So this has been in the works since around Christmas, and I've finally finished it! It's been a while since I've finished any fics, so I'm proud of that at least ;)
I should say that I don't envision this actually happening, at least not completely anyway lol not that much of a clairvoyant, but I'd appreciate you giving it a chance and reading and letting me know your thoughts all the same.
Hope you enjoy…
Title: Bridges
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, except any characters/names/events you don't recognise from the show. The title is from the song by Lifehouse and the summary line is inspired from its lyrics.
A/N: I dunno if this'll make a difference, but some people like it so here it is: my soundtrack for this was basically a constant loop of 'Learn You Inside Out' and 'Bridges' by Lifehouse and 'Wicked Game' by James Vincent Morrow.
Summary: Her mind is a graveyard where she's buried this love alive.
.
"Maybe you think you'll be entitled to more happiness later by forgoing all of it now, but it doesn't work that way. Happiness takes as much practice as unhappiness does. It's by living that you live more. By waiting you wait more. Every waiting day makes your life a little less. Every lonely day makes you a little smaller, Every day you put off your life makes you less capable of living it."
'Sisterhood Everlasting', Ann Brashares
.
She stands in the vestibule, wondering if it's too late to back out. She's yet to step through the doubles doors, yet to be greeted by the rows upon rows of expectant faces congregated for a wedding that is not her own. She could turn around right now and get back in the car, drive away, leave the city and no one would be any the wiser.
"Blair."
Except him.
She turns at the sound of her name on his tongue; he's always had such a particular way of saying it, there's nothing quite like it.
"I wasn't sure you'd come."
She can hear the slight relief in his voice, which makes her pause, and does nothing to help her already addled emotions.
Her lips curl up into a smile as she tries to pretend this is just like old times; she doesn't specify an exact timeline, why bother?
"I said I would."
She had, but he'd still doubted she'd actually appear; she can't blame him, until a few moments ago she'd been doubting herself too.
"You say a lot of things."
She does, just not so much to him anymore.
"You always know when I mean it."
He nods, dips his head as if to consider the point: it's true and they both know it.
"So," she says it like she has an announcement, but really she's just afraid of silence falling between them, so she captures his attention once more and pulls it back to her where it belongs. "Tell me about your soon-to-be bride then."
"Blair." He sounds almost sympathetic and she bristles at his tone, at the look in his eyes: it's not pity, but he could tear her heart out with that one glance alone.
She closes her eyes until the moment has passed her by; she doesn't have to see that. She doesn't cover her ears; she's not a child anymore. It wouldn't do any good anyway, it doesn't do any good; the damage is done.
She holds up a hand to stop him going any further, tries to keep her voice even, to channel the inner calm that she knows exists somewhere within her.
"I'm here for your wedding, Chuck, what did you think we would talk about?"
He just looks at her and she can read every emotion as it passes across his face, can interpret each feeling as it manifests in the slight slack of his jaw as he opens his mouth to respond, to the flex of his wrist as he moves to take a step towards her, beseeching.
"I'm sorry."
She shakes her head, her perfectly coiffed curls swaying with the movement, and keeps her expression perfectly still.
"I'm not here to rehash the past, Chuck. What's done is done. We've both…"
"Moved on," he finishes for her, quietly, but purposefully.
She nods. "Exactly."
Parting is not such sweet sorrow when it could be forever.
"You know, I'd have spent the rest of my life trying to make up for all I did to you, if you'd have let me," he tells her then; and he's only speaking the truth, generally only does if you listen closely enough. "I'd have loved you forever if that'd been enough."
"I know, but that's not what I wanted," she replies, voice softer, tone quieter, and in the silence that follows she sees the heartbreaking truth dangle in front of her eyes: it wasn't enough.
This is it.
She clears her throat, breaks the moment; she will not revel in the past, it is where it belongs and dredging it up to the light of the present day will not do either of them any favours. Not now at least, anyway.
"Apparently it's not what you'd have wanted either," she remarks with a tight smile, nodding to his current attire; he makes for a very dapper groom, not that she'd have doubted him in that regard.
He smiles back at her, ducking his head in a brief moment of bashful pride, if there is such a thing where he is concerned, before lifting his chin to meet her eyes once more.
You still love me.
She doesn't say it, doesn't have to; it's written all over his face, in the way he says her name, in the way he's looking at her now. And she still loves him too, or she wouldn't be here.
"You know I never would have thought you'd be one to settle for second best."
This is what she says instead.
