Title: Lips of an Angel
Author: Kitty
Summary: Eight years, two engagements and one wedding later, some things – and people – are still too painful to let go of.
Pairings: NB with slight CB & NV
Warnings: Physical abuse and suggestions of non-consensual sex; definitely not for kids. Oh, and a teeny-weeny "happy" sex scene too.
A/N: I'm on a roll. :)) Enjoy, loves.
***
She stares at the stick of cigarette between her neatly manicured fingers. The tip is glowing in a mix of orange and black and grey and for a moment she is mesmerized. The burning paper and tobacco reminds her of her heart – scorching in a passionate fire but also dying and crumbling in minute particles of ash. It is not like her to engage in such a vice but she can't help herself – anything to distract her, anything to keep the pain away. Placing the Lucky Strike between her glossed lips, she takes one last long drag and drops the cigarette into the trash.
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she sees a girl that – honestly – she no longer knows. Her brown curls are unruly and lacking their usual luster, a cloth headband haphazardly keeping them away from her face. Gone are the pink blush to her cheeks and the life in her eyes, replaced instead by a dull flesh color and eyes so lifeless that she sometimes wonders why she is still alive. There used to be so much hope when she looked at herself, so much she looked forward to doing and being. The old Blair Waldorf had never settled for anything but the best – the new Blair Bass seemed more adept at settling for the worst.
In a moment of sudden rage, she steps back, takes a bottle of her husband's aftershave – which she personally thinks suits Grandfather Vanderbilt more – and hurls it at the mirror. The bottle shatters into maybe a hundred smaller pieces – much like her heart also, she thinks wryly – but the mirror remains intact, save for a jagged crack that is now running diagonally across mirror-Blair's face. She is so strangely amused by the scene before her that she barely notices the small cuts on her face and neck and arms. Letting out a cackle, she exits the bathroom and goes down to the kitchens.
Seeing no one else in the spacious room, she opens the refrigerator and spots a meringue pie. In an act reminiscent of her junior year's Thanksgiving binge, she brings it out and begins shoving spoon after spoon of pie in her mouth. Finishing the plate off, she grabs a container of roast beef and begins devouring that also. Before she can finish it off, her stomach protests and she finds herself rushing towards the kitchen sink. There, she heaves and heaves until her stomach feels as empty as the rest of herself. Exhausted and in tears, she slides down to the floor and falls asleep.
A couple of hours later, she stirs somewhat and finds herself being carried back upstairs. The arms around her are solid and familiar and she drifts in and out of consciousness in comfort. She winces slightly when she feels a damp cloth being applied on her cuts but keeps her eyes closed. Honestly, she doesn't have to open them to know it's him. The scraping sound of the chair being moved tells her he is standing up and it takes all her strength to raise her left hand up to try and grab him. Her slender fingers close around air and her hand drops lifelessly to her side. Soft music begins to play and she realizes he has just played her favorite song. She relaxes and concentrates on falling asleep again when she feels the proximity of his body once more. A feather-light kiss is dropped on her forehead, along with a tender whisper of "Goodnight, sweetheart." Blair hears him walk to the door and she struggles to open her eyes. He is gone again.
The next morning, she wonders if the events of last night – the warm body and the soft kiss – were all a dream. But then she sees near the dressing table a familiar dark blue iPod – battery empty – and she knows he was definitely here. Feeling much better than she has in days – or maybe weeks, she gets up and enters the bathroom to brush her teeth. All traces of yesterday's rampage gone except for the broken mirror, she picks up her pink toothbrush and furiously attempts to get rid of the acrid taste in her mouth. Satisfied, she goes down for breakfast and sees Dorota vacuuming the living room. The older woman had insisted on accompanying "Miss Blair" even until the latter's marriage, anticipating early on that it wouldn't be a happy one.
"Dorota?" she calls out timidly, her voice having no trace of the demanding tones she used in high school.
"Yes, Miss Blair?" the housekeeper replies flatly, turning the vacuum cleaner off.
"Did – did he – ?"
