AN (1): Hey, all of you lovely GG fans. I know you've all been asking for a fic having to do with 5x10, and I've been a little slow in getting one out, but I've been really, really sick. I'm still in and out of doctor's visits and everything, but I got this done, just for you! This is my forever!Chair take on the aftermath of 5x10 (as told by their parents, because it just had to be), as a Merry Christmas present to all of you, because you're really wonderful. All of the tites come from E.E. Cummings poems. Anyways, please please please leave a review! :) Thanks a million!
AN (2): Recommended listening: "1000 Sundowns" by Emma Louise. (She's so totally lovely. Check her out!)
(upon what were once knees)
.
i. (this life one leaf)
Harold rushes, tugging Roman along with him through the stark hospital hallways as he wills his heart to slow down and behave (but his heart has never listened, has it?).
They're there in the waiting room - Lily and Nathaniel and Serena, and he wonders to himself when he missed that inevitable transition from girl to woman (because she really is beautiful), and he wonders, too, if he missed it with his own child.
And the second he thinks of her, even though he has been all along, he feels like he's going to double over in pain and in startling, striking fear, so he finds Eleanor and squeezes desperately at her hand, because Blair is something that will always be wonderful between them.
She squeezes back.
...
The doctors allow them, two at a time, to go in and see her, even though visiting hours are over. He's nervous for a second that he's become so unimportant in her life that he won't be allowed to see her first, but Eleanor stands without hesitation and pulls him up with her, and no one even breathes in protest.
...
He almost can't bring himself to go next to her. She is tiny and asleep (they had given her a good deal of pain medication, although he can't help but thinking that it won't really help all that much) and covered in tubes and wires, and she has a gash across her forehead.
But Eleanor walks forward and stifles a sob as she sits next to their daughter's bedside (he notes that Blair got her courage from everyone but him).
Life, in this moment, is as small as his child. It fills his chest and bursts out into the room, because her heart is still beating.
It is infinite.
...
Her hand is still so small. He marvels at it, grasped in his own, because it seems like she never really grew up. She will, no matter how old or big she gets, always be his little girl.
The doctors' words run through his mind, then, achingly, a haunting whisper: thebabydidn'tmakeit.
Her eyes open, and they still take his breath away because they are his, and she blinks dazedly a few times before her face crumples. She cries into their linked fingers, pulling them to her mouth as to hold in her immense grief.
Children are supposed to be Peter Pans, not Wendys. They are supposed to be infinitely young and wise and beautiful and alive. They aren't supposed to grow up, he realizes, but they must.
.
ii. (with patient eyes)
Charles is her son, there's no doubting that now, because her heart aches every time she looks at this boy (and she marvels at how sometimes they still are children) she loves so much it is painful and poignant and terrifying and wonderful.
Serena sits next to her in his room because Harold and Eleanor are with Blair, and she holds onto her daughter's thin fingers (her father's fingers, long and gentle) frantically.
Serena smiles gently, and it's painfully obvious that Serena is the one comforting, reassuring, and Lily wonders what caused her wild, entrancing daughter to suddenly become this strong, anchoring person, how many people have stopped taking care of her.
She's also not sure she likes the change.
...
Serena falls asleep in Charles' room, and at once she is young and carefree again, the same Serena that could run through Central Park in the snow with nothing but a sun dress on, drunk and high, and still be enviable. Nathaniel walks in timidly, putting his dinner jacket over Serena's shoulder's, then smiles tiredly.
She doesn't say anything when he sits next to her daughter, and his head starts to nod forward quickly.
It's so nostalgic and sad that Lily wants to cry, because Blair is missing, the small space between Serena and Chuck evidence of that, more than anything she's ever seen.
She falls asleep anyways.
...
He wakes up two days later, groggy.
"Blair?" he whispers, his voice cracked and hoarse (and that's bad too, because it just makes everything sound more sad).
He needs to get better, Lily decides, so she says, "She's fine," then squeezes his hand. It's an apology, but he perceives it as reassurance.
His eyes close again and he nods, almost imperceptibly.
Her heart breaks at how much he needs to believe her.
.
iii. (with a spin leap alive we're alive)
Eleanor observes her daughter with a melancholic curiosity. Blair's always been strong, she knows - it's one of the reasons they hated each other so long.
Her stubborn will, now, though, is just the most sorrowful thing Eleanor has ever seen. She tries to keep her distance but she also tries to stay close, but Blair is, as always, now, pretending like everything is fine.
It's so heartbreaking Eleanor wants to scream: Her child should not livelike this.
...
