"Out of Season"
Part 17
By Sister Rose
Disclaimer: The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement on those rights is intended in this fictional work.
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When Ryan Atwood saw Summer's convertible in his parking lot, he was still trying to decide how to tell her about Seth. Should he tell her right when he got to the room and then have makeup sex after the big fight, or should he have sex with her and then tell her later so she could storm off after the fight?
Ryan wasn't sure which approach Summer would prefer. He did know enough to be certain the big fight part was about to happen.
He had tentatively decided to beg, a decision made unnecessary when he walked in and saw Summer and two other women, all wearing too-tiny shorts and too-tiny T-shirts and too, too much blue paint.
They were armed with paint rollers, and drop cloths covered every surface of Ryan's room, the surfaces that weren't covered with blue paint, at least.
Ryan stopped, key still in his hand, door wide open. He realized that the chattering noise he had heard as he walked toward the door had not been birds, but women talking. And now a bird was fluttering toward him, wielding a roller brush.
"Atwood, you're back early," Summer said. "Look! We're painting.
"Miss Roberts," he said. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
Ryan mentally kissed his room deposit goodbye and focused on not growling at Summer.
"Should I come back later?" he said.
Summer was so excited, she was still twittering. He had missed half her commentary.
"And my friend Lana here is an interior design student, so I talked her into doing this project with me."
Summer winked at Ryan. "You remember, it's for my class."
"Yes, Miss Roberts," he said. "Can I help?"
"No, we're about done for today, aren't we?" she said.
At her friends' agreement, they began packing up their rollers and paint cans, still yammering excitedly. Ryan helped, wondering how long they had been working. It had been at least long enough for the smell of paint to fill the tiny room.
"I'll just finish cleaning up here, and I'll see you both back tomorrow morning, right?" Summer said.
As they left, Summer smiled and smiled and smiled, right up until her friends drove away and she closed the door, turned and scowled at Ryan.
"I do not want to hear it," she said.
"I wasn't saying anything," Ryan said mildly. "I wanted to ask you a favor, but you've already done me the favor of painting my room, so I can't ask for anything else."
Summer's brown eyes turned suspiciously on him.
"What favor?"
Inside, Ryan was cheering for himself. This tactic wouldn't have occurred to him before he saw the shambles his room had become, but it just might work.
"Mr. Cohen needs a date Saturday night to that charity thing," Ryan said. "I told him I would ask you."
"I thought you would go with me," Summer said.
"I have to work," Ryan said.
"You could take off a couple of hours. It wouldn't kill you to have some free time," Summer said, a variation on her usual riff about him working too hard.
"Well, I don't have any time off this weekend, and," Ryan said, voice hardening, "you know I wouldn't be going with you anyway. I don't belong at a Newport party."
Summer's scowl started sliding into the puppy-faced expression that Ryan couldn't refuse. Except he had to deny her this time.
"I just thought ..." Summer started.
"No," Ryan said flatly. "Anything else you want, yes."
They folded drop cloths in silence, then Ryan got out the hot plate and his single skillet.
"Grilled cheese?" he offered.
"Sure," Summer said listlessly. "No, on second thought, I'll just go on home. Get ready for tomorrow."
"Please don't leave," Ryan said, pat of butter on a knife suspended over the skillet. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry for telling me no' or sorry I'm leaving," Summer asked.
"Both," Ryan admitted. "I'm sorry the answer has to be no,' especially since I really need you to do me that favor."
"Which?"
Ryan scraped the butter off the knife into the pan and set the knife aside. He turned off the hot plate and walked to the bed where Summer was sitting.
He knelt in front of her and took her hands in his.
"Please say yes when Mr. Cohen calls," Ryan said. "I can't go with you and you know that. Mr. Cohen is a nice guy and he'll take care of you at that party, in case Mr. Saunders has been spreading rumors or tries something or ...whatever."
Ryan actually didn't know what Mr. Saunders could do to Summer in public at a fancy party, but he didn't like it, whatever it was. And though he suspected he knew what Summer was capable of doing in retaliation, he didn't think any of it could do her reputation any good. Having Seth there would help, if he could just convince Summer to go with Seth. And what he had told Seth was true: Ryan did think they would have a good time together.
Which made Ryan's irrational jealousy at the thought of his own machinations succeeding ludicrous. Or at least stupid.
"All right," Summer said softly. "I'll do it."
Ryan kissed her paint-stained hands then stood swiftly.
"Thank you, thank you," he said, in between peppering her face with kisses. Even the stupid get lucky now and then.
"Stop it, Atwood," Summer said. "Sandwich now, ravishment later. I've been working up an appetite."
"Really? Me, too," Ryan said. "Only I haven't been painting somebody else's room without asking."
"Tell me you like it," Summer said.
"I like it," Ryan said obediently, popping one more kiss between her eyebrows before sitting beside her on the bed.
