Title: "(don't) Save Me the Waltz" 1/1
Rating/Classification: PG-13 for one dirty word, Coleman/Sam-ish, gen
Disclaimer: ABC daytime, Disney, blah blah blah
Summary: A filler scene for Coleman and Sam's 12/10 dance.
It's been a long time since he's a held a woman he didn't have to pay for in some way or another. Info, a hundred bucks on the right horse, a six pack and a cut of Ritalin. This one, he's won fair and square. Free, but probably not so clear.
She's soft and brittle all at the same time. He's afraid to hold her too close, but he does it anyway, resting his cheek against her hair and rubbing circles between her sharp shoulder blades. She's a tiny thing. Pocket-sized. But she normally has ten feet of attitude to make up for it. Attitude and one Hell of a rack get Sam McCall exactly what she wants. But not tonight. Tonight, she's sad. And whatever she wants, he ain't really it.
He's not too dense, too starved for skin, to see that.
He's learned his lesson about taking sad women to bed.
So, he just breathes her in.
Cinnamon and soap and bourbon, chased with beer. They drank from the same bottle. Almost as good as a kiss. Almost as good. That's what he is. A replacement for the real thing.
He ain't a pretty rich boy or a thug livin' on the edge. He's just the guy that'll serve booze and sympathy in exchange for a fuck, a dance, and sometimes just a smile.
He's just the guy. The go-to guy.
And he's got nobody to go-to himself.
Them's the breaks.
Sam's head fits perfectly under his chin. Her little hand over his heart should be a green light for some fun between the sheets. Everything about her says "make me forget." Everything except what really counts.
He's not that dense. Not dense enough.
And he's learned his lesson.
So, he breathes her out.
December 12, 2004.