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Author's Note: Written for the livejournal community burnthe_city. Set in some indeterminate future. Hope you enjoy! And thank you for reading! :]
She shoves him through the door hard and slams it shut behind them. He staggers back, almost spills the drink in his hand, brings the other hand to his face as he watches her with a devilish, wholly inappropriate grin on his face. "Aw, come on," he pouts exaggeratedly, hair awry and bruise already starting to darken across his cheek, "Was just startin' to get good…"
She huffs, breathless, heart pounding hard; she can make out irritated voices out in the hall, Chuck's and Nate's and Dan's and Blair's smooth, biting tones undercutting them all.
"SERENA." He calls, loud and frustrated, through the door and she knows it's unfair, especially today of all days, but she calls back, "Give us a minute!" And turns around, faces the room, leans back against the door.
"Yes," she rolls her eyes at him, smoothes down the bodice of her wedding dress, "Punching, always good…."
He takes another step back and then lowers himself on a sofa. He leans back on it, his legs outstretched in front of him - just causally lounging there in front of her, him in his suit jacket and opened collar, her in couture wedding dress and heirloom diamonds – like he hadn't just crashed her wedding reception and caused a scene most likely already being written up for Page Six.
"Do you always have to cause a ruckus at my gala events?" She murmurs, not quite as disapproving as she ought to be. She should be more upset, she knows. But it's hard, with him sitting there, smirking at her, slowly taking in the sight of her in the same appraising and fond way she was doing to him.
"Bit of an overreaction if you ask me," he offers , touching the side of his face gingerly
"Really?" She arcs her eyebrows, "You don't think you provoked him a little bit?"
He pretends to consider the question, takes a sip from the glass in his hand, "Maybe the part where I called him a pretentious asshole."
"Hmh…" she makes a noncommittal sound as she moves towards him. Then she nods, "Yes, that; or the part where you kissed me on the mouth."
He gives her a lop-sided grin when she sits beside him, "Oh yeah," his gaze drops to her lips, "That."
"Carter." She says, a bit more sternly, purses her lips.
"It's customary to kiss the bride."
"Kiss, yes. French, no."
"I get carried away sometimes…" he lifts his gaze to hers, "Your fault."
"My fault?"
"Being so fucking amazing," he informs her, leans towards her.
She leans back, smiles at him softly, "My apologies…"
"Only appropriate," he teases, "My face hurts."
She pouts now, just as exaggerated as his was, bats her lashes at him, and takes his glass from him, holds it up to his face. "Aww, poor baby…" she means it teasingly, she does; but something shifts in his expression, his eyes, and suddenly it's real.
Abruptly and unmistakably it's there on his face, why he came.
"You got married," he points out, the words quiet.
And her heart thumps a little slower; the glass feels heavier in her hand. "I…" she swallows hard, "Yes." There's a sting of something sharp inside her and she can't quite find the breath to add anything else.
"You married him," he echoes, gaze locked with hers.
And she hears the myriad of questions behind the three words - why? and how could you? and do you love him?
She licks her lips, "I know."
"I didn't think that would happen," he whispers and the confession goes straight to her gut.
She winces, wants to look away and can't; feels frozen there, facing an arrangement, a relationship they'd never really had the words for anyway. "Things…" she breathes, throat tight, "They still… happen, when you're away." She presses the glass a bit harder against his cheek, "My life goes on." I exist even when you're not watching.
He flinches, lifts a hand and covers hers over the glass. "I know that," he pulls the glass away a little, "I know," he repeats, "I just… you…" he lowers their hands, the glass between them, "You and me."
"Don't," she pulls her hand free, shakes her head. "Don't do that, this, not now…" she stands, "Not today…"
He sighs and looks at up, "Tomorrow then?"
She draws in a deep breath, narrows her eyes at him, "Carter."
And he finishes the drink, sets the glass aside. "I was in Sri Lanka, I almost got here yesterday."
"That wouldn't have been okay either."
He stares at her for a beat and then stands smoothly from the sofa, approaches her, "When would have been okay?"
