A/N Once again, thanks for the many favorites and alerts but especially to the reviewers who took time to comment on chapter four: jhuikmn08, Julefor, KeyLimePie14, XxcoupleMseddieX, Embrace Your Inner Gibby, HourglassGluedToTheTable, thank you all.

About Sam's response in this concluding chapter: I hope the format I use is readable and not too confusing. Sam certainly responds to Freddie's letter but I did not have her compose a written message because I don't think Sam would really compose and revise a thoughtful e-mail, at least not one that would reflect the reaction I believe she would have. Sam's reactions are regular font text, and Freddie's quoted letter is in italics. Not sure how to fix it if it makes for a confusing read.

Please note that I have great respect for Sam, and I believe she is very similar to Freddie in many respects including what I believe is a shared core, but I don't see her doing the multiple draft approach to this. But, for those looking for her written response:

Benson,

Chillax, dude.

I still hate the word but I'm wearing some.

Wanna follow me to the Groovy Smoothie and see if I'm telling the truth?

Disclaimer: I don't own iCarly. Dan Schneider does, but I have launched a plot to replace him with an android replica. Watch for subtle changes in the show and for Bruce Campbell to appear as a character with the initials "WK."

iCan't Send This

Chapter Five: Samtasm (Sam's Response)

You are Sam Puckett and you are running. That is usually only something you do when ordered in gym class and when you suspect the sirens are in response to something you have just committed.

This time however, it is because you are thrilled. You have gotten an e-mail. Your phone gave its "Mail's In!" obnoxious whoop that gets you in so much trouble in public places. You don't get too many e-mails that you care about, you're a text girl, really, but this is a letter from your boyfriend.

Your boyfriend. That really doesn't sound right. You never, ever thought that those words would apply to him, the Dork Knight, Fredward Richard Benson. He has no tattoos, no priors, he irritates you with his need to do right and that over-the-top niceness. But what you feel for him is deep and real and you always follow what you feel. You honestly cannot explain it, but he, boyfriend or not, is very important to you. You are very careful to hide the intensity of it, however.

Yes, he is your friend, probably the best male friend you have ever had, but friends don't do what happened the other night after eating at Nacho Business (sweet, dreamy salsa with the perfect hint of cilantro; you quiver at the memory of it).

That night you had new names for him, Fredhands, Fredlips, Fredtongue. You always knew when you were fighting with him, when he was opposing you, taking the other side on almost any subject that he had passion, but what you glimpsed that night on the sofa… Your heart is pounding now. Your own excitement about this shocks you. Why do you feel this way?

You want to read his letter on a good screen. You hate reading on the tiny smart phone. You know him; you understand his behavior so well it is somewhat scary. You are each so different but know the other so well. There is almost a tele, genic? Scopic? Vision? Pathic! Telepathic thing going on between the two of you. Whatever the word, that insight into how he reacts promises his letter will be about the two of you.

And you slow down, your pace coming to a walk as a new, grim thought starts to smoke the air. What if he has come to his senses? What if he woke up this morning and said, "She's low-rent, I can do better"? It was Freddie that stopped that night when you were about to add "sexual" to the list of assaults you have perpetrated on him. Maybe it wasn't what he said about "not here," "not this way." Maybe he stopped because it wasn't that good, that the thought of going any further with you was… ugly.

You are scared. Your inner compass, that thing that keeps you alive when your mom brings home dangerous drunks, that tells you when to fake an illness or that shopper over there might be store security, what Geek King Benson calls "spider sense" tells you that you need to read this letter on a computer away from the public labs at school. The Shay apartment fits the bill. Carly will be in class, Spencer will be wherever it is he goes, and he'll leave you alone if he is there.

As you head to Bushwell the curtain opens on what you might call Puckett's Perspective. It is a grim viewpoint that has been your companion for most of your life. It makes you ask: Where do you think this Sam and Freddie thing is going? Where can it go? He is going away to college that much is as predictable as the Seattle rain. So will Carly most likely. That will conclude iCarly the web show and the partnerships. You aren't going to college. You will get a job, and a shiver runs down your back. Worse, you see your mother sitting in the glow of the television set maybe groping the catch of the day, maybe not, but the booze is always there. As she turns to look at you it is your face looking back and you jerk your head to break the vision.

That sound you hear is the end of life as you know it.

You arrive at casa del Shay and you are in such a state that you use your key and don't pick the lock. Without Benson here to irritate the act has less meaning anyway. You head up to the studio and you stop before the computer. At this moment it actually frightens you. A "box of sand" as Freddie calls it when he can't make it do what he wants. But fear is not something you do. You can count on one hand the fights you've lost and you can't remember any you ran from.

You connect into your mail. Freddie runs the site where you store all your e-mail and files. Would he ever poke around there, invade the privacy you cherish? No. And that makes you smile. The neighborhood you grew up in had no respect for your rights, your own mother has opened your mail when she felt like it and searched your room looking for money or pawnable items. You have come to understand with the same faith that you have in gravity that Freddie would never traffic in that kind of behavior. That is a heartwarming aspect of his irritating goodness. You trust him. More than even Carly who will sneak back to kiss Shane in order to win (and you like that about her, but it does set your expectations about trust). Freddie is solid and good (at one point you viewed that as predictable and weak but time has changed your estimation of the boy, the boy who is becoming a man while you watch).

