A/N: I have no idea. None. I just woke up at 7:40 this morning and had to write it.

Summary: It's the most awkward thing in the world, having to be like this after a messy and public breakup.

Set: Post season 2. Once again, there is no season 3. At all. Who said that?

Spoilers: None

The Dance

It's the most awkward thing in the world, having to be like this after a messy and public breakup. But they're still friends, as they tell everyone. No residual pain, not anguish, he doesn't wake up in the middle of the night wondering where the hell she is and she definitely doesn't tear up when she walks into the kitchen expecting to find him making coffee and instead finds her house just as empty as she is.

So this is fine. Absolutely fine. For the sake of their friends they can share one little dance. Of course they can. She doesn't even dig her nails into his hand to make a point. She loves – loved – his hands, so there's really no reason she should take out her pain on them.

As his other hand settles feather-light on her back, he feels literally nauseated. This shouldn't be happening. They should not be forced back into this for the sake of social niceties. Neither of them should have to go through it. He's been doing a perfectly wonderful job of never coming close enough to smell the much beloved fragrance of her conditioner - her perfume is unavoidable but the conditioner he can manage. Not touching her at all seemed a daunting prospect until he realised that he could count on one hand how many times they touched before they first kissed, and then he remembered how to do it. It's not easy, but he can cope. Barely.

Now that he has her in his arms again, however, he's not sure he'll be able to continue the exercise; because she still smells like his Amanda, still feels like her; her skin is just as soft, her lips even more inviting, her hair still bounces adorably around her face - the only thing that's changed is her eyes. Once they sparkled with life and desire and whimsy: now all he sees in them is pain. He's sure his aren't much different.

He consciously pulls himself out of his head and into the moment, turns his attention to the woman he once shared his life with. She seems uncomfortable in the same way he is – uncomfortable that they could still so easily be comfortable like this.

Consequences be damned, he holds her closer, more firmly, his head rests against the side of hers and he lets floral conditioner and Elizabeth Arden Red Door fill his nostrils.

He feels her head shift to rest against his shoulder, and completely out of habit he drops the merest suggestion of a kiss onto her blonde head.

He hears her voice for the first time since their mutual protestations that they didn't want to dance together at Layla's birthday drinks. "Simon?" she says, and he knows he never enjoys his name so much as when it comes from her lips.

With an "Mm?" he prompts her to continue.

"I miss you." Amanda states. It's quiet but unafraid; she sounds like she's too damaged for anything he says to hurt her more.

Simon closes his eyes and buries his face in her hair, mumbling after a long moment:

"I miss you too."