iSam Nightingale
Title: "iSam Nightingale"
Author: prettysirenx
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Fluff, angst, romance, humor
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer:Alas, I am not the owner of iCarly. If I was, you know there'd be a lot more canon Spam. =D
Author's Note: This is something that came to my mind the other day. I know I have some unfulfilled prompts out there. I wrote a lot of them on another device. It's a matter of editing and finding. As for my absence, I've been ill and busy and yeah. But I'm back now. And I just had to get my Spam on!
The sound of the smoke alarm didn't usually mean blood, but it did in this case. Sam was showing up anyway, but Mrs. Benson was also alerted by the screaming sound of both man and sensor; they both entered the apartment together to find a bunch of smoke that rapidly filled into the hallway once it found ventilation, clearing the room enough for them to see Spencer on the floor, doubled over his bleeding hand.
"At least I put the fire out," he said apologetically with a shrug.
"But why is there blood?" Mrs. Benson asked reasonably; she could handle any and all crises with calm rationality provided it didn't involve her most precious only son, who was, fortunately, nowhere in sight.
Spencer opened his arms, physically articulating the story of how the fire extinguisher was on its last leg, how the handle broke and cut him deep in his palm. And, with each gesticulation, fresh red blood spurted out of the gash, sending the warm sticky liquid flying in all directions. Normally, even Spencer would know this was bad, but the blood loss had obviously gotten to him -- he was white in the face -- and literally seemed not to realize he was bleeding at all.
Thinking quickly, Sam reached over and ripped the apron off of Mrs. Benson and wrapped it tight around Spencer's hand to stem the flow.
"That was my good apron!" Mrs. Benson complained, actually shocked.
"Well, someone had to do something before he becomes a blood sausage without the blood."
"That is disturbing imagery."
“I know -- what do we do?"
Mrs. Benson sighed and rolled her eyes. "Obviously he has to go to the emergency room." She sighed extra heavily at the inconvenience. "I'll get my keys."
"I could take him," Sam suggested quietly.
Mrs. Benson laughed like it was a joke. "You?"
Sam shrugged gruffly. "It's on my way home. I can kick him out of the car and be home for supper. Carly can pick him up." She added, with emphasis, "It's no big deal."
Mrs. Benson shrugged, happy that the problem was out of her hair; her only sorrow was that it cost her one of her many monogrammed aprons.
No one thought it was unusual for Sam to be dragging a bloody Spencer through the Bushwell Plaza lobby; in fact the elements of Sam, blood, and Spencer went together so well, no one -- not even inanely vigilant Lewbert -- questioned the combination.
Sam had taken her Mom's station wagon to Carly's, one of her first expeditions of driving alone in what she'd come to call "The Tank". And, passed out in the passenger seat, Spencer looked as innocent as a sleeping bunny. Obviously, she was being a very good Samaritan right now, and congratulated herself on her one good, selfless deed of the week.
But, once she pulled up to the ambulance bay, and the hospital staff said they could take it from there, a rare part of psyche -- a part she often ignored -- tugged at her. Seeing him, her friend, passed out and helpless, she could only half-ignore that part of her brain. She hollered for them to wait; she would go in -- worked out well, as she found out, once they were inside.
During the last calamity, Spencer had to fill out some paperwork and ended up putting Sam as his person to contact in case of an emergency. He said it used to be Socko, but Socko had become unreliable since acquiring a girlfriend. The hospital staffer said the person would have to be over eighteen, which meant neither Carly nor Freddie were eligible, and left only Sam. So, in the back of her mind, she knew she might come to be called upon to do some sort of person-like duty in regards to being the name on the form; she just never thought it'd be this scary.
She followed his wheelchair back to a triage bay where she was stopped by an ornery-looking nurse.
"Only family is allowed past this point -- are you his wife?"
"Yes," Sam found herself saying. It was an easy lie. They did things married couples would do, like eat ham together in their underwear and watch horror movies. They even nearly lived together and he often made her breakfast. They did everything married couples did, except....