You scan past the junk in your inbox including official school stuff which to you is also junk, and you find it near the top.

Freddie Benson On My Mind 12:54am

It strikes you as odd that he would be up so late on a school night. Why did your mail just deliver it this morning? You've complained to Freddie that something on his mail server is jacked, but the time thing scares you too. This must be bad. The rage is starting to bubble. You have been dumped before by boys that didn't really matter, and it hurt. Freddie is so much more to you than any other boy. You feel that more than think it.

He is so smart-of course he took a good look at you with that brain of his and figured out that a deeper relationship with you was a waste of time. You aren't worth the effort. Only Carly and Freddie have ever behaved like you matter. He just got close enough to see inside and put the brakes on. That was why he stopped on the sofa. His damn rightness thing told him he shouldn't get a piece of something he had no intention of staying with. He was your first kiss and he would have been your first time but he was too smart, too nice, just too good for Sam Puckett.

You feel the fury climbing like a tiger up a tree toward some prey and you take a breath. You hear him say, "Sam, you haven't even read the letter."

You take a deeper breath. Your hand is shaking as you double click and begin to read.

Lady Sam,

Aww, you almost say out loud. He is so sweet. And you stop yourself. Sam Puckett does not give or take, "sweet." Besides, you like "Princess Puckett."

This letter was supposed to be perfect, but after working on it for a week I'm pretty sure it isn't. I think I have to stop now.

You knew it! He's quitting on you! You want to hit something—him! Again, his voice from somewhere close says, "Calm down. Keep reading." So you take yet another breath, lower your chin and forge ahead into the message that will dump your worthless butt.

Sometimes I have these dreams where I'm in school and my whole grade is riding on this one assignment that I can't get right.

Funny. You have a dream about being at a buffet but there are no plates and knives and everything is too hot to touch or frozen solid.

This letter is like that. I need to get it right, but perfect is off the table. This letter started out as one thing and it kind of went somewhere else. I think that's what you and I are doing. If you remember nothing else from this letter remember this:

I'm so happy I think I'm going to be continued in another Freddie somewhere,

He's happy? Continued on another Freddie? That's what passes for funny in Dorkville you suppose.

but this has to be about both of us, YOU and me. I'm sorry if anything here makes you mad or worse, sad. Mad Sam I can handle. Sad Sam is way harder for me. When I think of you being sad I feel it in my chest, I want to change everything to make it better. I've felt that way since the whole Missy thing. I didn't know why then, but I understand better now.

Your eyes tingle a little, mold probably, Lewbert needs to get the ducts blown out in this place. He feels it in his chest? What a girly man. But your Sam Puckett face slips as you remember how Freddie gave up an extended cruise to someone who was trying to drive a wedge between you and Carly. When you found out he had done that you had no idea how to react. He would do something like that for you someone who abused and hit him? Was he truly that stupid? Did he think that would make you go easy on him? You never mentioned it to him, because you knew he would use it when he wanted something. That's how the world works. But he never, ever mentioned it, even at times when he should have used it to win, to beat you, it never came up. You had no clear conclusion about it; your reaction could best be described as a nod, a very important nod. You couldn't hear it, but somewhere deep inside you, something said, "yes."

If I sent the previous drafts of this letter you'd probably throw me under the first truck that came along. I think you will only break my arm when you read this one. It has a lot of stuff that will make you mad, but I can't be scared that you'll break my arm—I don't think you would do that anymore- but I don't want you mad at me either. It isn't that you being mad at me isn't something I'm used to, I just want us to agree that whatever we fight about, it isn't more important than what we are doing now. Which is pretty weird if you think about it, I mean, you and I have always had a well, we tend to be on different sides, publicly, but inside, I think we are a lot alike. I see you rolling your eyes, Sam, stop it.

You stop rolling your eyes and then smile. Telepathic. The two of you, alike? Yeah, right. But part of you is sad that he ever thought you would break his arm. Rough him up, sure, but the only reason you ever hit him is to touch him. Physical contact with him is something you have craved for a long time. Pucketts don't hug, they hit the things they… Well, that is something you try not to look at. It's too complicated.

I actually like arguing with you about almost anything. It's always fun, even when you conclude or start the argument with some kind of assault and battery. But now I look at your eyes when we square off. Your eyes flash when you're mad, did you know that? An angry Sam is so hard not to look at. I look at you a lot now, I stare a lot, I love to watch you walk, and I think that's weird too. But I can't stop, ether. I think I get the exotic bacon thing.

You hadn't noticed him staring. You noticed that you were always looking at each other, yes. That is a kind of staring. Your stomach feels funny. Hungry at the mention of bacon, but something more, like you are about to go on stage to dance in front of judges. Come on Benson, get to the dumping.

I'm really confused Sam. I'm trying to figure out where I am, where we are in this. I know how you don't like it when I think, when I explain things like the shatterproof glass in the basement that time we were prisoners, but it's something I do. Just like you have to pick the lock to Carly's apartment even though you have a key, or how you don't eat the crust of a pizza slice until you stuff it with meat. Does it drive me nuts sometimes? Sure it does, but it's part of the package. You get with someone you get all of that person, the crust and the meat.

