Title: Come On, Be Good
Summary: Carly infiltrates Sam's world
Disclaimer: I don't own anything
Enough with the trouble making// is that what you're saying?
But the words stuck in your throat// Come on, be good
You've always been a good girl.
Spencer says, even from your unnaturally easy birth, you were nothing but good.
Smiles and giggles.
And you like being a good girl, you like getting good grades and your dad not having to worry about you while he's away. You like not being arrested or having to wear any sort of electronic monitoring devices.
But sometimes you want to be not good.
Sometimes you want to ditch class and talk back and get detention and maybe even vandalize a thing or two. Not real trouble because you're fairly certain you wouldn't survive prison, just something to break you out of your self-perpetuated stereotype, but you can't.
You don't want to see Spencer disappointed or for your father to call and say your name with his serious voice and you definitely don't want your granddad to make an unexpected visit, so instead you go with your nature to be a good, gold star kid.
That doesn't mean you can't sometimes live vicariously through your rebellious, violent, law-breaking best friend.
It doesn't mean you have to force Sam to bed when she sneaks into your bedroom in the middle of the night with wet paint on her hands and a story to tell when all you want to do is listen to her talk.
It doesn't mean you have to scold her every time she comes hurtling into the loft, breathless and flushed, while she shoves her backpack under the couch and tells you that if the cops ask she's been here from 12 to 4pm.
She's like your release.
You like it more than you should when Sam misses most of her classes for the day but shows up in the school parking lot, leaning against your car with scraped knuckles, a black eye, and no explanation.
You like it when Sam convinces you to sneak out in the middle of the night and talks you into letting her drive your car while you put your feet on the dash and let the city air flood over you.
It turns out you just love being around her because you and Sam are like yin and yang, two sides of the same coin.
It's a kinda cold on the roof and you figure it's because you're soaring so far into the sky that you can actually make out the stars in the sky without the city lights burning them away. You tuck your arms between your knees, pressing back against the wall that lines the edge of the roof and protects you from the wind while Sam sits warm and solid beside you.
"Where'd you get that?" you ask, genuinely curious as you watch Sam fumble the small, white, tightly rolled marijuana cigarette between her fingers in a way that's almost uncharacteristically graceless.
"Rodney," she says with a shrug and a smile like she's not feeling at all guilty about the illegal substance in her hand and knowing Sam, she's probably not. "He's expanded his business."
"Sam, you really shouldn't smoke," you say, mostly out of principle, because someone has to say it. Because this is something else you kind of like even though Spencer would kill you if he found you guys out here with drugs and when you have an essay that's due tomorrow to finish, but instead you're watching Sam spark a lighter to life with unpracticed hands and not caring.
You kind of like the way Sam presses the joint to her lips and her fingers shake just a bit because she rarely ever does it and its sort of a rush just watching her, and you can only imagine what its like to actually be the one smoking out. You like the way the end burns bright orange for a long moment while she breathes in.
"Why're you doing it anyway?" Because Sam's not really one for recreational anything, let alone recreational drug use. Even hurling Fatcakes at joggers serves some sort of purpose, at least to her, and when Sam gets high, there's a reason. "What's wrong?"
There's silence while Sam exhales and you watch the thin wisps of smoke swirl upwards towards the sky, breathing in because you like the smell.
Not the smell that's sometimes wafting out of the girl's third floor bathroom at school between fifth and sixth period, all acrid and gross, but the way the smoke smells a little sweet when it's coming from Sam's mouth.
"I talked to my dad today." It's all she says and it's all she has to say because you know that Sam's relationship with her father is tense and strained and you hypothesize that its because she and her father are so the same. They're both stubborn and bullheaded and driven in the best and worst ways, but you don't tell Sam that.
She hates her dad.
You watch the tangle of smoke leave Sam's mouth again, drifting to the sky before it disappears and you loose track of time a little, your focus waning between the smoldering tip of the joint, delicate smoke and Sam's pink lips.
"How do you feel?" you ask after a while, and Sam looks at you with heavy eyes, mouth forming into a slow grin, and you'll always deny this but you sort of like it when Sam's high.
And you're not too keen on the fact that Sam's does drugs on the rare occasion but you do like the way everything about her slows. That the buzzing, frantic, barely-contained energy that seems to emanate from Sam sort of decelerates into something you really, really love.
"I feel…fluffy." She giggles, and so do you, pressing your head back against the rough wall.
"Yeah, like I'm full of cotton or marshmallows or something," she says, sobering a little like her words are something prolific and that makes you laugh a little more. "Like I could just fly away if I wanted to."
You take her hand then, the one not holding the cigarette to her mouth with just her thumb and index finger, and press your fingers into the space between hers, palm to palm, and its not like your afraid she'll actually take off but you squeeze her hand just in case.
"I won't, though," she says, squinting up at you, like she's trying to reassure you and you squeeze her fingers again.
"You should try it. It'll loosen you up a little," she whispers, tipping her head to beam at you, her eyes focused on yours in way that makes your cheeks burn so bright that you wouldn't be surprised if you could be seen from space.
"I do not need to loosen up," you scoff. "I'm plenty loose already…and you're high," you mutter indignantly.
Sam just laughs, finally pulling her eyes from yours, and you pull in a cool breath that's sort of like relief, like it's the first time you've inhaled in days.
Her giggles fade away into silence and you pull her hand into your lap and wonder idly about contact highs and the feeling in your chest, but before you can come to any sort of conclusion, Sam is turning towards you.
"I got an idea" is all she mutters as if that's explanation, and maybe when it comes to Sam, you don't need full blown rationalizations.
She leans over then, inching closer, and you do the same until you're so close that your noses bump together.
"Just breathe in when I breathe out," she whispers, and you nod, watching as she takes a slow drag from the joint, and then she's closing the distance so that her lips are pressed right to yours and then sweet, acrid smoke is filling your lungs and you squeeze your eyes shut against the burn and you do as she told you and inhale.