"Wow, this is bad," the younger, cooler, male triage nurse remarked as he pulled away the apron with gloved hands.
"It was squirting blood like crazy five minutes ago," Sam said helpfully.
"Well, the bleed's not active now, but we'll have the doctor look at him right away. His vitals are...he's lost some blood."
The curtain was pulled for privacy and Sam was alone with unconscious Spencer. She moved closer and sat down in the singular chair provided by his bed. Now, in this closeness, she could truly see just how pale he was; even his lips, normally curled into the smile of a jester or a rogue, depending on his mood, were now milk-white. Looking at him, seeing him like that, she realized, with a pang of shrill terror: he could've died.
His accidents were often downright funny; even the resulting injuries were comical -- especially when it involved her accidentally aiming for his groin. But this wasn't funny. It was horrifying. The jester, he was not. Now he really was the rogue -- the rogue that smiles before he gets himself killed.
She promised herself she would not let him go all James Dean as she clasped her cold fingers and around his even colder, uninjured ones.
More than anything, she wanted him to open his eyes and look at her. If she saw those sparkling brown eyes again, she'd never stop looking at them. Some of the happiest seconds of her life involved looking into those eyes and cracking up with the happiest laughter, laughter he incited in her, because he could do that -- always.
"You're going to be okay," she told him firmly, brushing his palm with hers. It was the first time she'd ever held his hand to hold it -- not out of childish excitement or for some dumb skit -- but actually hold it.
His hands were callused from his intensive sculpting, but not displeasingly so. No, his hands belied genuine work, but there was softness there too -- whether it was natural or lotion-induced, she didn't care; she liked it. And his hands were so much bigger than hers; she barely came up to his shoulder, so it was only natural -- but she'd never really noticed it before. He could cup her entire little hand in his with room to spare if he wanted and -- he twitched. His hand twitched. And then his fingers, in reaction, curled around hers with strength she hadn't expected.
She held her breath as his thick eyelashes fluttered and didn't exhale until his lids parted and she could see his wonderful brown eyes focus on her, meet with her own blue-green orbs, and regain their signature twinkle.
"Sam," he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat to find his voice. "Where am I?"
"Hospital."
"Was it spectacular?"
She nodded as tears irrationally poured from her eyes. "Yes."
Before anything more could be said, the curtain was flung back and the doctor entered with a certain amount of grandeur his profession bestowed. Being a teaching hospital (Seattle was full of them), a gaggle of interns followed the attending in. All of the commotion gave Sam time to wipe her eyes and compose herself -- most of all, withdrawing her hand from Spencer's.
The doctor read the chart as the interns checked Spencer's vitals once more, just to be sure.
"A fire extinguisher," the doctor muttered. "Your last visit was also fire extinguisher-related...a concussion." Well, he closed the chart. "Dr. Lee here is going to stitch you up and we'll be replenishing you with some of that blood you lost. AB positive," he added to another intern.
My blood type, Sam mused to herself, but she snapped out of it when she saw that the attending physician had left them alone with the most nervous intern ever. That would not do.
"Don't touch him," she ordered the scared young man. "I'll be right back."
"Of course, Mrs. Shay," Dr. Lee simpered, setting down the stitching kit he'd been fumbling with.
Sam jumped up from her seat and caught up with the attending who was already flirting with a female staffer just outside the triage bay.
"Spencer is in there bleeding and you're going to let some scared kid sew him up like bad homemade prom dress."
"Mrs. Shay --" Sam had to stop herself from correcting him, to continue the ruse, "-- this is a teaching hospital. Dr. Lee is one of our best interns and perfectly capable --"
"But is he the best?" Sam asked.
"Uhm..."
"Out of this whole hospital," she said, gathering up her good ol' Puckett moxie, "who is the best at sewing people up? Say it was your wife -- say it was the one you loved in there -- who would you have sew them up?" Internally, she promised him the butter sock if he didn't deliver an acceptable answer.
"A plastic surgeon," he said, his ego knocked down more than a few pegs. "Ahmed or Valdez."