She shouldn't, of course, but there's still a cruel streak in her and she's hurting and – sometimes she doesn't know how to be any other way with him. Sometimes she doesn't know how to be anyone but that girl with the headband saying nasty words to the boy in the bow-tie who smirked instead of flinched and declared in all his haughty glory that she'd finally met her match with him and she'd secretly reveled in the challenge and spent her days trying to match him right back.
"I'm not."
His voice is but a whisper, yet whispers can shatter glass if it's already cracked to begin with; the truth doesn't need to be loud to ruin what's left of a quietly-wrapped lie.
"Thank you for coming, Blair."
She nods and there's that smile again. "Enjoy the rest of your life, Chuck."
Sometimes she forgets she gave him her heart and he never really returned it.
.
When the ceremony's over, she flees the church. She doesn't go to the reception.
She's strong, but she's not that strong. She's not the masochist she used to be.
Apparently he's not the only one who noticed.
The letter is hand delivered by her best friend, though the blonde knows nothing about its contents. She's skeptical as soon as Serena tells her who the sender is, but her best friend is so encouraging and if anything her pride won't allow her to back down from this. They are not together, he has a wife now; whatever is written on the slip within her grasp cannot, will not, affect her.
He is not hers to love anymore.
He told me you came to our wedding, though I did not see you. I would've liked to have seen you; I doubt the photos and stories of old truly do you justice.
Perhaps it was cruel of me to encourage him to invite you; perhaps I deluded myself into thinking if he saw you on that day, on our day, that he would finally let you go. I know now that I was wrong, so for that I am sorry. I do not know if you still love him as much as you once did, if the years and the distance have done anything to diminish your feelings or if they have merely strengthened them, but I am grateful that you care for him enough to have come that day.
My husband will always love you, I know this, and if circumstances were different he might've been yours to have and to hold forever and a day.
Once upon a time he would've given the world up to be with you, even when it wasn't his to give. This may not be our fate, but that doesn't mean our history and our future will not wield a glorious tale of its own.
I wouldn't deign to compare how he feels for me with what his heart possesses for you. You and I are not the same, nor will we ever be, and I do not spend my days seeking a life that was planned for another when I have the ability to carve out one of my own.
For whatever hurt my presence in his life has caused you, or will in the future, I apologize. I am not conceited enough to imagine I hold any such power or sway over your thoughts or decisions, but I do know what it is like to love this man with all I have to give and know that his heart does not fully belong with mine alone.
I am sorry we cannot share him, but I dare say my jealousy might well get the better of me if I was to look upon my husband's face everyday as he looked upon yours.
However, I urge you not to be a stranger; my husband planned his future with you in mind and as much as my insecurities may get the better of me at times, I would hate to see him lose such a huge part of his life and think for one moment I could've prevented it.
If anything, I'd like the opportunity to see for myself what all the fuss is about. I can only hope you live up to the legend.
There is no threat in the letter, even if there was there wouldn't be any need; she has already lost. He may love another still, he may love her still, but this woman who writes to her, this woman is his wife. She is all too aware that one cannot truly compete with that. He's made his choice – and she made hers.
.
The next time she sees that shade of ivory, her address is penned in neat black calligraphy beneath her name and she frowns at the sight. Her best friend is nowhere to be seen and though she may not broadcast it to the world, Serena knows her, for better or worse, and she at least has the sense to forewarn her of any major events. Unless, of course, Serena herself is unaware of any major events.
She feels her heart start to sink, and how true a statement that really is, because it weighs her down from the inside, all these feelings harnessed in this one organ, determined to override her every sense, her every thought, her every move, with a power that could only come from a love that is slowly slipping away.
She knows what is to come, but she reads it anyway.
She can deny it all she wants, but she still holds certain masochistic tendencies; she wonders if he'll always have the ability to bring them out in her.
We have still yet to meet, and without knowing you personally or observing you as you interact with my husband, I could not claim to know your feelings for him, though I take your absence as a mark of your intentions.
Whether you love him still or not, I know he loves you. This has not changed and I don't imagine it ever will.
It is with this in mind that I extend this courtesy to you, if you will.
I am pregnant.
The announcement will not be made for some time, if indeed we choose to do so, but I felt you should know within the same timeframe as the others he holds dear.
I do not know if you will visit for any of the celebrations this will no doubt generate, but I want to extend my own invitation to you in the hope that you will accept. I realize you do not need my permission or even a blessing of any sort from me to see or indeed keep in contact with my husband, but if it would trigger you to do so I would gladly give it.