"Sam." You cough, smoke sputtering out of your mouth in a way that's completely unattractive when she pulls away but Sam doesn't back off, not really, because when you open your eyes Sam is still hovering in your space with her pupils blown wide open.
You blink as smoke surrounds both of your heads for a moment but then its clearing and you're gazing at Sam's mouth and you're nowhere near high but there's a buzzing sensation under your skin, somewhere in your muscles, that's making it hard to think.
You're thinking about kissing her. Weighing the pros and cons of kissing Sam when she's stoned and your brain feels like it swells with thoughts and lists and what ifs, but then that is all washing away when Sam leans over and presses her mouth to yours.
It's nothing like shotgunning because instead of smoke filling your mouth it's her hot tongue pushing against yours like she's searching for something near that dangling thing at the back of your throat.
And yeah, you're a good girl, but Sam brings out this side of you, the side of you that has lost track of the number of times you've kissed your best friend because it's becoming more and more a thing. As much as you sort of live vicariously through Sam, there are times like this when it feels amazing just to do it yourself. It feels amazing just to do this and forget about everything else.
You don't realize how much time has passed, but you've untangled your hand from Sam's so that you can more effectively feel her up. You don't notice until she pulls away with a gasp, the way the two of you have shifted and twisted so that the back of her head is pressed to the wall and you're leaning over her, one hand curled high around her ribs and the other pressed to the ground, gravel digging into the heel of your hand, keeping you upright.
Sam licks her lips quickly, mouth turning up like she might laugh, but she doesn't.
"It's cold. Let's go back inside."
This isn't a normal thing.
You're extremely aware of this because you know how best friends are supposed to act, and you think sometimes you and Sam do a fantastic job of mimicking it when you sit at the lunch table and listen to Sam gush about bad boys she met while doing one mildly illegal thing or another or when she lends you her ear when all you want to talk about is your hair and how it frames your face.
But now, especially lately, it's coming down to this, something that's not a normal part of best girl friend relationships.
You may not have been the one to be bold enough to initiate the kiss, but you're the one closing and locking your bedroom door and pushing her back on the bed, wrestling her down to the mattress, and Sam just lets you with a breathless laugh that you swallow.
The bed is squeaking and it's impossibly loud over your and Sam's heavy breathing, and you're worried because even though its late, it's not late enough to assume that Spencer's asleep and won't come upstairs with a tennis racket as a weapon, wondering what that sound is.
You're worried but not enough to stop mouthing the pulse point in Sam's throat or to release the handfuls of sheets twisted in your grip while her back arches and her hips roll to meet yours. You rasp, "Don't stop." And you mean it even though you shouldn't.
You don't even know how to classify what you're doing because it's not sex, not quite. Not the way you learned about during that extremely awkward PE period or from Wendy in the girls restroom, not with your pajama shorts still on and Sam's shirt still covering her chest, but her hips are fit flush against yours and you're sweating all over, and this is far from innocent too.
It's amazing being this close to Sam's body, feeling her heart throbbing through her clothes and how narrow her waist really is because sometimes Sam can seem so much larger than life but in reality she's this tiny, small thing.
You don't realize you're crying out, that you're so completely into this, until Sam stills, shushing you with her mouth pressed to the space just below your ear and all you can do is arch and press down against her. You drift out of that cerebral place and back into the physical where you're literally straining for Sam.
"Spencer's still awake, I think." She swallows and you nod absently, biting the cotton of her shirt at the shoulder helplessly when you grind your hips down and she reciprocates with a breathless, girly sound that you only ever associate with this.
She does and so do you until she shuddering against, face buried against your neck to muffle her breathless cries while she finishes with your name on her tongue, her thighs squeezing your ribs and her body is pushing you away on instinct, but her hands are gripping you to her so damn hard. You follow close behind with a gasp.
You can feel her entire body trembling a bit underneath you and if you could move, could think, you'd shift your weight off of her but instead your hands are slipping under her shirt and sliding against the damp skin over the curve of her ribcage and the urge to stay like this way forever is strong while Sam pants weakly in your ear.
She's pulling back then, wriggling to your side a little, and you ignore the way you're sticky in places and meet Sam's heavy eyes, and it looks like she might say something, something she'll regret later, or maybe you're just imagining that in the darkness.
"Carly." She says your name like there was more before it, her fingertips scratching against your thigh, and you grit your teeth against the sensation.
You stay like that for a while, staring in the half light and touching places neither of you would in the daylight with careful hands, mindful of the fine line between fooling around with over the clothes heavy petting and something different when you slip your hand under Sam's tank top to trace the structure of her bra.
You, Sam, your sheets, everything reeks of weed, and something that's dangerously close to sex now and you inhale, commit this to memory, because as common as kissing has become between you two, this – well, this has only happened twice before.
The first, a gasping, writhing accident on the soft carpet in the middle of your bedroom floor and the second a far more deliberate act on the purple beanbag in the iCarly studio.
You sit up first, untangling yourself, and Sam watches you while your feet find the floor. You need to finish that paper, to study for the potential pop quiz tomorrow, but as you stand, mindful of your wobbling knees, you wish you could be like Sam.
To not care about tomorrow and just lie down beside her.
You rub your hand over your eyes, glancing back at Sam while she watches you with this expression you can't read, and then you're heading to the bathroom and shutting the door behind you.
When you come back, freshly showered and feeling like what just happened with you and Sam could've been a dream, you find your bed made with new sheets. Not as neat as you would've done it but neat enough that you can tell Sam tried.
"Alright kids, its time for me to head out."
It's Saturday and you've spent the better part of it on the couch, in front of the television with Freddie and Sam on either side of you, and in a way you can't really describe, its mostly perfect.
