Disclaimer: The OC belongs to someone with much more money than me.
Author's Note: This little bitty story takes place before Seth met Summer's father. Happier times.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --
9:45 p.m.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --
"Cohen, tell me a story," she says, her voice in that light, airy, singsong whisper.
"About what?" He asks, running his fingers through her thick black hair.
She snuggles closer to him, lays her head on his chest, and pushes a heavy history book off the bed. "I don't care, anything but Mongols, and China and Genghis Can."
He doesn't bother to rectify her mistake. Even when she says a word wrong, it sounds right.
"Summer, you've heard all my stories," he insists.
"No," she shakes her head, brushes her hair in his face, sweeps it across his features. "I've only heard the ones you want me to hear. Tell me one you're hiding."
She leans into him, kisses him on the lips, whispers into his ear, "Tell me a story Cohen. I want to hear a story."
He thinks for a moment and then asks her, "Have I ever told you about Cool Dave?"
"No," she pouts, "But it already sounds boring."
"Hey now," he scolds her, holds up a finger, she bites at it. "Don't judge a story based on its title."
"That's a book Cohen," she corrects him, "Don't judge a book based on it's title."
He starts to correct her correction but stops himself. She's rubbing her feet up and down his legs. He can't remember what he was going to say.
"Cohen!" She draws his attention, "Hello! Your story?"
"Oh, right, Cool Dave." His puts his arm around her, squeezes her closer. She smells one part shampoo, one part perfume, all jumbled together. She's a human cocktail.
"Ryan's not the first cool friend I ever had."
Summer lifts her head. Scrunches her eyebrows together. "This is boring Cohen."
"Shhhh," he puts his index finger on her lips, "Just listen."
She settles back on his chest and he begins his tale.
"When I was ten, the coolest guy ever put on the Earth moved two houses down, thus his name, Cool Dave. He had this amazing car in his garage that he was restoring, a 1968 Jaguar. Everyday when I came home from school, he'd be in his driveway with that Jag, fixing it, or shining something. And he always played music, not too loud, just there, a part of everything that was happening."
Seth uses his hand to raise her chin, kisses her, "Do you like my story so far?" he asks. Summer shrugs, lays her head back down. She's always a tough audience.
"My being ten, I knew nothing about music or cars, so I assumed Dave knew all that was cool. There was this one song that I always waited for. He didn't play it that often, but every time it came on, I would just sit at the end of his driveway and listen. Nothing else mattered. Not the kids at school, or my scrawny ass or my ridiculous hair."
Her head pops off his chest, she faces him, fakes indignation, "I love your hair."
He smiles. "My hair loves you for loving it."
She settles back into him, wraps her legs around his, holds on tight.
"But," he sighs, "Such is the Cohen curse, all good things must come to an end. Cool Dave moved on, out of the neighborhood, packed up his shiny car and minty tunes and left me all alone."
"This is a sad story Cohen," she complains, traces the print on his t- shirt. He can feel her fingers through the thin material.
"Patience," he murmurs to her, nibbles an earlobe, "I'm not done yet."
"Right before he moved out, Cool Dave came to my door and gave me a present. That song I liked; he gave me the entire CD, brand spanking new, and told me I was by far the most exceptional ten-year-old he had ever met."
Summer lays quiet on his chest, listening, waiting for her story to end.
"And I'll never forget that feeling of taking off the cellophane wrapper, breaking the safety seal, opening up the jacket, knowing that I was the only ten-year-old in Newport that even had a clue that this band existed. I played that CD for days straight, and I'd go to school thinking I had an edge over the rest of them, that I felt and heard things they couldn't comprehend."
"I was a part of the rest of them." She says softly.
"No, you were always above them Summer. I never saw you as a part of them."
She slides her hand down his chest, settles it at his waist.
"Cool Dave gave me the tools to survive."
It's getting late, soon she'll have to say goodbye.
"So did you like my story?" He asks her, toying with the flimsy ties that keep her top together.
The alarm clock on his dresser is taunting them. It's five till ten. Five minutes before she has to leave.
Summer reaches over, picks up the alarm clock, and winds it back to 9:45 p.m.
She leans close, brushes a kiss on his eyebrow, reaches his ear, and whispers in her sweet, honey voice, "Tell me another story Cohen."
She's rainbows and flowers and music.
