so she invites him out for drinks and leaves halfway through the evening.

She catches them on the couch a week later. She's a genius.

(xxix)

Romeo & Juliet gets a sort-of good review in the local paper and Scott raves about how it was brilliant despite the clear bias. Carly is mentioned twice and isn't labeled as a terrible actress. Of course you weren't, says Scott into his boyfriend's hair when she comes into the room to find them cuddling. Don't be silly.

She flicks his nose and grins at Rick (the boyfriend) and hands them a bottle of wine for approval.

She scours the Skybucks crowd and the bookshop regulars for anyone cute enough to make it work without big brown doe eyes, but they all have shy, lopsided grins just like his. She constantly looks for similarities and her stomach clenches when their voices are low enough to cradle her replies safely.

She doesn't sleep anymore.

(xxx)

"Carly?" Scott pokes his head round the door at three am. She's sitting up in bed, fists clenched around her duvet and eyes lost in the patterns of the wallpaper. "Honey, why are you still awake?"

"I don't know," she says after a minute. "I can't sleep."

He joins her on the bed, prying her fingers off her duvet and pulling her towards him. It reminds her of the graduation party that many months ago and her chest hurts.

"Are you stressed about your audition on Tuesday?" She shakes her head against his shoulder. "What's up then?"

"I can't sleep anymore," she says monotonously. "I can never sleep. And I can't cry. I wish I could cry."

"Oh, honey," he hugs her properly and she sighs. "You know, you're still hanging on to him. You're trying to forget him but he's still got this hold on you."

She looks up at him.

"I know, trust me," he smoothes his hand over her hair. "I know. You try to distract yourself and you think of horrible variations of his untimely death, but he's still there, in your heart. And it hurts; it hurts so much and you don't know how to numb the pain."

"I get drunk-"

"-which only lasts for one night and then your head hurts, too," Scott smiles sadly at her. "Carly, it's okay to cry. Really."

"I know," she moans. "I know and I still can't fucking cry. I'm just – it hurts, so much, but I can't let it out."

"Have you tried talking to your mom or something? She's around, right?"

Her eyes close. She hasn't had her mom for a long time. She doesn't know what it's like to ask her mom about clothes and boys and fights with girlfriends. She's never had a soft hand stroking her hair and kissing her cheek goodnight, at least not that she can remember.

"My mom," she murmurs. "she died when I was eleven."

Scott's mouth drops open almost comically. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, I had no-"

"It's okay," she shrugs. "I haven't been sad about it for a while. I miss her, and my dad, but I had Spencer and Sam. And then Freddie."

"Where was your dad?"

"In the military," she folds her fingers together. "He's been stationed on a submarine for a long time. We talk, and he loves me, but I don't think he's quite over my mom."

"He ran away?" Scott is chewing on his lip, worried.

"She died when he was on duty," Carly says. "He came home for a while after that, but then he got back on the submarine and I don't think he's been on land for years."

"Spencer?"

"You know he's an artist, right? He got those genes from my mom and he started drawing and painting and sculpting when she died. He kind of buried himself in it." She smiles a little. "That's how he got through it."

There's something building, a pressure, in her head. It pushes at her nose and her throat and down into her lungs and her breath hitches.

"And I – I cried," she says, with a sudden and alarming thickness in her voice. "I cried myself to sleep for weeks and I still cry on the anniversary of her death. I just cried all the time."

Scott is pulling her onto his lap now, and her vision is blurring at the edges and – oh.

She's crying.

Carly buries her face in his shoulder and sobs.

(xxxi)

She cries for fifteen minutes and twenty-three seconds, and then she falls asleep in Scott's arms and wakes up with Rick smiling slightly at her, perched on his other shoulder.

She sleeps at night, and bounces around LA in her favourite pea coat while she does her Christmas shopping. She gets another small role in a short film and then a soda commercial; it helps her pay for her Christmas presents (and a couple of things for herself so she can wrap herself tight in soft scarves and sequined beanies).

She's going home for Christmas; back to Seattle and another sculpted tree, most likely, so she stocks up on as many FatCakes as possible for Sam (as well as a Chilli My Bowl voucher) and more "special crayons" for Spencer (they're just crayons, really, but apparently these ones are extra smooth).

Spencer calls her the day before she leaves LA, checking she had presents and, typically, time to decorate the house. "I keep knocking things over!" he moans. "Come and help me, little sister."

"I knew I'd have to," Carly sighs. "How are things?"

"Okay. Kind of boring. Oh!" Carly hears a thump and a muffled ow. "Oh, yeah, Freddie's home."

Her stomach clenches. Oh, shit.

"Oh. Oh, that's nice," she says faintly, fiddling with her hair.

"Carly," Spencer says. "Carly, come on. You guys can talk."

"I don't think he wants to talk to me, Spencer," she whispers. "I'll – I'll text you flight details, okay? Pick me up?"

"Of course. I love you, Carls," Spencer says. "I've missed you. A lot."

"I missed you, too," she mumbles. "I can't wait to see you, Spence."

