Three Times He Watched Her
Spoilers: Up to "Enough About Eve"
Rated: Teen-Alcohol Use, Sexual Reference
Paring: Carter/Serena
He sees her again and he doesn't know if it's the way her hair goes flying from a passing bus or the prospect of their future together, as in together, that makes him want to go running in the opposite direction and back to the plane he so hopelessly abandoned an hour ago. She hasn't seen him, but he knows with the way he's been standing there like a first rate deer caught in the headlights, she's going to see him soon. With his heart thumping in his throat, he turns and heads into a café, praying to god they have an open window seat. They do and, as he waves away the waitress, he looks out at the street and she's still there, walking like a goddamn goddess. For a moment he's sure she's spotted him, but he just wait's a second more, every bone tingling like a damn high school tween on her way to the dance, while she rushes across the street, golden hair bouncing out behind her. He grabs the passing waitress and he can't help but notice how washed out and dark she is…god. He's such a girl. He orders a cup of coffee and asks for a shot or five of whiskey in it.
The second time she doesn't know he's watching her; she's bent over the desk, highlighting some never ending paper. She keeps pushing her hair behind her ears, hoping that somehow the small delicate things will hold the mass. He pictures the way her ears felt in his hands, how soft her hair had been against his skin. His throat clenches and he hopes to god she doesn't look up, the expression on her face full of determination and sun spotted freckles. He was never a religious man until he met her, hell he was never much of a man, but she changed that. And the hair, it was always the hair.
They were yelling, and she even threw in a broken wine glass to top his inventive curses. And it got too much, too many words and not enough action, and she's running, just like he wishes he was running. He sighs and cleans up the broken glass, marveling at the way the purple wine stains it, almost the same way she had stained him. Angry and cold, it would dry over, forever etched into the curves. He waits up three hours, sipping quietly from a whiskey glass. The alcohol burns until he can't even feel it as it goes down. He wonders if this is how things end. Drink enough and you start to feel numb. Live enough and it starts to be irrelevant. He didn't think he could ever drink enough of her. She was all fire and brains, so impulsive sometimes he had a hard time keeping up with her lack of though. Around two in the morning she comes back, her keys betraying her far from stealthy entrance. He gets up and, shoving his hand in his dress pants, turns around the corner. He watches her stumble down the hall in the semidarkness. His chest is aching before she can even peek into the bedroom and he wants nothing more than to hold her, bury himself in her and lay there, caught up in her golden hair, forever. Instead he spins the cap of the whiskey bottle and grab's a pillow from the hall closet. Laying in the dark on the small couch, he wonders if she can't sleep either. His chest is burning and it has nothing to do with the alcohol. He just lays there and tries to breathe.