It's true, he thinks too much and it irritates you, why can't he just go with his gut? But at the same time, and you don't understand this at all, you love that he thinks so much. How can you feel both ways at the same time?

We've been dating a few weeks now. Sam Puckett and Freddie Benson are dating. That's like saying Batman and the Catwoman are going to work together to end world hunger. I'm Batman in that picture by the way. You will probably call me the Dork Knight. The first time I wrote that you were the Joker, but Catwoman and Batman have more of a frenemies thing going on. Hey, you wanted to date a geek, Puckett.

! He knows about the Dork Knight? You hadn't sprung that one yet. Telepathic. You are laughing that he had to tell you he was Batman. He is such a nub, so cute, but you don't do cute any more than you do sweet. All that geek trivia swimming in his brain, a useless collection that he adds to every day with his web surfing. Why on Earth are you dating this guy who would be in his mother's basement if she had one. Losing a geek won't be that bad.

Thanks for kissing me that night.

Which kiss on what night you donor?

Not the first kiss, our first kiss with anybody, but the one during the lock-in. I didn't know how to feel about when it happened. If I could do it again, I'd kiss you back, but I wasn't sure what you were doing. I kinda thought you might have been setting me up, doing something on a crazy dare, I dunno, something. I mean, Sam, you checked yourself into a mental facility because you saw how—well you had some doubts. When I asked you about it you told me you hated me and liked me with just about the same breath.

It makes you sad that he could not trust you that night, but you understand it. You had not earned his trust as he had earned yours. You still have doubts about your own mental state. Even now they claw and spit under your blond hair. Why are you with him? Why is he with you? What can you possibly do for each other?

Thanks for keeping kissing me. I don't know if you are enjoying it, but you keep coming back so that has to mean something because you don't do things you don't like to do. You say what you want. I don't know if I can ever do that, but I hope I can. I don't know where this "we" thing we have become is going, but I think it's special and I want it to last.

Your heart is pounding again. You are swallowing and there is a salty taste in your mouth. You are trembling. You read the words again. "I want it to last."

Did you ever think we would kiss so much?

Never. He wants it to last? Really? What you feel startles you. Normally you only have this intense a reaction to free meat.

I mean, after that first kiss it was back to the game. Man, kissing you is really, really cool. Not just because you're pretty, but, well, I've only kissed a few girls, but it feels special, I don't want to compare it to anything else. And, well, how many guys have you kissed? I wonder about that sometimes and I tell myself it's none of my business, but I think that it is becoming my business, and I don't get that at all. I used to know the rules and I don't anymore.

You are shaking your head. You don't understand this paragraph at all. Does he think you go around kissing boys like you eat ham? There are notes in Sharpie on the bathroom stalls, but you found the writer and broke his thumbs. The words "I want it to last" have a musical quality in your head.

I never expected to be in this place. Not with you. I expected to be with, well for a while I thought it would be Carly, but this, this, it's pretty cool. It's way cool. Cooler than I ever thought I'd get to.

At the sight of her name you jerk in your seat. You didn't suspect you would have such a reaction. Carly is the sister you always wanted but had to go find, yet sometimes her treatment of Freddie has left you squinting and fuming. Not that long ago, he was walking out to pound the creep who broke Carly's heart and you watched Carly take Freddie's legs out, telling him not to go because he wasn't man enough. She used gentler language but a slam is a slam. You watched him freeze there, unsure, trying to have the right reaction. Your heart hurt for him so much right then. You wanted to slap her even harder than you ever slapped him. How dare she get in the way of what he is becoming? While you agreed with Carly's assessment, she should never have insulted him by rejecting his offer. You were proud and wanted to say, "Go for it Benson, mama's got your back," but your conflict about how to behave around him was starting so you put on your Sam face and behaved as expected.

You know I don't have a lot of experience with girls, I mean I've had a few dates and I can talk to girls better than I used to, but I never thought I'd end up with someone like you. I mean you rock, you and I when we are together we kind of –fit. I don't think we are different at all. Crazy as it sounds I think we are a lot alike. When I was chasing after Carly it seemed like she was the right type, y'know? Good grades, college bound, being pretty was a bonus, but when we dated for that hour or whatever it was, it was, empty or something. You knew that. You are wicked smart Sam Puckett, in ways that standardized tests can't measure.

He thinks you are smart? You have always known you are smart, but smart in ways that couldn't matter to Freddie. For him to say that means a lot. Yes, there is crazy here. You have seen what he calls "the fit" and it shocks and frightens you. He says he is happy, but he must be preparing to explain why he's dumping you. The world is mean that way, it's how you learned to live, to survive. You told him Carly and he were wrong together just because it felt wrong and you listen to your feelings, (except the soft ones). But you knew then how you felt about him. More than Carly and Freddie together your feelings for him made you want to throw-up blood. When you told him he was simply exotic bacon it did not dawn on you or him at the time that Sam Puckett loves exotic bacon.

