Well, I'm back after four months of inactivity, bringing some good old fashion Seddie with me. I apologize for the lack of updates—real life, blah blah blah, no inspiration, blah blah blah, work is crazy, blah blah blah.

For now, here's a little one-shot I wrote. iCarly's getting crazy good lately.

That Damn Canary Wallpaper

Her hands brace against the table as she leans back, arms specked with darkened bruises and thin cuts, with one eye slightly swollen than the other, a growing shade of red wrapping around the skin. The rest of her body lie victim to more deeper cuts and heavier bruises, the most prominent being on her sides and stomach, visibly like a silhouette, as if begging for attention under her skinny white tank top. Despite her damaged form, she's still the most beautiful girl he has ever seen—more than Valarie, more than Tori, even the incomparable Carly Shay.

"I hate your place," she murmurs.

He only shakes his head in disbelief, struggling to process such a random comment.

The room is indeed small and cramped, unusually so, just as she brazenly inferred. The kitchen is old, not a vintage nostalgic look, but the horrible mess that is 1970s decorum, with all the pseudo-argyle linoleum flooring and clashing canary wallpaper to go with it. As she pans the rest of the apartment, her distaste grew, and she smacks her lips in repulse like it actually touched her tongue. The adjacent living room fares no better. The decorations are standard and boring: circle tables, 'L' shaped couches, and perfectly leveled pictures of unknown relatives hanging on the walls.

It's the walls, smacked in the worst shade of yellow imaginable. They bother her the most, they make the room intolerable. They're out of place, partitioning the apartment in the strangest ways, almost like the architect meant to design it like a maze, or a jail cell for that matter. It isn't like the open feel of the apartment across the hall, or the main hallway of her school.

"I'm glad we never hang out here. That yellow wallpapers giving me a headache."

"Canary," he corrects.

"What?"

"The color—it's not yellow. It's canary."

"Same difference."

"And my mother's wallpaper isn't the reason why you have a headache, Sam."

He sets the bowl of hot water he carried from the kitchen onto the table, and sinks a small towel halfway in. Wringing it out, and making sure it doesn't drip on the floor, he presses it gently against her black eye. Or what he thinks is gentle.

"Ow," she retreats instinctively. "That hurts."

Smiling, he tries again, this time dabbing the tender skin around it.

"Don't be a child," he commands in a level tone, as his fingers, warm from the cloth they grasp, feels the unusually sensitive skin under them. "It's pretty bad."

"Maybe it wouldn't hurt so much if you weren't using the worn out dish rags."

"I'm not using the good towels, Sam."

"What, I'm not good enough for the good towels?"

"Hold still." He guides her closer, and his touch is so tantalizing she has no choice but to obey and shut her eyes as he softly blows on the throbbing area just above her cheek. A shiver runs from where his fingers touch and singes her entire body, making every fiber in her body worn from exertion just to keep relaxed and still. Opening her eyes, she gazes right into his brown ones, and kisses him, as if no amount of self-control can stop her from doing so.

He smirks, running his thumb over her lower lip. "You gonna tell me what happened now?"

"What's the big chizz? We were walking home and some morons tried to take our bags. It wasn't a big deal."

"Obviously," he says sarcastically, dabbing her forehead.

"We were gonna run but they surrounded us. So I took 'em out. Easy Peezy."

A skeptical frown. "That it?"

"Pretty much."

"Then why do you have seven bruises on your body, a black eye, and by the way you're holding your left side, a broken rib or two? You did it totally wrong, Sam."

She coughs slightly, nursing her side. "How should I have done it then?"

"You should've done anything. You should've fought those guys."

"Why not?"

"Because it's dangerous, that's why," he blurts out in a parental infected tone; disliking the way it rolls off his tongue the instant he says it. "You could've gotten hurt."

"Please. I've taken down bigger. Tougher too."

He's about to counter but after mulling it over, realized she's right, and despite his small scoff, loves the way she always seems to be.

"Well—If it'll make you feel better, I'll be sure to check my 'What to Do If You Get Jumped' app next time."

"You better."

"Do they even have that?"

"If they don't I'll make it."

"And I'll get the lite version."

"Sam."

"Kidding," she teases, giving him a soft peck on the lips.

This time he doesn't buy it. Her smile. Her quiet laugh. Her small kiss that didn't last. He can see something behind her eyes, those glossy blue orbs just inches from his, and when he peers deeper he realizes her smile is actually a frown, her laugh is actually a whimper and her kiss isn't a simple gesture of affection more than it is laced with complete dread. As if registering her own transparency at the exact same time she turns her head and tries scooting away.

His hand lifts from the table to touch her wrist. "Something's wrong."

