when you work it out i'm worse than you
Title: when you work it out i'm worse than you
Characters: Serena, Tripp, Nate
Rating/Word Count: pg-13 / 1, 338
One-Line Excerpt: She still kisses like a kid.
He sees her again when he's twenty-eight.
Laughs.
Laughs, kind of bitterly and kind of jubilantly, that's the first thing he does, because three years later and it's the same scene all over again. Nothing has changed, from the coy challenge in her eyes to the look of her bare, crossed legs to the way she holds her martini glass.
Nothing has changed: he loosens his tie and takes a seat next to her.
She smiles when he sits next to her, brushes away all the pain he caused her with that smile, that silly, downright childish hope of maybe-this-time.
It's true that she always did have a crush on him.
So she smiles, and he smiles, and she lifts a hand toward the bartender; he'll have what I'm having.
She still kisses like a kid.
That's his first thought as they stumble into his office, no lights turned on, his hands pushing impatiently at the hem of her dress. Her mouth breaks from his, her lips trailing over his jaw and his neck instead, her hands pushing his suit jacket off of his shoulders.
It's not that she doesn't kiss well - she does. There's nothing sloppy or unpracticed in the easy way her lips and tongue move against his. She was one hell of a kisser when she was only eighteen years old, and nothing, he knows, has changed.
Serena kisses like she means it even when she probably doesn't, boundlessly, as though this will last forever.
You're beautiful, he tells her faintly. Still beautiful, still tempting, still all blonde hair and short skirts and bedroom eyes.
Still not his wife.
Nothing's changed.
She lets her hair down to hide the purple-ish mark that's quickly forming on her neck, combs through it with her fingers. There is sweat beaded on her forehead, right at her hairline. He is still a little reckless, a little careless.
And she's glad he hasn't lost that yet.
Bye, Congressman, she purrs, sultry glance over her shoulder as she walks out the door.
He lets himself imagine.
She takes him to bed in an old, ornate house, in which every room looks like an antique store. Her feet are bare on plushy carpets, toenails painted bright pink, and she laughs into their kiss.
A hand sinking into her hair, he tugs the tie on her silky robe undone - she is so bright, even in this house, that he can't help but let himself imagine that she'd love all the things he once wanted, archaeological adventure and dessert served before dinner.
She hums against his skin, the air heavy and thick around them. Outside, it might be snowing.
You broke my heart, you know. It's easier than blaming herself.
He touches her hand as she sleeps, knots their fingers carefully together.
There's an engagement ring on her finger that he never noticed before, and he wonders who gave it to her. It can't have been - he stops the thought before it completes. No. He would have gotten a save-the-date card, an invitation, would have seen an announcement in the newspaper.
He doesn't have all of his integrity left, but he wouldn't do that to his little cousin, not again.
Serena stirs, shifting closer to him, half-awake.
Nice ring.
Her eyes fly open, electric blue. Her ring knocks against his, metals clinking, and there is no smile on her face.
You too.
It ends the way it begins, the way it ended and the way it began -
Her tears drip into the porcelain sink, the one Maureen stands over every morning as she does her makeup.
She turns on the taps, full-blast: washes away her grief.
Tripp draws the curtains closed with one sharp tug. His wife's perfume is in the air, her things all around them. This is her house, after all.
It is just like before, without her there to say the words.
(Your affair ends now.)
He touches Serena's hair gingerly, fingers slipping over blonde strands.
We'll take care of this.
She's never been naïve when it comes to the men in her life.
He makes the choice and her silence is an agreement. She sits there, looks pretty, and trusts him in spite of herself.
There is a clinic, out of town and discreet. The nurses smile for him, guiding Serena into a sunny room with soft sheets on the bed and flowers in a vase, like this is any ordinary occurrence rather than something that could destroy him.
He's paying enough money for their sealed lips.
I have to get back to the city.
Serena sits on the edge of the bed, shaky and pale but trying to pretend otherwise. She's still a kid, really; he knew that from the start.
He doesn't kiss her goodbye.
There is a hospital gown and a nurse with an even, easygoing smile. It'll be over before you know it, honey.
She's left alone to change, clothes tugged off and tossed onto one of the chairs in the room. The hospital gown is a minty green colour with white ties and her fingers tremble as she does them up behind her back.
She stares at herself in her private bathroom's mirror, hands against her stomach, fingers clenched around scratchy green fabric.
