Disclaimer: No, I don't own Gossip Girl, because if I did, none of the things I'm writing about would even be happening in the first place.
AN: Hi, guys...I'm not dead. :) It's been FOREVER since I've posted anything new, but I just had an urge to start writing this week, and so came up with this...it was originally going to be a one-shot, and then a two-shot, and now I have no idea how long it's going to be. At this point I'm thinking four parts, but we'll see. It's completely based on season four spoilers, right down to the clothes, so if you don't want to know any of that, just stop reading right now, lol. It's not necessarily what I think is going to happen, just one of many possible scenarios. This story is kind of a departure from what I usually do, meaning I'm having to get more creative with events since I'm not writing from the show, so we'll see what happens... I wasn't so sure about posting this, since I don't think it's perfect or even very good at all, but I've really missed writing fic and I just wanted to get this up so that I'd have motivation to continue. So please review, it will make my day. :)
OBSTRUCTION. [ob. struc. tion.] noun. a thing that impedes or prevents passage or progress; an obstacle or blockage. ie; changing who you are won't get you anywhere.
Three months, one week and three days.
That's how long it had been since he'd last seen her. He'd kept up a running count in his head, and he honestly wasn't sure why. He was trying to forget, that's what this summer had been all about. Failing to remember, moving on. Turning into a person he'd never thought he'd become, and doing away with everything that made him who he had been.
It was for the best, he assured himself every day, as he walked back and forth from his small apartment instead of being chaffeured, as the hot sun beat down on his back while he ate at dirty outdoor cafés, as he kissed someone that wasn't her. There was nothing left for him back home. Everyone had despised him when he'd left; his many mistakes had taken a toll on their opinions of him, and a romantic or helpful gesture wouldn't change his unlucky cards. No one had come looking when he'd disappeared, and although he hadn't as much as rung home the entire time he'd been away, there had been no worried phone calls or letters or even texts. No one could care less.
He'd spent a few weeks in a hospital in Prague, recovering, hooked up to all sorts of machines, on all sorts of medications, but he honestly couldn't stand it there, and as soon as he had the strength, he left. There was something so horrible about hospitals, anyway…the way people would take their last breaths or gasps in each room and then they'd be swept away and everything would be cleaned and sanitized, like nothing had ever happened. Like they'd never lived. It made him feel sick to his stomach to contemplate, and all he had to occupy himself as he sat in that tiny white room, day in and day out, was contemplate.
But really, if he thought about it, the sanitizing what he was doing with his life now. Sweeping everything away, all the bad parts. The good parts too, he guessed, although they weren't so good anymore. He tried not to concentrate on that, though. It wasn't important, he was starting over. That was exactly the reason that he'd headed to Paris as soon as he could convince the doctors to let him leave, and although he still had a bit of a limp and occasional jolting, excrutiating pains that shot through his body like electricity, he figured he was doing all right. Phyiscally, at least. He'd never been very good at figuring out the emotional stuff. As a matter of fact, those emotions were exactly what he'd been running away from when he decided to pretend to be who he was now: Charles Connors, a working-class waiter. He'd gotten pretty good at playing the part. If he didn't think about it too much, he could almost bear it.
"Charles!" He heard a voice calling him from behind, and he whipped around, flinging the towel he was using to dry dishes over his shoulder. "Your shift is up, you can leave now." The voice came from the chef at the restaurant where he had taken a job. Eight hours a day and the pay was horrible, but money was never the problem.
"Thanks." Chuck forced a smile, adjusting his vest. He still hadn't gotten used to his new uniform of sorts. He'd been wearing nothing but luxury clothing for years: cashmere sweaters, bespoke suits and silk pajamas, in a constant rotation. The feel of a plain button-down shirt and simple black jeans was one he still hadn't gotten used to. Sometimes Chuck wished he could just pull out a purple bowtie, as if putting it on would solve all of his problems, help him figure out exactly what he was supposed to be doing.
