it's hard to be a saint in the city
Disclaimer: title and story are from a song by Bruce Springsteen. lyrics below are from a song by B.o.B. Both are good.
Summary: They ride the line of balance and hold on by just a thread. Nate/Blair, future, one-shot. AU. Includes other variations of pairings: Chuck/Blair, Nate/Vanessa, Dan/Blair, Nate/Serena. Basically, everyone's screwing everyone else, in one way or another.
A/N: (Minor) necessary background info: Vanessa and Dan went to Constance along with everyone else; Vanessa dropped out while Dan stayed. Somehow she and Nate are still friends/acquaintances while she and Dan are no longer friends. Can't explain exactly what inspired this craziness, but for some reason my mind decided that since she supposedly hates/dislikes this world so much the only reason for Vanessa to be so entrenched in the UES is to have a certain...occupation.
.
Well I got up today
and I put on my shades
and I said I was fine (I'm fine)
but everyone knew that I was lying
if you look at my face
and the way that I behave
you will still see a disguise
even if you was blind (damn)
.
They've been down this road before: another illicit hotel rendezvous, another ultimatum, another twisted and sordid game of emotional blackmail. But this time, she assures herself, this is the last time.
"You're still going through with it." It is more of a statement than a question, she knows, but Blair can still hear that sense of wonderment in his tone that has always had the ability to make her second-guess everything she does and she knows she needs to shut it down, and quick.
A scoff of incredulity echoes throughout the now silent and tense hotel room. "Of course I am."
"You'll regret it." He sounds so certain, which makes her more determined than ever to prove him wrong.
She's flustered and struggling to hook her bra without looking and her back is turned to him so she's surprised to feel his hands on her shoulders sweeping her hair to the side, assisting her. She freezes almost immediately. It's one of those things that couples do and the two of them are so far from being a couple that this - such a small action - was the last thing she was expecting, especially coming from him.
Still, she pulls away from his touch (self preservation, Blair assures herself) shaking her head. "Things between you and I will never change, Chuck."
"You're the only one demanding that things need to change. They really don't need to but, in true Waldorf fashion, you'll always choose an image over what you really want. Pretense over reality."
She can't hold back the automatic sneer that crosses her face. "Oh, please. Don't act so self-righteous; we both do that. And we both always will."
"Speak for yourself."
"Chuck…"
"What?"
She takes this one chance of vulnerability that she knows she wouldn't even attempt if this…thing (using that word - "affair" - makes her feel as though she should be shopping at Macy's, not Carolina Herrera) between them wasn't coming to an end. Because she knows it is. It has to. "I'll…" she sighs, exhaling deeply. "I'll miss you."
"I'll be seeing you around," is what he says instead of the goodbye she was hoping for (a clean break) a self-satisfied smirk firmly on his lips.
He hardly ever does what she expects him to.
"Why you look so sad? Smile, pretty girl!"
Vanessa gives a cursory glance to the homeless man sitting on the corner who addressed her. She walks a few steps ahead of him before changing her mind at the last second and doubling back. There's a ripped and beaten paper cup that's barely standing upright on the ground in front of him, filled with less than a handful of pennies and dimes.
She bends down, knowing he's probably getting an unobstructed view down her neckline and of her cleavage, and tosses a few dollars in. "Thank you, pretty girl." He smiles; she tries to do the same. She fails and opts instead to take a long drag on the cigarette that's dangling between her lips; she isn't paying attention, and the ash burns her fingers.
She's nervous.
Deep down, she knows that she still isn't quite used to this - though if anyone asked she'd lie and say she knows how to work the streets like she knows the specials at Katz Deli. (Juliet told her it would take time, that she probably wouldn't be able to wrap her mind around this for quite awhile at first, and that it takes more than a few shots of hard liquor or a couple smokes or lines or pills to adjust to the idea of what she's doing.) But at the same time, she can almost understand the metamorphosis and art that is involved in creating that illustrious fantasy; it is surprisingly easy, to slip from that part of her life and onto the next when she categorizes it as just a job. It's not who she is, it's what she does, and Vanessa reminds herself of that to stay sane, therein lies the difference.
Or, at least, that's what she tells herself.
But she's nervous now. Why? She doesn't know. She shouldn't be, for all intents and purposes; she's been doing this for two, almost three years, and really there's no telling how many-
She shakes her head at that thought, instead inhales deeply on her cigarette and doesn't allow herself to finish the thought. She needs to focus on other things. She's meeting with a new client later today and it's making her more nervous than it should, really. She should be used to this.