It'll be over before you know it, honey.
She could vomit. She could die.
Palm pressed flat against her abdomen, she can feel the heavy beat of her own heart.
Congressman Vanderbilt gets a phone call.
It's urgent, his secretary simpers. She's a pretty young thing, long hair and an extra button undone on her blouse, but she's never been the same kind of temptation.
He picks up the phone, says hello.
Complications, is the only word he picks up from the speaker on the other end.
And he sees blood - blood on soft sheets, blood on white gloves, blood on a windshield, blood in her hair, blood on her face, blood on his hands.
She wakes up from a quickly-administered anesthetic briefly, oh-so-briefly, just long enough to cry.
When he goes to see her she's pretending to sleep.
He can tell, because she flinches when he touches her hand, his fingertips gentle against her palm.
I'm sorry.
He needs to go home. Maureen will know where he is already - she should have been the politician, really - but he'll tell her a lie about an emergency at work nonetheless.
They've taken off her ring, he notices, the diamond that was on her finger this morning. His ring is still on. His ring is always on.
I'm sorry, he says.
It's more than she got last time, but it's still about two thousand days too late.
There is no reason to open her eyes.
He watches from the doorway as Nate brushes by him, wearing a trenchcoat-style winter jacket, the collar turned up to hide his face - the hero, as always, to the rescue.
I'm sorry, he says again very softly, as he watches Serena's eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, Nate's thumb catching a stray tear that's beaded on her skin.
And he leaves - back to an overbearing grandfather, a perfect wife, a political career.
Everything is the same as it was then, as it will always be.
I'm sorry, Serena echoes, trying to focus on Nate's face. She can hardly keep her eyes open, drugged up and heartsick.
He sits heavily in the chair by her bed. I know.
She lets her eyes fall shut again. It's enough, if he knows.
Serena. His voice sharpens as he says her name again, Serena. His hand finds hers, gripping lightly. Stay here with me.
Drifting off, she curls her fingers around his.
Okay, she wants to say, but she can't quite get her mouth to work.
(You broke my heart, you know.
Blue eyes under a night sky, rushed steps against concrete.
A chance.
It's easier than blaming herself.
You broke my heart.
Nothing has changed.)
Characters: Serena, Tripp, Nate
Rating/Word Count: pg-13 / 1, 338
One-Line Excerpt: She still kisses like a kid.
He sees her again when he's twenty-eight.
Laughs.
Laughs, kind of bitterly and kind of jubilantly, that's the first thing he does, because three years later and it's the same scene all over again. Nothing has changed, from the coy challenge in her eyes to the look of her bare, crossed legs to the way she holds her martini glass.
Nothing has changed: he loosens his tie and takes a seat next to her.
She smiles when he sits next to her, brushes away all the pain he caused her with that smile, that silly, downright childish hope of maybe-this-time.
It's true that she always did have a crush on him.
So she smiles, and he smiles, and she lifts a hand toward the bartender; he'll have what I'm having.
She still kisses like a kid.
That's his first thought as they stumble into his office, no lights turned on, his hands pushing impatiently at the hem of her dress. Her mouth breaks from his, her lips trailing over his jaw and his neck instead, her hands pushing his suit jacket off of his shoulders.
It's not that she doesn't kiss well - she does. There's nothing sloppy or unpracticed in the easy way her lips and tongue move against his. She was one hell of a kisser when she was only eighteen years old, and nothing, he knows, has changed.
Serena kisses like she means it even when she probably doesn't, boundlessly, as though this will last forever.
You're beautiful, he tells her faintly. Still beautiful, still tempting, still all blonde hair and short skirts and bedroom eyes.
Still not his wife.
Nothing's changed.
She lets her hair down to hide the purple-ish mark that's quickly forming on her neck, combs through it with her fingers. There is sweat beaded on her forehead, right at her hairline. He is still a little reckless, a little careless.
And she's glad he hasn't lost that yet.
Bye, Congressman, she purrs, sultry glance over her shoulder as she walks out the door.
He lets himself imagine.
She takes him to bed in an old, ornate house, in which every room looks like an antique store. Her feet are bare on plushy carpets, toenails painted bright pink, and she laughs into their kiss.
A hand sinking into her hair, he tugs the tie on her silky robe undone - she is so bright, even in this house, that he can't help but let himself imagine that she'd love all the things he once wanted, archaeological adventure and dessert served before dinner.