"Bye, Carls," he says, his voice kind of sad. She waits for the dial tone, and only then does she set her phone down on her bedside table.

(xxxii)

Her flight is delayed by an hour but she's running into her brother's arms at 5:46pm the next day, her suitcase trailing behind her. Her carry-on knocks against her side every half a second but it doesn't matter; Spencer stands tall and gangly, his hair longer than it was when she left and his jeans slightly more frayed where they meet his converse sneakers.

"Hey, Carls," he says when she barrels into him. "Hi, baby sister."

"Spencer," her eyes are watery and she buries her face in his chest. "I really missed you."

"I know. I missed you too. It's way too quiet in our apartment."

Spencer takes her suitcase and lopes along beside her. Even in her favourite heeled brogues she barely reaches his shoulder; she grins up at him.

"Thanks for picking me up," she says, adjusting her carry-on when it nearly slips off her shoulder again.

"Hey, of course I was going to," He nudges her side with his finger, unconsciously poking her with his keys too. "You didn't even need to ask."

Carly gives him a sort of half-smile and trudges onwards, her shoes clicking on the laminate floor. They reach the revolving doors and Spencer hops into them, beaming at his sister. She shakes her head, watching him pushing the door at arms' length while his legs flail behind him.

Some things never change.

(xxxiii)

Spencer's car is warm in the quiet cold of Seattle; tiny flakes of snow are falling and Carly shivers in her skirt. The radio is cracked when it blares in the car, words jumping and the music too fuzzy to listen to properly. Carly reaches forward with her black-painted nails and turns it off after ten minutes.

"Is LA warmer than Seattle?" Spencer wonders out loud.

"Anywhere is warmer than Seattle, Spence," Carly says, the corner of her mouth turning up slightly as she glances at him. She directs her gaze out of the window and watches shop windows, cars, people flashing by – she forgets the names and faces almost immediately.

"So tell me about this lady-friend," she blurts out randomly, looking at her brother again.

"Oh," he flushes and focuses on the road ahead. "Um, I need to tell you about that when we get home, okay?"

She frowns. "You're dating a serial killer, aren't you?"

"No!" Spencer nearly swerves into the next lane. "No, Carls, why would you even say that, you know those movies freak me out-"

She's giggling in her seat, fingers trying to seal her mouth shut. "I'm kidding. Oh my God, Spencer."

"You're so mean," he whines. "I'm not even married and all these women are so mean to me."

(xxxiv)

Spencer can't find the house keys when they reach their front door (they got separated from his car keys, apparently) and Carly is rifling through her carry-on when there is a thump and a curse from behind the Bensons' door.

Marissa Benson does not swear, and will legitimately go and find some soap to wash someone's mouth out if they use a single profanity in her presence.

Carly's head snaps upwards, eyes focusing on the peephole straight away.

(I'm in love with you, you just want to be friends, and I'm totally cool living with that constant pain)

She swallows and tears her gaze from the place where everything started.

(xxxv)

Spencer cooks spaghetti tacos, for the occasion, and she's biting into her third helping (it was a long journey, okay) when he decides to tell her who this more permanent girlfriend is.

"Carls," Spencer is fidgeting, even more than usual. "Um, basically, well – please don't freak out. Please. It's stressful enough already."

"Are you sure she's not a serial killer?" Carly wipes her hands on her napkin. "Or he. Really, Spencer, I live with two gay guys in LA, that doesn't matter to me at all."

"Oh, no, it's a girl," Spencer bites his lip. "Oh, God, I don't know how to-"

"I'm home! Spence, open the fucking door, would you?"

Carly chokes on her taco.

(xxxvi)

"I can't believe this. Oh, God, this is so weird-"

"Carls," Sam munches on her beef jerky. "Carls, dude, I'm not breaking up with him. The sex-"

"Sam!" Carly shrieks, clamping her hands over her ears. Spencer is scarlet. "I'm – look, I'm okay with this, but I don't want to know. I really don't want to know."

Spencer slumps against the counter. "You are?"

Carly bites her lip. "I – I think so. And even if I wasn't it wouldn't make a difference. I can't stop you from being together."

Sam opens up her arms and Carly falls into them, squeezing her best friend tight.

"I missed you, Sammie," she whispers into Sam's soft hair.

"You too, cupcake," Sam mumbles. Carly hears the crinkling of the bag of jerky and then Sam's arms are around her waist. "I really love you, you know that?"

"I love you, too," Carly's voice cracks and her eyes water, and it's so easy to cry now that she screws up her face in frustration as well as she can against Sam's shoulder. There is suddenly something large embracing them, then, long gangly arms encircling their torsos.

Spencer clears his throat dramatically.

"Love you too, Spence," Carly says. Sam makes a non-commital noise of agreement.

They huddle there until Spencer's leg cramps and Sam decides she really, really wants to finish her beef jerky.

(xxxvii)

Spencer throws a Christmas Eve party and invites the Bensons.

Carly adjusts the decorations every five minutes and nibbles on the food and tries to stay close to Sam, but eventually she's hovering by the stairs, gaze flickering to the door quite literally every five seconds. Every time somebody arrives her stomach lurches and she grips the banister tightly. Her knuckles are white by the time Chuck and his father arrive.