This is a momentous occasion in our lives and I know it would mean a lot to him if you were part of it, and by extension it would mean a lot to me also.
I do not treat this as some competition. My husband loves you still after all these years, but I did not marry him to have your life.
I do not know if this will be our first and only child, or if we will be blessed with more, but I shall not trouble you again with such news. Please just know that you are welcome in our home anytime. I really would like to meet the woman who helped make my husband the man he is today.
She hears from her best friend that they have a son now. She doesn't ask the name or anything about it, him. She went to his wedding, she watched him start a new life with someone that wasn't her, what more do they want from her?
She doesn't send him a congratulations card or attend the child's Christening. He may be entrusting his sister to play the role of Godmother, but her best friend's giddiness just isn't enough incentive to put herself through that.
It was bad enough the first time.
Like she said, she's not a masochist anymore.
.
It takes her years, years, before she puts herself in the same room as him.
She's always known how to make her presence known, and she's always known how to make herself suffer best; some things not even time can change.
"Daddy," the boy tugs at the man's leg, impatient in his demand for his father's attention; which he receives wholeheartedly but a moment later.
"Son," the elder breathes out, eyes settling on the little boy looking up at him expectantly. He bends down and scoops the youngster up, brushing a hand through his dark locks and pressing a kiss to his tender skin in what seems like one fluid movement, ingrained in memory and repetition throughout the child's short lifetime. "You, my little ruler, are supposed to be in bed."
While the chastisement falls too light for any lasting effect, the love he showers the boy with is paramount in even the smallest of his actions.
Standing in the realm in which he grew, cradling his child in his arms, she can see as they all can: he is a better father than his own.
"I was, but then I got up because I 'membered," the boy states and then fits the elder with a disapproving look as he continues, "You said I'd get to kiss a pretty girl at midnight – and getting Grandma Lily to tuck me in and kiss me goodnight doesn't count."
The small scowl that falls across the dark brow to shield those big brown eyes; the pout that shapes his baby pink lips; it is all too reminiscent of another child (once upon a time) who forever wanted their own way – and got it, if she remembers correctly.
His father chuckles at his young son's antics, the rumble causing a ripple effect that travels from one dark-haired Bass to the other, until the boy is trying desperately to hold onto his frown, even going so far as to cross his arms over his chest, unimpressed, as his father tries to weasel a smile out of him.
"Alright, Lord Alric," his father concedes, casting an arm out across the sea of faces that look to them with the movement, grinning laughingly at his son and the eager bodies that are anticipating his next words, his son's next move, "Pick your lady for the night. Who do you want?"
There is a satisfied look on the boy's face at that and he turns to survey the mass crowd before him, his expression relaying his deliberation, before finally he lifts his arm and points his tiny finger into the assembly.
"Her," he announces, turning to his father with a wide, proud smile. "I want her."
The boy has his pick of New York Society; so of course he chooses Blair Waldorf.
He is a Bass, after all.
He is his father's son.
.
"Waldorf."
"Bass."
It's not a stand-off, but an old meeting between two old friends; she scoffs at her own mind's pitiful attempt at interpretation. Regardless, there are certain rules and particular etiquette to be followed.
He clears his throat; preparation for more words to come. "It's been a long time, Blair."
"Indeed," she returns; why waste breath so early on in the game?
"You know each other?" the boy questions of his father at that; tilt of the head and curious expression and all, it is telling who he gets it from.
His father fits him with a look, like that diversion will not work on him, but he'll award points for the effort anyway; she thinks he's gone soft in his old age.
"You're well aware of that fact," he tells his son, indulgence wrapped in a slight sigh. "You've seen Blair in the photos at your Aunt Serena's."
"Oh yeah," the child smiles devilishly around tiny fingers that dance across his plump little lips, baby pink, causing her to acknowledge for the first time just how young he is, still a baby really. A baby in his father's arms.
"You have a family now," she notes, breaking up the family moment, which she has been dragged in; she never asked for this, never asked for any of it, but they keep thrusting it upon her no matter her protestations. She's clearly not putting her point across clearly enough.
"And you no longer do," he returns: the mood has already shifted, the air between them electric. He nods to the hand she holds up in front of her, champagne glass held tightly within; awarding him the ammunition he needs in the thin white line evident even on her pale skin where a jewel used to reside. "Lacking a ring, I see."
"Lacking a wife, I see," she shoots back without a second thought.
Day turns into night before her eyes, an instant metamorphosis of which she is the trigger, but not the underlying cause.