You are pretty amazing to me in so many ways. You are funny. I've never told you that. You are creative, some of the best iCarly bits have been yours. The other night we were watching that awful movie, I like bad movies for some reason, but watching them with you was, like, wow. You made watching them so fun. I tried my best to keep up with you, but dude, you are quick. It was like every dumb thing those characters did you had something to say. I knew I couldn't keep up, so I just kept feeding you facts about the actors and directors and you just ran with it.

You were amazed and irritated that he knew all those facts and behind the scenes stories. His collection of pointless information makes you want to gnaw your own arm off. But this is another contradiction—it also makes you smile. And he is funny too, you need to tell him that. He can't work without a script like you and Carly, but give him a costume and props and he does just fine. He makes you laugh. When he joked that Carly's last boyfriend was cheating with a third person named, "Topi" you could barely contain your laughter. That was something you'd say. When the cheater's so-beautiful-they-won't-be-alone-for-long victims gave Freddie the deathstare his comeback was hysterical: "Too soon?" Telepathic. Sometimes you see things when he isn't around and you laugh because you know his reaction or response to the situation: "Oh Freddie would look so funny in that hat, you say, and I know the face he would make." Yes, in your head you were playing dress-up with a Freddie doll.

You are also really strong. I'm not referring to that proportionate strength of a spider thing you have going on, but you have an inner muscle that I really envy. I admire you. You do things that I would never do, and because I've been with you I got the benefit of being around that strength. Jumping out of a plane (okay, you pushed me but I would have jumped on my own, eventually) staying in that roach motel, breaking into the photo studio, confronting the Dingo writers that were swiping our stuff, I would never do those things. You break the rules a lot and you get things done. I think I'm learning a lot from being around you.

He admires you? Honor roll Benson is learning from you? Okay, yeah, you have some things that people admire. Pete liked that you could break a bone. But that isn't Freddie's style. He could tell you how many pounds of pressure it takes to break a bone, but he'd never want to see it. You called yourself "Regina Goodbody" when you were disguised because you believe that. You have a good body, but Freddie has never noticed that aspect of you. He's too nice. Or he doesn't think it's true.

Surviving your mom. My mom is her own kind of handful, but when I met your mom, when I see what you have grown up with, I see how incredible you are. I want things to be better for you. I want to invent a time machine and go back and make your dad stay. I want to tell him how incredible you are and how he should stay so he can see you grow into this wild, exciting person who, I really think is going to make a difference in life, I know because she has made a huge difference in mine.

It is not mold in the air, you know that the pressing sensations behind your eyes are tears of emotion, but you can hold those back. Not crying has become easy for you. In the last four years you've cried maybe twice. As you read, you realize you have never asked Freddie about his father. He grew up without a father just like you, but you have never asked about him. What kind of friend are you?

That rap you did at Kenan Thomson's house was incredible. My point is, you keep reaching inside yourself and pulling out these moments. Sometimes I want to shout how amazing you are. I never knew I felt that way. I don't think I've ever felt that way about anyone.

Your blinking is intense, furious even and two tears creep down your cheeks. You tell yourself Pucketts do not cry. Your mother slapped that nonsense out of you.

On the Internet I found the video of the pageant you won. I should have been there that night. You can dance, Sam. I can't dance. I mean I can stand and do that slow shuffle thing, but nothing that takes any kind of rhythm and coordination. Would you be interested ever in dancing well with me? I'd do the work. I'd work hard to dance well with you.

You read it again: "I'd work hard to dance with you." Again: "I'd work hard to dance with you." Only one person, Ernie, your old teacher, has ever worked hard to dance with you, otherwise you have always danced alone. You cannot read it again because the tears are streaming down your face crushing every demand you put on your eyes to stop. You drag your hands over your face, mopping out the moisture. You smell bacon on your fingers. It has been a half an hour since your last feeding, but you must go back to the letter. It is more important than eating. You cannot remember feeling that way ever before.

We are a couple, I think. Yeah, I'm almost sure of it. And I have to tell you I NEVER thought those words would apply to you and me. Don't get me wrong, I like it, and that's part of why I'm writing. I like dating you, I like YOU, more than I ever thought I could when doing the show or being tricked, or slapped or pelted with objects. I'm still kinda cheesed about the electric shock pen that dropped me, but, anyway, I never thought of you and me like that, y'know, the good way?

You are nodding. Is that sound coming from you? That sniffling sound? You are in a couple with him, this nubby, irritating, incredibly sweet boy. How can that be? You don't do sweet!

I've never asked you when you started liking me. Something that scares me and I never want to tell you this, I wonder if this came on so suddenly maybe it will go away the same way. I really hope not, because I like this. I like it a lot.

So many thoughts here they collide like a rink of first time skaters. That night you saw Carly and Freddie dancing alone, and you felt the sudden, stabbing shock that maybe he does have a chance with your best friend, and which one is your best friend and why would you care what they do together? But you did care and that was not something you were prepared to deal with. It did not start there, but you started paying attention to it that night.

Whatever it is the two of you have been previously, wherever it is going, you like it a lot too, more than you ever wanted to admit. As your soft feelings, the ones you resist, started becoming visible to you, you pushed back, escalating your attacks on Freddie, more slaps, more harsh comments, thinking it was a phase, something that would pass like a cold, or heal like a cut. But there was something wrong with your system because it did not go away. It grew and changed until you had to address it.

