They’re in bed on the evening of her thirtieth birthday; Carter’s pretending to read the paper, Serena’s got her knees pulled to her chest, staring at nothing. She looks over at him and tells him that she’s okay.
He feels caught, like she knows that he’s been raiding every drawer, counting every pill.
Then she says, You can go.
She looks so young to him right then, her face scrubbed clean of makeup and her chin on her knee.
I don’t want to, he finally says, and that’s the third time in his life that Serena ever cries in front of him.
-
In Santorini, she curled up in the bathtub in their hotel room and wouldn’t let him touch her. He’d never seen Serena do much more than laugh and gasp; the sobbing was a shock to him.
Carter fixed that with a pill under her tongue and a kiss on her temple, and years later, he’ll wish he hadn’t.
-
He busies himself around their apartment like a housewife, waiting for Serena to come back from the doctor. When the key turns in the lock he’s expecting news of a baby, expecting to present his plan about how they can make this work.
But Serena’s got a funny look on her face, and when she sees him standing there, sees dinner waiting on the table, she says, I can’t.
Carter doesn’t understand for a moment because he’s completely prepared to tell her how she can, but then it clicks.
Oh, baby, he says softly; it just spills out, the wrong thing.
Serena slams the door behind her when she leaves.
-
They used to trade parental horror stories. Serena would tell him the stories of the thousand ways her mother broke her heart, laughing her head off, as if none of it had hurt.
When they’re in their thirties and Serena says, I want - , Carter fills that sentence in a million ways. To adopt. A dog. A new house.
A cigarette, is how it ends, but yes is already on the tip of his tongue.
-
Serena sleeps under piles of blankets, her face tucked against the pillow, like she’s trying to hide from something. She always touches one of his feet with one of hers.
Carter slips his hand into her tangled hair, watching her breathe. He blames himself for all of it, sometimes, even if it’s illogical.
He thinks sometimes that he should have left it to someone else, to that kid from Brooklyn, to Nate, to anyone else in the world. Someone else should’ve loved her. Someone else would’ve done it better.
Yeah it's dark but I was asking for it with this prompt, haha. THIS IS GLORIOUS. I love how fucked up they are, how bad he feels about it, how much of that really was his influence and how he's just realizing that now. I think that really highlights their age difference, which is notable at 14/17 or 14/18 or whatever the exact number is.
I'm sitting here, completely speechless, trying to find words to describe the level of perfection of this little piece of flawless writing (oh god, it's so poetic). I love how it comes to a full circle with the beginning and the end and gods, just so perfect.
I hadn't ready Serena/Carter before, but I'm pretty sure I hit jackpot with this one. It's dark, but amazingly so. I love how things differ and how things are the same and connect with the show.
They’re in bed on the evening of her thirtieth birthday; Carter’s pretending to read the paper, Serena’s got her knees pulled to her chest, staring at nothing. She looks over at him and tells him that she’s okay.
He feels caught, like she knows that he’s been raiding every drawer, counting every pill.
Then she says, You can go.
She looks so young to him right then, her face scrubbed clean of makeup and her chin on her knee.
I don’t want to, he finally says, and that’s the third time in his life that Serena ever cries in front of him.
-
In Santorini, she curled up in the bathtub in their hotel room and wouldn’t let him touch her. He’d never seen Serena do much more than laugh and gasp; the sobbing was a shock to him.
Carter fixed that with a pill under her tongue and a kiss on her temple, and years later, he’ll wish he hadn’t.
-
He busies himself around their apartment like a housewife, waiting for Serena to come back from the doctor. When the key turns in the lock he’s expecting news of a baby, expecting to present his plan about how they can make this work.
But Serena’s got a funny look on her face, and when she sees him standing there, sees dinner waiting on the table, she says, I can’t.
Carter doesn’t understand for a moment because he’s completely prepared to tell her how she can, but then it clicks.
Oh, baby, he says softly; it just spills out, the wrong thing.
Serena slams the door behind her when she leaves.
-
They used to trade parental horror stories. Serena would tell him the stories of the thousand ways her mother broke her heart, laughing her head off, as if none of it had hurt.
When they’re in their thirties and Serena says, I want - , Carter fills that sentence in a million ways. To adopt. A dog. A new house.
A cigarette, is how it ends, but yes is already on the tip of his tongue.
-
Serena sleeps under piles of blankets, her face tucked against the pillow, like she’s trying to hide from something. She always touches one of his feet with one of hers.
Carter slips his hand into her tangled hair, watching her breathe. He blames himself for all of it, sometimes, even if it’s illogical.
He thinks sometimes that he should have left it to someone else, to that kid from Brooklyn, to Nate, to anyone else in the world. Someone else should’ve loved her. Someone else would’ve done it better.
Maybe he shouldn’t have. You know?
(fin)
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment