A/N: okay, I've totally been bitten by the GG bug; make that eaten alive. Just banged this out after binging on Missy Higgins (the lyrics are hers, the song is Scar). It's kinda AU, but in TV Universe; as in, it's not set after any particular episode. And this is a one-shot

Disclaimer: Wentworth Miller is gay, Chuck Bass is a fictional character, Pluto isn't a planet anymore and I don't own Gossip Girl. FML

SCARS


A triangle trying to squeeze through a circle
He tried to cut me so I fit
And doesn't that sound familiar?
Doesn't that hit too close to home?
Doesn't that make you shiver?
The way things could have gone
So that I do remember
To never go that far
Could you leave me with a scar?

"Blair?" He rapped smartly on the bathroom door. "Serena says if you're not downstairs in five, they're going without you."

"Leave me alone!" was the reply.

Chuck heaved a long-suffering sigh and leaned back against the doorframe, crossing his legs. "There is nothing that would please me more, I assure you, yet my dear sister was insistent that I escort you down. So skip it. Now."

He listened carefully. The toilet flushing, the shower running, the telltale bangs and clatters – but there was nothing. Chuck frowned beneath his fedora. What was she doing in there, if she wasn't puking her guts out?

"Blair."

"I said GO AWAY!"

She kicked the door. He rattled on the handle, impatient.

"Come on, you can put lipstick in the limo. We are leaving."

"Leave then," she sniffed through the varnished mahogany. "I'm not stopping you."

Chuck pulled his hat down over his face, throwing his head back. Girls. Infuriating. "But you are, Waldorf."

"Just go, already."

"Not without you."

Chuck spun around and jimmied the lock, cursing under his breath when it held. "Come on, Blair. We're going."

There was a soft silence, and then, sniffing, "I'm not."

"What?" Chuck snapped, sharper than intended. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Her voice was quiet. Resolute. Wet.

Chuck exhaled, slowly. He massaged his temples and texted Nate. Go ahead. Will catch up. He slid down the door, sitting with his back up against it, one leg bent. He laid his hat down beside him. It was too hot.

He knocked again, more gently. "Blair. Let me in."

"No. Go. You'll be late."

"For Les Mis? Forgive me for not throwing myself off the Empire State Building for anguish."

"Chuck. Please. Just go ..." She stammered. "I – I need to be alone right now."

There was silence. The hustle downstairs had evaporated and the penthouse was still. Finally, Chuck asked through the door, "Blair? What's wrong?"

The door creaked open, swinging an inch. Chuck caught it, stepped inside and locked it behind him. He stayed facing the door. He suddenly felt claustrophobic. The smell of Chanel no. 5 coated the air like an oil slick

"I thought you'd left."

How could he leave when she was all alone and small in the dark?

Didn't she know?

Chuck shook his head, coughing at little at the fumes. Blair was sitting, slumped, by the toilet, like a ragdoll thrown away. She held a white towel up to her arm and her dress was stained and dirty. Chuck put one and one together at almost got two.

"Did you break your perfume bottle?"

Blair paused, for just a second, and then nodded. "Ah, yes. I dropped it and when I went to pick it up, I cut myself. Blood got on my dress. I couldn't have gone."

Chuck depressed the air freshener. "You're lying," he said coolly.

"Am not."

"Takes one to know one, Waldorf." He settled himself on the marble sink shelf, sitting across it, like he did at home. Swirls of pink ran around the sink. Chuck turned on the tap. The evidence washed away. Then he poured her a glass of water and got up to give it to her. "Here."

Her hands shook. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He stood there, feeling awkward. His heart was beating very loudly and it was embarrassing. He watched as blood soaked through the facecloth and ran down her white arm.

"You're bleeding," he noted, a little stupidly.

Blair scowled and clapped the towel down over the runaway streak. "Well three cheers for Captain Obvious."

"Now, now, no need to get nasty."

She just looked at him.

"Throw me a new towel, would you?"

Chuck obliged. She tried to change the wrapping quickly but he saw. He saw and she knew it and then the tears began to pour. She couldn't stop. Chuck left the bathroom. Two and minus two made zero; he should have known. She had tried to mask the scent of blood in perfume. He was jogging. How that had happened, he wasn't quite sure. Eleanor kept her drink in a cabinet in the dining room. Chuck hovered between two decanters, sniffing at them. One was a fine single-malt whiskey, Irish, no doubt; the second, a scotch. Chuck took them both. One can never have too much scotch.

Blair was still crying when he returned, sobbing with her cheek resting on the toilet seat. He wasn't sure what to say so he proceeded with the plan. He turned on the faucet, hard, so that the rush of water drowned out her cries, and filled the sink with hot water. He searched the cabinets, taking down various bits and pieces, lining them up on the marble top. He glanced about him – a bowl, a bowl, anything – and picked up what looked like an oversized gold astray filled with dead roses. Chuck dumped the flowers and filled the bowl with water from the sink, hot, but not too hot.

And he sat down beside her. Her hair was hanging now. He tucked it behind her ear.