He doesn't even utter a word as he turns and walks away; his silence is palpable, manifesting in the regret that weighs her down, the remorse that twists her heart with his image.
His son starts to pick up the pieces his father has already started to shed: if someone followed the crumbs of Chuck Bass's broken heart they'd lead right back to her; but they both know that's not the way this story ends.
"My New Year's kiss can wait till tomorrow," the boy tells his father, coaxing, but decisive, confident his words will have the desired effect, "We'll go see Mommy and I'll wake her up with a kiss good morning before we tell her all about the party – that's a far better New Year's kiss to have."
"Yes," she hears the elder reply, resolute, "It is."
She watches him turn fully to face his child, remnants of a smile tugging determinedly at his lips before he kisses the boy's temple with a fierce love that used to be hers once and pulls him close into his chest.
He is a wonderful father, but she is no mother.
.
"You shouldn't have said that," someone decides to be the voice of her conscience out here in the real world. "You shouldn't be here. We were doing fine before you showed up – why did you do that?"
She turns her head slowly and, with all the care she can muster, looks down at the one who deigns speak to her in such a way. "I don't know who you think you're talking to, kid, but you better learn some manners quick-sharp and dial that accusation down a notch."
"I can talk to you however I want," is the snappy retort, and there's confidence in his words; only she recognizes it too late. It's not arrogance at his social standing, no, it's not haughtiness; taught, learned or inherited: it's genuine self belief, the kind of conviction in entitlement that comes from despising another person; like they've wronged you on a personal level and nothing they say will change that.
"Yeah, well I can say whatever I want," she informs him smarmily, before her little 'revelation', because there is no way she is letting a child think he can tell her what to do. "That's the beauty of what this country affords us: free speech."
"Yeah, well this isn't a free party; you're on Bass property," as if she needed to be reminded while the pieces click into place, "So you don't get to talk to my dad like that or upset my little brother – or say things about my mom."
She's not heartless; callous at times, sure, vindictive when the mood takes her, of course, but she could never be heartless. And this little boy, and that's what he is, no matter what he might say or how he might act; this little boy can feel his mother slipping away from them all, and his father following swiftly after her.
She's not heartless, she could never be heartless, and no one could ever accuse her of being as such. Not with this boy, not with his son. Not with the way he's looking up at her, fighting to control the emotions that threaten to spill from every faucet of his impossibly young face; the tremors coursing through him that warn of an imminent collapse if he doesn't pull himself together, if he can't be a man.
"Primo," a voice calls over and she watches the change come over him, so very like another; and she wonders what this world is that they live in, that little boys feel the need to become men to save them all, and adults let them because they simply can't do it all on their own. "Come on, kid, your dad's looking for you."
"I know what you're doing."
"Primo," the elder addresses once more, firmer this time, and though the boy blindly lifts his hand to take that of the other, he makes no further move and she's struck by the tone of his voice, the way he's looking at her now.
"Excuse me?" she questions, and she's genuinely curious about his take on the matter, though she already knows she won't like the outcome.
"Just because you loved him first doesn't mean you can just come back and take him away from us. My mom loves him too and he'll love her last."
There's a moment that passes over them all; this little trio that haven't exchanged names or pleasantries or anything but a few hard stares and some choice words, yet now suddenly seem to be part of something bigger; a clash between the past and the present with no hope for the future.
"Come on," the man coaxes, steering the boy round and nudging him towards the very same door she watched his father walk out of. "Let's get you to your dad."
She's watching them go, unable to tear her eyes away when she's joined by another.
"B," the next voice she hears is softer, with an edge of understanding, but more pity than she'd ever like to hear directed her way; even if it is from the mouth of her best friend, maybe especially then. "Are you ok?"
"Of course, why wouldn't I be?" she returns in one breath, still watching, still waiting.
"Are you sure because…"
And there it is, what she's been waiting on, watching for: they've barely passed the threshold from the ballroom to the hallway when the boy turns and instantly grapples for the man by his side, no longer content with simply being led by the hand, the man kneels before him and the child throws his arms around his neck, needing to be held, comforted, reassured.
She never should've involved herself. She was right to stay away.
She's vaguely aware of her best friend talking, but it's white noise at this point, because suddenly he's there.
Chuck.
"…Blair?"
He only has to place a hand on either side of the child's small frame and gently pull him back a touch for his son to turn into him. The boy burrows his head in his shoulder, shaking under his touch, allowing himself to be swallowed up in his father's embrace as he lifts him up from the ground and carries him away from all that would harm him.