"Where are you going?" you ask curiously as she stands, shoving the blanket the three of you are sharing off of her. Stretching her limbs and straightening her clothes before reaching out to flick Freddie on the side of the head as she walks past him and towards the door where her shoes are.
Freddie flinches and scowls but doesn't look away from the television. "To do something illegal, probably," he mutters, rubbing his head absently.
"Maybe Freddward, maybe," she grins like doing illegal things is something to be proud of, while she bends over, tugging on her sneakers, and I frown at her.
"Sam, just stay here," you suggest, looking over at her, and you meet her gaze as she straightens slowly like she's contemplating the idea of curling up beside you and watching Seattle Beat but then Freddie groans and mutters, "Just let her go." like her presence is causing him physical pain.
Sam's gaze flits away from you then to arch an eyebrow at Freddie who immediately gulps like he regrets even talking, but you ignore him.
"Naw, I'm gonna go. I'm meeting some friends." she shrugs, feet now firmly laced into her high tops.
"Well, can I go? With you?" you blurt and Sam looks surprised but not nearly as shocked as Freddie who whips his head around to look at you.
"Are you serious? Do you want to get arrested?" he cries, voice pitching to unbelievably high levels, and you roll your eyes at him. "You're way to pretty for prison."
"It'll be fine. Sam's not that bad…all the time," you shrug, standing up. "And besides, we'll be together."
Sam smiles at that, slow and bright, like she's having thoughts and ideas.
"So, can I?"
"Yeah, let's do it." She grins, shrugging on her jacket. "But we're gonna have to stop by the store and get 20 cans of shaving cream and about 400 square feet of saran wrap," she mutters, and you falter just a bit, glancing at Freddie who's still staring at you completely slack-jawed.
"For what?" Freddie cries.
"So we can pull a prank on the Briggster."
"How do you plan on doing that?" Freddie asks cautiously, and Sam lifts an eyebrow.
"Two words. Liquid. Nitrogen."
"Liquid nitrogen?" you ask, and Sam nods and grins wider, if possible.
"Yeah. Wendy's mom works at a sperm bank, and they use it to keep the little swimmers cold, but we're gonna use it to freeze the cans so we can cut them open, put the frozen shaving cream in Briggs' car, saran wrap the doors shut, and in the morning she'll have a big foamy surprise."
Sam finishes, rubbing her hands together in a truly diabolical way, and it should be way more unnerving than it actually is.
She's grinning at you, the blue and red lights that bleed through the thick bushes hiding you two from the cops dancing across her skin, and it shouldn't be like this.
You've just committed a crime and you shouldn't feel like you do, like this amazingly indescribable feeling that's rushing under your skin is enough to do this over and over, but you do, and all you can do is draw in breath after breath and let it wash over you.
Sam's hand is still wrapped up in yours as the two of you lean against the side of the house two down from Ms. Briggs' and your current hiding spot. You have no idea where the other kids have gone, the initial scare of Ms. Briggs coming out of her house wielding a rolling pin and the simultaneous arrival of the cops, sending everyone scattering in different directions.
Peeling paint and splintering wood digs into your back as you lean against the house for support, because your knees feel all wobbly and useless right now, probably from the adrenaline, as you listen to the cops move around you, grass crunching under their feet and radios crackling to life as they search for juvenile delinquents.
God, you've become a juvenile delinquent.
It's not as horrifying as you thought it'd be, and that in itself is totally horrifying, but Sam is squeezing your hand over and over in a reassuring way as the cops pass by your hiding spot.
"You okay?" Sam whispers beside you when the fear of being arrested lessens and she's smirking like she knows, like she knows that all your joints feel tingly and loose, like she knows that you're totally drunk on adrenaline, and you grin back before leaning over and kissing her hard on the mouth.
She kisses you back sloppily, lets your tongue work past the ridge of her teeth, laughing against your lips the entire time, and you wonder if you've always had the potential to feel this way.
Sam pulls back suddenly, hand coming up to play with hem of your blouse. "Let's go somewhere."
Your perverted mind automatically hopes that it's somewhere dark and containing some sort of mattress.
When the coast is clear you guys leave your hiding place and you're not exactly sure where you're going until you end up in the abandoned parking lot of the old, shut down Mall Mart.
"So this is where you hang out when you're not with me?" you ask incredulously as the two of you walk toward the cluster of cars and what appear to be trash can fires, headlights and flames illuminating the darkness ,and its ridiculous because there are plenty of places, places that are indoors and well-lit and not part of a condemned building to hang out with your friends, but you have to admit its sort of cool in a teen movie kind of way. "A parking lot?"
"It's like the Hall of Justice…except it's a Mall Mart parking lot." She shrugs and you laugh and you don't realize how close the two of you are walking until Sam's finger is hooking into the loop of your jeans, and its not holding hands, not exactly, and you don't know if that's better or that's worse.
As you near you can hear people laughing, screaming, howling and there's various people wearing what looks like war paint.
"It's where the wild things are," you breathe.
"I still can't believe you did that."
There's music blaring from the cars parked in a sloppy half-circle, different stations filtering through the speakers, and it's more a cacophony of noise than actual music but you kind of like it. You like the atmosphere it creates with the blazing garbage cans casting flickering shadows despite the headlights slicing through the darkness.
"Me either," you admit honestly because when you think about it, it doesn't even seem like it was you those short hours ago, tossing frozen cylinders of shaving cream into Ms. Briggs' car.
You shift on the hood of the car, digging your heels into the bumper of the car the both of you are sitting on, fighting the urge to lean into Sam's warm form beside you as you watch her hold a can of Peppy Cola between her palms.
"But it was fun wasn't it? Causing mayhem and destruction?" She laughs, nudging your shoulder with hers, and inexplicably all you can do is blush hot in your cheeks. "Yeah you liked it, I can tell."
"How?" You laugh and Sam shrugs, turning away from you to watch the people gathered around the cars. "How could you tell?"
Her eyes fall to your chest quickly as she grins into the lip of her soda can. "I could just tell."