I want to cook for you sometime. I have a lot of recipes that I found on the Net. I'm not too bad. My mom works some pretty crazy shifts at the hospital so I had to learn to fix stuff for me and then her. I can rock spaghetti crust pie, and my hamburger casserole came in second place in a contest mom entered it in. I use sweet Vidalia onions and ricotta cheese which I added on my own. I was very proud of that. That night on our first date you made a sound with the food. I was jealous that something could produce that. I wanted to do that. Yep, I was jealous of a plate of pasta. Maybe I need to go to Troubled Waters.

He can cook! That little creep has been holding out on mama! This is, this is, this is…incredibly seductive. Your brain goes on some primal automatic, with astonishing speed your thoughts are in places you have never gone before. The thought of him in a kitchen stirring sauce, sweating over steaming pots on the stove, setting a table, is he offering you a taste on a spoon? He's leaning over you his face close to yours and you smell the seasoning he has used, cloves, cinnamon and chocolate dust in the air. There is sauce on his fingers, should you lick them? Yes, red marinara, yeeees, food and Freddie, Freddie and food moving together, finding a steady rhythm…

You throw your head back and shatter the sequence that was building in you. You squeeze the armrests of the chair. You inhale slowly and let it out. You don't want to even think what that was about.

This letter is from beyond. How could you ever write a response to this? Like much of your homework you'd have to get Freddie's help.

All my life I've been pretty sure what I was going to do. I'm a nerd and I'm going to college to do some nerd thing. You have shaken all that up. Sometimes I look at you laughing with Carly, drinking an Uber Blueberry Blast (how do you do that? Why don't you weigh 300 pounds?

You burst out laughing! Freddie, you charming idiot, is that how you talk to a girl? Asking her why she isn't fat? He is like you so often, saying the wrong thing and not getting why it is wrong. He has no idea how often you dance to those old VHS exercise tapes of your mom's. That you sweat and burn off all those calories to tunes from the 80's.

But I will keep buying them for you, because they seem to make you happy, and you being happy has become super important to me) anyway, I see you sleeping on the couch or watching TV and I see my life as this whole other thing with limitless possibilities. When I'm with you I think, _If I can be with this wild, gorgeous lady, there isn't anything I can't do._ You are a lady Sam. I'll take a butter sock to anyone who says otherwise. I know you don't need me to protect you, but I would do that.

These words, his stupid WORDS are making you tremble, causing a reaction inside you that you cannot stop, that you don't really want to stop. It's like every wall you have ever built is being shaken apart. Your thoughts are smashing into each other with incredible speed and violence. You cannot focus on just one. You have always protected yourself because no one else would. Not your parents not the system, not teachers nor cops, not court appointed lawyers, and you got used to it, Sam Puckett versus everybody, but some nights when you could not sleep you wondered why no one ever stepped-up-why were you so alone?

You turn away from the screen, this feeling in your stomach, what is it? You make yourself look back at the screen. This is the worst fight you have ever been in. No opponent has ever tested you like Freddie Benson is right now with his stupid, nubbish, beautiful letter.

I'm pretty confused these days and I like that. I mean, I have to plan stuff and lay out what I'm going to do. It's like putting the show together, or designing computer code. It has to be structured. You aren't like that. I can't put you in an If, Then, Else, statement because you do things that I don't always see as even possible.

Thank heaven he went geek on you. You could not have taken another sweet and lovely paragraph. You should have paid more attention in Programming 100. It has something to do with Freddie needing to think and plan.

I'm really surprised to be sitting across from you some nights or side by side watching TV. Like I said, I look at you a lot. The other night you fell asleep on me when we were watching the download of the new _McGroin_ movie. I can't believe you had me download copyrighted material. That's a crime, but it was fun. And I made you smile. I broke the law and made you smile. I'd do it again for sure.

He did something that wasn't right—for you. Not to keep Carly in town, or protect the iCarly show, but for you—Sam Puckett. The room is spinning again. You have to sit down but you are sitting down. Are you melting in the chair? He tricked you, he feigned with his geek and then slipped inside with a devastating uppercut of charming. How long can you fight this? Why are you fighting this?

I don't know what happened in _McGroin_ because I sat there and I watched you sleep. You took these tiny breathes and I noticed your skin. I looked at the pores and I touched your cheek, so smooth. You have beautiful skin, Sam. I know, guys who talk that way usually offer candy then open their raincoats, but hey, break the Freddie arm of your choice. Then get this, I whispered your name, "Samantha" and you smiled. That smile of yours is becoming something I, wow. I'm getting carried away here. Anyway I watched you breathe, Sam, I don't know how long we did that, but, I felt so much that night: Warm, strong, safe, confident, fragile, part of something.

You had no idea he had this kind of firepower. Years of defenses have been wiped out in seconds. He gained superior leverage with "You have beautiful skin, Sam," and you knew you had been out maneuvered when he pinned you with "I whispered your name, Samantha," the final, crushing squeeze came with "I watched you breathe, Sam," your legendary strength evaporated, the pressure so intense that you could only tap out.