She presses her lips together, "We can't do this."
"It's just a question."
"It's never just anything," she mumbles, looks away.
He stands in front of her, maybe too close; and he tilts her chin towards him, she keeps her gaze downcast, "We could be wind surfing off the cliffs of Cyprus or tanning on the deck of a yacht in the Mediterranean…"
"We… could be a lot of things..." she acknowledges carefully and then looks at him, adds gently, "Could've."
"And you don't wish…?" He lets the sentence trail away.
She lifts her hand and takes his, holds it away from her face; brings it down between them. "Wishes don't always come true."
He tugs her closer and she lets him, it's not right. She knows. She's wearing another man's ring, wants to be wearing this ring – but still, he's watching her and under his gaze she'll always be just a little bit thirteen, enamored with his sly smile and dark blue eyes.
"It's never really too late for a wish to come true." He tells her, faces nearly touching, a hand coming around her waist.
And she lets him, holds still in his hold and closes her eyes. She doesn't need to see it, to know when he's about to kiss her, she can feel it – and she allows that too, lets it happen. Just one more time, she whispers to her conscious, just this last time because once— once she'd expended countless night's-skies full of First-Star-I-See-Tonight's on him.
He's familiar and warm and she forgets everything; thinks of nothing, but this moment and how it feels to be with him, how it could've been.
But the moment passes and she pulls back slightly, keeps her eyes closed as she slides her cheek against his, props her chin on his shoulder and wraps her arms around him, hugs him tight.
She turns her face into him, lips brushing against his ear as she whispers, "My wish did come true…" her breath hitches a little as she adds, "It's just a different wish."
They stand like that for a long time; he doesn't reply, doesn't let her go, and she doesn't ask for either.
When he gives her a quick squeeze, mumbles hoarsely, "You're getting better at the brush-off, van der Woodsen," and pulls away, she feels like she can breathe again… and like she's going to cry.
"It's not—"
He smirks at her, a hand still at her waist, "I know it's not."
Her mouth snaps shut, he's looking at her with that glint in his eye she's always associated with stealing boats and losing her clothes in the ocean. "Oh?" She murmurs, leaning back a little, not dislodging his hand yet.
He glances down for a moment and then looks up at her through lowered lashes, "Yeah…" his hand takes hers suddenly and he steps back quickly, spins her under his arm and pulls her back in against him in one smooth move, "I get wishes too you know…"
And she has to laugh, surprised and unbalanced and strangely relieved at the half-smile on his face. She puts a hand to his chest, steadies herself, "I know what you should wish for..." she teases.
"Yeah?" He touches his nose to hers, "What's that?"
"That cat-like ability to land on your feet when you climb out of that window…" She points behind him, "Since going back out there," she motions towards the door, "Might be detrimental to your health…"
He tilts his head to one side, "Concerned, are we?"
She touches his cheek lightly, "Of course," hesitates and then adds, "Always."
His smile falters for a beat and then he steps back, hands falling to his sides. "You look good in a wedding dress," he offers, rakes his gaze over her body; smirks at her when his gaze reaches her face again, "Even better out of it, I'm sure…"
She rolls her eyes, "Window."
"For now."
"Carter…" there's a thread of warning in her voice, maybe pleading. She's never been all that great with choices and paths laid out for her – getting here, to this day, wedding dress and ring and someone's wife, was already a minor miracle in and of itself.
He saunters over to it, peers out of it. "No problem. You're sure?"
She laughs softly again, does not read between the lines. "That I don't want you walking back through my reception area, yes. Completely."
He smiles, just a hint of sad at the edges, and then gives her a careless shrug, opens the window.
She almost manages to hold her tongue for a beat as he prepares to slip out of it, almost.
"You'll be back."
It's not quite a question and she refuses to take it back, even if she should.
He pauses, halfway out already, shoots her knowing look, "Always."
And then he's gone and she's left alone in the sitting room with guests and friends and family… and a husband, waiting for her just outside the door.
.fin.