She doesn't say a word, but instead tries to hide her ever revealing eyes with her bangs.

Courageously, he brushes them away. "What is it, Sam?"

"It's nothing."

"Nothing?" he repeats. "No, that's not gonna fly. I know you, Sam. I know you."

"Drop it."

"You're scared." It's a statement. It's not a question or an exclamation, but a plain, simple sentence. Even though they're inches apart, somewhere deeply engrained in the earth of her skin produces a familiar defensive mechanism, where all the romantic stuff vanishes, and even the small bridge of air separating them can be classified as long distance.

"You're scared!" she shoots back, wincing. "Don't be a wuss, Freddie! It was a small fight, nothing more! I'm the same person I've always been and I can take care of myself! Got it?"

He's about to reply, forcibly, without a second thought, like the thousands of other arguments they've had, but something stops him. Maybe because his mother is sleeping in her room just down the hall, or the fact Carly pleaded with them to limit the number of referee calls they ask of her, or maybe because Sam's hardly in the right frame of mind to go toe to toe with him now. But maybe, just maybe, he's finally matured enough not to get sucked into a juvenile tiff with Sam Puckett. After all this time, he doesn't feel the need to defend himself against her anymore.

She keels over, holding her aching side with both hands, and despite her attempts to knock his hands away, finally submits long enough for him to hold her together, like a cracked vase, hoping she won't crumble right in his hands. He looks into her eyes, red on the brink of tears, held back with every ounce of strength left in her body.

"You're right," he begins. "I am scared, Sam. I'm scared that one day, something like this will happen again. And you and Carly won't be so lucky next time. And suddenly, just like that, I won't have you in my life anymore."

"I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."

"Sam. If this is gonna work you can't be this selfish."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your decisions affect me too, Sam. They always have. But now, it's different. There's more at sake, I guess."

"How so?"

"I don't know. This is still pretty new for me too."

'New' barely describes it—a generic title for blind dates, one night stands and newly weds. They haven't entered into a new stage in their relationship, more than they've discovered something that's been there the entire time, hiding just below the often turbulent surface, rising from the mires of subtlety and denial. Somewhere between the vast gap of closeness and discomfort lies the two of them, in a status still being sketched and defined. He knows her, better than anyone alive, but somehow taking this one step together has erased every sense of familiarity he has, and is suddenly relegated to square one.

"If you want to talk about new, you should talk about changing that damn wallpaper."

"What's wrong with it?" He sincerely wants to know, and as he follows her line of sight, finds no objection to the vertically striped canary on white eggshell wallpaper behind him.

"It's hideous."

"Oh, and your house is Buckingham Palace?"

"I know my place is a dump but yours doesn't need to be."

"OK, Miss. Puckett, what would you change then?"

"Everything," she grunts. "The chairs. The walls. The apartment. It all has to go!"

"Sam." He places a hand on her thigh in attempt to soothe her, but it yields no results and she retreats further away, holding her head like his sincerity is physically pounding her skull. But a persistent Freddie Benson refuses defeat, and leans in closer, settling his forehead against hers.

"There's only one way this'll work, you know."

She opens her eyes after tightly shutting them. "What's that?"

"Honesty."

She scoffs, because to her, honesty sounds wimpy and pathetic, along with words like 'cute' and 'pretty.' Not the devastatingly blunt type of honesty, wring free of tact, for Sam is well versed in the art of insults and verbal abuse as a whole. This is far more real. The type of honesty that leaves her open, vulnerable, and subject to—God forbid—actual intimacy with another human being.

He yields, for now, because he knows pushing Sam Puckett too far will result in disastrous consequences. So, without another word, and smiling the entire time, he reaches for the first aid box on the chair next to the table. He uncaps the hydrogen peroxide, and after bunching a few cotton balls between his fingers, covers the lip of the bottle with the cotton and swishes it back and forth. He pauses, noticing Sam eying the soaked cotton in his hand.

"This might hurt."

He continues without an objection and settles his fingers against the thin cut on her shoulder. The cotton squishes against her skin and a line of clear liquid runs down her arm. She flinches, even though she tries not to, as the medicine burns, forcing white foam bubbling from the wound. Biting her lip, holding back a whimper, and trembling from the pain, she refuses her relinquish her tension, until the pain suddenly vanishes, and after opening two very blood shot eyes, finds the gash in her shoulder replaced by a dry, clean band-aid. He even bought the ones with the 'fat cake' design on them.

He discards the used cotton in a nearby waste basket and starts again, soaking a fresh set in hydrogen peroxide and lightly blotting her skin on the appropriate places. Surprisingly, the pain subsides with time, and before she knows it, all the small cuts are gone, covered by Freddie's meticulously placed band aids.