Freddie beat mama with his letter. His stooopid letter. You give yourself over to an army of feelings that you have buried for too long. Your face is a floodplain of tears, and you don't care. You want to hear him say, "Samantha" and you cannot believe that. You despise that name. You are Sam. And you have fallen asleep on him before, and you want to do it again, Right. Now. Why didn't he finish writing about your smile?

You want more, you want to devour this message like a prime cut. What does the next paragraph say?

What's your ship?

Air horn sound, mixed with guitar feedback. What? That fool Freddie! You want to read about your smile! You want sentences about you being a lady and being protected! What is Benson doing? You are filled with admiration over how he brought you here. Did you always know he could do this? That you needed this? That voice you cannot hear says, "yes."

Remember when Carly made us watch TwiBlood? She said she was looking for ideas, for the show, but she sure did shush us a lot. And thanks for coming up with the idea of me as the vampire. Man, the women really dig it when I do that guy. But I've pretty much stopped, so no worries. Although if you see Janice Bruckner she's kinda stalking me about it.

You make a mental note to tear off Big Boobs Bruckner's right arm and beat her to death with the wet end. It had been brutally hard to watch as girls gathered around Freddie. He's still a dumb enough boy to think it was the vampire bit, but you have watched the jackals hunt before, their "attraction" to the vampire was just an ice breaker, an excuse to get close and talk to him. One of the reasons you kissed him that second time was because someone was going to before long. Before you ever heard Carly say, "Make a move," you knew you had to. You revise the mental note to put Janice Bruckner into a wood chipper.

Anyway, I can't see how any woman could resist the wolf dude. When he and what's-her-name were building the bikes they had something, like when you and I work on a show. Sam, if wolf-guy showed up shirtless in the rain and you said to me, "I have to go with him" I'd hold the door for you. I get it. I don't get what women see in vampire guy, what did you call him? "Fish belly white"? Did you pick me as him because you were attracted to me then? How did you know I could do it? Are you attracted to him? Would I really let you go with shirtless wolf guy? No. No way.

You would never go with wolf guy. Nor the vampire guy. You would never say this aloud, but with your defenses in rubble and though it still stings to think it, you are on Team Freddie. You have a connection with him that defies explanation and the other night you got a glimpse of his abs. It terrified you when you first realized Freddie had gone from stubby and baby picture cute to hot. No, it is beyond hot, lots of guys are hot, Cort was hot and you didn't have these feelings. You sort of like admitting these sensations. For just a few minutes you don't rebuild the walls.

Man, I DO think too much.

You cannot explain what you are experiencing but you want to put this time in a jar and keep it safe forever. Something is happening here that is precious. You feel that more than think it.

Butter. I sound like a girl. I mean, I'm a guy, and we are supposed to be a certain way. And I am that way, but I have these other thoughts and feelings that don't seem guy-like and I'm pretty sure you don't want to hear that stuff from me. But I want to say them. If I don't tell you, how will you know? I mean, friends tell each other things, and we are friends, I'm pretty sure of that now, I wasn't always. But you don't want to know, you like me a certain way, but what if I'm not the way you think I am? You and I played a game for a long time and I learned the rules, but this new game, I'm loving it, but I don't understand it.

You can't really follow the above paragraph. The tears alone make it hard, but sometimes Freddie just goes off in the weeds of his nub jungle. You are grateful for a few seconds rest before the next paragraph and whatever rush on your heart it will bring.

To be clear, I'm not a coward, Sam. No man could be with you and be a coward. I just can't tell you when I'm afraid. I know you don't respect fear. And honestly nothing much scares me these days except you. Not the old way, when we were kids and you'd beat me up, I learned how to take a pounding and get back up. Thanks hon (that feels weird to say). I'm dating someone who used to beat me up. So glad it's you and not what's-his-name who made quarterback. What scares me is what if we aren't going where I think this could go. And going there scares me too.

You are laughing again. He makes you laugh a lot, but mostly he makes you smile. You smile when you think of him even doing the nubbiest things. Hon? That sounded right to you, perfect somehow. And you are smiling again. Why exactly is he scared? Can't he see how good this is, how right? Did Sam Puckett just think that?

Okay, so, here's the first thing on my mind: Panties. I know you don't like the word, but, man, how do I type this? I've been thinking about panties. I mean, your…panties.

WTF!

I swear I don't mean this in a dirty way, my heart is beating so fast right now. I'm thinking thoughts that I never, that well, sure I think those thoughts, I'm a guy, but I never thought them about you. I mean, you are pretty, shoosh, you are way past pretty. That night at the lock-in when I was looking you in the eye it was like I turned a corner and suddenly you were there looking the same, but totally different too. I don't get it. It's why some people write poetry I guess. Anyway I'm getting away from your panties, uhm, well, I don't mean it that way, but I never thought these kinds of thoughts about you before, I probably should have, I feel like maybe I wasted some time.

Why that little horn dog! Except for the Nacho Business night and that time you caught him checking on Tori Vega's web site, you'd have thought he was trying for some kind of "Just say no" award or that he was stuck in some G-rated kids' show.