"Blair."

He caught her by the chin, tipping her face up to the light. "Blair." He wiped away her tears with the pad of his thumb. "Blair." Chuck pulled her close and she got mascara tears all over his white jacket. He cared not. It was only Armani, not even vintage.

"Blair," he whispered into her hair, fierce, like a lover in pain. "Don't do that, my darling. Don't do that."

Her tiny body convulsed. "But I want to," she wailed. "It is so bad?"

He couldn't answer. "Show me," he said instead. "Show me."

Chuck peeled the towel from her arm. The blood had crusted and stuck, and when he eased the cloth free, the scab broke and the slice weeped. Chuck swallowed the taste of rust. He reaced behind him, blind, dipping a cotton wall ball into the bowl of warm water, squeezing it, and slowly, washing away the stain. Blair hissed, seizing up. She tried to pull away, but he held on. He held on to her. He held her, and wiped away the pain.

"It's hurts," she complained.

Chuck rolled his eyes. "Well, duh. You cu– "

"Don't say it!"

Chuck froze. "Why not?"

"I ..." Blair looked down, at the floor. She opened the decanter. "It's embarrassing. Serena ... she wouldn't ... I ... ashamed. Only crazies do this."

Chuck took the decanter from her and stowed it behind him. He said quietly, "You're not Serena."

"Don't remind me," she snapped bitterly. Angry, hot tears burst from her brown eyes. He caught them, like falling stars. They tasted like salt and lemons and Chanel no. 5.

He cleaned in silence, for a while, applying cream and a band aid. He used the whiskey to clean the cut. It was such a wonderful, wonderful thing; so many uses. He tried to ignore the others, the faded ghosts. Blair never wore tank tops, never silk vests, always blouses and pilgrim dresses. He always thought it was just her style, her way of being that little bit different, but now he could see the method in the madness.

With a groan, Chuck stretched out his dead leg and they sat together, in the shower stall. It was like a little house, far away from the real world, where there were mirrors and beautiful best friends and back-stabbing boyfriends and parents who didn't care.

Chuck took another swig and passed her the decanter. "What did you use, as a matter of interest? Razor?"

"I broke up a pencil sharpener with the paperweight Laurel bought me for my eleventh birthday."

Chuck inhaled sharply. "Imaginative, yes. Also slightly disturbing."

Blair sighed. "It's going to leave a scar."

"Probably," Chuck shrugged. "It was quite deep." He tried to forget it, the gaping red mouth, crying softly. He heard her shake beside him. Again, tears.

"I hate them. The scars. Every time I see ... they're proof. That I did this. I can't take them back."

They drank.

"Do you want to?" Chuck asked.

"Yes!" she cried. "Yes." And then, "Serena has no scars, you know. None at all. She's just so perfect."

Chuck almost said, you're perfect. To me. "I have a scar," he said instead.

Blair rounded on him. "I've never seen it." It was a demand.

"It's ugly."

"You're ugly."

"Your face."

"You're Chuck Bass," she exclaimed, pulling at him, "Show me!"

He sighed, a great sigh, and loosened his bowtie. The jacket came off, and he untucked his shirt. Blair frowned, her smooth forehead creasing. He thought she looked cute; there was no other word for it, adorable, sweet, edible.

"I asked to see your scar, and not for a burlesque show Bass," she said, maybe smiling.

Chuck yawned, loudly and obviously. He unbuttoned his shirt, from the tails up, halfway, pulling the right side over. This was why he wore pyjamas, why he kept his shirt on, why he didn't go topless at the poolside. This stretched, white against his dark skin, for two inches, cruel and unnecessary up his right side. Blair stared. Everyone always stared.

"How?"

She traced it with light fingers. "How, Chuck? You didn't get stabbed, did you? Please. Tell me! I want to send them flowers."

He snapped his shirt shut. "Funny, Waldorf."

"I'm sorry," she apologised, with her mouth and her eyes.

"Accepted."

He redid the buttons but left his jacket off. A moment of indecision, then he threw it over her slender shoulders. She pulled it tight, crossing her arms. "It smells like you," she said, with a grin.

"I would hope so," he replied.

"It's nice," she said, a little hesitantly, a little awkwardly. "You have better taste in cologne than Nate." That came out very fast. It made his heart beat fast too, faster. His back was a little damp from the shower, but that was okay.

She moved closer, her head against his shoulder. "What happened?" she whispered.

"I had my appendix out."

"Where? In a brothel in Thailand? So did Eric, and his scar isn't anywhere near that big, and he had his done when he was only a baby."

Chuck swallowed. This was a secret, a big one. He stroked her hair. She didn't protest. She curled up closer, like a little cat.

"Chuck. You know my secret." It was as though she had read his mind. "Tell me."

"It burst."

Blair shuddered. It felt good, her concern.

"Did it hurt?" she asked, aghast.

Chuck shrugged. "I passed out."

"Didn't you tell anyone?" she demanded. "What are you, retarded? When was this?"

"I was fourteen."