"You haven't even looked," Summer said, indignantly waving her cast at the chaos of his room.
"It looks great," Ryan said without looking, eyes still on hers. "I like blue."
"It's not blue," Summer said, even more indignantly. "It's periwinkle."
"Oh, good," Ryan said. "Is that a good gay color? And if I'm so gay, why didn't I know that?"
"You're a butthead is what you are," Summer said.
"Better a butthead than a doodyhead," Ryan said, reaching his hand around to tickle her ribs. "What do you call someone when you're really, really mad at them?"
"Better watch it or you'll find out," Summer said, twisting away from his tickling hand.
"What did you tell your friends about this paint job?" Ryan said. He leaned back on his hands and waited for her answer. He had been curious since he found out he was a class project.
"Oh, I told them it's a reclaiming the neighborhood project for art class, using found objects and recycled items as inspiration and foundation. Which I am in fact supposed to do, though I think the instructor had in mind making sculptures out of empty beer cans or something lame. Whatevs. I told Lana and Felicia you had agreed to let me do whatever I wanted to this room, just like on the TV shows. I took loads of before' pictures, and then we started. Lana really does know a lot about interior design, and I told Felicia she needed to paint for me because I have this bum wing and she could count it as charity hours for her sorority. So we're all going to cruise alleys and garage sales over the weekend. I want to find a chair at least. I'm tired of having only this bed to sit on."
"You're tired of sitting on my bed?" Ryan said. "How about lying on it instead?"
He pushed her backward. The bed frame shook as she fell. He followed her to the mattress.
"Ooh, forceful now, Atwood?" Summer said.
"You know it," Ryan said. "And for a change we both stink, so we can shower together after."
"I don't stink," Summer said.
"No, that's just the fresh, lilac fragrance of flowers growing in the landfill," Ryan agreed, sticking his nose in her sweaty armpit and rubbing it around.
"Stop, stop," she giggled.
"You wouldn't like it if I did," Ryan said, then set about the task of proving himself right.
Later, cuddling in the afterglow, Summer said, "So when did you start pimping for Seth Cohen?"
Ryan kissed her collarbone. Summer's hair was his favorite part of her, but her collarbone was special, also.
"How did you get a paint stain underneath your shirt?" he said, one rough finger circling the blue blotch under her breast.
"Talent," she said. "Cohen?"
"I knew him when we were kids," Ryan said. He flipped onto his front and laid his head on her stomach, placing a kiss near her navel. That was a nice part of Summer, too. "He recognized me a few weeks ago. We've been meeting for coffee, talking. I think he's lonely. Maybe he would be a good friend for you."
"What do you mean?" Summer said. A hand trickled through his sweaty hair and then down his nose to cup his jaw. The thumb rubbed his cheek softly, repetitively, stroking over the scars on his cheekbones.
"You said you've been lonely in Newport since your friend died. And then her dad killed himself, too, right?"
"Yeah, he didn't want to go to prison," Summer said.
"But you don't really have many friends, right? I mean, today's the first time I've heard of Lana or Felicity," Ryan said.
"Felicia," Summer corrected, "but you're right."
Ryan jerked his head up to examine Summer's face.
"I'm right?"
"Yeah, once a year or so, you can be right."
"I'm right?"
"Yes! I guess I do need some friends, but Seth Cohen? Ew," Summer said.
"What's so ew' about him?"
"Well, he's this super-rich guy, right? But all he's interested in are weird bands and comic books and he's like a total geek outcast who talks way too much," she explained. "Or he was in high school."
"Why don't you give him a chance?" Ryan said.
His head was back on her abdomen, and her hand was stroking his face again. He talked into the soft skin of her stomach by his mouth, listening to the thrum of her heart and the rumble of her voice under his ear. One hand was tucked under Summer's waist. The other played with her belly button ring.
"You didn't like dating Mr. Saunders, right?" Ryan said. "Mr. Cohen is definitely nothing like Mr. Saunders. So at least it would be something different."
Ryan stopped and nuzzled into Summer's stomach, inhaling the paint smell all around him. Would fresh paint always smell like Summer to him now? He didn't want to think about not having her soft body to cuddle, about thinking of her when he smelled paint instead of when he smelled her perfume, about living without her in his life. He wanted to keep her. He needed her and she needed him. They were good together. Maybe they should stay together.
He heard a rumbled growling. Summer's stomach. Who knew something so little could make such a big roar.
"I guess that's my cue to remember I owe you a grilled cheese," Ryan said.
He climbed out of the bed and pulled on his boxers.
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AN: I hadn't intended to put this up so soon, but I hate to make everyone wait, especially when there will be a big wait for Parts 18, 19 and 20, which I decided had to be rewritten completely. A couple of sentences survived the carnage. Look for more next week./Rose