She doesn't like the taste of cigarettes, not really, and is only smoking as a means to stay warm - it's November in New York City for fuck's sake - and Vanessa chain-smokes her way through the only three cigarettes she has on hand as she waits on the corner of Second Avenue for an available taxi to arrive. By the time she's finished, she still hasn't calmed the nerves that makes her hands shake and the butterflies in her stomach flutter crazily out of control. Even though she has well over two hours until she's supposed to be on Fifth. Decidedly resigned and with an air of feigned determinacy, she stops in front of a cab just before stomping out the stub of her cigarette. She is seconds away from sliding into the backseat when she's stopped, by an all too familiar voice and face less than five feet across from her on the cab's other side.
"Vanessa." She can practically taste his disgust and disapproval from here, his righteousness, as he takes in her low-cut dress hiked up above her knees, the makeup that's designed to make her look ten years older than she actually is - although after everything she's dealt with in the past couple years, it's probably not really necessary.
"Dan." Her tongue feels as though it's adhered to the roof of her mouth. There is more she wants to say; there always is whenever they have these awkward run-ins.
They used to be best friends. He was her first kiss, and yet, somehow, he was also the first person to console her after her very first heartbreak some years later. They grew up together - until high school changed everything. Vanessa is almost certain that their parents still interact, on some level. She wouldn't know as she hasn't seen or spoken to hers in years. Seeing him never fails to remind her of this fact.
She doesn't need this. She can't do this. Not now.
Shit.
"How are you?" She kind of wishes he wouldn't ask her that.
"I…" She can't think of an answer; for some reason, she has always been terrible at lying to him. So Vanessa avoids the question, chooses not to answer and takes a step back, away from the cab door that's still hanging open. Vanessa steps back toward the curb, her back to him, speaking hurriedly over her shoulder. "You know what? You can have this cab. I'll, uh, I'll take the next one. I have somewhere I need to be and I can't be late," she tosses the lie in a hurried shout over her shoulder, not caring whether or not he believes her.
Vanessa chases down a cab in the opposite direction and pretends she doesn't hear him frantically calling her name. She slides hurriedly into the backseat of another cab, out of breath.
"Where to?"
She starts, the question catching her off guard for a moment. "The Met."
She sits down on the steps in front of The Met and thinks that the Fates (you don't believe in that, she reminds herself quickly) must have it out for her.
Sitting next to her is Nate Archibald, the boy who once broke her heart when they were sixteen while he was probably too self-involved to even realize - or too in love with Blair Waldorf or (sometimes and) Serena van der Woodsen - the effect it had on her. Vanessa knows, from the stories, Nate came out of the First Great Love Triangle with one of the great loves of his life. When, on the flip-side, it ruined her. It's not that they haven't spoken since then, but she's more apt to remember the hurt he helped to cause when she's feeling vulnerable - a word she's come to despise - at a moment such as this one.
"Hey." His smile seems to come so easily and Vanessa feels her throat splash with bile at how fucking unaware of everything that he can be. He's basically being traded into a marriage in less than two weeks and yet he's still that same carefree guy he was when they were teenagers. (she envies that.) "What are you doing here?"
"Taking a break."
"From what?"
"Life," she answers before deftly taking the finely rolled joint from his hands. He doesn't protest, just like she knew he wouldn't.
Vanessa is surprised at the unexpected look of openness in his emerald green eyes. "Something happen?"
"No," she lies, terribly, if she's being honest but he'll probably (more than likely) never know that. She inhales, even though she probably shouldn't since she had about a half a pack of cigarettes earlier. But, god, it feels good.
"Are you sure?" His hand is resting on her knee, Vanessa notices, but he's not moving it any higher. He makes it so easy to forget, to wish things were different and it'd be even easier to just close her eyes, let her head fall to his shoulder and remember what it feels like to be sixteen again.
"It was nice running into you here," he says his tone soft and lilting in that way that it always is when he gets high. She remembers.
"Yeah."
(it hurts, kind of, living in the past when she knows how drastically different their futures are.)
He's watching her out of the corner of his eye; Blair is twisting and turning the diamond ring on her finger in the way that she always does that makes him nervous. It tells him that old habits - particularly hers - die hard and Dan can't help but wonder just how far this life of idealized perfection is going to push her. "You don't look happy," he observes. (He wonders if she knows he means more than just right now, in this particular moment. She probably does, but she's grown very adept at the art of oblivion and denial.)