And all she can think is no, wishes she had it in her to run the length of this great hall and tell the child that he was wrong before, because his father won't love her last and he won't love his wife last, he'll love this boy. She wants to tell him that his father will love his son last: he'll love you last.
"I'm fine, Serena, alright?" she snaps; doesn't mean to, but it's reactionary. She's not heartless and yet she did this, did that; she reduced them both to that, and it twists her insides and she knows it means to ruin her. After all, she did it to herself too.
"What did Primo say to you?" her best friend changes tactics.
She blows out a sigh, sometimes the blonde doesn't know when to pick her battles.
"The kid?" She turns slowly to face her best friend, raising her eyebrow with a perfect mask of indifference.
"Chuck's eldest, yes," Serena responds to that, like she hadn't already worked it out; like it wasn't obvious in the boy's piercing gaze and stubborn mouth; so like his father, so like Chuck.
"Oh, you mean before he got all whiny and started projecting his mommy-daddy issues onto me?" When she's hurt, she lashes out; when she's in pain, she covers her feelings with whatever she can find. She learned long ago that the key to self-preservation is pretending not to care because to be honest, the other option is just too much to bear; it would ruin her if she let it, and she won't, she can't.
"B," her best friend intones; like she should be more sympathetic, like the kid's going through enough. She ignores her best friend and her tone and all its implications.
She rolls her eyes and takes a deep breath. "Oh, simply living up to his namesake and trying to lord over me in his kingdom was all, telling me what I could and couldn't say to his daddy dearest."
"What did you say to Chuck? I saw him leave with Ric and thought something was wrong, but he was moving too fast for me to catch him."
"Who was the man?" she inquires instead of answering the blonde's question, tone still neutral, face unmoving and this time Serena does pick her battles, letting this one slide.
"Tavi's brother, the third youngest – I think – there's so many, I can never quite remember past Cas, who is the youngest after Tavi – oh and Milt, because he's just older than Cas, so obviously I see them the most," the blonde says it so conversationally, like this is something they can speak of so naturally, and honestly? She's missed this side of her best friend, she's missed having her around to openly flit from one topic to the other, to watch her different measures of excitement when she embraces the fact she has the attention span and laugh (still – more like a giggle) of a child.
"How many of them are there?" she says next; it's more like a polite follow-up question than one of genuine interest.
"Seven – well, seven older brothers and then Tavi, so eight altogether. The holidays have become pretty interesting that's for sure," her best friend replies easily, and she starts to beam like the radiant ball of sunshine and energy that she remains after all these years.
"Wow," she voices, though she doesn't sound the least bit surprised or intrigued; this conversation holds no appeal and the sooner her best friend realizes the better it'll be for all of them. "I'm surprised Chuck's managed to survive this long."
And she does smile then, stretched tight across her mouth, like it's all she can afford; really it's all she's willing to give.
The eighth child.
Octavia.
The first-born.
Primo.
Nice.
"I think they enjoyed teasing him in the beginning; reminding him she's the baby of the family and going to great lengths to recount the details of what they'd do to him should anything happen to her…"
What starts off upbeat, trails off, and she turns back to find Serena no longer reveling in the moment like only a sister could when describing her brother's amusing plight; because she's suddenly aware of how real that last statement has become.
The blonde clears her throat, all hopeful smiles and ever-present sunshine even through everyone is fully aware there's a storm brewing, it's been raining so long no one's going to escape unscathed; they're drenched already, soaked through; they'll be lucky not to get swept away, not to drown in the aftermath. "But they get on great with him really, I mean, why shouldn't they, right?"
She turns and looks at the opposite ballroom wall again, keeps the corners of her mouth twisted upwards just-so and doesn't even blink for fear of betraying any salty marks of her feelings. She pretends she has no knowledge of things that no longer concern her, that have nothing to do with her even though they have everything to do with him.
Her best friend's next words nearly wipe the smile right off her face, though they really shouldn't; she's known this all along, she had about as much notice as his wife.
"He loves her."
She's staring at the door she watched him walk through with his youngest son in his arms, the door she watched his brother-in-law catch his eldest in his arms as he fell apart.
"I know."
.
It's been a while, but she could only hold out so long.
She's not a masochist, just has masochistic tendencies sometimes; and she's not heartless, could never be. She goes to his mother's home; a tactical move since she knows he won't be there. She's not sure what she expects to find, to receive, but still that's her first point of call.
She doesn't count on the presence of another.
