summary: He's an undercover detective. She's the mob bosses daughter. This spells out trouble. -— serenanate, au.
notes | i should be studying as i have a maths test tomorrow and no clue as to what i'll be doing and a spanish test on tuesday but here i am instead. this was inspired by a gifset but you can't hyperlink here grr. pm me if you want it because this isn't really my idea at all. IMPORTANT: this is just a prolouge, and the rest of the story is set four months in the past so it makes no sense right now. the second chapter is actually half way finished i'm just too lazy to finish it and also i hated the format of how it looked going back in time on the same chapter k.
visions are seldom what they seem
serenanate
::
It's supposed to be his big break. His name up in lights in the detective business. Nataniel Archibald, so young but so talented — but he's still a stupid kid who'll fall in love on a whim with a beautiful girl with sparkling blue eyes and shiny blonde hair.
You should of done better, his superior's words still ring in his ear; he knows. He knows he should of done better, but he can't go back in time and turn the clocks around to get the job done right.
He walks home alone across the New York sidewalk, lights dazzling and the city full of promise; but he's broken all of his promises and his heart is crushed. He wishes he could blame someone, anyone; but he only has himself to blame.
He half expects his phone to call, a voice that can be as sweet as honey or as sharp as a knife filling up his ears with forgiveness, (or hatred; he'll take anything he can get) but he's not a fool. He won't hear that voice for a long time; if ever again.
Falling onto the couch when he gets home, briefcase sliding from his hands to the floor, he fumbles around in his pocket for a phone. It's time to take a page out of Colin Singleton's book and call her. It lands on her voicemail, (of course it does; he forgot she had caller ID): It's Serena!, there's a infectious laugh in the background and he can picture her head thrown back in glee as someone tells her something that makes her erupt in laughter, I'm busy at the moment, but I promise I will return your call! Talk to you soon!
The phone beeps, waiting for him to record a message. This will be one call she won't be returning, "Hey, it's uh, it's Nate. I just wanted to call and say I'm sorry, S and I-" Words are jumbled up, and the line goes dead and he's left thinking: When did I turn into a Humphrey?
She's probably with Dan Humphrey now, back in the arms of the Brooklyn Prince who wears an shield of plaid and waxes poetic nonsense about her laugh, and the curves of her face and the wrinkles that crinkle up under her eyes whenever her mouth moves. Authors, he growls with disgust at the word.
Maybe he should give it a go. Writing, that is. Scribble down a bunch of words and arrange them into a story. Maybe he could write his story; their story. He's drunk, the alcohol still fresh on his breath from his night out at a pub to forget the girl troubles that he's brought down upon himself and the trouble work had brought along because of it.
"What a stupid idea to win her back, Archibald." He curses, before reminding herself that she's not a prize to be won. He can't lie, and cheat, and use her and expect she'll be at his doorstep (she doesn't even know where you live, idiot) because he told her he loved her. That was one thing he never lied about. Using a sappy line that belongs in a movie or a cheap television show isn't going to get anyone anywhere.
He should be focused on work anyway, that's more important. Yet, the two thinks are interchangeable. Thinking about work leads to Serena, thinking about Serena leads back to work. It's a never ending cycle that will lead to a few more beers and his best friend returning from where ever the fuck he is to rescue him out of his own mess. Or he could turn up on Serena's doorstep, but the doorman would kick him out. He tried yesterday, and the day before; after one too many beers.
Eyes droop close softly, pale lids covering blue eyes that match hers. Images of what started everything replaying in his mind like an old film reel, her name falling off of his lips as he drifts off to another state.