Addiction
By Nightwalker09
Disclaimer: I don't own Gossip Girl
------------------
He'd always thought she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. And honestly? That wasn't even the important part.
He'd known a lot of pretty girls—in every way. But this one was different. Because she was more. Because, maybe, they were equals.
After his father died, he'd had to take the reins and navigate his way through the business world, as if he'd been doing it his entire life. There had been pitfalls and stumbling blocks along the way, but he had survived it all. He knew he was smart. Intelligent. Enough, even, to recognize that same sort of spark in Blair Waldorf.
This was why, he realized, he would put up with being second best. With intimate conversations getting suddenly cut off when her husband entered the room. With having to pretend that there was nothing between them except a common background.
Because, behind closed doors, it was worth it. She was worth it. And he could deny it all he wanted, but it wasn't just about the sex. If he were being perfectly truthful, it never had been.
-----
It was Tuesday, so he wasn't expecting her. Not that having her here was a bad thing; quite the opposite.
She walked in like she owned the place, and threw her purse onto his kitchen counter. "Clear your schedule."
He raised an eyebrow and eyed her with some amusement from his seat at the kitchen table. "It's Sunday evening. There aren't any important parties to go to, or you would be there. What do you think I have to cancel?"
"Call girl." She said bluntly.
Touché. He looked at her again, this time taking in the way her hands seemed to be shaking, and her eyes were too wide. One hand was clenching and unclenching itself rapidly. So. This was serious, then.
"All right," he told her. "Just give me a minute."
She whirled around and made her way into the living room, where the squeaks and thump told him she'd collapsed onto his leather couch and taken off her shoes. He made his phone call and joined her in the living room.
She was, indeed, sprawled out across his couch, eyes closed, one arm draped over the back. He padded over silently and leaned down to kiss her cheek. He thought he could taste the faintest trace of salt on her skin, but she didn't give him enough time to tell.
She turned her face toward him, and then their lips met. Her hands slid down his chest, deftly unbuttoning his shirt. He reached around to undo the clasp on her dress.
He lived for moments like these.
When it was over, she curled up against him on the floor. They lay together in silence for several minutes before she whispered,
"I caught him with another woman."
He knew immediately what she meant. She continued, "I mean, I've always known he had other lovers…but this was different. I didn't even know who she was."
He tilted his head slightly to look at her. "And that matters to you?"
"Yes!" She rolled angrily over onto her back. "It means he was just fooling around. Just sex. No passion, no spark, no interest. Just some hooker he'd never met before."
"We have sex," he reminded her. "And you've never been bothered by us."
"You and I," she told him, "are different. And you know it."
"Really. How?"
She glared at him. "We've known each other for years."
Suddenly wide awake, he sat up and turned to face her. "That's not all."
She shook her head mutely. He stared at her.
"Say it. I want to hear you say it. Out loud."
"I care about you."
"Damn it, Blair." His voice was quiet. She flinched. He took a deep breath.
"The reason you are so upset over your unfaithful spouse is because he makes you feel unimportant. He isn't picky with lovers, he doesn't have sex because he's in love. He sleeps around because you aren't enough for him." He rose to his feet. "Or maybe because you're too much."
She stared at him, stunned. He knows he's strayed far from the role he is supposed to play—that of the enamored, admiring, "other man". The one that makes her feel special. The one that's supposed to hide from truth.
But this is a tiring role, and it hurts him more than he lets on.
Blair pushed herself up, and picked up her dress. She threw it carelessly over her head, and tied the laces with fingers made swift with habit. She avoided his eyes as she walked out of the apartment, and he let her.
He was always letting her walk away from him.
-----
She didn't come again for months after their almost-fight. He would have said she was breaking up with him, only they had never been together in the first place. He saw her every other week or so, at charity galas, at balls, and birthday celebrations.
She studiously avoided him. He defiantly let her. Serena didn't notice, but Nate eyed them both. Dan the Romantic thought they were ridiculous, and that was just insulting.
But he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of being the first to crack. Not this time. Any more cracks and all the king's men wouldn't be enough to put back whatever was left with him. That is, presuming the king's men could get past Blair Waldorf.
He doubted it. So he stayed away. She would come back, he was sure. She always came back.
It was a good plan—in theory. In reality it was wreaking havoc on his temper, causing mood swings that would put Sienna Miller to shame, and frightening the help.
In the end, Nate came over to see him.
"You," he declared, "are in love."
Chuck glared at him. Tell me something I don't know. "What do you want, Archibald?"
Nate looked at him. "I want you to stop being such an ass and tell Blair you love her, so she'll leave that jerk she hooked up with and maybe you'll both relax. The two of you are my best friends, but if this continues any longer I might go crazy."
"Newsflash, Nathaniel: that jerk she 'hooked up with'? Her husband of five years. The most successful businessman of the half-century." Chuck leaned back in his chair and took a swig of the gin in his hand.
"Except for you." Nate said pointedly.
"She's not leaving him."
-----
You're killing each other.
Nate's parting words rang ominously in his ears as he paced the small apartment. It had been two months since the conversation—four months without Blair. Four month's worth of hangovers were beginning to take their toll on him; the headache was a constant companion. Aspirin hadn't been strong enough for years.
Shit, if this was dying, he'd had enough. How much harder would it be to take the final step?
Damn.
He reined his thoughts in sharply before they could continue. Suicide wasn't something he'd contemplated seriously since the death of his father. And now, for apparently no reason at all, he was examining it with more enthusiasm than ever.
Well, to hell with it all. He called for his limo.
Ten minutes found him outside her door, hand raised to knock. Before he could touch the wood, however, the door was wrenched open.
"Get inside."
Her voice was terse. He didn't argue. He was feeling rather stressed himself. She slammed the door behind them and dragged him up the stairs into the guest room. Then her mouth was on his, and the world came back into sharp focus.
He held her close after.
"How did you know I was here?" He asked.
She smiled lazily and closed her eyes. "I paid your chauffer to text me whenever you gave him my address."
He buried his face between her shoulder blades and laughed. And knew then, that he was caught up again. It was a deadly addiction, to be sure. Most definitely unhealthy. But, like all addicts, he would never stop craving the next fix. And he would do whatever it took to ensure he got it.