Disclaimer: Neither Victorious or iCarly belong to me, but has that ever stopped me? No, it has not.

A/N: Now, as far as I know, this is the first Cat/Sam pairing. Evah!

That being said, I've coined the ship name 'Puckentine'.

So if by some wild twist of fate this ship ever becomes popular, and that ship name is used, remember, I was the first.

A questionable honour, but I'll take what I can get.

Oh, and a special thanks to And . Your . Point. She's given me a gift that you can't buy. A hilarious memory that I will treasure forever. EPIC.

And to my all twitter friends. I love you most of all, particular group of social media friends.

"Well, I've gotta run." I haul myself off Carly's couch, screwing up the FatCake wrapper in my hand and tossing it onto the cushion behind me.

Carly looks at it questioningly before shaking her head and turning her gaze to me. "You're not staying for dinner?"

I shrug helplessly. "Would if I could Carls, but I've got an appointment I legally can't miss."

Understanding blossoms across Carly's face. "Oh. You're still seeing that therapist?"

I nod grimly. "Court ordered."

"Why'd you try to drown that guy in a bowl of jello anyway?"

I shake my head, stooping to scoop up my pack. "You wouldn't understand."

"Thankfully. Well... good luck I guess." Carly calls out as I leave. "And don't talk to any crazy people!

I push open the heavy wooden door, the smell of the reception area washing over me. Stale coffee and leather. I wave at Heather, the receptionist. Mother of four, divorced, and once went on 'Wheel Of Fortune'. She lost. She immediately looks nervous, tucking her frizzy, mouse-brown hair behind her ears. I don't blame her. She's heard by now about what happened to all the other therapists. But really, they shouldn't have been so damn nosy. Dr. Ruben – the one I'm here to see today, he's the end of the line, and I've only seen him a few times so far. It's part of my deal with the court that I see a therapist once a week, otherwise it's off to juvie. I don't really care either way, but I'm not about to let Carly down like that. She always gets so upset when I'm arrested. And the judge made it pretty clear; I get kicked out by Dr. Ruben, it's behind bars I go. I admit I have a temper problem – and it makes me so angry! People just annoy me, and the easiest way to get them to shut up is to shove something in their mouth. Their own foot, for example. But I'm working on it. I'm not getting kicked out of here. I don't want to see that look of disappointment on Carly's face. I've seen it too many times already.

I throw myself down on the leather lounge, kicking my feet up onto the coffee, a few magazines sliding to the floor. I prop my hands behind my head, jogging a foot impatiently and dislodging a few more magazines. I look at them disdainfully. Waiting for Ruben is pretty damn boring, but I'm not about to read. I have some dignity.

I hum impatiently to myself, Heather shooting me occasional, anxious glances. I have no idea how long I've been waiting... how am I supposed to tell time without TV? And they make you switch your phone off too, so I can't even text Carly about how lame this is.

I'm drumming a tattoo on my knees when the door to the reception opens. Red. It's literally the first thing I see, and I find myself hoping that maybe someone has a head wound. That'd be awesome. I sit up, interested – anything to break the tedium. It's a girl, and she looks about my age. It's unusual to see anyone under forty in here who's not prematurely balding or overweight and smelling of cheese. Once you get past the hair, she's actually not too bad to look at. She reminds me of a deer – all wide-eyed and timid. I lean back, bored again. She doesn't look like she's my kind of fun. My kind of fun is usually synonymous with trouble. She speaks quietly to Heather, her voice too soft for me to make out any words, brushing her hair forward nervously. I swat at my stomach as it rumbles... her hair's reminding me of red velvet cupcakes, and I haven't eaten in an hour.

I watch disinterestedly as she walks over, sitting in the first armchair to the left of me. She glances over at me, smiling quickly, and I stare at her. There's this game I play. On the odd occasion someone else is here, I like to look at them and guess why they're here. I mean, you look at me, and it's pretty obvious I'm only here 'cause I have to be. I try to make that as clear as possible. And guessing by her ruby-coloured hair, she's got some problems. I'd say she just did it for attention, but she doesn't look like the attention-seeking type. She looks at me nervously, shifting uncomfortably under my gaze, her eyebrows coming together in confusion. She reminds me a little of Carly... polite, sweet, probably super-nice. I hate that... except in Carly. She's different. I lean forward more... I really can't figure it out. She's pretty, and she looks kinda air-headed... and those people don't have problems. They are problems.

I consider letting it go, but I'm this close to actually picking up one of the magazines. "Why are you here?" I say bluntly. I figure, why tiptoe around it... I don't feel like half an hour of small talk to ask one question.

She looks around like she's not sure I'm talking to her. "M-me?" She points at herself.

I smirk at her. "Unless you got an invisible friend."

She shakes her head. Man, she's clueless. She couldn't be here just 'cause she's dumb, could she? 'Cause I don't think they can fix that.

I sigh as we sit in awkward silence. "So... why are you here?"

She bites her lip. "All my other therapists retired."

I frown. "All? How many were there?"