"And there's a girl outside that says she's waiting for you. A blonde." The chef (his name was something French that Chuck, having never quite mastered the language, couldn't understand through his thick accent) remarked, raising his eyebrows. Chuck's smile grew slightly. It had to be Eva. Pleasantly beautiful and gently charming, she'd been there for him from the moment that he'd left the hospital in Prague. She'd been in town visiting friends, and after an accidentally run-in on the street (Chuck hadn't yet mastered the art of walking with his newfound injuries), a few dates and drinks they'd decided to spend some time in Paris. She was a sweet girl, she really was. But Chuck didn't do sweet, and he couldn't help feeling like something was missing in their relationship. Maybe the fact that he'd gotten into a relationship with her after just a few dates, when it had taken him two years for him to get himself together for the other her. Blair.
Or maybe the fact that he wasn't being honest with her. He couldn't be. She was under the impression that he was of humble upbringing, nothing like his actual lavish Upper East Side origins. And she didn't know that the name on his birth certificate was Bass, not Connors. And she had no idea that he'd been mugged in Prague not for his wallet but for an engagement ring that he was planning to give to the love of his life. She just couldn't know, it would defy the purpose of starting over.
And he had to start over.
Chuck pushed open the heavy swinging doors that separated the kitchen from the small café, scanning the crowd of patrons for Eva's soft, wavy hair and her narrow shoulders clad one of those simple cotton blouses that she was fond of. But instead of seeing her waiting for him by a table in the front like she was most days when he got off of work, he saw a very different blonde. Dressed in a bold-shouldered gold jacket, blue pants and studded heels, she looked completely out of place in the quaint restaurant, even more so because she was surveying the crowd wildly, like she was looking for someone. Chuck narrowed his eyes in her direction. It almost looked like…shit.
Chuck practically slammed his back into the wall right by the doors, ignoring the stinging pain for fear that Serena would spot him. How could he be such an idiot, to choose the one city in Europe that people from back home visited more frequently than anywhere else to make his escape? What if she saw him?
And what if she wasn't alone?
Through all of his long summer days spent with Eva, to be honest, every time he walked down the streets of Paris, all he saw was Blair: early-morning strolls in the crisp air for buttery croissants at an outdoor café, sun-drenched afternoons shopping with a potential dressing-room rendezvous included, late nights and long dinners before laying in bed, arms and legs tangled together in the sheets, perfectly content with simply each other's warmth and company...that had been them, just a year ago. It was almost comical how much things could change, and as hard as he tried, he couldn't forget that. But he couldn't confront it either. Things might be different now, but they were easier. Or at least closer to easy. It would probably be easier if he was as happy as he pretended to be.
Taking a long, deep breath to steady himself, he pushed himself off the wall with his free hand, using the other to hold the cane that he tended to need to keep himself upright and walking somewhat normally. A few quick, limping steps later and he was out of Serena's viewpoint and out the door.
Right outside, sitting at a metal table with its flat surface curled into intricate designs, Eva was reading a paperback book, the wind ruffling her hair and its pages as she took in the words. Apparently hearing the scuffling of Chuck's footsteps, she looked up and her face broke into a wide smile. "Charles!" she flipped the book shut and clutched it in one hand as she stood, hugging him gently and turning her face for a kiss.
Suddenly, Chuck heard someone clear their throat, directly behind him. He turned slowly, almost knowing who would be there. As per his prediction, it was Serena: hands on hips and mouth turned down, waiting.
Chuck had no idea what to do. He hadn't thought of a story, he didn't stop to think that his lies could catch up with him. He should have known that they always did. He had the urge to grab Eva and take off, calling a cab to the airport and heading somewhere remote and not at all locatable; the urge to talk to Serena, to ask her where Blair was and if she cared where he was; the urge to vomit and leave, hopefully not in that order.
And he couldn't decide which would get him out of this mess.
So he didn't do anything. He just stood there, his golden brown eyes staring into Serena's, which were filled with a mixture of worry and haughty defiance. He just stood there, the wind blowing his unkept hair into his work-weary face. He just stood there as Eva slipped her hand into his and looked up at him questioningly, her eyes wide and comforting. And then his stomach churned warningly and he couldn't take any of those things anymore, so he spoke.
AN: Ta-da. *cringes* Next part to come soon...I hope. Please review, constructive criticism and all.