A/N: Continues on from 3x18. Totally angsty fluff with absolutely no point.
Warning: Slightly sexual stuff at the end.
Why didn't he remember? How could he forget? Those words he spoke to one of Serena's first conquests, with a smirk and an exhale of pot.
In exquisite detail the lacrosse player gave a play by play of the events that had taken place in a backroom of his parent's golf club, ending with: "Dude, I fuckin' love her."
He clapped Justin Parker's back with a paternal shake of his head. "Nah, man. You got it all wrong. You love fucking her."
Most of the boys in the locker room gave a nasty chuckle and even Justin managed a small smile.
"Beginner's mistake," Carter noted in almost sympathy. Another drag and he'd moved on. Plenty of fish in the sea—a few even as slutty as Serena Van der Woodsen.
He wasn't that guy anymore. Not every day, anyway. But sometimes he missed it: knowing everything and caring about none of it. Sure beat where he was now: knowing nothing and caring too damn much.
For almost a minute he'd watched the car make a slow retreat back onto Manhattan's busy streets. It had disappeared around a corner before he managed to pull out his cell.
There were always other planes, and Carter Baizen wasn't someone who got left behind.
(He always left first.)
It wasn't hard to find her. This whole venture into telenovela territory had disappointment written all over it. And a disappointed Serena was always a highly visible (generally gin-soaked) one. Oh, he understood it all right. He'd gone through the whole trying-to-find-himself thing, only the last place he'd wanted to look was at his parents.
Serena hated to drink alone and they shared a common talent for finding the only bars open before midday. So he wasn't surprised to find her stirring a martini in some closet-sized bar, which managed to distort all laws of nature by being dim and dank at eleven in the morning.
Serena looked up at him with unnervingly sober eyes. The last of his anger from an embarrassing wait on a sidewalk and a lonely flight seemed inconsequential.
"You're here," she greeted him uncertainly, warring emotions stilling her movements.
"Of course I am." He slid into the booth till he could feel the warmth from her clingy knit dress. "You make a lousy travelling partner, beautiful."
"No, I don't." And they both knew it. The fleeting smile disappeared before her next sip.
He wanted to wrap an arm around her, but decided it was better to just order a drink. "Did you find him?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
Serena let out a bitter laugh. "I did." Found too much. Knew too much. "And I don't want to talk about it," she interrupted, before he could say anything.
He shrugged, knowing she'd talk when she felt like it and not a moment sooner.
"I called him," she said abruptly, finishing the last of her drink.
"Your father?"
She shook her head, holding tight to her now empty glass. "Nate," she breathed, like that should mean something to him. "Last night, after mom—" She turned those too wide navy eyes on him. "I left him a message. I said that I...that I needed him."
Carter turned away, scowling into his glass. She'd said his name last night too. He hadn't even thought anything of it. Nathaniel Archibald was cool enough: a good wing defense with an easy laugh. But he was just another rich sob-story, a Van der Bilt with a pretty pout who could never handle his whiskey.
And Serena was...Serena.
It hadn't even occurred to Carter that this was something he should be concerned about. If he was smart he'd use Nate's mistake to his advantage.
(But Serena always made him stupid.)
"He probably just didn't get the message," he told her, fighting for nonchalance. "He was never the brightest bulb," he added, because it was only fair and he couldn't resist.
One hand held up her head, her hair falling in tangles over her face. "No, I'm the idiot. I really thought he'd come." She gave another one of those dark laughs. "Why are you here, Carter?" It was barely a whisper of an accusation and she didn't look up from the table.
He'd only asked himself that a thousand times. "C'mon let's get out of here. Even my mini-bar has better rum than this," he sneered.
He pulled Serena into the bright, late-morning light. Now he could see that her bronze eyelashes were clumped together, the red in her cheeks hadn't come from any bottle. He tugged her close, trying to orientate himself enough to find his hotel.
It was only a short walk, but Serena was unaccustomedly silent and withdrawn.
He closed the door to his hotel room and Serena walked to the bed, laying back and never bothering to look around. Neither of them did. It looked like the million other hotels they'd lived in—boring decor and even more boring art.
"Nate told me to stay away from you." Serena rubbed her hands over her face, somehow managing to feel old and tired, and young and scared at the same time.
Carter almost smiled, because Nate really was an idiot. You didn't tell Serena Van der Woodsen what to do. You didn't cling . You didn't trap her. You let her do whatever she pleased and hoped like hell she'd include you.
Carter stopped worrying that Nate would charge his phone or whatever, because he was certain it no longer mattered. Nate didn't understand Serena, and sooner or later she'd remember who did.
"You shouldn't have come," she repeated quietly.
He lay beside her, certain there wasn't an answer he could give her that wouldn't be a mistake. "I couldn't not come," he ground out.
Serena rolled into his body, sticky lips tracing the edge of his jaw. He knew he shouldn't let her do this. Shouldn't let her kisses stain him when her tears threatened to fall at any moment. But she tasted like dry gin and too many memories to count.
A few tears slipped and her hands pulled at his shirt frantically, lips working over his, mindless and desperate.
He whispered her name, shushing her till she slowed down, falling back onto the bed. He whispered comforting words, not even hesitating when he realised he had no idea what was wrong.
Huge, watery eyes searched his frantically. "You left."
He kissed her softly, pressing his lips gently into her wet cheeks. "I came back."
Serena nodded, as if that was enough. Neither of them had room for accusation. They didn't have the lives for expectations. This—his wet lips over her salty skin—was maybe all they ever had, all they could ever ask for.
He tasted his way down her body. He pushed her dress up around her waist. In the midday glare he could see every freckle, every tremble in her flesh. He savoured it all. Her long fingers wrapped in his hair, low moans urging him on.
And it wouldn't last, she'd be gone before he could even get used to having her in his arms, but buried between her thighs, with her breathy gasps in his ear and the sharp taste of her on his tongue, he couldn't quite bring himself to care. She came with muffled screams, fingernails pricking into his shoulders and he pulled himself back up her body, his body hard and hot, like he hadn't been since he was twelve and sick with desperation.
She gave him a faint smile, but he could tell she'd found that oblivion she'd sought. He closed the blinds and heavy curtains, leaving the room stained with inky darkness and just a few slates of light.
Serena wrapped around him snugly, tucking her head into his chest. But he wasn't foolish enough to let himself believe.
When she woke up, she'd remember her boyfriend; her belated guilt would be terrifying and destructive.
She'd run. Maybe he'd follow, maybe he wouldn't.
He mouthed the words to himself in the dark.
Beginner's mistake.
E/N: Oh yeah, and if you were wondering, Little J can totally delete Nate's messages.