She's actually speaking quietly to an elderly neighbor who had been ill when she hears Mrs Benson shrieking about a stain on the couch. She stops mid-sentence and spins around, hands searching blindly for something to hold on to.

He's taller, again, only half a head shorter than Spencer who shakes his hand briefly. But his face is pale, drawn, and his eyes seem dull.

Freddie's eyes shouldn't be dull. Freddie's eyes shine like most boys' eyes don't; they get darker when they flick downwards to her mouth but then brighter when he smiles, and then they seem to fill up with something (something like love except they never seem to say that out loud, not properly) when he looks at her-

Like now.

Her heart stops, just for a second, and then picks up twice as fast. She wrings her hands, trying to tell him sorry, so sorry with just her facial expression (because he could always read it before) and imploring that he stays.

He finally looks away from her, blinking quickly, before murmuring something to his mother and striding out of the door. Carly nearly lets loose the wait that surges in her throat, starting forwards with her hands outstretched. The tears threaten again but she fights them back, curling her arms around her waist.

"Shay!"

"Sam, we're out of peppy cola, I'm sorry," she says automatically when the blonde appears at her elbow.

"What? Dude, that sucks, I'll get Spencer to buy some more," Sam scowls at the fridge, but then turns her attention back to Carly. "No, no, that's not what I came over here for – cupcake, fire escape."

Carly raises an eyebrow. "What? What about the fire escape?"

"He's there. He's going there," Sam grabs her forearm and shakes it vigorously. "That's where he goes when he's most hurt, remember? He's not leaving – well, he is, but he'll be there."

Carly bites her lip. "He hates me. He has to – I didn't-"

"Maybe," Sam shrugs, "But you could fix that."

Carly grips Sam's fingers. "Are you sure he's there?"

"Positive," Sam nods. "Dude, just go, I need my peppy cola and vodka."

Carly grins half-heartedly and then heads towards the back door. She takes a deep breath and turns the handle, braced against the cold Seattle winds.

(xxxviii)

Freddie is huddled on the steps, elbows resting on his thighs and face turned away from the big screen door. He's wearing gloves and a jacket and he looks so warm Carly is drawn closer.

She knocks tentatively on the door, her teeth worrying her bottom lip again. He swivels round, eyes still horribly dull.

"Hi," she says, quietly.

He nods. "Hey."

His voice, though slightly hoarse, still settles over her like a blanket, like armour around her, like something cozy she can burrow herself into.

"We need to talk," she blurts out, and it sounds so awkwardly obvious that she grimaces.

"Yeah," he's not looking at her anymore. "I suppose."

"When I walked out," she starts, sitting on the windowsill. "I –I don't know why I did that. I'll always regret it. It just – I just didn't want to have to lose you again, because last time it hurt so much and you're one of my best friends in the whole world, Freddie."

"You were more than that," he says, in a voice that would be angry if it had any life in it left. "You were always so much more than that to me, Carly."

"I know. You – you were more, too. It hurts, being away from Sam, and Spencer," her voice is thickening, clogging with tears. "Because they're family. And I miss them. But – but you. You left and you left a hole in my heart and that's such a weird thing to say but it felt like that. It honestly did."

"I know the feeling," he replies, a humourless laugh accompanying him. "I'd never told you that. I'd never said it. There were moments when I wanted to; there were so many of them. I could name at least fifty."

"I knew," she breathes. "I knew – I did. After you got hit by that truck. I didn't think people ever did that in real life. I thought that stuff was just in the movies; and then – and then you pushed me out of the way and it was all my fault and you kept saying it wasn't-"

She's crying, now, tears slipping down her cheeks and freezing there. She ducks her head and stares at the concrete below her feet.

"I kept thinking," she chokes out. "That you were wasting your time on me. That I didn't deserve to be saved, that I didn't deserve that kind of love because I never felt the same way."

She hears him moving closer but carries on.

"I don't know why you love me," she says. "You shouldn't – we just hurt each other all the time. I'm sorry – Freddie, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I don't-"

A gloved hand finds her chin and tilts her face upwards towards him.

His eyes are blazing.

"I love you," he hisses fiercely. "I love you – more than anything. And I gave you my heart and you neglected it a bit but you still took care of it and you never led me on, not on purpose."

He cups her cheek.

"I will never regret feeling this way about you," his other hand winds into her windswept hair. "Never."

"I think," she sobs. "I think I love you too-"

He kisses her. He pulls her head forward and captures her mouth with his, kissing her hard. She responds immediately, her tongue probing his mouth and twining with his. She places her hands at his waist and tugs him onto the window sill next to her so the angle is less awkward – they're quite a practical pair, really. He sucks on her bottom lip and swallows her moan and caresses the swell of her cheekbone with his thumb.

She's never felt so loved.

The snow swirls gracefully around them, mostly melting pathetically on the black concrete that surrounds them. A siren wails, a baby cries from inside – but it's quiet and the only thing they pay attention to is the stuttering, uneven beats of their hearts.