"Sam!" you hiss, folding your arms over your chest tightly and Sam just laughs lowly, from the bottom of her throat. "It's really cold out tonight," you explain huffily. "And what're you doing looking anyway?"
She shrugs, leaning back against the front windshield, and you can't help the way your own eyes stray down her throat, and across her chest when you meet her eyes again, she's already watching you, and all you can do is blush all the way to your bones.
"Sam!" You both turn to see Wendy dancing her way towards the two of you. "Carly!"
"How goes it Wendy?" Sam asks as Wendy shimmies around to the blasting music.
"Dude, Carly, you were awesome tonight, " Wendy gushes, and you feel something like pride swell in her chest. "I didn't know you had it in you."
"I can be naughty sometimes." You shrug coolly and Sam chuckles beside you like you aren't really that cool at all before sliding off of the hood of the car, shoes crunching on the gravel.
"Are you and your naughtiness ready to go home?" she asks, and you nod, following her to the ground.
"Do you guys want a ride?" Wendy asks, still swaying to the jumble of music and Sam shakes her head.
"No thanks, we'll just walk."
So you guys do and the good girl in you makes sure that you stick close to Sam, that you stay on well-lit, well-populated streets because its sort of late and being kidnapped isn't really something you'd enjoy right now.
You don't go to your loft, instead you guys head to her house because it's a lot closer and because just like Sam likes to get away sometimes, so do you, despite how much you love Spencer.
Sam's mom is sleeping on the couch when you guys finally arrive and you make sure the door is locked behind the two of you as Sam wanders over to her mom, and you watch in the blue, dancing light of the TV as Sam drags a blanket from the back of the couch and over her mom's sleeping form.
You're chest gives a flutter at the sight of Sam tucking the blanket in around her mom because its so rare to see Sam like this with someone who isn't you. Because even though Sam and her mom sometimes don't get along, you don't really have a relationship at all with your mom and you're a little jealous of it if you're completely honest with yourself.
Sam leans down, kissing her mom's forehead before flicking off the television and casting the living room into darkness.
You stand completely still, listening to Sam move around the room quietly, and then she's standing right in front of you, smelling faintly of shaving cream.
You follow Sam into her bedroom, noting that Sam's mom has finally made good on her threat to physically remove Sam's bedroom door, as you walk through the gaping whole in her wall.
You're not a guy and you like to think that your brain is far more evolved than those that the beer companies aim for with their commercials full of scantily-clad women and sports and other decidedly Neanderthal-like things.
But at the moment you're staring at Sam and her sister Melanie and thinking, in extremely graphic ways, about how awesome twins are and how that one beer commercial was totally right.
You're thinking of ridiculous scenarios that involve pillow fights getting out of hand when a noodle hitting your face yanks you out of your reverie.
"Carly? Other me is talking to you," Sam says loudly around a mouthful of spaghetti noodles, and you clear your throat, peeling the noodle off the side of her face and trying not to blush.
"I'm sorry,"y ou say, clearing your throat again. "What'd you say?"
"I was just wondering what you've been up to lately," Melanie gushes, and you catch the way Sam rolls her eyes at the dainty manner in which Melanie is eating her spaghetti with a fork, knife, and spoon. "You know, school, iCarly, boys."
And then you're totally losing the battle with the blush scorching up your face. "Schools fine, and iCarly is great, and ya know, boys are boys." You mutter the last part, pushing at your spaghetti, and when you peak up at Sam she's shoveling food into her mouth a little faster then before.
"So there's no special boy in the picture?" Melanie asks, eyebrows lifted hopefully, and when you look at her with her intricately-neat hair pulled out of her face and her soft, shiny pink blouse you think she couldn't be more different than Sam.
"No…not really," you drag out, pushing your hair nervously behind your ear with one hand.
Melanie just hums suspiciously before leaning over the table towards you, and you have to remind the instant fluttering in your stomach which twin is leaning across the table. "What about Freddie? Have he and Sam hooked up yet?"
You've never seen anyone do a spit-take with food but that doesn't stop Sam from doing one with a mouthful of marinara sauce and noodles.
You can't help but smirk as Sam gapes at her sister.
"You and Freddie obviously have some sort of chemistry," Melanie says flippantly, and you feel the smirk slip from your face a bit because you know that what Melanie is saying is right.
Freddie and Sam have some sort of chemistry that is sort of undeniable. You're aware of it no matter how many times Freddie cries out that he absolutely hates Sam while she bends his arm behind his back or how hard Sam gags when Freddie threatens to kiss her, because you can see it when they think you're not looking.
She's right, and it scares you in ways you don't want to examine.
"Freddipher and I do NOT have chemistry," Sam exclaims, and Melanie just laughs at the way Sam's lip curls and the way she snarls just a bit which is not something most people can do, laugh in the face of Sam's anger.
"Sure," Melanie says with a laugh, and before Sam can say anything else, her phone is exploding to life and she has to stop glaring at her sister to glance down at it. "You know they've kissed, right?" Melanie hisses with a smile and you swallow and nod just as a roll bounces off the side of her head.
"Hey, Uncle Carmine just got paroled. Mom says we're having a party," Sam says, eyes flitting over the text message. "Lets hit it."
Sam pushes her chair noisily across the linoleum as she gets up, leaning over to fork a few more mouthfuls of pasta into her mouth before straightening fully, and Melanie gives you an apologetic look before following her sister up.
"I guess I'll see you later, Carly," Melanie says politely as you rise also, following them to the living room where Sam is already shrugging on her jacket.
"Yeah, you guys have fun." You smile, tucking your hands into your pockets and wondering if this is the same uncle Carmine that gets 'rid' of people and if his parole is really a good decision by the courts.
"Hey, you should come," Sam says suddenly, flipping her long hair out of her collar, and you're smiling before you can think about it, feel the stretch of it in your cheeks.
