DISCLAIMER: I OWN GOSSIP GIRL BIATCHES ... lol jk, I'm Irish. Kudos to Josh and Cecily for creating such mouthwatering characters, etc

BETA: I'd like to thank Tatiana, without whom, as cheesey as this sounds, this story WOULD NOT EXIST. NOW BOW AND WORSHIP HER ... tehehehe

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME

Chapter One

...

An ending fitting for the start
You twist and tore our love apart
I know you lie, I know you lie
But I'm still in love with you
And, oh, you can't stand me now
'Can't Stand Me Now' – The Libertines

...

"Dan!" A frantic-looking Serena waved him over, cell glued to her ear. "Dan. Have you seen Blair? She's not answering my calls."

"Can't say I have, no. Not since we arrived together."

"Really? Nowhere?"

Dan scratched his nose. "Nope."

Serena bit her lip, obviously upset. With trembling hands she redialled Blair's number. Dan touched her arm in a comforting way. "What's up? I'm sure she's around somewhere. It's Blair. She wouldn't miss an opportunity to be a bitch in front of the New York Post."

Serena was so preoccupied she didn't snap back. "She said she'd meet me here. We're sitting together."

"Don't remind me," Dan muttered. "She probably forgot. Went in already. C'mon, let's g– "

"She can't have. I have the tickets." Serena fumbled in her clutch, producing two tickets. "Dan, we have to find her."

"No, we have to go in before the doors close."

"Dan. Please," Serena whispered.

Dan hesitated – but not for long. Serena had that effect on people. "Yeah, okay. You want to look for her, yeah, let's go. I, uh, I never really liked Opera. Not my thing. Too much singing. Very operatic."

"Thank you." Serena squeezed his hand. "I think we should check the restrooms first, then – Nate!" She ran towards the approaching figure, dragging Dan with her. "Nate, Nate. Have you seen Blair? Is she with you?"

Nate grimaced. "No." His tone was decidedly icy, the Gossip Girl blast still fresh in his mind. "Why? Can't find her?"

Serena shook her head hopelessly. "She was supposed to meet me here."

"Yeah, well, Blair does a lot of things she not supposed to."

"Nate!" she scolded. Dan winked at Nate behind her back. "Do you have any idea where she might be?"

Nate ran a hand through his hair. "Honestly, Serena, I'm not that concerned with Blair's whereabouts right now. Sorry." His tone was less than apologetic.

"Please, Nate. Help me look," Serena pleaded. "You always complain about Opera. Please. I know Blair hurt you, but I'm worried about her and she's my friend and you're my friend ... That's got to mean something, right? Please Nate."

Nate swore. "Fine," he conceded grudgingly. "But I'm doing for you, okay. Not Blair."

Dan fidgeted but Serena nodded, beaming at her two boys. "Okay. Thanks. Okay. Let's, um, split up and look. I'll check the ladies and you guys can do the bar an– "

"Ah. Nathaniel. Serena." All three turned to see Bart Bass striding towards them, Lily beside him, resplendent in a grey silk Versace. "Have you seen Charles? I can't say I expected punctuality, but this is cutting it. Doors close in two minutes."

Nate's face obviously darkened. "That explains it," he muttered, only loud enough for Dan to hear. Dan sent him a sympathetic look, though didn't exactly agree with his conclusion. From what he had observed since the scandal had broke, Blair and Chuck could hardly stand to be in the same area code as each other, let alone meet up for a quickie in the janitors' closet at the Met, but he kept his mouth shut.

Serena shook her head. "No, sorry, Bart, I haven't. Have either of you seen Blair?"

"No." Bart's eyes were as dark as Nate's. "We're going inside. If you see my son tell him ..." he trailed off and shook his head. Apparently there were no words left.

Bart composed himself, flashing Serena and Nate a white smile. "Enjoy the Opera, kids."

Nate started after them. "I'm going in. You should come too. It's obvious where Blair is, and I'm pretty sure she won't appreciate the interruption."

"Nate!"

Nate just shrugged.