She looks up at me doubtfully, but hey, she's in a therapist's office, she should be used to people asking her personal questions. "Six."

I laugh. That's fantastic. I actually feel a little impressed. She's so fucked up that she's forced her therapists to retire, or at least lie to her. She looks confused, and Heather looks scared. The door to Ruben's office opens, a fat, little man in a filthy singlet shuffling out, looking offended as if my laughter is directed at him. Which it is now.

"Sam? You can come in now." Ruben gestures for me to come in, standing at the door, and I haul myself up gratefully. I thought I was about to die of boredom. The ruby-haired girl stares at me, still confused. Crap, I hope she doesn't make Ruben retire, he's my last chance.

I walk into the office, throwing myself into the chair, trying to look as relaxed as I possibly can. I hate getting questioned, the cops already do it too much. Ruben smiles at me. He's your typical shrink. Middle-aged, tall, bushy eyebrows. He's alright. He's wary... he's smarter than some of the others. "So how are we today, Sam?"

I snort. "Hey Doc, you'd better look out for the red-headed chick out there. She's forced six of you into retirement." I jerk my thumb at the door.

Ruben frowns. "You mean Cat? I'm aware of her history."

I sit up a little, leaning in conspiratorially. "What's with her? Like, what's wrong with her?"

Ruben crosses his legs, tenting his fingers. "Now Sam, you know that's confidential. We're here to talk about you, not about other people."

"Fine. Shoot." I shrug, resigning myself.

"So Sam, I believe we were talking last time about your aggression issues."

I nod, tuning out. There's these cracks that run through his ceiling, and if I look hard enough, I can see pictures. And believe me, I'm looking hard. I can almost see a lion with it's mouth open, and it makes me yawn. Why do they make therapists with these soft, calm voices? They just drone on and on.


I blink. "My... my mother." I stutter out. It usually works... mostly 'cause it usually is her fault.

Ruben sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with a hand. "Sam, why are you here?"

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Court order. You know that."

"Exactly. Now, I know you think there's nothing wrong with you. That you just do bad things to 'rebel' or to 'be cool'." I fight a smirk from my face. He's so lame. "But the court sent you here for a reason. I believe you do have some issues that you've buried, but I can't help you if you don't open up."

Ugh. Why do therapists always have to think you're hiding something? I do bad stuff 'cause it's fun, 'cause it makes my heart race and makes me feel alive. And 'cause I lose my temper. "What do you want me to say, Doc?"

"Sam, I don't want you to say anything. I'm here to help you work through your problems, but if you don't admit to them, then there's not much I can do."

Fuck. I hate being told stuff like this. I hear the same stuff in school. 'If you don't apply yourself, you'll never amount to anything' and 'You need to listen more in class, instead of just sleeping'. Everyone just blames me for everything. Maybe if they were better at their jobs I'd do better. "Fine, tell me what my problems are."

Ruben smiles with what I think he assumes is gentle compassion. It comes off condescending. "I can't do that Sam. Telling you won't help you. You've got to evaluate the negative things in your life, you've got to ask yourself why you keep ending up in situations like this, and when you do, we can start to work through them. But until then, this is just a waste of time for the both of us."

I let my head drop back. "So until I admit to problems I apparently have, and work through them, I have to keep seeing you."

He nods, making a note in his little book. "Until I'm one hundred percent certain that you've worked through your issues, I can't tell the court that you're satisfactory. So until then, yes, you have to keep seeing me once a week."

I close my eyes for a moment. "Great." I mutter.

The rest of the session runs together, Ruben probing around my mind and trying to loosen something. Unsuccessfully. How am I supposed to work out my problems if he won't even tell me what they are? Not that I have problems... I mean, I do, but they're fine. They're manageable. He stands finally, crossing to the door, and I pull myself up gratefully. "I want you to think about what I've said today Sam."

I nod tightly. Christ I hate this.

She's still out there, the red-headed girl... Cat or whatever. She's been waiting here the whole time. Does she really have nothing better to do than to show up an hour early to her therapist? I'd feel a little sorry for her, you know, being so pathetic, but she's here voluntarily. I assume. She waves to me as I leave, and I shake my head, Heather calling out a tentative and relieved goodbye. Sometimes I regret shoving that guy's head into that bowl of jello. But not often. I check the time on my phone... maybe I can still get over to Carly's and forget about this stupid stuff. Or maybe Carly can tell me what my problems are. I can't keep coming here. It's going to drive me insane.

A/N: Ha ha! I ended with a joke. Sort of.

Now, I bet you're wondering, how in the heck did Cat get to Seattle? She lives in Hollywood!

...Then you're the same as me about halfway through this chapter.

But it WILL be explained. Just... just hold on there.

And please, I beg you harder than I've ever begged, and I've begged for money in Africa. How did I get there? That'll also be explained later.

But please, please, please review. As far as I know, I'm a pioneer in this ship, and I'd like to know that I'm sailing it in the right direction.

So onward, S.S. Puckentine!