Disclaimer: I do not own "Gossip Girl."
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Set in Santorini during Serena's boarding school year. No spoilers, but does take into account what we've learned of the Santorini-Events. :)
He does a double take when he sees her.
The club is dark and smoggy, strobe lights flashing and he's done a hit or two of something, chased it with enough alcohol that faces have been blurring together all night—just the way he likes it— there's a constant burr of noise, dulling voices and contributing to the surreal sensation he's worked hard to cultivate. The music envelops him, a pulsating beat that he can feel in his gut even as he pulls out of the circle that's formed itself around him on the dance floor— peals arms off his shoulders and nudges legs away as he gives his glass to the closest person with a free hand.
There're words directed at him as he moves away, but he doesn't catch them, doesn't try to. He's got his eyes fastened on her.
She's sitting on the bar; a foot of plaid uniform skirt lying over miles of bare legs and a tank top of indeterminate color in this lighting. Her legs are crossed at the knee and she wearing heels so high and spindly that for a moment they're all he sees—
But the flashing lights glint off a toss of her golden hair; and the music stutters for a beat, long enough that he swears he can hear her laughter over it—
She's completely out of place here (too fresh-faced, too beautiful, too joyful) and still completely in her element (a reigning Queen over subjects of adoring courtiers)— and she's a breath of air, of slice of home that draws him to her like a bee to honey.
He bumps into two people as he gets closer to her, laughs when he's less than two feet away from her—she's in some character, he can tell— a shoulder hitched too high in mock coyness, a hand in her hair playing with a strand of it between her fingers…
He walks right up to her, has to shove a guy out of his way to get close enough (and knows as soon as he does it, he just started a brawl).
He manages, "Don't I know you, Beautiful?" and a hand to her knee, before he's tackled from the side.
There's commotion of course, as he staggers to the side— knocks into someone else, there's a crashing of glasses and he's shoved back in the opposite direction, so of course he shoves someone too— loses sight of her in the ensuing scuffle; the flashing lights make it nearly impossible to get a clear view of who're you're facing and the press of people is getting vicious, there's shouting— some of it directed at him, no doubt, so he hisses, "Fuck off," in the general vicinity of the shouting's origin and when he feels the sting of a fist against his chin, he slams his own fist into someone's face—
There's hands on his arms then, pulling him back painfully and restraining him hard so he can't move and he is wasted because he can still hear her giggle for godssake, despite the blasting music—like his ears are attuned to the pitch of it and nothing else.
"Oh no, no! Please, please don't!" Her voice, high-pitched and completely unlike herself, reaches him and she's right there suddenly, a hand skimming his face and then her back pressed to his chest, "He's my brother…" and there's another giggle, strands of her hair hitting him in the face, "My Mama will have a hysterical episode if you break him and then I'll never be allowed back, boys!" He can smell her perfume, her shampoo, it fills his senses and he laughs, because he'd been in town for almost a week and hadn't gotten kicked out of anywhere yet— until now, "And I must come back, don't you think?!"
They're pathetic, the way they fall over themselves to agree with her.
The hold restraining him loosens and he rips himself away from them, an arm wrapping her waist as he spins them around.
She laughs as she lets him, breathes, "We should run now," against the corner of his mouth in a decidedly un-sister-like fashion.
She tilts her face so she can smile right at him— and it's pathetic the way he falls over himself to agree with her.
He lifts the hand currently not slipping under her tank-top to wave, says, "See ya!" Before turning around and yanking her with him into the crowd.
She laughs again, calls out, "Bye-Bye!" And as they weave through the host of people and he hears add breathily, "Oh may I…? Oh thank you! Thanks! So nice of you!"
It's not until they're at the doorway, spilling past it into the hot, starlit night that he sees what she's gushing over. In her free hand, she's holding two bottles by their necks, "Looky!" She informs him, all blonde hair and big smile, and spins away from him before he can respond, holding the bottles up in the air.
There's a golden arch of hair that flows behind her and he follows her dizzying steps without thought, grins, because the night has just taken the best kind of turn it can.
He follows her all the way down the street until she crosses it to the opposite sidewalk, then he stops and stares at her.
It's a high-end club they just ran out of, overlooking a red-sand beach— and that's where she's headed now, the steps that lead down to the sand.