She hums against his skin, the air heavy and thick around them. Outside, it might be snowing.
You broke my heart, you know. It's easier than blaming herself.
He touches her hand as she sleeps, knots their fingers carefully together.
There's an engagement ring on her finger that he never noticed before, and he wonders who gave it to her. It can't have been - he stops the thought before it completes. No. He would have gotten a save-the-date card, an invitation, would have seen an announcement in the newspaper.
He doesn't have all of his integrity left, but he wouldn't do that to his little cousin, not again.
Serena stirs, shifting closer to him, half-awake.
Nice ring.
Her eyes fly open, electric blue. Her ring knocks against his, metals clinking, and there is no smile on her face.
You too.
It ends the way it begins, the way it ended and the way it began -
Her tears drip into the porcelain sink, the one Maureen stands over every morning as she does her makeup.
She turns on the taps, full-blast: washes away her grief.
Tripp draws the curtains closed with one sharp tug. His wife's perfume is in the air, her things all around them. This is her house, after all.
It is just like before, without her there to say the words.
(Your affair ends now.)
He touches Serena's hair gingerly, fingers slipping over blonde strands.
We'll take care of this.
She's never been naïve when it comes to the men in her life.
He makes the choice and her silence is an agreement. She sits there, looks pretty, and trusts him in spite of herself.
There is a clinic, out of town and discreet. The nurses smile for him, guiding Serena into a sunny room with soft sheets on the bed and flowers in a vase, like this is any ordinary occurrence rather than something that could destroy him.
He's paying enough money for their sealed lips.
I have to get back to the city.
Serena sits on the edge of the bed, shaky and pale but trying to pretend otherwise. She's still a kid, really; he knew that from the start.
He doesn't kiss her goodbye.
There is a hospital gown and a nurse with an even, easygoing smile. It'll be over before you know it, honey.
She's left alone to change, clothes tugged off and tossed onto one of the chairs in the room. The hospital gown is a minty green colour with white ties and her fingers tremble as she does them up behind her back.
She stares at herself in her private bathroom's mirror, hands against her stomach, fingers clenched around scratchy green fabric.
It'll be over before you know it, honey.
She could vomit. She could die.
Palm pressed flat against her abdomen, she can feel the heavy beat of her own heart.
Congressman Vanderbilt gets a phone call.
It's urgent, his secretary simpers. She's a pretty young thing, long hair and an extra button undone on her blouse, but she's never been the same kind of temptation.
He picks up the phone, says hello.
Complications, is the only word he picks up from the speaker on the other end.
And he sees blood - blood on soft sheets, blood on white gloves, blood on a windshield, blood in her hair, blood on her face, blood on his hands.
She wakes up from a quickly-administered anesthetic briefly, oh-so-briefly, just long enough to cry.
When he goes to see her she's pretending to sleep.
He can tell, because she flinches when he touches her hand, his fingertips gentle against her palm.
I'm sorry.
He needs to go home. Maureen will know where he is already - she should have been the politician, really - but he'll tell her a lie about an emergency at work nonetheless.
They've taken off her ring, he notices, the diamond that was on her finger this morning. His ring is still on. His ring is always on.
I'm sorry, he says.
It's more than she got last time, but it's still about two thousand days too late.
There is no reason to open her eyes.
He watches from the doorway as Nate brushes by him, wearing a trenchcoat-style winter jacket, the collar turned up to hide his face - the hero, as always, to the rescue.
I'm sorry, he says again very softly, as he watches Serena's eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, Nate's thumb catching a stray tear that's beaded on her skin.
And he leaves - back to an overbearing grandfather, a perfect wife, a political career.
Everything is the same as it was then, as it will always be.
I'm sorry, Serena echoes, trying to focus on Nate's face. She can hardly keep her eyes open, drugged up and heartsick.
He sits heavily in the chair by her bed. I know.
She lets her eyes fall shut again. It's enough, if he knows.
Serena. His voice sharpens as he says her name again, Serena. His hand finds hers, gripping lightly. Stay here with me.
Drifting off, she curls her fingers around his.
Okay, she wants to say, but she can't quite get her mouth to work.
(You broke my heart, you know.
Blue eyes under a night sky, rushed steps against concrete.
A chance.
It's easier than blaming herself.
You broke my heart.
Nothing has changed.)