But you keep going back to, "Way past pretty," you read it again, "Way past pretty." What is on your face is way past a smile; it throws off its own light.

So, panties, the other day in the studio you bent over to pick up some cables and I looked down at your back, and, I, uhm, I don't think you were wearing, I could see…

You are smiling, and laughing, shaking with amusement. You do not have words for what you feel for him right now. Surprise and joy are in the neighborhood but they do not capture the depth or range of what you feel at this revelation.

Yes I was looking at your, well you have a great, not big or anything, but fantastic… It's not wrong to look at that part of you. I think I can do that now can't I? I mean you are more than just a perfect…

Yes! He HAS been checking out your booty, and you never noticed. How is that possible? He has just moved up in your sneaky scale. You keep a rating system on who is sneaky and until now Freddie was barely on it. Turns out the best sneaky people never make the scale.

Panties. You don't wear panties-at least not that day. That is your business, not mine, but, like I said before, I love to watch you walk, Sam, and lately I keep thinking about you walking around in panties.

You are blushing and…more. You feel excited, aroused. Freddie, probably the greatest guy you know has been thinking of you in your panties. You remember the idea of him cooking for you and a moan slips out of your mouth. You feel a tremor start and you know you need to move on.

There! I think that makes me a pervy, scurvy, dude but I needed you to know what kind of guy you are falling asleep by. It wouldn't be right for you not to know.

Should you tell him about the pictures you took of him in the gym doing those curls? How you've been trying to figure out a way to get better pictures of him shirtless? Nah, that's mama's private reserve. Let him think he's the only perv in the relationship. You will use it to your advantage very soon. Oh yes.

You thought you knew the nub backwards and forwards, and today after how many years? He surprises you. He always surprises you, challenges you. Something strong, not your slamming heart, pulses in your chest.

I'm sending this after the Dairy Cramps concert on Saturday—I bought the tickets already.

And you are laughing again. So logical, so practical, so very Freddie.

So, one down. If you are still reading,

If you are still reading? You could not leave now if Spencer walked in and the room was on fire again.

here's the next thing, and it's really important. I've been thinking about where this "we" thing is going. What if we do something and we can't go back? I mean that.

You are drying your eyes. You are paying attention. If it matters to him it matters to you. You feel that more than think it.

Do you remember Sherry Collins and Mike Sultan? The couple that found each other in 7th grade and were great together, inseparable, until two months ago when she got pregnant? Okay, they got pregnant, he was there too. I was in a room with them last week and they were awful together. Mean, angry, cruel. I can't get it out of my head. I don't want that to be us.

That could never be us you think. But years of growing up as Sam Puckett do not change with one sweet, perfect, supernatural letter, you know that, yes, of course it could be the two of you. Freddie, with his nerd brain often comes down a different path to the same conclusions you do. What was it he said earlier about how alike you two are?

Not the pregnancy thing. I don't want that either, not right now, well, you know what I'm saying. I'm talking about the mean thing. Our mean can't be real Sam. Not now. We have been friends for a long time. Because I thought you hated me I wasn't worried that our friendship was in any kind of jeopardy (I never want to explain that last sentence to anyone, ever). But now that we are a couple, we are different. I don't want to go back, but going forward looks like that rope in the gym that coach makes us climb during PE finals. I can climb the rope, but when I look down, that fall looks so hard.

You are nodding again. You remember how your parents fought before your father, a man whose name you will not say, went out for a ride and never came back. They had to have felt something for each other once. Where did those feelings go?

The other night when we got back from eating at Nacho Business we tried to watch the end of _McGroin_ and I don't remember what happened on the screen, but I will never forget what you and I were doing, what I saw, what I felt. I've never been drunk in my life but I think that must be what it feels like because I was not who I think I am.

You can't forget it either. You were not someone you recognized, but you liked how you felt, how he made you feel. You weren't offended-you were fully turned-on. You, the strong one, didn't want to stop weren't sure you could stop. The geek stopped, and you now believe him completely that he wanted it to be right, better than on that old sofa.

I would never hurt you Sam, but that guy I was that night. I'm not sure how I feel about him. I mean you weren't complaining, you seemed excited, kinda drunk too. But you have become something else to me in a really short time. I don't know what is bigger than best friend, but you are there, and I don't know what to do.

Here's my big problem: What if you don't feel the same way?

The tears are plunging down your cheeks once more, you've lost count of how many times now. You want to run to Ridgeway, pull him out of his chair in honors English and hug him and kiss him in front of everyone. Yes, you feel the same way, how could you not?

If finding out I'm a skeevy guy, like every guy I've ever been in a locker room with (and thanks for getting me out of that locker that one time—Uhm, why were you in the guy's locker room?), anyway, if the fact that I'm a perv, and kind of scared, if you read this and think, _this chizstick is not worth mama's time_ I understand.

Once more too many thoughts are in a scramble for the finish line. Freddie Benson, the least skeeviest guy on the planet is worried that you won't like him because you have found out who he is. Does that sound like anyone you know? Could you ever go back to even joking about hating him? You were in the locker room because you have always watched out for him and when you heard the sniggering excitement about the plan to put the boy you love (although you did not think of it like that) in a locker you marched into the boy's locker room too late to stop it, but not too late to undo it.