She stops to take her shoes off, presses her hip to the wooden railing as she balances herself on one foot. The street lights illuminate the entire area (pale yellow, her tank-top is pale yellow), the music from the club a vague din and he stares at her as she slips one high heel off, then the other, and then looks around for him, spots him standing in the middle of the street, staring at her.
"Coming?!" She calls out, waves the bottles in the air again.
And he laughs, knows if he said no she'd shrug and laugh some more, say, too bad, slip off onto the beach and an hour from now there'll be a party going on out here on the sand…
He shakes his head and lopes over to her easily, night air is thick, sticky with heat, and the ocean is sounding mighty good right then…
He stops when he's front of her. She's holding still finally and he can see the twinkling blue of her eyes, really appreciate the way the light glimmers off her glossy hair, the way her lips are puckered in an amused half-smile, the crinkling of her nose as she tries not to laugh— she's always been the most adorable girl he's ever known.
She hands him a beer bottle in silence— it's not their drink, but they've never been all that picky.
And when he takes it, she lets her smile bloom, wide and brilliant and he's got no idea what the fuck she's doing here— is pretty damn sure she's still jailbait—and doesn't care.
"Hi," she says emphatically with that same grin as she tips her bottle towards his and clinks it in greeting.
He smiles, waggles his eyebrows, says, "Hiya... sis," and brings the bottle to his lips, takes a long drink.
She laughs, "Brilliant of me, huh!?" She compliments, "I helped you," she points out.
And he rolls his eyes, gives a her courtly bow, "My sincerest thanks."
She waves her hand, still holding her shoes, "I require your services for the evening!" She commanded, "Entertain me!"
He lifts his head, "Oh, my pleasure…" he says it with a wide smile and takes a step towards her, his hand going to her cheek and his lips covering hers. She tastes like mangos and salt (ice-cold margaritas) and her shoes poke him in the back when she wraps her arms around him, he trails the bottom rim of his beer bottle along her spine as he moves his hand up into her hair, his fingertips rubbing at her scalp as his tongue skims her bottom lip. She presses herself close, practically purrs against him, and he can feel the Manhattan in her.
He's been globe-trotting for a couple years now, falling back into New York City out of habit and backpedalling as soon as the weight of it settled onto his shoulders (and it does every time)—but thisgirl, this girl was the best of that city, everything good and amazing about it (beauty, possibility, radiance) made into awe-inspiring form—she carried it with her, in her gaze, stamped all over her skin, in the toss of her hair and the smile she showered everyone with— the luster of privilege with none of the shadows— he pulls her closer, tighter, relishes her.
She leans back then, breathless and smirking, her nose almost touching his, "That's not what I meant," she tells him, voice playing on the edges of stern, "But thank you," she provides, bumps her forehead into his and then she's turning out of his arms and back to the steps.
She leans down under the metal chain barring entrance and skips down them, tosses him a look over her shoulder and he's following like the moon-eyed adolescent he isn't.
"Shirt, please!" She requests as she makes her way across the sand, closer to the waves.
He's fairly certain they shouldn't be on the beach—the sign saying so is a big tip off. He takes his button-down shirt off and hands it to her. "Shouldn't you be…" he pauses, "Not here?"
She takes it with a smile, drops it on the sand along with her shoes and uses her bare feet to smooth the material down flat, "You complaining?"
He takes another drink, "Definitely not, Beautiful…" he protests and then shrugs one shoulder, "It's still October though, right?"
She pauses, freezes curiously; and there's less light now that they've descended to the beach, but he can still see the way some the glow leaves her face.
She doesn't answer him and he watches her bring the beer bottle up to her lips, the way she tilts it back— finishes it in one go and drops it onto the sad. "Still October," she confirms then, does a silly spin in front of him, "I'm on hiatus!" She declares resolutely, her gaze strangely steady.
He licks his lips, "Hiatus, huh?" That can mean a lot of things to their ilk.
She nods— an exaggerated motion that signals the end of this particular conversation.
And then she pulls her tank-top off— signal #2.
He grins—her bra is lacy, indeterminate color.
"You gonna join me or what?" she wonders, puts a hand on her hip and tilts her head to one side; he watches the way a sheath of hair tumbles over one shoulder and then she turns towards the ocean, takes a step towards the water.