"Then I want one -- or, what the heck? -- both of them down here. ASAP. Or STAT. Or whatever it is you freaks in white coats say."
“Of course, Mrs. Shay," the doctor murmured with a nod of obeisance.
Sam gave him an approving nudge on the arm and went back to rejoin Spence, whose wound had, in the meantime, been bandaged, and who was looking more colorful now that blood was being pumped back into his veins. He was propped up on some pillows, sitting up, regarding her with an amused smile.
"Everyone around here is calling you 'Mrs. Shay'," he said.
Sam's face went red as she tried desperately to play it cool. "They wouldn't let me back here if I hadn't said that. If you'd prefer I'd leave..."
His good hand softly grasped her wrist, silently apologizing for his mocking, silently begging her to stay. Really, she had no intention in following through on her implied threat anyway.
He sighed, smiling, when she sat back down. "And it's not like it's a major lie. I mean, we sit around in our underwear and eat ham together. Isn't that what married people do? Well, for the most part...."
She rolled her eyes. "I guess you really did lose a lot of blood if your mind is going in THAT direction."
His smile became more lopsided than before, more roguish. "My mind goes in that direction more than you think...wife."
Sam's body was lit afire at that. Especially the way he said ‘wife’. It rolled off his tongue like it was a dare, a sexy dare -- not just some necessary charade. And she could sense the heat rising from him, too. This whole ordeal was turning him on too. It wasn't just her crazy, girlish fantasy. There was palpable tension between them that burned so hot, she literally wondered, in frenzy, if it was safe for him to have all his blood in his cock right now. No, it was probably bad. They should at least wait til the transfusion was over. Then they could clear off the bed...
Not touching him was more difficult than it should’ve been, because it lead her mind to think very erotic, hospital-bed-shaking thoughts. He seemed to be of the same mind and drew her close; that way, the excitement of wanting to touch her would be cooled by the act itself. Their imaginations, after years of fermenting, were quite potent; holding each other cooled that end of the spectrum. He pulled her to him, pulled her into the bed so that they could be close; that act reminded him of how weak he was, how he would be happy to just hold her and nothing more...for now -- the more would come later, and he let her know that, whispering the promise into her ear, forcing her to gasp with anticipation and giggle as the stubble from his chin brushed her neck.
And, to further cool off, she settled herself into the crook of his good arm and examined the gash bleeding through the gauze.
"Does it hurt?" she asked seriously, gently tracing her fingertip along the gauze's edge.
"More now that I know what happened," he grimaced. "But at least I put the fire out."
She hugged him tighter at that.
The curtain flung back and the plastics guy, Valdez, entered. He got down to businesses. Sam offered to move, but he scoffed. "You're young. You're lovers. It's natural to want to be close. And," he added, numbing the site, "I want to you to watch and listen, Mrs. Shay; you're going to have to remember my wound-care instructions, because he won't."
Sam was coming to relish hearing herself by that name. It felt right. She watched patiently as the doctor sewed the gaping wound into a very fine line with very small stitches. She was right in not letting the nervous intern near Spencer; the scar from this ordeal would be barely visible, knowable only to the both of them, merely because they knew exactly where to look.
A nurse had come in and announced they'd finally gotten in touch with Carly -- at Sam's request upon entering the hospital -- and that she was on her way.
They gave Spencer some painkillers and medicine to help him sleep; before Carly got there, before he fell asleep from the medicine, he wanted another word with Mrs. Shay.
"I meant what I said," he told her, pulling her onto his lap as he sat in the wheelchair, waiting for Carly to bring the car around to the front. "There's so much more...I want...I've been wanting..."
"Shh," Sam whispered, gently pressing her lips to his. "I believe everything you say. And as soon as you're well…"
They smiled mutually and kissed each other again before parting entirely as Carly arrived with the car. After all, they deserved to explore each other -- and their feelings -- in private, before exposing Carly to them. She was hysterical enough as it is. She couldn't take any more excitement that night.
But Sam couldn't stop smiling as they road home with Spencer snoring in the back; now, they knew.