But any sense of relief is erased as Freddie now stands before her, a plastic squeeze tube with a white, jelly-like content gripped in one hand. The same white content has already been poured on the palm of his other hand, and all that occupies her mind is to get as far away from it as the size of Freddie's puny kitchen will permit.

"You're not putting that white crap on me."

"It's not white crap," he rolls his eyes. "It's a topical rubefacient heat rub. It'll make you feel better."

"Don't make me punch you. I'm not above it, you know."

"Can you please just—?"

"But it looks disgusting," she interrupts, eyes darting to the creamy contents in his right hand.

"What difference does it make to what it looks like? As long as it heals you." He brings his hands together, rubbing the sticky ointment over them. "Smells like Eucalyptus. Come on, Sam. Please?"

Surrendering a sigh, and damning his cute puppy dog look, she grumbles 'fine,' much to Freddie's pleasure. He gestures her closer until both inner thighs touch against his sides. She lifts her shirt halfway up, revealing her ever curvy midsection, and he gently settles his hands on the bruises mining her skin, rubbing the cream over her abdomen and sides. She jumps to the heat of his touch. The warmth continues to spread wherever his hands come to rest, engulfing her entire midsection until the tingling lessens to a frosty chill. The heat travels from her lower to upper back, marked by his hands gently massaging her skin under her shirt, softening the muscles and relaxing the joints.

She lets out a small whimper, collapsing her forehead in the curve of his neck, and his hands—saturated with the same sensation coursing through her body—hold her against his own.

"All done," he whispers.

The medicine seems to have done the trick. The minty eucalyptus aroma permeates the whole room, eradicating the stale air of the apartment, and opening both their senses in the process. Closing her eyes, hearing his breathing sync with hers, feeling the pain literally lift from her body, and taking in his scent preferable to anything on the entire planet—including glazed ham—she finally relaxes in his arms like a good girlfriend is suppose to, and doesn't mind for a second bending to such a stereotype.

"You're right," she says, turning her head so she can talk.

"'Bout what?"

"I am scared. Scared of dying. Scared of juvie. Scared of not graduating, and losing you and Carly to college. I'm scared of a lot of things. But most of all—I'm scared of this."

"I know."

"I want this to work so bad."

"I know, Sam. I know." And just in case his words aren't reassuring enough, he kisses her on the forehead, quelling any doubts of support.

It's past midnight. The day has come and gone, wounds are bandaged, mended and potential arguments set aside. The headway they've made is more than enough for him. For her, there's still a hundred different topics on her mind and a hundred different questions left to ask. Like it wouldn't be a good idea if she spent the night, especially if his mother finds her sleeping in his bed, and if he has time to help her on the history project she's been procrastinating on all week, and how they plan on filling that last five minutes of the next iCarly.

They have a few emergency bits to fall back on, he tells her. Tomorrow he'll download a few ebooks on the Civil War too. And he'll just have to wake up early before his mom goes to work and bring her to the Shays.

As he tip toes down the hallway, she not-so-conveniently reminds him again how cramped his place is, how that damned canary wallpaper is an assault on her retinas, and how she thanks God they hang out at Carly's more than they do there. To this, he chuckles meagerly, because emotional barriers are harder to break down than demolishing his apartment, and they just did it. One day, Sam Puckett will talk about what's actually bothering her—without reservation—and let him inside the tiny space inside her soul she never shows. It will happen soon, and if any questions of 'when' enter his head, all he does is fondly remind himself of the beautiful blond, calmly asleep in his arms.

Who knows—and frankly, who the hell cares?

I really wanted to get this done by the weekend. The first set of episodes this season have been hilarious, epic and above all: unprecedented. Sam and Freddie are a full fledged couple now. I honestly thought this wouldn't happen until the very end of the serious.

As indicated by Mr. Schneider, a total of four episodes will round out the Seddie arc, resolving the events spurned by iOMG. Very little is known about the rest of the season, a few episode titles and rumors here and there, but the most pertinent question will be addressed: Will Sam and Freddie stay together beyond the arc? It's a heated topic on the forums and wikis, and the answer will hopefully be answered Saturday.

For me, I can entertain the idea of Sam and Freddie breaking up. I know they will end up together when it's all said and done. Purely from a 'story tellers' point of view though, reconciliation stories are always more meaningful than typical love stories. One thing is for certain, if they do break up it won't be because they don't love each other. Maybe Mrs. Benson will finally accomplish what she set out to do in 'iCan't Take it,' or the fans will make it impossible for them to continue the web show. It can be a myriad of reasons, but it won't be because they don't love each other. Sam loves Freddie, and I'm sure Freddie will verbally reciprocate those feelings soon.

See ya on the other side.