A/N: This is my first attempt at fanfiction ever, and my first attempt at writing anything fictional in a long time -unless you count my journal:P But I had this idea that bugged me long enough for me to put it into words and here's the result. The Philadelphia Story was not a template for Chair story but it did inspire some thoughts and was at the back of my head throughout the writing of this.
She is standing at the top of the stairs; her pose marking her as untouchable. Her look meticulously planned. Everybody knows it's the clothes and the props that make a character, and for Blair Waldorf nothing could be truer. Her surroundings, her outfit it is all part of her armour against the world, he knows that better than anyone. All it took was one night at a burlesque club; she dropped the mask and he saw the real her, the fire below. He had tapped a lot of asses, gone where the signs said 'not allowed' but nowhere; no one had ever shown him this. How the hell could he not fall for the Waldorf after that?
How had it been before? He couldn't remember. Probably he had sensed that something was smouldering beneath that cool exterior she displayed to the world, probably he had accepted the myth of the ice queen, of the statuesque worshipful goddess with the rest of them; he had cursed himself afterwards and suddenly seeing her with someone else who never looked beyond that calm and cool exterior left him bothered and bewildered. Because how on earth could someone like Blair Waldorf settle for an Archibald who was too drowned in the blonde locks of her friend to ever really try to find a crack through which to see the girl by his side? How the fuck could she think a fusty British duke, too blinded by her doll-like appearance to consider that this doll might harbour a vixen-heart, would ever satisfy her needs? It had made him angry then; at her for her willingness to put herself down so, for the careless way she sacrificed one part of herself to keep up that act of hers. It had made him angry at them, for not realising what exactly they'd had by their side. Because there was no doubt either of them could have had forever had they played their cards right, Waldorf would never waste her time on anything with potential for less –at least not before he started messing with her life. There might have been no Lord Marcus without him, there certainly would have been no Cameron but despite this power he seemingly had had over her he had failed along with the rest. Blair is standing at the top of the stairs; he is standing below with the rest of the watchers. What did that say about him? Reduced to someone only ever allowed to see the mask. He can try to penetrate it with his gaze, scorch it with his eyes but it repels all. Nothing he does now will ever provoke an eruption of fire. The killer thing was even though he knows, remembers that fire below he is starting to doubt its existence. How the hell can he stay sane if he doesn't? Knowing it is there but not being allowed to touch, to taste or even to see it flare; now that is nerve-wrecking knowledge. Damn you, Blair Waldorf! Damn you to hell! But damn him too! Damn him for thinking that all is fair in love and war but that war deserves the greatest sacrifices. Damn him for selling her soul to the devil. He wishes he could damn Jack or his father or his not-mother mother more but when he looks in the mirror it's his own laughing face he sees.
Once upon a time in another world when he still glowed with the knowledge that he was the sole person who saw the fire beneath the cool porcelain exterior he'd seen himself as C.K. Dexter Haven to her Tracy Samantha Lord; he hadn't even needed to call her out on her superiority act, she'd allowed him to see who she was beneath that white shell. She is Tracy, no denying that, but truth is he was no Dexter. Drunken debauchery, a sucker punch –all that might be forgiven and forgotten, tit for tat but selling Tracy for a piece of property, adding to the spite with wanton women and popping Little J's cherry is perhaps a bit much. No movie script can be salvaged after that and be credible, he has done his research, there's nothing and with no script to guide him frankly he finds himself in deep waters trying to perform in the movie that is Blair Waldorf's life. Fuck Audrey, fuck Grace, fuck Deborah and fuck every Hollywood goddess that has made Waldorf believe that her life too can be like the movies; and fuck himself for failing to make that happen. Because Tracy deserves her movie ending and she will marry to get it, if one prince doesn't bring the happily ever after another will; even if she must cut a heel or a toe to fit in the Cinderella slipper. She'll kiss somebody and it'll be for her own sake, but she might unconsciously give up part of herself to do it. He knows that even as he admits he might not have known her as well as he thought he did. It's the only way he can make sense of his own actions.
In the end he wishes Blair was exactly like Tracy, didn't Tracy ultimately realise that it's no fun being the flawless goddess if no one ever sees the real you and treats you like a real human being? Blair won't do that and his only comfort is that while she readily cuts her heel and toe and keels over the toilet bowl to become the perfect idol for worship her admirers will slip, as they all have done before and in the ensuing hurt the mask will crack. Just once, just a little, enough for someone, someone watchful, to come in and pick up the pieces. Perhaps then even the unforgiveable can be forgiven if not forgotten. That's why he keeps on watching, that's why he keeps standing beneath those stairs looking up, ready for the kill, because he knows some day, some day something will happen to that cool exterior that is Blair Waldorf and he can bathe himself in the fire that burns inside.