Author: prettysirenx
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Fluff, angst, romance, humor
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer:Alas, I am not the owner of iCarly. If I was, you know there'd be a lot more canon Spam. =D
Author's Note: This is something that came to my mind the other day. I know I have some unfulfilled prompts out there. I wrote a lot of them on another device. It's a matter of editing and finding. As for my absence, I've been ill and busy and yeah. But I'm back now. And I just had to get my Spam on!
The sound of the smoke alarm didn't usually mean blood, but it did in this case. Sam was showing up anyway, but Mrs. Benson was also alerted by the screaming sound of both man and sensor; they both entered the apartment together to find a bunch of smoke that rapidly filled into the hallway once it found ventilation, clearing the room enough for them to see Spencer on the floor, doubled over his bleeding hand.
"At least I put the fire out," he said apologetically with a shrug.
"But why is there blood?" Mrs. Benson asked reasonably; she could handle any and all crises with calm rationality provided it didn't involve her most precious only son, who was, fortunately, nowhere in sight.
Spencer opened his arms, physically articulating the story of how the fire extinguisher was on its last leg, how the handle broke and cut him deep in his palm. And, with each gesticulation, fresh red blood spurted out of the gash, sending the warm sticky liquid flying in all directions. Normally, even Spencer would know this was bad, but the blood loss had obviously gotten to him -- he was white in the face -- and literally seemed not to realize he was bleeding at all.
Thinking quickly, Sam reached over and ripped the apron off of Mrs. Benson and wrapped it tight around Spencer's hand to stem the flow.
"That was my good apron!" Mrs. Benson complained, actually shocked.
"Well, someone had to do something before he becomes a blood sausage without the blood."
"That is disturbing imagery."
“I know -- what do we do?"
Mrs. Benson sighed and rolled her eyes. "Obviously he has to go to the emergency room." She sighed extra heavily at the inconvenience. "I'll get my keys."
"I could take him," Sam suggested quietly.
Mrs. Benson laughed like it was a joke. "You?"
Sam shrugged gruffly. "It's on my way home. I can kick him out of the car and be home for supper. Carly can pick him up." She added, with emphasis, "It's no big deal."
Mrs. Benson shrugged, happy that the problem was out of her hair; her only sorrow was that it cost her one of her many monogrammed aprons.
No one thought it was unusual for Sam to be dragging a bloody Spencer through the Bushwell Plaza lobby; in fact the elements of Sam, blood, and Spencer went together so well, no one -- not even inanely vigilant Lewbert -- questioned the combination.
Sam had taken her Mom's station wagon to Carly's, one of her first expeditions of driving alone in what she'd come to call "The Tank". And, passed out in the passenger seat, Spencer looked as innocent as a sleeping bunny. Obviously, she was being a very good Samaritan right now, and congratulated herself on her one good, selfless deed of the week.
But, once she pulled up to the ambulance bay, and the hospital staff said they could take it from there, a rare part of psyche -- a part she often ignored -- tugged at her. Seeing him, her friend, passed out and helpless, she could only half-ignore that part of her brain. She hollered for them to wait; she would go in -- worked out well, as she found out, once they were inside.
During the last calamity, Spencer had to fill out some paperwork and ended up putting Sam as his person to contact in case of an emergency. He said it used to be Socko, but Socko had become unreliable since acquiring a girlfriend. The hospital staffer said the person would have to be over eighteen, which meant neither Carly nor Freddie were eligible, and left only Sam. So, in the back of her mind, she knew she might come to be called upon to do some sort of person-like duty in regards to being the name on the form; she just never thought it'd be this scary.
She followed his wheelchair back to a triage bay where she was stopped by an ornery-looking nurse.
"Only family is allowed past this point -- are you his wife?"
"Yes," Sam found herself saying. It was an easy lie. They did things married couples would do, like eat ham together in their underwear and watch horror movies. They even nearly lived together and he often made her breakfast. They did everything married couples did, except....