But of course, Blair simply scoffs, rolling her eyes as she does whenever the threat or hint of weakness is discussed.
"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I am. I'm fine; lovely, in fact." She stretches her pretend smile even wider; Dan is almost worried that her face will get stuck that way. She turns back to the painting in front of them, the one he's been neglecting in favor of analyzing her. "What do you think of this one?"
"Blair-"
"Dan. I'm just tired. Wedding planners are so incompetent I swear they went to state school and I'm almost positive Anne hates me-"
"Wasn't she the main one that was pushing for this thing to happen?" The glare she pierces him with is almost instantaneous; she hates whenever he refers to her upcoming wedding as a 'thing'. "Sorry."
Her eyes narrow even further, studying him. "No you're not."
Dan chooses not to confirm or deny her assumption as he leans closer to the painting hanging on the wall in order to read the title. "It's called Submissive Hostility. The painting," he clarifies. "You still want it?"
She doesn't answer.
"…You look really familiar." Fortunately, it's not a pick up line. Though it is a line that she's heard more times than she can count whenever she spends her time on the Upper East Side.
Vanessa barely spares a glance to the guy sitting on the bar stool next to her. Her eyes are focused on the clock hanging on the wall in front of her. 9:45. "I'm not, trust me."
She can still feel him staring. She rolls her eyes, finally turning to face him, acquiescing that he does look, at least, mildly familiar. He looks her up and down, not bothering to disguise the fact that he's blatantly undressing her with his eyes. She feels a rush of disgruntlement at first, before she remembers that's exactly what this dress is designed to do. "What?"
"I'm sorry," he apologizes dismissively, making it clear that he feels everything but. "I just, I could have sworn - Did you go to Constance Billard?"
"No," Vanessa lies, hoping to cut that line of questioning off quickly.
"Are you sure?"
She barely resists the urge to roll her eyes. "Absolutely; yes, I'm sure."
"Well, in any case, here's my card." She takes his business card - Carter Baizen, CO - and he smiles, a smug little grin that Vanessa recognizes all too well, as he makes certain to brush his thumb across the space of skin between her thumb and forefinger. She can feel him watching her as she turns the card over and over in her hands. She remembers him, somewhat; his reputation is probably just as scandalous as - if not more than - Chuck Bass'.
Vanessa plasters a smile onto her face, changing her demeanor from put-off to sultry and interested, leaning towards Carter - close enough to put her hand on his knee but not actually carrying through with the motion. It works, just as she knew it would. She moistens her lips. "I think I'll just hold onto this, then."
Carter vacates the bar stool and not too long after that the seat is filled by the warm and beguiling presence of Nate Archibald. She wonders idly if he was waiting in the wings for Carter to leave.
"Was that Carter Baizen?
"Who?" she frowns, feigning ignorance.
"Never mind. What are you doing here?"
Vanessa almost smiles at Nate's oblivious naivete and shakes her head, simply saying, "Nothing really." She's not going to give him enough information to connect the dots to the picture he's so obviously missing. On the flip side, she doesn't ask why he's here because she's more than certain she already knows the reason.
"But it's late. Why are you - ?"
"I'm just getting a drink, Nate," she dismisses. "That's all."
"There are thousands of bars in this city. You had to come to the Palace Hotel for a rum and coke?"
"It's warmer here. And less crowded," Vanessa evades.
"…You're meeting someone." Nate frowns. "A client?"
"I don't want to have this conversation again."
"Fine. So we won't." Except, Vanessa knows, Nate's White Knight complex is too strong for him to ignore - especially when there isn't a haze of marijuana smoke to cloud his thought process. It's probably the main reason why he could never ignore or escape the clutches of Serena van der Woodsen, the walking, talking epitome of "damsel in distress".
"Good." She takes a sip of her drink, keeps an eye on the clock. It's almost ten.
"Vanessa-"
"Nate. Just, don't." (Don't bother.)
He closes his mouth with a noticeable tightening of his jaw. "Okay. But only because you asked." He smiles in compliance, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
It's easier for her to slide off the bar stool, and walk towards the elevator if she pretends not to notice.
Serena's naked body is only half covered by silk sheets and his mind is lingering on the conversation he's just had with Vanessa (and everything she's hiding) and Blair and too many different things at once for his mind to be able to handle. He's always been terrible at multitasking.