"Yeah?" you breathe stupidly and Sam adjusts her jacket a little.
"I mean, you're always saying how you need to meet my family to believe half the stories. Here's your chance." She shrugs a little and now Sam and Melanie are watching you with identical eyes.
"C'mon. It'll be fun," Melanie urges and you nod, bouncing up on your toes.
"Okay! Let me get my coat!"
The party is fun even after the cops come and three of Sam's Aunts are arrested for public indecency, and you're still laughing at the look on the cop's face when Sam's cousin pantsed him when Sam's warm hand slips into yours and she whispers, "C'mon" right against your ear.
You let her pull you through the throng of people, fingers entwined, and no one bats an eye except for Melanie.
Melanie eyes you curiously as Sam leads you through the crowded kitchen towards the door leading to the backyard and you keep your eyes focused on your locked fingers while you blush hard.
You end up in Sam's treehouse.
It's a lot smaller than you remember it being and there's nothing up there but blankets and pillows that look relatively clean like maybe Sam planned to bring you up here all along, but the two of you are alone and you don't want to be anywhere else.
"So?" you start once you're settled shoulder to shoulder in the small space; you're stretched out on your back and Sam on her belly.
"So…are you having fun?"
And of course you are because Sam's family is weird, strange, outrageous, and amazing, and you see a little bit of Sam in every member of the clan.
"So much fun. Your family is definitely not as scary as I thought they'd be," you whisper, staring up at the ceiling of the treehouse where light is bleeding through the gaps in the wood. "Thanks for inviting me."
"You're welcome, Cupcake," Sam whispers softly, and you drag in a breath that smells citrusy like Sam's shampoo.
"So, is that why you brought me up here?" you ask, peeking at her only to meet her gaze. "To talk about your family?"
She's looking at you thoughtfully and a little nervous, and if you're honest, as much as you love brash, over-confident Sam, you're kinda into awkward, timid Sam too.
You lick your lips a little as she edges closer, slowly, like she's afraid you'll bolt, and really, she has nothing to worry about.
"Not really, no," she admits, and you swallow down the butterflies tumbling around behind your ribs.
"No?" you ask playfully, and she shakes her head best she can with her arms folded under her chin.
"No, I brought you up here so my cousin Vito would stop staring down your shirt." She smirks, and you roll your eyes but tug at the neck of your low cut shirt self consciously.
"Thanks." You giggle.
"Hey, no one gets to ogle you except for me," she mutters, eyes closing, and you can't help the stupid smile that curls your lips.
"Were you? Ogling me?"
She shrugs then, opening one eye quickly before closing it again. "Maybe a little."
This time you don't even bother trying to quell the butterflies shooting around like jets in your belly.
You don't know how long the two of you have been up here or when talking turned into kissing but you're sort of used to the way the one thing can sometimes melt into the other.
Sam's mouth tastes like too much Peppy Cola, and the way she's pressed against you, tucked in close with her leg curled over your hip makes you squeeze your eyes shut so you don't combust or disappear or something.
Sam's fingertips are tucked underneath the hem of your shirt, thumb rubbing circles against your stomach, and you're so focused on that feeling that you don't even notice that anyone is calling for you until Sam pulls back quickly with a frown and a curse.
"Sam? Mom said to come help clean up or she's gonna feed your ham to Frothy!" Melanie calls as she grunts her way up the rope ladder dangling from the treehouse. Then you and Sam are scrambling apart so fast you're momentarily afraid that the treehouse will tip right out of the branches from your momentum just as Melanie's head is popping up through the square hole in the floor looking breathless. "And you missed it. Aunt Maggie's implant popped when she was breakdancing. What were you guys doing up here anyway?"
"Nothing!" you blurt nervously, smoothing sweaty palms against your skirt, and you have to take a moment to breathe as you glance at Sam then Melanie and back again because they look the same and its sort of screws with your head, though the blinding fear of being caught doing this may contribute to some of the head spinning.
"What do you want?" Sam frowns nervously, and Melanie's face slips into an emotion that you can't read, one you've never seen on Sam, and it's strange that two people with the same face can have completely different expressions.
"Mom wants you." is all she says, and then she's disappearing, and you swallow past the tightness in your throat.
"She knows. She saw. She knows," you murmur weakly, and Sam nods, dragging a hand over her face and looking exactly like she's been kissing someone for the better part of the last hour.
"I'll talk to her. It'll be okay."
"Why're you doing this?"
You blink into the darkness, fingers raking across the carpet in search of anything that's not supposed to be there.
"Why am I cleaning underneath your bed?" you call out incredulously. "Because I found a Panini under here!"
"No not that," she sighs, and you frown as your hand brushes against something that may or may not be a rope of sausages as the mattress shifts and groans above you.
Then hands are closing around your ankles and pulling, and you're being dragged from the gaping darkness that is the underside of Sam's bed and into the light.
"No," Sam huffs flipping you over easier than someone as small as her should be able to. "Why're you doing this? Why're we here instead of your loft? Why did you spend the last hour helping my mom with the dishes? She was wearing one of those blankets with sleeves and you didn't even say anything!"
Sam's kneeling over you now, literally trying to shake some sense into you, and you bat her away, pushing up off of the carpet.
"I'm not doing anything." You blush, picking bits of fluff from your clothes. "It's just that…" you trail off nervously, and the way your heart is pounding behind your ribs is completely unnerving, and you shouldn't be afraid to tell Sam this, but you are.
You are because this, this thing where you're actively trying to learn things about Sam that are more important than her favorite food or her favor color, has a lot to do with that part of your relationship that you don't talk about.
"I don't know you," you start, and Sam frowns, standing slowly. "I just want to know you."
"Of course you know me," Sam laughs, confusion drawing her eyebrows together. "You're my best friend. You know me better than anyone- "
"No, I mean, yeah, I'm your best friend and I know you but I don't, like, know you. Why you are the way you are. What makes Sam Puckett…Sam Puckett. I want to meet your other friends and your family and hang out at your house."