Thanks again for having the courage to kiss me that night. Kissing you has made some big differences in my life.

This letter isn't perfect. I would change lots of things about it if I were smarter or had an editor or something. In fact I'd change lots of things: the last three chapters of Galaxy Wars; Objective C so it didn't lock me into the Pear OS; I'd change Briggs into a nicer teacher. The only thing I wouldn't change is you, Sam. I honestly can't think of a thing that isn't right.

Bet your sitting there doing that Hip Hop voice you do where you say, "He's so stooopid."

No, no telepathy here. He's not stupid, or anything bad at all. Reading his words you feel special, worthy, even precious. If you were going to write a letter it would say that. But you can't write back to this. It would be like writing back to the Gettysburg Address with "ditto."

Thinking (too much) about you, Freddie.

web address: icarlyDOTcom

"These aren't the 'noids you're looking for"—Nug Nug.

You are Samantha "Sam" Puckett, and you are weeping, crying so hard you cannot see the room anymore; you are trembling in your seat. Simple words caused this reaction and you still cannot believe what you read. You rage against anything being able to cause this behavior in you. You wipe your eyes but the tears keep coming back. How much water do you have in you? You do not understand the things you are feeling. They thrill and frighten you all at once.

There is an incredible conflict inside you. Anger, sadness, and an almost stratospheric joy are savagely playing king of the hill in your chest. How is it possible to feel such things that seem to contradict each other? You do not understand it, but the reality of it presses down on you like some crushing, comfortable boulder, destroying you and impossibly sustaining you up all at once.

You rock back in the chair and try to compose yourself. It has been an hour since your last feeding. You go down to the Shay kitchen and heat up the spaghetti tacos that Spencer won't get for lunch.

After you eat, you feel better, calmer, back in control. You go back up upstairs and you reread the letter. You lose count of how many times. You have never read anything more than three times in your entire life. As you return to the letter the torrent of tears slows then mostly stops, but certain lines continue to make you scrunch your nose and your eyes mist. "Way past pretty," "I'd work hard to dance well with you," "You are a lady Sam," "I would never hurt you Sam," "I love to watch you walk," even the word "panties" creates a new reaction for you.

You don't reflect with the same intensity as the boy (man? Soon, very soon) you are wicked smart as he said but you feel important capital T True things more clearly than you think them. Several things are very clear in the fierce swirl of sensations in your head.

Item: spaghetti tacos need to be reheated systematically. Lumping them all in the microwave on high for five minutes produces a poor product that is part cold, part soggy, and part gluey. You could barely finish the heaping three of them.

Item: Sam Puckett's reality is a hard place where only hard people survive. Cold cement floors bruise the skin when you fall; rusty, jagged edges jut out everywhere. Those edges snag, tear and even kill everyone who is not suspicious and wary. In Puckett's world the cutting pieces always win. It is a grey place where sunlight only illuminates the sooty air. On the other side is Freddie's world filled with tasty dreams and adults that still play make believe. It is a golden place with a soft chocolate center freshly warm from the oven. To you it does something yours cannot, it offers possibility. Yet Freddie who lives there said that being with you made him feel anything was possible. Maybe that is what the best relationships do. They offer doorways to places we cannot go alone.

Item: you are going to find "No Bra" Bruckner and blacken both her eyes with the nearest perky objects. Freddie Benson belongs to you man and boy and the two of you will cling to each other for as long as it is allowed. Mama plays to win.

Finally, very soon you are going to be with Freddie and you will make very sure he knows how you feel. You will leave no doubt. Well maybe a little, he's so cute when he's nervous.

Never the End.

A/N Well, I can't imagine it was what some of you wanted, but this is the conclusion that the story took me to. Thanks for flying with WhiteKnighto air. Take a moment to let me know what worked and if such a thing is possible, what didn't work.

This started for me as an exercise/experiment in revision. One of my frequent refrains to other writers on this site is "cut" "burn the fat," suggesting the leaner piece is the better piece. This final chapter is pushing 10,000 words so I may have to add hypocrite to my list of accomplishments, if I had a list of accomplishments.

I'm getting iWTF ready for iLMM on August 13th. I don't know where Schneider and Co. are taking this plotline. In fairness, he has considerations that I am ignorant of and that don't weigh on me. If an "iBreakup" episode occurs and the writers move the show in some new non-Seddie direction I'm pretty sure we will all live and find a place in the sun. We'll always have FanFiction kids, and Seddie stories for every taste are only a click away. Angst, fluff, vampires, laughs and lemons it's like one of those Jelly Bean displays with all the flavors. Watermelon iCarly? We got that. Is someone eagerly awaiting a crossover with Wizards of Waverly Place wherein the iCarly gang gets changed into monkeys in the zoo ("iFling Poo")? If it can happen anywhere, it is here.

As you know, the insidious Dr. Wu is still out there and his Kung Fu treachery lives on. I am sworn to fight it wherever I find it, and an old nest has resurfaced that needs my attention. I must slip into the cracks between worlds, that space where open and closed meet in order to defend all of you. I do it knowing that you would all do the same. Well, most of you.

Stay Golden, WK