Near desperation, Serena appealed to her boyfriend. "I know Blair, Dan. And I know she wouldn't go off with Chuck. And I know Chuck. He doesn't care about Opera but he cares about Bart – or his approval. He wouldn't miss this. Dan ... I'm worried."

Dan shrugged off his jacket and slung it around her shoulders. "C'mon. Let's go look."

Serena lent in and kissed him coyly, tucking a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "I love you." Holding Dan's hand with her right and the skirts of her gown with the left, she hurried down the staircase, Dan at her heels. They reached the lobby when a voice shouted after them.

"I hate Opera," Nate said shortly when he joined them. "Like, really hate Opera."

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Blair Waldorf woke with a splitting headache. Think straightening irons clamped to your frontal lobes; unshakeable, tear-inducing, stomach-churning pain. She made to groan, try release some of the pressure by opening her mouth, but it was full of cotton wool, dry and crusty, the sour rawness of bile lingering close. Her whole body was lead. She lay still, incapable of speech or movement, just lay there on the cheap polyester carpet, concentrating on breathing.

Polyester? Like, WTF?

No one Blair knew had a polyester carpet, not even Cabbage Patch. She bullied her brain past the pain but the previous night was a blur. The last thing she remembered was getting ready with Serena, critically examining herself in the mirror while Serena haphazardly applied lipgloss. The Valentino was stunning, but was she stunning in it? Then they hailed a taxi to the Met, arriving early so they could have drinks at the bar before the Opera, just like old days. Nate walked right past without acknowledging her and she downed her Bellini in one, and ordered a Rum and Coke, easy on the Coke.

If this was a hangover, it was like no other she had ever experienced; not even the aftermath of the Sheppard wedding compared. Chuck Bass had talked her into trying each of the fourteen different flavours of absinthe the bar stocked; she only remember the first four – liquorice, cherry, alcohol and vomit.

Blair's stomach gave an ominous lurch. Whether it was the pain in her head, or the mere thought of Chuck Bass, she didn't know. She whimpered hoarsely, opening her eyes. The pain doubled and tripled at the harsh white light and she threw her hands up over her face, curling up into the foetal position and waiting for the onslaught to subside.

Breathing heavily, she regained control over her body. Blair Waldorf was Swahili for control.

Her eyes clamped shut, she ranked her fingers through her hair, pressing hard against her head. Her temple was tender to the touch and she felt something cold and slithery beneath her fingers. Something silk, wrapped tight about her head. Blair couldn't recall wearing a headband. Tentatively, with soft, sluggish fingers, she exploded her head. Her hair was sticky, matted, disgusting. She rubbed a clump, trying to separate the strands. How had this happened? Was it vomit? Opening her eye a crack, she glanced down. The already filthy carpet was freckled with rust. Blair continued picking at her hair, watching through a fog as tiny specks of reddish-brown wafted down. With trembling fingers, she pulled at the silk wrapping around her head, working it free.

Chuck's scarf was stained the same heavy red.

It took a long time for Blair to recognise it as blood.

When she did, she rocketed upwards. The sudden change in equilibrium was too much for her delicate system and, with a cry, she retched repeatedly, yielding nothing more than spittle and a thick, yellowish liquid that burned her throat like drain cleaner. She had never felt so empty.

Collapsing on the floor, Blair stared around her. She was in a strange room, with dirty windows and barely any furniture, lit only by a naked bulb hanging from the low ceiling. She would have complained, had she the strength. Slowly, her eyes drifted from the pile of blankets dumped by the door, to an empty bottle of mineral water lying in the pool of mullioned sunlight. It was Volvic.

Blair's lip curled.

Cradling her aching head in her hands, she looked further into the tiny room, squinting through the shadows. A pair of shoes stuck out into the light. Black leather, Italian, exquisite tailoring obvious even to one in Blair's condition. She knew only one person to possess such a pair of shoes. If Chuck Bass' scarf was here, and if Chuck Bass' shoes were here, then ...

"Chuck." Her voice grated against her throat like sandpaper. "Chuck. Chuck! Oh, god, Chuck, Chuck where are we? ... Chuck."

Waldorf's don't crawl, especially not to Basses, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Chuck ..."

Chuck sat up against the wall, his elbows propped on his knees, head down.