"Yes." Her voice is curt as she turns away from Blair, not wishing to betray the sadness and disappointment in her eyes. She loves this girl – for she would always think of her mistress as such – and it kills her to know that the latter is unhappy. Growing up in a poor and desolate family, she had lived her life's fantasies through Blair Waldorf's, always cheering for her and helping her achieve her dreams. For a long time, she had lived with Blair's dreams of Yale and Nate Archibald and beautiful blue-eyed children. No matter what the others said – even when they had been swept away by Chuck Bass' so-called romance and (temporary) reformation – she had remained true to her mistress' first love. Somehow, she had known that no other boy or man would ever love Blair as she deserved to be loved – more so if they happened to be manipulative, disrespectful and cheeky brats. It disappointed her to no end when she heard that Mister Chuck had proposed, that Miss Blair had accepted and Mister Nate had done nothing to actively stop it. And so she is here, in the Bass suite, continuing to take care of her little Blair who – unfortunately – is more vulnerable than ever. "He left this." Handing Blair an ivory envelope, she turns on the vacuum cleaner to drown out the cries that she knows will follow her mistress' opening of the letter.
Despite the cleaner's whirring noise, Dorota still hears the sound of Blair bounding up the stairs, as well as those of what are probably many more perfume bottles and aftershaves crashing against the wall.
Upstairs, Blair crumples in a heap of silk on the floor, her frail body surrounded by remnants of bottles and vases and various picture frames. In her right hand, she is clutching the invitation to the Abrams-Archibald nuptials, Charles and Blair Bass printed in neat calligraphy on the outside. Her tears make the ink run and for a second she worries about what her husband might say if he finds the invitation to his best friend's – and her ex-boyfriend's – wedding smudged up by her tears. But then she realizes he is in Bangkok or Amsterdam or wherever working and probably won't even be home until the wedding day itself. If he does arrive early enough to see the invitation, she can maybe just make something up and he will maybe forgive her. If he doesn't, it will mean another night of being pounded painfully in bed in what he dares call "making love" or one spent in the bathroom, locked up as he knocks violently on the door whilst demanding entrance. Granted he's in a good mood, he will stop at sex and not push or hit her too much in a drunken fit of jealousy and all will be well. They will attend the wedding, he will leave her again and she will continue to go on her downward spiral and no one will be the wiser. It is the best case scenario.
Blair soon hears the sound of footsteps on the landing and hushed whispers behind the bedroom door. Dorota is on the phone and all she can make out are the words "Miss Blair", "invitation" and "bottles." She gets up slowly, steps carefully around the shards of glass surrounding her and drops to the bed. For a long time, she stares at the ceiling, envious of its whiteness and pristine surface, beautiful and unmarred – much as she had been at maybe sixteen. All too soon, she hears the familiar footsteps of her hero and she closes her eyes. It makes it easier this way – for her to pretend to be unconscious or unaware and for him to pretend that he is just being a Samaritan. There is no need for words because the gentle ways in which he touches her is enough to tell her he still loves her and the way she just lets him is enough to tell him she still loves him too.
All too soon he is gone and she drifts off to sleep, her dreams haunted by a certain golden-haired boy and brown-haired girl during much happier times. When she wakes up near dinnertime, the invitation she had been previously clutching in her hand is gone, in its place a photograph she hadn't had the heart to look at for at least two years. In it are the same boy and girl from her dreams, arms around each other as they posed for the standard Prom photo. He looks handsome and dapper in a dark new suit and she looks beautiful in her Paris-made gown. They look so happy together – although the night would later prove to be the beginning of the end – and her heart aches the more with the ever-growing realization that there has really only been one person her heart has belonged to fully. She had been young and foolish – so willing to take a chance on a boy she had hoped so earnestly she could count on. And perhaps at that time, there truly was still a part of Chuck Bass that could be saved, a small piece of his heart that hadn't quite shriveled up to die just yet.
Blair had tried so hard at first but nothing could quite be done. He enjoyed playing games with her and while she found it exciting at first, college and a growing sense of maturity had made her irate and unwilling to take part in any more of his schemes. It didn't help that she and Nate had remained friends, their bond growing even stronger up until he reunited with Vanessa and attempted to distance himself from her once more. Blair almost left Chuck once – but he had hauled her right back in with promises of change and a perfect life. Everyone was paired up already anyway, so what was the point in leaving? The verbal abuse came soon after – usually when he was drunk or high or mourning – and by the time his fists came flying along with the furniture, her heart and body were too numb to care.
Getting up from the bed, she sees that Dorota has cleaned up her earlier mess and is about to leave the room when she hears someone going up the stairs. Thinking it might be her husband and in no condition to deal with him, she jumps back into the bed and covers herself with the comforter. However, the gentleness with which the door is opened and the quiet footfalls tell her it is not Chuck who has come and Blair speedily relaxes. The covers are drawn from her head and she keeps her eyes closed as she – hopefully – anticipates the kiss on her forehead. It never comes.