"You know, I'm really going to miss you. I'll miss this. …Us." Serena frowns when he doesn't respond, her mouth falling into a pout. "Nate?"
"God, Serena, what are we doing? Blair's my fiancée and she's your best friend. We shouldn't have done this—"
"I know, I know. It's just—just this one last time. And it's not like we planned this, Nate. She will never know about this; I wouldn't do that to her, you know that." She crawls toward him, rests her chin on his shoulder. She places a lingering kiss on his skin, one that causes shivers to dance along his spine and sends a shot of arousal straight to his groin. "Don't leave yet."
"S, I can't…"
"Yes you can," she whispers, wrapping her legs around his waist from behind, her front pressed against his back. She slides her hands towards Nate's belt, unbuckling it slowly before dipping her hand underneath the waistband of his pants. "One last time," Serena whispers, stroking him.
He nods, twisting so that his arms can wrap around her waist and he can lay on top of her, pulling her closer, savoring their 'one last time'.
There's only one framed photograph in his room, a staged family portrait taken with him, his father, his father's third or fourth wife and her two kids. It sits on the mantle above the fireplace because that is, presumably, where family portraits go. No one in the picture is smiling. "You don't have many friends do you?"
He snorts derisively, as if the very idea is beneath him. She's almost certain that he believes that. "'Many'? Try none."
"How do you live like that?"
"The same way you do."
They're two of a kind, really. "The usual?"
Vanessa nods, keeping her gaze focused on the clock on the nightstand as the time changes. 11:41.
Chuck is reaching for his checkbook when she stops him with a smirk and a delicately raised eyebrow. She doesn't touch him; it's officially not apart of her job description anymore. "You know I only take cash."
"What, you don't trust me?" He smirks.
"…Probably about as much as you trust me," Vanessa counters smoothly. She pulls on her underwear first, then her garter and stockings. She can feel Chuck's eyes on her, watching her movements. (she tells herself to ignore what feels like a thrill running through her.)
"Touché." From the pocket of his robe he pulls several one hundred dollar bills and holds them just beyond the tips of her fingers. She holds his gaze, doesn't look away once, as she leans forward to grab the money. The bills are crisp, comforting, and she double checks the amount - old habits - once they slide from his hand to hers. He smells like whiskey, sweat, sex, Bulgari cologne, and her. They aren't touching anymore, and the only thing holding her into place is his eyes on hers. Keeping up with the role, she maintains eye contact, pretends as though looking into his eyes doesn't make her feel as though she's looking into a reflection of her own tortured unease.
Vanessa vividly remembers the awkwardness that was their first…meeting. She remembers feeling so taken aback at seeing someone her own age as a client and already as fucked up as she is; it wasn't hard to notice the lack of personal items in his room, his home, which she couldn't seem to prevent herself from being affected by because it was all so strikingly familiar.
She already heard through the grapevine to be careful of the clutches of Chuck Bass; it's easy to fall for his charms, even easier to get lost among the faces of his literal harem of women where he'll ignore you the next morning and make no apologies for it. And she certainly didn't mean to give him her name - her real name; she realizes now, that she ends up doing a lot of things with him that she never initially intended to do. She still hasn't figured out why she doesn't treat him like the rest of her clientele; she doesn't talk with the others, not like this.
"…Go easy on the scotch and pills tonight, would you?" Like caring about his well being once she steps out of his hotel room. She doesn't have to ask to know that Juliet would be against this.
He smirks. "Don't tell me you care about what happens to me?"
A lump forms in her throat that is hard to swallow past. Her smile is thin. Juliet has warned her (more than once) that getting attached to clients, specifically clients like Chuck Bass, is "fucking stupid" and reckless. "You can't trust people like him. No matter how long you've known them they will only come to you for one thing. If it wasn't for that one thing, they wouldn't even know who you were and if they did, they wouldn't care."
"You're my best paying customer," Vanessa answers instead, "I care what happens to your money. Don't confuse the two."
It's about business. Nothing more, nothing less.
She's fine, as long as she remembers that.
She recognizes Blair Waldorf before the other girl can see her and, out of a habit of nervousness that she can't seem to shake no matter how long it's been, straightens her dress. She rolls her eyes at herself. They're not in high school anymore and Blair Waldorf, filled with importance and a grandiose life, isn't going to remember her.