"Wow, this is bad," the younger, cooler, male triage nurse remarked as he pulled away the apron with gloved hands.
"It was squirting blood like crazy five minutes ago," Sam said helpfully.
"Well, the bleed's not active now, but we'll have the doctor look at him right away. His vitals are...he's lost some blood."
The curtain was pulled for privacy and Sam was alone with unconscious Spencer. She moved closer and sat down in the singular chair provided by his bed. Now, in this closeness, she could truly see just how pale he was; even his lips, normally curled into the smile of a jester or a rogue, depending on his mood, were now milk-white. Looking at him, seeing him like that, she realized, with a pang of shrill terror: he could've died.
His accidents were often downright funny; even the resulting injuries were comical -- especially when it involved her accidentally aiming for his groin. But this wasn't funny. It was horrifying. The jester, he was not. Now he really was the rogue -- the rogue that smiles before he gets himself killed.
She promised herself she would not let him go all James Dean as she clasped her cold fingers and around his even colder, uninjured ones.
More than anything, she wanted him to open his eyes and look at her. If she saw those sparkling brown eyes again, she'd never stop looking at them. Some of the happiest seconds of her life involved looking into those eyes and cracking up with the happiest laughter, laughter he incited in her, because he could do that -- always.
"You're going to be okay," she told him firmly, brushing his palm with hers. It was the first time she'd ever held his hand to hold it -- not out of childish excitement or for some dumb skit -- but actually hold it.
His hands were callused from his intensive sculpting, but not displeasingly so. No, his hands belied genuine work, but there was softness there too -- whether it was natural or lotion-induced, she didn't care; she liked it. And his hands were so much bigger than hers; she barely came up to his shoulder, so it was only natural -- but she'd never really noticed it before. He could cup her entire little hand in his with room to spare if he wanted and -- he twitched. His hand twitched. And then his fingers, in reaction, curled around hers with strength she hadn't expected.
She held her breath as his thick eyelashes fluttered and didn't exhale until his lids parted and she could see his wonderful brown eyes focus on her, meet with her own blue-green orbs, and regain their signature twinkle.
"Sam," he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat to find his voice. "Where am I?"
"Hospital."
"Was it spectacular?"
She nodded as tears irrationally poured from her eyes. "Yes."
Before anything more could be said, the curtain was flung back and the doctor entered with a certain amount of grandeur his profession bestowed. Being a teaching hospital (Seattle was full of them), a gaggle of interns followed the attending in. All of the commotion gave Sam time to wipe her eyes and compose herself -- most of all, withdrawing her hand from Spencer's.
The doctor read the chart as the interns checked Spencer's vitals once more, just to be sure.
"A fire extinguisher," the doctor muttered. "Your last visit was also fire extinguisher-related...a concussion." Well, he closed the chart. "Dr. Lee here is going to stitch you up and we'll be replenishing you with some of that blood you lost. AB positive," he added to another intern.
My blood type, Sam mused to herself, but she snapped out of it when she saw that the attending physician had left them alone with the most nervous intern ever. That would not do.
"Don't touch him," she ordered the scared young man. "I'll be right back."
"Of course, Mrs. Shay," Dr. Lee simpered, setting down the stitching kit he'd been fumbling with.
Sam jumped up from her seat and caught up with the attending who was already flirting with a female staffer just outside the triage bay.
"Spencer is in there bleeding and you're going to let some scared kid sew him up like bad homemade prom dress."
"Mrs. Shay --" Sam had to stop herself from correcting him, to continue the ruse, "-- this is a teaching hospital. Dr. Lee is one of our best interns and perfectly capable --"
"But is he the best?" Sam asked.
"Uhm..."
"Out of this whole hospital," she said, gathering up her good ol' Puckett moxie, "who is the best at sewing people up? Say it was your wife -- say it was the one you loved in there -- who would you have sew them up?" Internally, she promised him the butter sock if he didn't deliver an acceptable answer.
"A plastic surgeon," he said, his ego knocked down more than a few pegs. "Ahmed or Valdez."