He watched her face as comprehension dawned, as she pieced the puzzle together. "So that was what happened when you disappeared like that. Rumour was you had AIDs or something, but then Nate said it was only mono." They had gone on vacation to Cape Town, the two of them with Bart and Adrianne, Bart's South African ex. She had seen the photographs on Facebook and, thinking back, Chuck had definitely looked thinner, whiter, unwell. But she hadn't thought about him; she had only thought on Nate, tan and blonde in the South African sun while Chuck lurked in the shade, wearing long sleeves to cover the IV tracks.

"Bart brought me on a business trip for the first time. I was shadowing him in an important meeting. I wasn't about to stand up and leave because my stomach hurt ... I." He paused. Blair took his hand and squeezed, just a little gesture. "I wasn't going to disappoint him. One meeting lead to another. He never noticed. I passed out over dinner. Doctors said it burst three hours before I got to the hospital. Another hour and the spread would have been irreversible."

Blair drew a finger across her throat.

Chuck nodded.

Her lip trembled.

"The surrounding tissues were contaminated, so they had to go. That explains the length of the scar. There wasn't really time to be subtle. I woke up three days later and Bart ... he wasn't even there." Chuck drew a breath. His voice was flat, "He sent flowers. They died and I threw them in the trash."

"My mother sent flowers when I got my tonsils taken out," Blair said quickly, and Chuck was grateful she had not allowed his story to settle, that she had re-shaken the snowglobe. "She was in Paris for a show. But, I guess, Daddy was there, so it doesn't really compare being left in a different country, alone, in hospital. How long ..."

"A month."

"I'm sorry."

He looked away. He couldn't take her eyes. "Don't be," he mumbled. "It's over. It's a scar now."

"But it stills hurts," Blair whispered into his chest. He kissed the top of her head.

"All the time."

"I'm so sorry, Chuck."

"Then don't do it," he ordered. "For me. And if you want to, call me. I'm here." He took her arm, pulling it towards him. "I'm here," he said, peeling off the band aid, and touching a finger, almost, to the wound, "I'm right here."

Blair cupped his cheek. "I know." She seemed to realise what she was doing, and turned away, quick movements, dusting down her knees. "I have another scar, you know."

"I do now."

She hiked up her skirt and showed him a thin white line on the back of her knee. "From the first time I shaved. Before I realised the virtues of waxing."

Chuck bristled. If it was a scar-off she wanted, a scar-off she was going to get.

He twisted his neck to side, pulling down his collar, revealing the purple blotch on his collar bone. Blair looked revolted, yet grudgingly impressed.

"Hickeys don't count," she said delicately.

"It will."

"It is ..."

"Impressive?" he offered.

Blair snorted. "Bet you gave it to yourself. And this is impressive." She turned around, kneeling with her back to him, and unzipped her dress, already backless, to just below her tail bone. A burn marred the white skin. Chuck squinted closer. Emphasised would be a better word. It did not take from her, only accentuated the purity of the surrounding skin. He wanted to touch it, to kiss it, let her know she was beautiful, regardless. Always. All of her.

She quickly covered up, but her fingers were shaking. He slapped her hands away. Slowly, he slide the zipper back up. Her skin was so cool, so smooth. He couldn't breathe until she turned back around. Her cheeks were pink. "Well," she demanded.

Chuck gave a little shrug. "I have one more."

"Don't be shy."

Chuck pulled down his shirt over the left side of his chest. Blair squinted hard, frowning her squirrel frown. "But I can't see anything."

"Here," Chuck muttered, stabbing at his heart. "Right here."

"Where?" She came in closer, eyes narrowed. "Chuck. What happened?"

He caught her eyes. "Blair Waldorf," he whispered. "Broke my heart."

There was a long moment. He could feel her eyes probing him, searching for the absolute truth in his gaze, as though she could see right through his chest into his heart and read the words written there, see her name carved forever. He hoped to fucking God she could see the scar she would leave if she walked away. He knew about Nate, but if he really cared, then why wasn't he here, why didn't he wipe away the hurt? He tried to tell her this, through his eyes.

Then she looked down. She was biting her lip. He could not breathe.

Blair knelt up. "Chuck." She said his name, so softly, like a prayer, something you could only do in the dark. She laid her hand against his heart. It hammered, then went dead. "I better fix it then."

She reached up and a turned on the shower. The water came pouring down and washed away all the hurt, but when they were finished, the scars remained. They always would. But it was okay. It was all okay. It was over; they were only scars.

I think I realized just in time
Though my old self was hard to find.
'Cos I'm a little bit tired of fearing that
I'll be the bad fruit nobody buys
Tell me, did you think we'd all dream the same?
Just so that I do remember
To never go that far
Could you leave me with a scar?

Okay! Don't judge too harsly, please, this took literally about an hour. There isn't any discernable plot, merely born of procrastinating. Have a history essay on the origins of WW1 due Wednesday. It'll get done. At 4AM on Tuesday night! LOL - REVIEW, please, you know how much it means.

Thanks, Plonksie