Blair stops fiddling with her jewelry long enough to see her, awkwardly exiting the hotel room. The facade of seductress is gone and suddenly she's sixteen, out of place and knowing it, standing alone in the courtyard of Constance Billard - with not enough money in the world to keep her there. "Who are you?" Blair demands accusingly, eyes narrowed looking her up and down, stopping for a second. Vanessa allows herself to panic for only a moment.
"No one," she insists. "Just… an old friend of Chuck's."
"Chuck doesn't have 'old friends'." Blair scoffs, shaking her head. "I should have known. What was I thinking?"
"It's not like that. I- I mean, he talked about you," Vanessa hears herself saying and she doesn't know why she's trying to comfort this girl who is - or, was - obviously cheating on her fiancé, this girl who hated her years ago and made sure her minions followed suit, this girl who showed no remorse, this girl who doesn't even remember her.
Maybe she's a masochist. (because she obviously can't apply for sainthood)
"Before or after he slept with you?" Blair snipes, shaking her head. She turns on her heel and walks quickly back the way she came, the conversation ending with sound of her heels clicking against the floor.
"Do you mind?"
For a moment he thinks the hand on his shoulder belongs to yet another anti-smoking yuppie, there to interrupt his desperately needed moment of solace and quietude. Dan has an indignant diatribe all prepared and on the tip of his tongue when he finds himself nearly face to face with Blair. As someone who prides herself on propriety and manners and 'the way things work', Dan is surprised to find himself nearly bowled over by one Blair Waldorf, as she basically barrels into him, her shoulder colliding with his, their knees knocking together as she interrupts his moment of solitude on the steps in front of New York's Public Library. He aims the cigarette he's smoking away from her and takes a quick pull, waving away the smoke.
She coughs anyway, an exaggerated melodramatic hack that makes Dan roll his eyes.
"I was here first," he insists even while stubbing out the cigarette on the concrete next to him, its smoke rising up between them.
"Thank you," she says quietly. She turns to face him, looking down at her lap as she twists and turns the ring on her finger, around and around it goes. She's leaning more towards him than away from him and he wonders how much she's let herself have to drink tonight - not enough to lose any semblance of control, he knows that much.
"What are you doing here, anyway?"
"I absolutely needed to escape my bachelorette party." Dan raises an eyebrow at that, surprised. Blair sighs, a long suffering exhale, rolling her eyes delicately. "Serena's brilliant idea," she explains tartly.
"I take it you didn't have a good time?"
Blair shakes her head, her dark brown curls bouncing wildly. "She knows me better than this. She had to know I'd hate some sleazy, abhorrent, Showgirls-esque bachelorette party - Vegas Night at the Ritz-Carlton is still Vegas Night," she scoffs, ending her rant.
"…Maybe she doesn't know you as well either of you think she does."
"We've been best friends since we were five years old," Blair insists, affronted.
"That doesn't necessarily mean anything." He's thinking back on his own lost friendships, one in particular that seemed to crash and burn in a matter of minutes in spite of the years and effort it took to build it.
"…I'm getting married tomorrow."
"I know. Congratulations," he adds because he feels as though that's what she's expecting.
"You would think so, wouldn't you?"
He's not sure if he's supposed to hear that comment, but either way he doesn't stop the response that leaps to his tongue. "Marriage isn't for everyone."
"Is that supposed to actually be helpful?"
"I guess not."
"I don't have much of a choice in the matter, anyway. I've made my decision. Everything's been arranged, prepared, settled and paid for."
"Sounds final."
"It is," she insists firmly, almost as though she thinks he's daring her to say otherwise.
"Sometimes it isn't."
"Dan."
"Hey, you and I know, better than anyone, that sometimes vows promised before God can be taken back once your feelings change and forever doesn't really mean forever - not if you don't want it to," he comments, referring to the failed marriages that color their parents' histories. His tone is flippant but his words are anything but.
She looks at him sideways, the way she always does whenever she doesn't want to admit out loud that he's right.
They make the journey back to his apartment - "God, are you ever going to move out of Brooklyn? you're not sixteen anymore" - and he doesn't make a big deal out of the fact that she links her arm through his, interlacing their fingers, and resting her chin on his shoulder halfway there. She kicks off her shoes and curls up on his couch and he starts making a pot of coffee, internally debating whether or not he wants to do this now.
"And by the way, Humphrey, you're supposed to say 'congratulations' to the groom and 'best wishes' to the bride."