Instead, supple lips fall on her equally soft ones in a gentle peck. Before she knows what she is doing, she has opened her eyes to meet Nathaniel Archibald's surprised ones and has placed her arms around his neck. It is then that the tears start to fall, like a dam released after many weeks of steady rain. She cries for herself and the pitiful life she now lives; she cries for him and the pain she has made him go through. Most of all, she cries for the both of them – for the wonderful past they shared, for the difficult present they are living and the non-existent future together that they had always planned for.
Pulling her towards him, Nate allows her to cry, a few tears of his own dampening her dark curls. They remain in a tight embrace for what seems to both like an eternity. Before either knows what exactly is happening, he is holding her face in his hands, his lips dangerously close to her own. Blair shifts slightly and it is the last straw – their lips brush and they are suddenly kissing, wrapped up in a sudden wave of heat and passion. In seconds, their clothes are on the floor and they find themselves being consumed.
They both miss this – God knows how long it has been since their last sexual encounter. Admittedly, Chuck is – was – a skilled lover but never had Blair felt as much pleasure or arousal with anyone as she had with Nate. It was more than the way in which he seemed to know just where and how to touch her. With him, she felt like they were an actual team – two different notes blending in perfect harmony, perhaps – working to achieve a kind of joint climax. She and Nate – they moved beautifully together, rocked together. It was never forced or one-sided, always satisfying whether they did it gently or roughly, slowly or in a rush.
For the first time in months, Blair actually feels alive. She feels her heart pumping – her blood flowing – as Nate traces a path of nips and nibbles from her ears to her neck, as he takes her right breast into his mouth, sucking slightly and making circular patterns with his tongue while his right hand fondles with the other. Her hands dig themselves into his hair as his mouth moves to give attention to her left breast and she lets out a moan. He looks up at her then, his eyes seeming to ask her if she is sure with what they are about to do. Blair nods fervently and all hesitation on both their parts is thrown out the window.
Nate's mouth returns to Blair's and they kiss fervently, their tongues interacting in a dance that both honestly already know by heart. His right hand slips into her panties, feeling her moisture and then tugging impatiently to remove the scant piece of fabric. Slipping his boxers off, Nate gives her one last passion-filled look before thrusting inside her. Another moan escapes her throat as she proceeds to meet him thrust-for-thrust.
After it is all over, they lie in the bed quietly, Nate's body wrapped around Blair's smaller one. His head is on her shoulder, his lips giving her little kisses here and there. For the most part they are silent, too wrapped up in their own thoughts. For sure their minds are on the same thing – how the past few hours had been a mistake but not really, how it should never happen again but probably still will.
Ten years ago, no one would have ever expected the situation to be as it is now. Nate Archibald and Blair Waldorf were the Golden Couple, destined to be together from the moment he gave her her first kiss under the slide at Central Park when they were five years old. They weren't supposed to become cheaters or adulterers, weren't meant to live their lives apart. The difficulties were expected, sure, but they were supposed to surpass them. Yet somewhere along the way, things went wrong and they never made it back. She is married to his best friend – a womanizer and domestic abuser – and he is marrying a girl from Brooklyn – a self righteous grunge artist that he honestly has nothing in common with. They are in the middle of her marriage bed, spooning a good two days before his impending wedding. Both are thinking about wasted chances, forgiveness and the lack of courage to apologize. There is regret for not taking that last chance on each other, for not being able to realize the reality of each others' love until it was too late.
In the silence of the dawn there is the promise of sunrise, of light coming in to wash over the darkness. For most, it holds the promise of new beginnings. For Nate Fitzwilliam Archibald and Blair Cornelia Waldorf-Bass, it means a mere continuance. Getting up, getting dressed, going out and learning how to deal all over again. It's never over, they know. But it also will never really be ever again.
He is gone before nine o'clock, an emergency call from his fiancé – over some wedding detail, surely – summoning him away. Nate gives her a lingering kiss on the lips as she brings him to the door and they part without another word. Blair thinks there is honestly no need. They both know he will be back again. It is only a matter of when – how soon.
***
-END-
It's really good to hear your voice saying my name
It sounds so sweet
Coming from the lips of an angel
Hearing those words, it makes me weak