"Chuck," Blair whispered. "Where are we?"

Chuck raised his head. His lip was split and his eye swelled shut. Blood splattered the front of his ivory dinner jacket. Slowly, he raised an eyebrow.

"Chuck, we have to get out of here. These people, they drink Volvic."

Chuck let out a low, hollow laugh, a dark chuckle, the laugh of someone in the know, someone who's already heard the punchline. Blair wanted to slap him. "What's so funny, Bass? We've got to get out of here. Like, ASAP."

But Chuck just laughed. Blair spared him a withering glance and pushed her to her feet, staggering to the door, one shoe missing. She grasped the handle, not pausing to clean it off, and pulled hard.

It was locked.

She jimmied it expectantly, wrenching it with all of her limited strength, even kicking it, yet the door held firm. She scuffed the toe of her new Louboutin but this meant nothing to her. Numb and logical, she crossed to the window. But it wouldn't open. It was nailed shut.

Blair revolved slowly on the spot. Chuck had stopped laughing.

"Chuck," she whispered. "Chuck, we've got to get out of this room."

"And how do you propose we do that, Waldorf?"The use of her surname stung. "The door is locked. The window is locked. This isn't a Bruce Willis movie, so there is no conveniently located ventilation system. There is no way out of this room."

Blair stared at him. He looked like a different person.

"So we'll break the window. It's not too much of a drop. We'll be fine."

Chuck almost smiled. "There is no we."

"Look, Bass, I know you're pissed that I choose Nate over you, but PMS much? I'm sorry. I am. I'm sorry I used you, sorry I broke your trust, sorry for whatever else you've got me down as doing in your sick twisted little Chuck Bass mind, but wake up and smell the coffee! You're not exactly a choirboy yourself. You got your revenge. You ruined my life. Nate's not talking to me and the whole school thinks I'm a trashy whore – even Serena looks down on me! But right now, there are more important things than your petty vendetta. In case you haven't noticed, we're trapped in a room, God knows where. We've been beaten, probably drugged. And my Louboutin is missing. I'm trying to help us out here so would you please stop acting like a four-year-old? If it's not too inconvenient, or anything. God forbid the great Chuck Bass do anything he doesn't want to, but I want to go home. I want a shower and fresh strawberries, and I want to watch Gone With the Wind without anyone telling me it's old and stupid. I want my boyfriend back. And I want to get out of this ROOM!"

Only when it was over, did Blair realise she had been yelling. Her chest was heaving and her hands shook. Her cheeks were probably red and blotchy. Instinctively she turned away so Chuck wouldn't see her at her most unattractive.

"Blair." He called to her. Something was rattling, metal on metal.

Blair folded her arms, refusing to look at him. "What?"

"Blair."

"WHAT!" she screamed, so loud her vocal chords almost snapped with the strain. Then, a whisper of a whisper, "What do you want Bass? You've already taken everything."

There was a soft thump and Blair looked down to see Chuck's shoe bounce by her foot. "Use it to smash the window," he said stiffly. "Get out of here, Blair."

She kicked the shoe back to him, arms resolutely folded. "Break it yourself."

Chuck paused, and then, "I can't."

Blair started. She had never heard those two words emerge from his mouth before, never. Chuck Bass did not say I can't – he said, shamelessly, I don't want to.

Frowning, she turned to him. "You can't?"

"I can't."

"You ... can't?"

"That's right. I can't."

He raised his hand. Something metal jingled.

Chuck's wrist was handcuffed to the radiator. His fingers were swollen and purple.

Blair swallowed. "We're in a lot of trouble. Aren't we Bass?" She picked up his shoe, sat down beside him, leant against his shoulder. Chuck gave a hard shrug and she slipped sideways. He moved away, as far as the cuff would let him, and showed her his back. Blair curled on the floor, some tiny wounded animal. She did not have the energy to cry. The radiator was on but she felt so very cold, the kind of cold that comes only from being all alone.

When she woke up, Chuck was gone, but in the absence of shoe, her left foot was swathed in a pair of paisley socks, and a stained dinner jacket was tucked tight around her, keeping her warm.