"You want to see me in my natural habitat? Like an animal in a zoo?" she asks, eyebrows arching and you shake your head.
"No, it's not that." You sigh because you know that you're not explaining it right and Sam gives you a confused look.
And you have no idea what your face looks like right now but whatever expression that is currently taking over makes Sam breathe your name so softly, reaching out to hook her fingers in yours, and you look at your hands for a moment before pulling her into you, warm and soft in your arms. "Carls, I don't know what you're trying to say." Her breath tickles your ear and you turn your face into her hair, laughing weakly.
"You are like the longest showerer ever."
You grin into the spray of warm water as Sam closes the bathroom door behind her, and you can just make out her form as she hops up onto the counter beside the sink through the warped glass of the shower door and the water in your eyes.
"You've been in there for like a year."
"It's not my fault I like to be clean," you call, pushing your hair out of your face before reaching for the shampoo.
"Being clean is for nubs," she yells back and you ignore her and begin lathering your hair.
"If it's so nubish then why are you watching me do it?" you ask, scrubbing your hands through your hair and you hear Sam's heels hit the cabinet over and over and you can picture her sitting up there, swinging her legs like a little kid.
"Because I'm bored and the view isn't half bad," she offers and you chuckle, standing so the spray of water is hitting your head, rinsing away suds.
"You're such a perv," you mutter halfheartedly because knowing that Sam is watching you, wants to watch your distorted image through the shower glass makes you blush all the way to your chest as you reach out and turn off the water.
Then there's silence and you're wet feet on the shower floor.
"I have to get out of the shower now."
"I'm not stopping you."
"I'm going to be naked," you inform her and you hear Sam hop off of the counter top.
"Do you want me to leave?" she asks and her voice cracks right in the middle and you swallow and ignore the cool water dripping from your hair and down your skin.
"You-you don't have to," you whisper back, reaching out to finger the handle on the sliding door.
"I could get your towel," she offers quietly, and you nod.
"That would be good," you murmur, drawing in a tight breath before you push open the shower door.
The entire room is steamy and wet, and you step carefully onto the fluffy mat outside of the shower just as Sam pulls your towel off of the hook on the back of the door and turns back.
It's like a standoff sort of, with you standing there naked and blushing while Sam grips your towel in her hands, eyes flitting over you before snapping up to meet your gaze.
Her mouth works silently for a moment before she thrusts the towel at you. "Here."
"Thanks," you whisper, wrapping it around you with shaking hands, and Sam is still looking at you like she wants to say something, but instead she gestures at the door behind her.
"So, I'm gonna…wait out there."
You nod stupidly, swallowing as Sam exits the bathroom before you turn to the mirror, taking a deep slow breath.
Your clothes are folded on the top of the countertop, a little disheveled from Sam's butt, and you blink down at the pile for a second before registering what's missing from the top of the stack.
"Sam, give me back my underwear!"
"Let's skip today."
Usually you would just ignore Sam's suggestion because she's got a proclivity for wanting to do everything except what she's supposed to be doing.
Usually you would talk her into going to school, drag her to class by her wrist and promise her the biggest slab of beef jerky she can imagine if she just sits there without shooting spitballs at Ms. Briggs.
But you don't.
Because you're sitting in the drivers seat, inching your way through the morning student traffic with the school looming in front of you, and you know that you don't want to be there either.
"Okay." You grin as Sam turns to look at you, bangs in her eyes and the expression that says that she's totally impressed by something you've just said or done.
"Really?" she asks, twisting in her seat to peer at you, and you bite your lip against the smile taking over your face.
"Yeah, sure. I mean, it's not like we can go to jail for ditching class…right?" I ask, suddenly concerned, and Sam just smiles slowly. "Right?!"
"You know, I'm liking this side of you Shay. It's kind of badass."
There's that feeling again, pride oozing to all of your limbs, because you did something to make Sam look at you the way she is.
"I like it too."
You drive for miles and miles until the sun is high in the sky and there are vague worries about the history quiz you missed today and the math assignment you didn't turn in and the fact that you and Sam are supposed to meet Freddie at the Groovy Smoothie after school to go over iCarly ideas, but its hard to care about any of that stuff with all the windows down and both of your hair twirling everywhere in the rushing wind while the two of you sing along to radio that's turned up way too loud.
Sam instructs you the entire time, telling you to get on this freeway or that, when to merge or get off, until you're winding your way through a residential area where not one house looks like another.
You stop in front of a red house with white stairs and in desperate need of some lawn maintenance, and you shut off the car, parking against the curb.
"Where are we?" you ask softly and Sam sighs, presses her feet to the dash.
"That is my dad's house," she says quietly, and you nod, glancing at the house again, more intent on finding something in the building that reminds you of Sam.
"Why're we here?" you wonder aloud, and Sam leans down and snags her shoes from the floor of the car, quickly slipping them on.
"We're going to break in," she mutters, unhooking her seatbelt and then she's out of the car.
All you can do is gape after her.
Your first thought is that the house is extraordinarily normal.
The entire place smells like potpourri and those little scented things you plug into wall outlets and it's sort of pleasant in a way that you imagine homes on family situation comedies are on television.
"This place reeks." Sam gags loudly and you wince as you shut the front door behind you, praying that there isn't some sort of alarm system that's about to go off, but after a moment of silence and no shrill alarms wailing, you let yourself follow Sam down the hall.
"Sam, we have to be quiet! I do not want to go to jail, I mean, what if the neighbors saw you picking the lock!" you hiss as the hallway opens up into the living room and you nearly run into Sam's back as she comes to a sudden stop in front of you.
You have to admit it looks nothing like you would've expected from someone that is one half of Sam.
There are weird, ugly plaid couches covered in plastic and a truly hideous rug and a floor lamp whose shade seems to be lined with tassels, and it's all so… ordinary. So average.