"She's beautiful," she breathes out on sight, and she'd question if her voice is her own anymore only she knows she couldn't have held back the words if she tried.
"Isn't she perfect?" there's more than the pride of a grandmother in Lily's words as she shares in the sight.
She wants to breathe out a yes, but instead she asks, "What's her name?"
"Antoinette," the elder responds, with eyes only for her young granddaughter, even as she sleeps soundly in her bed built for a palace, crafted for a princess in a room that wasn't designed to be her own. "Octavia picked it."
"She's beautiful," she repeats, because it is worth repeating, and her namesake says it all; this child, his daughter, she is beyond praise.
"I'm looking after her for the moment," Lily shares with quietly, chancing a look at her, "until Charles is able to."
"The boys too?" she asks before she realizes; it is much too quiet for two young boys to be living in this place; the air around his baby girl untouched except by those whom he chooses.
"They're older; it's much easier with them."
The pain in Lily's eyes betrays her excuses.
"He loves her," the elder swallows. "He does. He loves her."
She nods; she doesn't need Lily to tell her that.
"It's just – "
Lily searches for an answer, but she needn't bother.
Blair can't take her eyes off the girl; of course this would be torture for him.
"She looks so much like her mother."
Lily releases a sob, lifts her hand to cover her mouth as she drops her head to her chest, nodding.
She doesn't say anything when the elder looks to her apologetically; she shouldn't have to ask for forgiveness. She knows Chuck, knows how he thinks, how he reacts.
He can't lose her too.
Because that little girl in the crib in perfect.
And she's his daughter.
Blair wouldn't have expected any less: not from her and not from him.
And she realizes she'd been wrong before; when she was close to correcting his oldest child about who would forever hold his father's heart.
It wouldn't be his wife, or even his boys; it would be her.
It would be the daughter he'd readily sacrifice a life with to ensure history didn't repeat itself, to ensure she had a life of her own even if he wasn't part of it; she would be the one to hold his heart forever, she would be the one he would love till the end.
"She's perfect," she breathes out, still trying to take in the sight, process the accompanying thoughts.
The little girl in the crib parts her dusky-pink lips and blinks open her eyes and Blair is met with a startling gray-blue that reminds her of the color of the sky before a storm; the blanket shade of warning that prepares you for the sudden onslaught of what is about to come your way, the sheer power and magnitude of what is about to knock you off your feet and quite literally turn your world around.
It is not the deep recesses of brown she was expecting, but they're unbelievably hypnotizing all the same.
Chuck's daughter does not have his eyes.
She has her mother's eyes.
Blair stands by her claim. Looking down at the child who is not her own, she maintains belief in the sentiment as she echoes the words that will undoubtedly follow this girl her entire life.
"You're perfect."
.
"I didn't see you at the funeral."
She wants to snark back, You obviously weren't looking hard enough, but she can't allow herself to be that cruel, not now, so she settles instead for the lie: "That's because I wasn't there."
"I thought for sure you'd be there." He laughs bitterly and she can't blame him; and he's right, even if she refuses to admit it. "You were there to see me start a new life; I couldn't imagine you'd pass up the opportunity to watch as it ended so soon after."
She steps forward, moves quickly to the space next to him and take a seat before her brain has the chance to stop her or he has the time to move out of her vicinity.
"I'm sorry."
She reaches for his hands as if her touch will bring him round.
He pulls away, turns away, and she understands though she wishes she didn't. It hadn't ended soon: he and his wife, they had a decade together; but a decade is nothing when you're supposed to spend forever in one another's arms.
"Bass men have never had a history of being able to hold onto a woman for very long – I was simply arrogant enough to believe I was the exception and now look where it's gotten us."
She wants to tell him it's not arrogance to believe you deserve a chance at happiness, at a different life from your forbearers; a better life than the one once set out for you. The punishment doesn't always fit the crime, but it's not a crime to choose your own path. Life isn't supposed to be fair, but his is the most unfair of all. She wants to tell him not to lose that belief he once had, to have faith in what he once thought should be his; he might not have the life he wanted anymore, but he can still have the life he started.
"Is that why Lily has Antoinette?"
His head snaps up at the sound of his daughter's name on her tongue.
"How do you know about Ettie?"
She wants to smile at the pet name; so soft and delicate on his lips, protected by his heart.
"I went to see Lily."
She can see it already, the desire that must be tearing him apart inside to ask even the simple question, how is she? How is my daughter?