"Then I want one -- or, what the heck? -- both of them down here. ASAP. Or STAT. Or whatever it is you freaks in white coats say."
“Of course, Mrs. Shay," the doctor murmured with a nod of obeisance.
Sam gave him an approving nudge on the arm and went back to rejoin Spence, whose wound had, in the meantime, been bandaged, and who was looking more colorful now that blood was being pumped back into his veins. He was propped up on some pillows, sitting up, regarding her with an amused smile.
"Everyone around here is calling you 'Mrs. Shay'," he said.
Sam's face went red as she tried desperately to play it cool. "They wouldn't let me back here if I hadn't said that. If you'd prefer I'd leave..."
His good hand softly grasped her wrist, silently apologizing for his mocking, silently begging her to stay. Really, she had no intention in following through on her implied threat anyway.
He sighed, smiling, when she sat back down. "And it's not like it's a major lie. I mean, we sit around in our underwear and eat ham together. Isn't that what married people do? Well, for the most part...."
She rolled her eyes. "I guess you really did lose a lot of blood if your mind is going in THAT direction."
His smile became more lopsided than before, more roguish. "My mind goes in that direction more than you think...wife."
Sam's body was lit afire at that. Especially the way he said ‘wife’. It rolled off his tongue like it was a dare, a sexy dare -- not just some necessary charade. And she could sense the heat rising from him, too. This whole ordeal was turning him on too. It wasn't just her crazy, girlish fantasy. There was palpable tension between them that burned so hot, she literally wondered, in frenzy, if it was safe for him to have all his blood in his cock right now. No, it was probably bad. They should at least wait til the transfusion was over. Then they could clear off the bed...
Not touching him was more difficult than it should’ve been, because it lead her mind to think very erotic, hospital-bed-shaking thoughts. He seemed to be of the same mind and drew her close; that way, the excitement of wanting to touch her would be cooled by the act itself. Their imaginations, after years of fermenting, were quite potent; holding each other cooled that end of the spectrum. He pulled her to him, pulled her into the bed so that they could be close; that act reminded him of how weak he was, how he would be happy to just hold her and nothing more...for now -- the more would come later, and he let her know that, whispering the promise into her ear, forcing her to gasp with anticipation and giggle as the stubble from his chin brushed her neck.
And, to further cool off, she settled herself into the crook of his good arm and examined the gash bleeding through the gauze.
"Does it hurt?" she asked seriously, gently tracing her fingertip along the gauze's edge.
"More now that I know what happened," he grimaced. "But at least I put the fire out."
She hugged him tighter at that.
The curtain flung back and the plastics guy, Valdez, entered. He got down to businesses. Sam offered to move, but he scoffed. "You're young. You're lovers. It's natural to want to be close. And," he added, numbing the site, "I want to you to watch and listen, Mrs. Shay; you're going to have to remember my wound-care instructions, because he won't."
Sam was coming to relish hearing herself by that name. It felt right. She watched patiently as the doctor sewed the gaping wound into a very fine line with very small stitches. She was right in not letting the nervous intern near Spencer; the scar from this ordeal would be barely visible, knowable only to the both of them, merely because they knew exactly where to look.
A nurse had come in and announced they'd finally gotten in touch with Carly -- at Sam's request upon entering the hospital -- and that she was on her way.
They gave Spencer some painkillers and medicine to help him sleep; before Carly got there, before he fell asleep from the medicine, he wanted another word with Mrs. Shay.
"I meant what I said," he told her, pulling her onto his lap as he sat in the wheelchair, waiting for Carly to bring the car around to the front. "There's so much more...I want...I've been wanting..."
"Shh," Sam whispered, gently pressing her lips to his. "I believe everything you say. And as soon as you're well…"
They smiled mutually and kissed each other again before parting entirely as Carly arrived with the car. After all, they deserved to explore each other -- and their feelings -- in private, before exposing Carly to them. She was hysterical enough as it is. She couldn't take any more excitement that night.
But Sam couldn't stop smiling as they road home with Spencer snoring in the back; now, they knew.