"Triple word score," Blair says, and her voice is strangely monotone. The word on the scrabble board is 'shoes', and Eleanor is not entirely sure why Blair looks at her letters so helplessly, guilty tears filling her eyes.
Daniel Humphrey (a blessedly gentle and smart boy, Eleanor comes to find out) clears his throat to hide a hitch in his breathing, Eleanor's sure.
"I hate flash fiction," he mumbles, and her daughter's shiny curls bob as she nods, a sniffle signaling the beginnings of a sob.
Eleanor starts to ask why this is so sad, but she doesn't need to because Blair states, "Baby shoes for sale, never worn," and buries her face in her hands, shaking with tears.
Daniel quickly, easily, thoughtlessly puts his arms around her small frame, and she clings to him, clutching his shirt.
Eleanor is left sitting beside them, crying herself. She's not certain the exact island of grief, but hers is an ocean, which must be close enough.
Daniel says, "I hate Hemingway," and repeats it again and again. It's probably the saddest thing she's ever heard.
...
"Hand me my robe," Blair says, her voice full of well-bred authority, before a guilty, silly smile crosses her face for a heartbeat and she adds, "Please?"
Eleanor nods and clutches the garment in her hand before handing it to her child. Blair's eyes meet hers for a brief moment and Eleanor realizes just how ripping and painful their relationship must be for her right now (but she is Blair's mother and there is no way around that, after all).
Blair struggles with one of her sleeves and Eleanor helps her without a word.
"Thanks," Blair tells her softly, and Eleanor's throat closes so quickly in that moment that she can only kiss the top of Blair's head in response.
...
Eleanor sits outside of the chapel, although she can still hear Blair's sobs from inside, her startlingly truthful and desperate prayers.
Blair bargains, bargains for Charles' life, giving up her own in the process.
It is so very like a princess - to give up her happiness for her one true love's - that Eleanor weeps with the knowledge that she never should have read her daughter fairy tales.
.
iv. (breathing)
Rufus understands why his son finds her fascinating. There is no denying that Blair is beautiful, because to do so would just be silly - she's striking, with her vivid cheekbones and vibrant, red lips and big eyes. Her body is lithe and soft and sharp at once, all slight curves and collarbones.
She is so full of tragedy, too, so damaged, so selfless and self-effacing. One must love her.
He looks in as his son cradles her so like a child, and they watch WhiteChristmas, and his son's hand sneaks down and cups her hip, and he must say something funny, because she offers him a smile and he sees his son squeeze her hip, just once, before he takes his hand away.
She is not his to fix.
...
He understands, too, why she is so drawn to Chuck.
He's dark, all angles and shadows, and Rufus knows first-hand why girls love the darkness. It's exactly why his son is so bright.
.
v. (beginning at the singular beginning of your smile)
"You can't give half a sacrifice," Cyrus tells her.
"Stop quoting JaneEyre," she tells him dismissively, her eyes welling despite her best efforts. She is still new to him, although everything she does is so very intentionedhe understands her better than either of her parents do.
"Blair," he says.
She shakes her head and starts to cry into his chest, and he doesn't need to say anything more.
He discovered they were kindred spirits when he first met her, all things considered.
...
He sees her hovering two doors down from his room, the back of her hair completely disheveled, her robe cinched tight around her already-tiny waist.
She stands there, unmoving, shaking, bathed in the moonlight.
He goes and squeezes her hand, willing her to be brave. "He loves you more than anyone I've ever seen."
She bites her bottom lip.
"And none of this is your fault."
It's the most important thing, and he knows this too. He turns around and walks away, stopping once to look back.
As Blair walks towards Charles' room, she's so slight and pale and beautiful he's sure he'd think her a ghost if he didn't know better.
...
The next morning, when Blair isn't in her room, he's happy. So happy, because she's his daughter as much as Aaron is his son.
He walks with Eleanor (who is panicking just perfectly) to Charles' room, and they look in the window.
Blair is, invariably, unsurprisingly, blessedly curled up against his body. He has a hand protectively over her stomach, a promise of full of tomorrow and I'm so sorry and I love you so. They're both unglamorously clad in hospital gowns, matching as always.
Chuck's eyes open after an indeterminate amount a time, and he looks so lovingly at Blair's still-sleeping face that Cyrus can't blame Eleanor's breath for catching.
"Hi," Chuck says to Blair.
Her eyes flutter open and she smiles, brilliantly, full of unbridled, painfully apparent life. Her breathless hello is a psalm and a lament. She is no ghost after all.
AN: Reviews are like Earl Grey Tea and scones, which means I love them probably a little more than I should. So please leave one? :) Merry Christmas!