And he, Seth Cohen, has the edge.
Author's Note: This little bitty story takes place before Seth met Summer's father. Happier times.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --
9:45 p.m.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --
"Cohen, tell me a story," she says, her voice in that light, airy, singsong whisper.
"About what?" He asks, running his fingers through her thick black hair.
She snuggles closer to him, lays her head on his chest, and pushes a heavy history book off the bed. "I don't care, anything but Mongols, and China and Genghis Can."
He doesn't bother to rectify her mistake. Even when she says a word wrong, it sounds right.
"Summer, you've heard all my stories," he insists.
"No," she shakes her head, brushes her hair in his face, sweeps it across his features. "I've only heard the ones you want me to hear. Tell me one you're hiding."
She leans into him, kisses him on the lips, whispers into his ear, "Tell me a story Cohen. I want to hear a story."
He thinks for a moment and then asks her, "Have I ever told you about Cool Dave?"
"No," she pouts, "But it already sounds boring."
"Hey now," he scolds her, holds up a finger, she bites at it. "Don't judge a story based on its title."
"That's a book Cohen," she corrects him, "Don't judge a book based on it's title."
He starts to correct her correction but stops himself. She's rubbing her feet up and down his legs. He can't remember what he was going to say.
"Cohen!" She draws his attention, "Hello! Your story?"
"Oh, right, Cool Dave." His puts his arm around her, squeezes her closer. She smells one part shampoo, one part perfume, all jumbled together. She's a human cocktail.
"Ryan's not the first cool friend I ever had."
Summer lifts her head. Scrunches her eyebrows together. "This is boring Cohen."
"Shhhh," he puts his index finger on her lips, "Just listen."
She settles back on his chest and he begins his tale.
"When I was ten, the coolest guy ever put on the Earth moved two houses down, thus his name, Cool Dave. He had this amazing car in his garage that he was restoring, a 1968 Jaguar. Everyday when I came home from school, he'd be in his driveway with that Jag, fixing it, or shining something. And he always played music, not too loud, just there, a part of everything that was happening."
Seth uses his hand to raise her chin, kisses her, "Do you like my story so far?" he asks. Summer shrugs, lays her head back down. She's always a tough audience.
"My being ten, I knew nothing about music or cars, so I assumed Dave knew all that was cool. There was this one song that I always waited for. He didn't play it that often, but every time it came on, I would just sit at the end of his driveway and listen. Nothing else mattered. Not the kids at school, or my scrawny ass or my ridiculous hair."
Her head pops off his chest, she faces him, fakes indignation, "I love your hair."
He smiles. "My hair loves you for loving it."
She settles back into him, wraps her legs around his, holds on tight.
"But," he sighs, "Such is the Cohen curse, all good things must come to an end. Cool Dave moved on, out of the neighborhood, packed up his shiny car and minty tunes and left me all alone."
"This is a sad story Cohen," she complains, traces the print on his t- shirt. He can feel her fingers through the thin material.
"Patience," he murmurs to her, nibbles an earlobe, "I'm not done yet."
"Right before he moved out, Cool Dave came to my door and gave me a present. That song I liked; he gave me the entire CD, brand spanking new, and told me I was by far the most exceptional ten-year-old he had ever met."
Summer lays quiet on his chest, listening, waiting for her story to end.
"And I'll never forget that feeling of taking off the cellophane wrapper, breaking the safety seal, opening up the jacket, knowing that I was the only ten-year-old in Newport that even had a clue that this band existed. I played that CD for days straight, and I'd go to school thinking I had an edge over the rest of them, that I felt and heard things they couldn't comprehend."
"I was a part of the rest of them." She says softly.
"No, you were always above them Summer. I never saw you as a part of them."
She slides her hand down his chest, settles it at his waist.
"Cool Dave gave me the tools to survive."
It's getting late, soon she'll have to say goodbye.
"So did you like my story?" He asks her, toying with the flimsy ties that keep her top together.
The alarm clock on his dresser is taunting them. It's five till ten. Five minutes before she has to leave.
Summer reaches over, picks up the alarm clock, and winds it back to 9:45 p.m.
She leans close, brushes a kiss on his eyebrow, reaches his ear, and whispers in her sweet, honey voice, "Tell me another story Cohen."
She's rainbows and flowers and music.
And he, Seth Cohen, has the edge.