Author's Note: This is for my dear Temp02 – who asked for Chuck going to therapy with the adamant caveat that Blair be in the story somewhere – with heartfelt appreciation for her support, long reviews, and multiple questions I do so enjoy avoiding.
The world is black and white as fingers curl and flex and cling to the steel railing. Yet he stands rooted in place, paralyzed by the indecision of fight or flight, of lunging to help and possibly endangering his own life. The hand sliding across his chest, grabbing the lapel of his tuxedo coat reminds him of the cost, of the life worth far more than his own that could be harmed should he decide one way over the other.
He watches as fingers begin to slip, begin to let go, and they morph from large to tiny, from old to young before he eyes. The voice is tiny and helpless; one he has never heard before. And it calls out to him as small fingers cling to the railing, as the bob of brown hair disappears from his head falling out of view.
"Daddy, this isn't who you are. Please, Daddy!"
He springs forward at the recognition that courses through him, at the desperation that surges at the words spoken in a pleading whisper. But his feet are stuck to the ground, stuck no matter how hard he pulls and fights. Fingers slip further and he strains, grasping and reaching and—
The hands on the clock tick past, counting down the minutes to the next appointment and reminding him over and over again that time with this patient is slipping through his fingers. He crosses his legs – uncrosses them with a sigh – and shifts the pen and notepad in his lap to the table. If this was any other patient, he would know where to begin. Know what questions to ask and what answers to look for.
But Chuck Bass has never been the kind of patient that is easy to counsel or understand. Always keeping his cards close to his chest; always hesitant in his bet that therapy could work. Because while Chuck Bass wants to be a better man, they had only managed to skim the surface from which this desire comes from, had barely begun to discuss the source that told him he would never be enough.
The doctor originally thought the blame lay with a woman. Maybe the mother that Chuck never spoke of. But he learned immediately who the blame might lay with on the day a young, feisty brunette sat on the far end of the leather couch across from the doctor and demanded he tell her how to make her fiancé more like his patient. The doctor had tried to turn it around on her, tried to offer his own psychoanalysis of her actions and deeds.
But inside he had cringed, heard through her words that she wanted the Chuck that was good and whole and not the Chuck with dark thoughts and even darker actions. And the way the revelation that Chuck had given up her engagement ring, given up the idea of them sent her running from the room only reiterated to the doctor that this woman wanted Chuck waiting in the wings for whenever her better man failed her.
The doctor had tried to question him about Blair following her departure, but his patient had snapped at him, calling the young woman the light in his darkness. And Chuck went after her; disappeared off the doctor's appointment book for the next several weeks. He read about the car accident in a minor blurb in the business section of the New York Times, heard through the grapevine that his patient and the woman had been together in the car despite the Monaco Consulate's refusal to comment.
And, from that point on, this particular patient's name would appear in a flood followed by a long period of drought. A series of appointments after the car accident where they discussed Blair and the baby and yet didn't discuss them all the same. A lull where his patient decided his life was back on track, where Chuck felt like he had the tools to watch the love of his life be with someone else. Only to return with blood and paternity and maternity and a desperate need to find his family, to find a sympathetic ear because the one that was always there isn't there anymore.
And then the name disappeared once more; seen only in newspaper articles about his father returning to the helm of Bass Industries and heard only in news bulletins about his connection to his father's mysterious death. Yet Chuck had not come, had not made an appointment to discuss his short-lived reunion with his father or the trauma of his death, even though that had clearly been an issue lurking beneath the surface of every decision he made or every thought he had about himself.
The receptionist had been instructed to call and schedule an appointment during all of this; the doctor himself had made more than one attempt to reconnect with his wayward patient. But his workload had increase – the Upper East Side a cornucopia of long-standing parental issues and prescription drug problems – and he decided to stop chasing someone who clearly didn't want his help.
(And, frankly, based on the photographs printed in the newspaper, posted online, and shown to him by his wife over breakfast of Chuck Bass and the feisty brunette identified as Blair Waldorf Bass standing by his side, he was inclined to believe that maybe his former patient had fought his demons without the doctor's help.)
Within six months, however, the name had reappeared in his appointment ledger for the two fifteen slot on a Wednesday afternoon. So now on the hottest day of the year, the doctor sits across from his uncommunicative patient, dabbing the sweat off his forehead despite the cool breeze of the air conditioner installed overhead.
He is about to question Chuck's presence once more, to try and prompt the man into explaining why he made this appointment when the opening of the office door distracts him. And then he is about to admonish his receptionist from interrupting him while he's with a patient, for not at least utilizing the intercom. Yet the presence of the feisty brunette in the doorway makes his patient immediately relax, and the doctor cannot help but bite his tongue and watch the scene play out in front of him.
Chuck stands off the couch, adjusts the button if his suit coat before sauntering across the room to greet her. His fingers gently touch her elbow first, slide to rest on her hip as he places a kiss against her cheek. She turns her head to brush her lips against his as she apologizes for her late arrival, explains about the mix up at the atelier.
And then their voices drop as they speak to one another in low hushed whispers; the doctor straining to hear the words passed between them. Chuck turns, presses his hand to the small of her back as he makes his introductions.
"I'm sure you remember my wife, Blair."
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Bass," the doctor greets in a voice that betrays nothing, that doesn't show how confused or concerned he is at Mrs. Bass' appearance. He does not specialize in couple's therapy; was not prepared to engage in that discipline today.
But Chuck guides his wife to the couch, and the doctor's eyes widen when they land on Blair's side profile, when they see the swell of her body under her dress. He had not heard that piece of information from his gossip mongering wife, and he watches with intrigued and contemplative eyes as Chuck takes his seat beside her, as his fingers tangle in her lap against the swell of her stomach.