She's half way there when he calls out, "I'm kinda fully dressed here, baby…" as walks towards her, finishes off the beer and drops it to the sand beside hers, "You wanna lend a hand here…?"
Her laugh is infectious, always has been; the kind you can't listen to and not feel a bubble of joy inside yourself. And he laughs as she jumps, spins, towards the water, her skirt flying out around her, "Come over here!" She demands, "And maybe I'll consider it!"
He pauses, kicks off his sandals, and then he picks up his pace, runs at her, and she squeals when she sees him. He lunges at her, grabs her by the waist and swings her around in huge spins until his feet sink into moist sand and cool saltwater…
She's laughing when he lets her go, stumbling back into the water—reaching down and splashing him with a spray of it in the face.
"What are you doing here?!" She shouts through her laughter, "GG's map lost you three weeks ago!" She splashes him again, "Do you know how inconsiderate that is?!"
He lunges for her again, the water at his knees now, "Sorry!" He shouts as he picks her up this time, flings her over his shoulder.
"Cheater!" She shouts, feet kicking behind her, "If you throw—"
He laughs, feels her hands on the back of his shirt as he spins them around and then tosses her off his shoulder.
And he's blinded by the fabric of his t-shirt—which she's pulled over his head. He bends, straightens his arms when she pulls it and the thing comes off easily; he opens his eyes in time to see her stand up and throw it behind herself.
"I'll probably need that later…" he comments, breathless and laughing, as the waves carry his shirt away.
She shrugs, breathless too and wet, "I'm lending a hand…" she offers cheekily and then she's pressed against him, cool and covered in saltwater, her face inches from his— lashes clumped together, droplets of water on her cheeks, strands of hair sticking together…
"You're pretty fantastic to run into, you know that?"
She smiles, hands undoing the buttons of his shorts, "Yeah, I know…"
He returns the favor by unzipping her skirt. "Where'd you leave your party-girl? There's a place on the other side of the island we can—"
Her hands stutter when he says it and she nudges her body against his to silence him, touches her nose to his, "Just me," she interrupts, a sliver of jagged glass in her voice; and then lighter, smoother, "Am I not enough for you...?"
He's not in the mood to bleed. He gives her skirt a hard tug downwards, "More than I deserve, Baby…"
She laughs, doesn't reply to that; puts a hand to his shoulder instead as she steps out of the fabric—not Constance colors, he realizes.
And then she pokes him in the chest, "Strip!"
So he does— and all their clothes is wet, but that doesn't seem like such a big deal when she wraps her arms around his neck and jumps into him. He stumbles back, the water is at his thighs then— and that doesn't seem like such a big deal when she wraps her legs around his waist and presses her lips against his, her mouth crashing into his with zeal as her fingernails dig into his shoulders.
He's holding her, lost in the kiss then, in her… until she pulls her face away, pushes off his shoulders a little to arcs herself upwards and tosses her head back, laughs, "You're so easy," she teases.
"Me!?" He cries, smiling, "Who is on who exactly?!"
She looks back at him and hair wet, pupils wide, back-dropped against a dark ocean and a starlit sky—she's the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, "Who's holding me up exactly!?" She counters.
And she has a point, so he drops her.
He laughs at the splash she makes and then her eyes narrow, he lifts both hands up, "Hey—wait a second, let's not start—"
She uses both hands to send a wave of water at him and even turning against it doesn't help when she follows it up with a hard shove to his shoulder.
He stands up spluttering, eyes burning and ready to glare at her, but she's standing with one arm crossed under her breasts and the other behind herself, in an almost demure pose.
"Running into you is pretty fantastic too," she tells him.
And the almost-glare vanishes before it ever had a chance. "Well, yeah." He says, "Of course, it—"
A blow-horn cuts off his sentence, followed by a sharp command in Greek.
They both freeze, look over to see a patrol car stopped on the sand, flashlights focused on them.
"Shit." He mutters, pushing towards Serena in the water.
She makes a face, "I'm kind of, you know, not supposed to be here— as in, in the country."
Carter reaches for her hand, says, "Tell me you're eighteen already…?" as they start to walk out of the water.
She laughs, "I'm deeply wounded you don't know my birthday."
"Is that a yes?"
"It's a, no such luck."