She's always been able to see right through him, so she answers his silence with the words, "She was sound asleep in her crib when I got there, didn't stir or move the entire time, just stayed completely still until I was about to leave and then she woke up."
There's a beat between reactions, between the words leaving her lips and being picked up by his ears.
"She has her mother's eyes."
He swallows, purses his lips and closes his own.
"Yes," he replies finally. "She does."
When he eventually opens his eyes again, she's reminded of how he captured her heart, how she fell for him; because he falls so completely. He throws everything he has to give at you until you have no choice but to gather it all up and piece back the pieces of his heart, and whether your intent is to return it or clutch it within greedy palms or cradle it like the whole world is now within your grasp, once you hold his heart in your hands, you don't want to ever let go. You want to give him yours, just so you'll match.
"She's…" she searches for the word though she's known it since she first laid eyes on the girl. "Chuck, she's perfect."
"Yes," he breathes out, so full of love and tragedy she feels herself slipping away with him, "She is."
.
She enters in the middle of a conversation she part wishes she wasn't present to hear and part knows she couldn't tear herself away from if she tried; she needs to hear this.
"Just because I love Blair, does not make my love for your mother any less true."
He says it so matter-of-factly, the way she imagines his wife penned those letters to her; it piques her curiosity of the content of conversations between husband and wife. How does one talk about their significant other's feelings for another, how does one deal with that, how does one come to simply accept it as an unwavering fact?
"But how? How can you love her when you're supposed to love mom? – And don't say it's because mom's dead," there is a hard edge to the words of his eldest, and she can see he's hurting; because it must hurt to hear such things, to then see it with your own eyes. To be a child subjected to such words, such sights from your own father; it is terribly hurtful.
"I wouldn't – God, Primo," his father runs his hands across his face; it's easier to stay focused when the distraction isn't shoved in your face after years of absence. "And honestly? I don't – I don't know. What I feel for Blair, it's just always been there, it's never gone away."
"But you married mom, you had us," his son is indignant, and rightfully so; he just wants the answers he feels he's owed, just wants to make sense of his life.
"I did. And I don't regret it for a second. I love your mom, I love you. I wouldn't change what we had, I wanted to marry your mother, I wanted to be your father. That hasn't changed. I love you."
Father and son share the same eyes, the same mouth, the same cheekbones, jaw-line, hair color, stance; there is so much of Chuck in his oldest son, it is hard to see pain in one without knowing it will be reflected in the other. It is easy to see the determination, however, to see the trust that exists in the spaces between them, the love that will always bridge any and all gaps.
"But you love her too."
"Yes," the elder releases a breath, resigned, "I do."
His son nods and then says quietly, resolutely, "She's never going to be my mom."
"You already have a mom, Primo," his father speaks just as quietly, just a resolutely; no one is arguing this point, there is no need.
"I know. I do," the boy says, with a glimmer of understanding before it's overwrought with a pain too great for his tender years, a hurt too heavy to bear alone; the prospect of a life he does not want to live. "And you can love Blair all you want, and she can be as beautiful and brilliant as you remember, but she's not my mom – so she can have you, you can have her, just let me have my mom, don't – don't take my mom away from me."
"Oh, kid, come here," the elder barely has the chance to utter the words before his little boy is launching himself into him, fully aware, despite everything, that his father will catch him.
And just like that she watches Chuck crumble in his son's arms; like simultaneous avalanches converging on the descent until they gain enough momentum to overrun all the even planes below. She can she it now. These two, father and son, they have the power to destroy them all.
"You know I still keep your mom's picture by our bed, I still wear the wedding ring she picked out, I still look at you three and see her. I'm never going to forget your mom, Primo. She gave me you – she gave me your brother and sister. She was my wife," and that's the crux of it; out of everyone she chose him, and he chose her right back. "I'll always love her."
"Can we bring Ettie home now then?" his son pulls away just enough to search his father's eyes, to look into the mirror as his answer plays across the features he inherited in the emotions his father will never hide from him.
"Yes, we can bring her home," the elder tells him.
She allows herself this moment, before she starts to leave the room as quietly as she entered; she is not needed, or wanted, here. Now is not the time to make waves, to act on anything that may or may not culminate in disaster yet again.
"Good," the boy allows a smile to grace his lips and it's beautiful. He nestles back into the fold his father has made especially for him, and admits without pause, "I've missed my little sister. I missed looking at her and seeing mom looking back at me."
She watches Chuck close his eyes, allowing himself to relax with his first-born in his arms and the prospect of his daughter joining them.
"So have I."
The French have a phrase that translates as: to part is to die a little.