It's nothing like Sam's house with the chandelier made completely out of gummy bears that hangs over the dinner table and is almost constantly being fixed because the bears keep melting into brightly colored gooey puddles when Sam's mom forgets to turn off the lights at night or the wallpaper in the living room that makes you dizzy if you stare at it too long.
"This place is so jank," Sam mutters, walking around the coffee table and towards the fireplace where pictures line the mantle, plucking a handful of leaves from the lonely house plant beside the couch as she passes.
"Yeah, it kinda is," you agree, dragging your hand over the plastic covered back of the couch as you follow Sam across the room, until your fingertips squeak against the protective cover. "Is that him?"
Sam nods wordlessly even though it's obvious that the man in the picture she's staring at, right in the middle of the mantle, is her dad. He has the most familiar smirk and you know the slant of his eyes, and you touch Sam's hand, brush your knuckles over the back hers while she breathes.
"He looks happy, right?" she asks and her voice sounds tight and high but you can't help but nod because the man in the photo does look happy with his arms slung around a woman you don't recognize.
"Yeah, he does," you whisper, and Sam bumps her hand against yours. "Who's that?"
"That's his fiancée, Beth." Sam spits the woman's name out like it's the worst-tasting thing in the world, and you can only imagine it must be because your parents are still together, though just not together with you and Spencer.
"Oh, well she seems nice."
"It's weird, ya know?" she whispers, poking the picture so the frame wobbles just a little. "He has, like, a brand new family."
"That doesn't mean he loves you any less," you murmur, and Sam shrugs.
"I think it does," Sam just mutters before reaching out to pick up the frame, and you have the sudden fear that Sam is going to get all smashy on the picture frame ,but instead she flips it over in her hands, popping off the back and slipping out the photo before folding it in half and shoving it in her pocket.
"C'mon, let's look around some more," she says, setting the now-empty frame back on the mantle. "Which way do think the kitchen is?"
You split up then, Sam heading for the kitchen, and you let her go, choosing instead to look around the other rooms. There's a game room, a spare bedroom, and when you open the door to a room that's decorated in soft blues and yellows and a clean, white crib, you decide to go find Sam.
"Sam?" you call quietly, tiptoeing through the halls.
"In here," she yells, and you follow her voice to the master bedroom.
"Sam?" You push the bedroom door all the way open and you find her in the closet, sitting cross legged on the floor with a shoebox in her lap and a foot of licorice rope clenched between her teeth.
"Sam, maybe we should get out of here. Your dad could be back any second."
"Look at all this stuff he kept," she says instead of answering, words muffled thanks to the candy in her mouth while totally ignoring your concern, and when you look into the box there are stacks of pictures with blue-eyed, blonde-haired little girls.
"Whoa, where did you find that?" you ask, kneeling down beside Sam in the small space, watching her sift through the box, fingers fumbling with a tiny pink hospital bracelet with her sister's name on it.
"It was in the back of the closet," she whispers, swallowing down the candy in too few bites and you nod. "That's some pretty screwed up symbolism," she mutters and you swallow at the way your heart tugs at her words.
"I'm sure he thinks about you and Mel every day," you whisper adamantly, and Sam only shrugs, picking her way through the boxes, and there are photos of both Sam and Melanie at various ages, the most recent ones a newspaper clipping about Melanie's full scholarship to a top school on the other side of the country and the flyer that went out to all Mall Marts in the Seattle area two years ago when Sam was listed as Mall Mart's Most Wanted and subsequently banned from all Mall Marts for a year.
After a while Sam picks up the box top from beside her knee and fitting it back into place, covering up memories carefully.
"Let's get out of here." Sam sighs and then she's standing, taking the box with her and tucking it back into the rear of the closet before taking your hand and pulling you up with her.
When you manage to finally, finally leave the house, it's only after Sam goes into the bathroom and squirts nasal spray into the contact lens case sitting on the sink and refills the nasal spray with mouthwash.
"Two beds or one?"
The lady at the front desk asks lazily, pink bubblegum tumbling around visibly behind her teeth, as she gazes between you and Sam, not at all concerned about the two teenage girls getting a hotel room on a Tuesday night in the middle of nowhere or the fact that there's no adult supervising them.
"We only need one," you say as politely as possible, and that earns you a raised eyebrow from both Sam and the front desk lady.
She tells you the price in a voice that makes you want to suggest that she give up smoking and Sam pulls some crumpled up dollar bills out of her pocket, tossing them onto the counter in exchange for a plastic keycard.
"You girls have a good night," she says as the two of you turn and leave, and the knowing tone of her voice makes the back of your neck hot.
"Where does Spencer think you are?" You look away from the television as Sam emerges from the small bathroom, face scrubbed clean and hair pulled back, and you can't help but smile at her.
"He thinks I'm spending the night at Wendy's and I called her and asked her to cover for me," you say, swelling with pride a little when Sam nods her head approvingly.
"You're finally becoming the liar I always knew you could be." She smirks, flopping onto the bed beside you, resting her cheek on your thigh, and you automatically play with the length of her ponytail, curling the strands around your fingers while her nails scratch at your knee through your jeans. "So what're you watching?"
"I don't know. Some cable show with lots of swearing and sex," you mutter, and you can feel Sam grin against your thigh; you breathe through the way it makes your toes curl against the floor.
"Sounds like my kind of program," she murmurs as you trace her hairline at the nape of her neck. "So…thanks."
"Thanks?" you blurt, confused, and Sam twists upwards into a sitting position. "Did you just thank me?"
"Yeah, I did."
"For what?" you question as Sam touches your wrist, your forearm.
"For that thing you did," she answers vaguely, hands waving dismissively.
"You mean that thing where I helped you perform a B&E on your dad's house?"
"Yeah," she exhales tiredly "Plus, I really like seeing you do bad stuff. It's way hot."