"Nice," he sighs as they reach the shore line and then shoots her a grin, "Okay, just follow my lead."
She rolls her eyes, "Oh please, who's the almost-naked-blonde, here?"
And before he can answer, she lengthens her stride to walk ahead of him, squeezes his hand as she pulls him after.
"Oh! Hello!" She calls as she bounces up to the patrol car. There're two men inside, one frowning disapprovingly, the other staring stoically. She gives them both brilliant smiles, "My boyfriend and I, lost our clothes, can you believe that?!" She says in that silly, breathless voice he'd heard in the club.
She waves between, points out their nudeness and he cringes, leans in a little closer, "This isn't going—"
"We fell asleep too close to the water! And the tide came in! Can you believe that?!" She bats her lashes, pouts, "And the water is cold!" She furrows her brow, takes a step closer to the car, "But we had to try and find them, you understand?!"
Frown-face softens a little and Stoic tilts his head to one side.
It's Frown-face who speaks then, sternly and in Greek.
And he winces at the words— as nice as they seem, the beach is off limits and they can smell the alcohol—identification?
But she just blinks at Frown-face, "Oh dear!" And motions back to the water, expression distressed, "But our clothes!" She could slip into Greek, he knows; she knows enough of the language to get by, they both do—there're advantages in not being understood, though.
He steps closer to her, whispers, "Run for it, babe," into her ear.
She nudges him back with her elbow and move closer to the car door, pulls it open. Frown-Face glares at her, but she cuts him off before he can speak, points to the water and jumps up and down—her bra doesn't offer that much support.
Stoic steps out from the others side of the vehicle to stare at her as she bounces up and down and points towards the water. She's explaining in breathy bursts about how tired they were and how cool the water was and how they almost drowned— her free hand motioning over and over towards the water and then herself and the water and herself; and her hair is drying fast in the heat, turning into golden wavy curls right before their eyes and there's enough illumination for him (and Frown-Face and Stoic) to see her bra is of pale pink lace to match her thong—and really, they don't stand a chance.
She's in the middle of a bounce, going over one more time how they'd lost their clothes, when the hand he's holding squeezes his painfully—enough to break his own momentary daze.
And then she laughs for them, bright and happy (and he swears their eyes are glazed over) before she waves, "Yeah, okay, bye then!"
It's the cue of course— and they take off, running at breakneck speed down the beach.
"You're crazy, you know that?!" He shouts at her readily after they've run a few yards.
"But I helped you again!" She retorts gleefully.
And he laughs, hears behind them the patrolmen finally coming after them—they have at least a two minute head-start.
"This way," he tells her. Leads her towards a set of bright lights they can spot in the distance.
"What is that?" She wonders.
"Marina…"
And she comes to a complete halt at the word, yanks him back towards her abruptly. "What?"
They're both breathing hard, sweating now, feet sticky with sand, "It's a marina, we can sneak in between the—"
Her laugh cuts him off, it's not bright or happy, it's as sharp as the glass in her voice and he snaps his mouth shut.
She shakes her head, looks truly incredulous for a moment and then she runs past him— is pulling him after her.
They run a little more slowly now and when they've moved in silence for long moments, he looks over at her, huffs out a breath, repeats, "You're crazy, you know that," and there's an embarrassing amount of affection in his words.
She doesn't respond because they've reached the steps that lead up to the marina. They race up them; it's a gate this time, not a chain, and they both climb over it easily.
And then she turns around sharply, right into him, and he starts.
The blue of her eyes sizzle with intensity and he knows they're both pretty much naked standing inside a closed marina after having run away from patrolmen, but that doesn't seem like such a big deal when she lifts her hand to touch his cheek. "I need you to help me, Carter."
He blinks, he's still catching his breath and she's radiant under the Marina lights and she's underage and probably a runaway, but that doesn't seem like such a big deal when she squeezes the hand he's still holding in a silent please. "What do you need, Serena?"
"A ride…" she pauses, "On a boat."
She watches him, waits, her gaze on his face— and there's no twinkle in it, no sharp glass either, just her— alone here and asking for his help.
He nods, tugs her closer, "I can arrange that."
And he could get arrested for what he's about to do (borrow a boat, transport a minor, cross into whatever international waters she needs him to), but that doesn't seem like such a big deal when she smiles—
.fin.