"Chuck," the doctors says, clearing his voice and shifting in his seat. "Is there a reason why you asked Blair to join us today?"
And the question goes unanswered as the seconds hand ticks by, as the minute hand moves closer and closer to the half hour mark. The doctor leans forward to prompt Chuck to speak, watches as Blair turns her head and stares at her husband. But Chuck's gaze is focused on the large window overlooking the busy street below, and only the beseeching tone of his wife's voice gets him to speak.
"Please, Chuck."
Blair Waldorf Bass does not believe in therapy. Not for herself, at least. But sitting on a couch and confessing his darkest thoughts helped Chuck in the past, and she promised to love him through it all.
At the desperate plea to her voice, Chuck drops his gaze to look at the gold ring on his finger and then slides across his lap to look at the fingers tangled against the promise on her finger and the promise growing inside her. His gaze slides up to look at the doctor, to answer the question hanging in the air between them.
"We're – It's a boy."
The announcement is flushed with happiness and brings a small smile to his face. Yet his voice is tinted with an undercurrent of sadness and fear and other emotions the doctor cannot seem to sparse out and name.
"Congratulations. You must be very excited."
The doctor cringes at his words, at the way he projected certain emotions on his patient. Because babies can be exciting but they can also be terrifying, be movers and shakers and changers of the world before their parents are ready.
"We are. I am," Chuck interjects and then he sighs, looks to the hand held tightly in his own. "I – my father—"
He cuts himself off, but his wife steps in and softly reminds his of spousal privilege and doctor-patient confidentially with an icy glare in the doctor's direction. As a reminder that this is a line she will not allow him to cross. That Chuck is her family – her happiness – and she will not allow him to jeopardize it.
"My father was not a real man. He was a coward who ran away and did not care who he hurt in the process," Chuck bites out angrily. And then his voice softens into his confession. "I don't want to be my father."
He pauses; his wife's hand squeezing his in reassurance that he is not his father. That he carries her and everyone he loves is a way that his father never could. That he stopped being a coward, stopped running away and faced his problems head on.
"In my father's final moments, he asked me to save him. And I didn't because I knew he would pull me over with him, that he would get back on that rooftop and stop at nothing until he hurt Blair."
And the doctor leans back in his chair at this information, leans back in surprise even if his face has been trained not to show it. Bart Bass' death had been presented as murder by the news media before the police released their statement calling it a suspicious death before finally ruling it a suicide. And while many had suspected Chuck Bass of murder, most had moved on by now – short attention spans easily distracted into following the next true crime drama.
"I don't feel guilty," Chuck snaps. "My father tried to murder me in a plane crash. He threatened to hurt Blair. He arranged for the 'accidental' death of those colleagues who could lead the authorities back to his illegal business deals."
The conjunction hangs in the air. The interruption to his earlier words going unspoken as Chuck turns his hand over in his wife's palm and runs his fingers across her belly in obvious adoration.
"I have never dreamed about that night before. But the last three weeks—it is not my father I see but my—" His voice breaks as the child beneath his fingers kicks furiously against his hand. "My little boy. He calls out to me, asks me to save him. And I wake up before I can reach him."
His wife's eyes close at his words, at his confession of why he wakes up sweaty and frantic beside her night after night. Why he never seems to calm and relax under her touch when she tries to soothe him back to sleep. And Chuck leans against her, turns his head to whisper in her ear.
"I'm sorry. I want this baby. I promise you that I do. I—"
"Blair," the doctor prompts trying to get his patient's wife to engage in the conversation and share her feelings.
At the sound of her name, the brunette's eyes open once more. She turns her gaze from her husband's hand to the doctor seated across from them and presses her free hand to the side of her belly as she tries to find the right words.
"When you first came to me, your hand was bandaged and you said you could never be the man to make Blair happy," the doctor says as he sets his notepad and pen aside on the table next to his armchair. He leans forward in his chair, levels frank eyes with his patient.
"He does," Blair corrects immediately. "He makes me the happiest I've ever been."
And because she doesn't need the doctor to speak for her, Blair turns her gaze to her husband. She presses his hand against her stomach, squeeze tightly as she meets eyes that strain under a heavy heart with eyes that sparkle with unshed tears. Her voice is emotional yet soft and calming; meant to assure him even as her own feelings course through her.
"You hurt me. Badly. Many times."
Her voice breaks, and he turns his gaze away to look back out the windows. She reaches out to touch his face, to turn his focus back on her, and he drags out a haggard breath as she runs her thumb softly against his jawline.
"But, Chuck, you aren't like that anymore. You worked on your issues, worked to become the wonderful man that you are today. And men like your father?"
She swallows back her emotions, and the second hand on the clock is the answer to her question as it ticks and counts off the time they spend just starting at one another. Spend gazing into each other's eyes and communicating with unspoken words because she knows him inside and out and only he sees right into her core.
"They don't do that," Blair reminds him, repeating the comment in a more forceful tone the second time around. "You are a man in a ways your father never was, and you are already becoming the father that he was incapable of being. I'm not worried about you hurting our son because you are going to love our baby as much as you love me. And no one loves me as wholly and completely as you."
Chuck sighs, turns his head and presses a kiss against his wife's temple as he whispers his thanks in her ear. And he maybe he needs a few more sessions spent on this couch; maybe he is still be growing and becoming a man worthy of her love. Yet he can and will do this for her and their son. Can and will do whatever is necessary to be the husband she always wanted and deserved and the father for their little boy that he never had. Because her love and support sustains him, guides him out of the darkness and into the light.