More potent than Shakespeare, she thinks they could both feel the truth in that statement. She loses part of herself whenever she's with him, but his only chance at holding onto himself is with his children around him; she won't interfere with that.
She's not a masochist, not heartless either; sometimes love just hurts.
.
She received three letters from the woman since she became his wife.
The last arrived after news of his wife's death had cast a decidedly solemn shadow over half of the news articles and media outlets that usually reveled in such deliciously tragic events. It was marked with the stamp of his lawyer, the very same that once had to meet Blair's own seal of approval.
She had torn open the envelope with a shaky urgency that felt out of place in that moment when she was about to be greeted with the words of a ghost.
Love him, the letter had read; his wife's only request, Love him for the both of us.
And to this day, she feels the need to apologize to the woman who hadn't allowed herself to be naïve enough to imagine her husband had never, could never, love another. The woman who trusted in herself enough to know that she loved the man, the man she called her husband, and that he loved her too; that it was possible, that it could endure, even if part of his heart would always belong to someone else. She feels the need to apologize to the woman who was there for him when she wasn't, because she still can't be there for him now. She can't do what his wife asks of her.
"I'm sorry," she whispers to the wind, the trees, the sky above. She imagines his wife can hear her, can see her; can feel how truly sorry she is.
She watches as he nods at her presence, the last of a smile wilting on the edges of his lips, his eyes crinkling at the corners like he's fighting against the canvas of emotion his face is threatening to become.
His little girl, his perfect little girl, stumbles a touch on the uneven ground and he catches her, swoops down to lift her up into his arms and cradle her safely by his heart. His boys walk side by side by his and he reaches out to affectionately touch the back of his eldest son's head, his youngest holding tightly to his hand as they move in tandem with one another. He keeps them all near, ensures they're in sync, that his love for them binds them to one another.
His eldest looks back at her, all piercing gaze and stubborn mouth, and it makes her smile; the familiar, welcome, sight.
"Primo," his father calls over to him, and she can hear him speak as if there is no distance between them, as if his is the only voice she's ever known.
"Are we going to see her again?" the boy inquires, drawing the attention of the others to where she stands not far off from their position among the lifetime relics.
His father looks back at her, the other woman he will always love, as she stands by his wife's grave, her favorite flowers clasped in her hands and the mask she's worn for years scattered like pretty petals over the thriving earth.
"I suspect so."
The boy nods, acceptance is heavier to bear than he'll admit.
"I don't suppose mom would mind," he tells his father with a slight quirk of his lips like she's only ever seen in the elder, "If she loves you too."
He meets her eyes, across the green and blue; a face of hope, a picture of life, in the place where the living say their last goodbyes to the dead they hope can hear them.
"We'll see."
.
She stands in a palace of gold: a princess once upon a time, a girl who was destined to be a queen but settled for less.
One should never settle when love is involved.
And one should not trample on a heart, already tender from hurt and loss, for it can turn from as delicate as dreams to as hard as prison walls.
Sometimes a Princess deserves to be imprisoned in a castle tower: forced to look down on what could have been hers, she will come to learn that it will be forever out of reach if she continues to avoid action.
Sometimes a Queen deserves to be punished for her mistakes: just as she fell from her own making, she will come to learn that she can rise again, start over; be better, stronger.
Only this is no fairytale, no grand love story told through generations; she walked away and so did he and they both lost.
His dead wife, her failed Royal marriage; the motherless children that bear his name and the absence of any that bear hers: they are enough to bring her back to reality should she ever falter outwith its realms again.
This is no fairytale; if it was, the Happily Ever After would've last forever.
This is real life.
Yet still, she stands in a palace of gold: a princess once upon a time, a girl who was destined to be a queen but settled for less.
She's not settling anymore.
She watches him standing tall on the other side of the dance floor, hands clasped behind his back watching over the four twirling figures before him; he's waiting for her to arrive, to finally make her move.
There's a giddy smile from the willowy blonde whose approval is wholehearted, and a small nod from the father's son who only wants memories to be everlasting. There's a bow from his even younger counterpart who tried to pick her from the start; and a courtesy from his tiny female partner who wears the face of a ghost and loves them all twice over because no one else will.
Their encouragement pushes her forward, and when she smiles at him he takes a step towards her, and then he smiles right back.
Time has never been their friend, but maybe this time it will be more forgiving.
.
"Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending."
Maria Robinson
.
The End.
Thanks so much for reading, please let me know what you thought :)
Steph
xxx