She's reclining on the bed, and there should be facts from that late night news special about hotel bedding and black lights swirling around in your head, but instead all you can think about is the way she looks all spread out on the comforter.
"You're welcome and thanks for letting me do that with you." You smile while you blush red hot. "I know sometimes I can be sort of a…"
"Killjoy? Spoilsport? Wet Blanket?" Sam offers with a cheeky grin and you roll your eyes, clambering on top of her in a completely unladylike way, but the smile on her face falters and her blue eyes glaze a bit as you settle on top of her.
"Yeah, something like that but I just care about you a lot," you admit, and Sam blinks at you for a moment before lifting her head and kissing you.
You groan as her hands tangle in your hair, and she hauls you closer, tongue slick against yours behind her teeth.
"I care about you too," Sam whispers right against your mouth. "Carly?"
"Yeah?" You inhale, absolutely confused as to why Sam's mouth is no longer on yours, and you slip your hands under the hem of her shirt, smooth, warm skin against your palms.
"I…want to be your girlfriend," she croaks after a mouthful of pauses and false starts, and if you're not mistaken, that's a blush crawling up Sam's neck, saturating her cheeks, and the feeling that fills your chest leaves you grinning.
"You do?" You look like an idiot, you know it. You can tell the smile on your mouth is borderline maniacal but you can't help it.
"Like, a lot."
You push her hair out of her face; touch your fingertips to her neck. "I want you to be."
Sam beams at you then, blinding and beautiful.
"And I want to be yours, you know, if you want me to be."
"I do," she blurts quickly. "I do." She says slower this time, mouth curling upwards.
Then that feeling that filled your chest, that relief you hadn't known you'd been waiting for, floods your limbs. "Good."
Sam giggles then, a sound you don't hear enough. "Good."
There's a blushing silence that you sort of bask in before Sam speaks again.
"So is this why you've been doing all of this stuff? Hanging at my house? With my friends?" she questions and shifts on the bed, and suddenly your back is against the mattress and your hands are pinned to the pillows, and Sam is straddling you, peering down at you in the weird hotel light.
"Yeah," you croak, mouth suddenly dry thanks to Sam's weight on your hips and her mouth hovering over yours.
"Because you wanted to go out with me?"
You nod dumbly, eyes flitting to her mouth and back to her eyes.
"You know, you could've just asked." She grins and you twist your wrists in her grip absently. "Could've just taken me to B.F. Wangs and asked me to go steady over Kung Pao Chicken. I would've said yes. You didn't have to infiltrate my life."
"I wanted to infiltrate your life," you admit quietly, arching under her weight and Sam glances down to where your hips are lifting away from the bed. "I wanted to see that side of you."
"Which side?" Sam questions, lips hovering over yours like she's threatening to kiss you as you drop down to the bed.
"The side where you don't entirely hate your sister and you kiss your mom goodnight. I wanted to be with you while you did those bad, crazy illegal things because your face sort of lights up just like I knew it would." You grin and Sam rolls her eyes. "I wanted to see the softer side of Sam."
"I do not have a softer side," Sam scoffs. "Just a slightly less badass side."
"Well, I enjoy the slightly less badass side of you." You laugh and Sam mouth quirks to the side in amusement.
There's more you want to say, flowery words and intense feelings, but this is Sam who's always had a hard time with words and honesty so you think the words instead. Let them fill your brain while you bend upwards to kiss her, because right now, this is more than enough.
Spencer flips out.
He finds out you didn't actually sleep at Wendy's house thanks mostly to Freddie who gets busted with Wendy, your so-called accomplice, in his bedroom by Mrs. Benson.
Then of course there's Ms. Briggs' screeching voice on the answering machine telling Spencer that you were fingered as a suspect in a crime at her home along with one "blonde demon child" and that you have an unexcused absence, which only makes things worse, so of course Spencer flips.
He screams and yells you and grounds you twice.
You totally understand, though, especially when you tell him that the night you were supposed to be at Wendy's you were actually holed up in a rundown motel, hours away, with Sam. You don't tell him about the kissing, though. You decide that you'll drop that bomb at another time.
And when you think it can't get any worse, Sam's dad figures out it was you two who broke into his home.
Sam takes all the blame, which you're eternally grateful for, because you're fairly certain if you get busted on one more thing, Spencer will send you to live with your grandfather in Yakima.
For her crime she only gets 2 months house arrest despite the fact that the crime is punishable with far worse than having Sam lounge around her house for 8 weeks straight with a monitor on her ankle.
You figure the leniency is because, like most people in powerful positions, like Principal Franklin, the judge has a soft spot for Sam. You'll have to welcome him to the club.
And as much as all of this sucks, the being grounded "for 'till college" and the month of detention, you don't really regret anything.
None of it.
"What up, Carls?"
You grin as Sam clambers up the fire escape, hopping through the window you left open and into your bedroom.
You close your math book, leaving your half-finished homework on your desk as you rise out of your chair.
"What're you doing here?" You laugh because Sam is supposed to be locked up in her house right now, and you're not allowed to have friends over.
"I paid Gibby 20 bucks to wear my ankle thing for an hour." She smirks, leaning against the window sill like she didn't just break the law…again.
You make your way over to her slowly because you do not approve of this and you have lots more questions, like how did she even get the ankle bracelet off without alerting the authorities, but you haven't seen Sam in 2 weeks and man, you miss her.
When you're close enough, Sam snags you by the shirt, dragging you closer.
"Hi," you breathe, and Sam licks her lips, blue eyes bright in the sunlight pouring through your window.
You kiss her then, you kiss your girlfriend, and her mouth is sweet like she's been eating Fat Cakes, but then Sam is pulling away from you quickly.
"I've only got an hour, Cupcake," she says, gripping the hem of her shirt and whipping it over her head. "Let's get this show on the road."
And yep, it was totally worth it.