"Thank you, I'll keep that in mind; I've missed my daily etiquette lesson." He hands her a cup of coffee - two creams, two sugars - which she accepts with a half smile that is more of a smirk. He runs his hands nervously across the thighs of his jeans before scratching behind his ear.
"Spit it out, Humphrey."
"I have a…gift for you."
Blair arches one eyebrow. "A wedding gift?"
He shrugs, trying to appear uncaring. "If that's what you want to call it."
"We're already registered at-"
"I know." Dan pulls the wrapped package from the space between the couch and the wall, hoping she hasn't already guessed what it is by its size and shape. "I don't know what Nate wants but I remember you saying-"
She already has it unwrapped in her lap before he can even finish his sentence. Her head is down but he can see that her jaw has dropped open and for a moment, Blair is speechless. "This…this is an autographed photo of Audrey Hepburn during filming of Breakfast at Tiffany's. I've been trying to find this for years but I never…. How did you - ?"
"You're not the only one with connections, Waldorf." He knows from the fact that she doesn't automatically correct him - "soon to be Archibald" - that he's gotten it right with the gift. Blair looks up from the framed photo in her lap and Dan is more than surprised to see her smiling. He wonders, for the second time tonight, just how much she's really had to drink. "I take it you like the gift?"
"…Kiss me."
"What?"
"Just do it before I change my mind." He doesn't know what he's thinking; he should say no, remind her of the very hefty engagement ring nestled all too perfectly on her finger, remind her of their strictly platonic friendship - except for those occasional moments where a hand lingered for a moment too long or their gazes were held for longer than appropriate or those nights when she seemed to prefer curling up with him on his couch and watching a black and white movie to going back to her penthouse. Those are the moments replaying in the back of his mind when he rests his hand on her knee, thoughtfully drawing slow circles on the bare skin there.
He wonders if he's imagining hearing her breath hitch in the back of her throat when suddenly she scoffs and grips the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer. "Dan, for God's sake just -"
He kisses her, which quiets her immediately. It is slow and soft, the only parts of their bodies that are touching are their lips, with Blair's hand still holding onto his shirt, his hand buried in the dark curls of her hair. But then Dan pulls back to take in a breath, surprised to find that her eyes are still closed. "Why did you ask me to kiss you?" he wonders, his lips not quite disconnected from hers.
She sighs, her breath tickling the hair above his lip. "I just… I needed to know something."
"And? Did you figure it out?" She reaches out, one finger tracing the curve of his lip and it's the first time he thinks he's ever seen Blair be…hesitant.
"I think so." This time, she kisses him, skipping the exploration and reconnaissance of another person's lips and going straight to urgent, immediate contact. Before he can even think of trying to stop this from escalating any further, asking "why now?" she's gripping the fine hair at the nape of his neck and tugging him that much closer, decreasing the space between them with one hand and lifting the hem of his shirt with the other.
"Another round?" Carter asks, yelling to be heard over the din of the music. The response to his question is a resounding and harmonious "yes" from everyone but the man of the hour. Carter Baizen, a connoisseur of strip clubs, call girls, and anything that could remotely be considered 'seedy' is Nate's best man and probably the closest thing he has to a close friend at the moment. He's not entirely sure how or when that happened, but the thought is a little unsettling.
Absentmindedly, Nate's hands skim the tops of smooth thighs, stilling the rotation of the hips of the girl who's sitting astride his lap. In spite of the fact that he has been designated the "man of the hour" and the woman currently gyrating on his lap is certainly not without talent, he can't seem to stay in the moment and enjoy himself. His mind won't shut off, won't stop returning to its preoccupation with what tomorrow is and how important it's supposed to be for everyone involved - not just him and Blair (as if he didn't know already) - and how it changes everything from now on.
"Am I boring you?" The woman - Cherri - tilts her head to the side, her plump lips falling into an exaggerated pout and her strawberry blonde hair falling over one shoulder - though, it should be noted and commended that she still continues on with the lap-dance.
"No. It's just - I'm getting married soon."
Cherri smiles and swivels her hips. "I know. I'm supposed to give you 'The Special'. Are you excited?"
"About the wedding or about 'The Special'?" Nate asks, a little dazed.
Cherri turns so that her back is to him, arching her back and widening her legs so that she's straddling him. She giggles. "The wedding, of course."
"I don't know. I don't - I don't think so." The answer tumbles out of his mouth, surprising him and catching him off guard once he actually hears it out loud. "I'm sorry." Nate places his hands on her hips, stilling their movements. "Can you get up?"
"Seriously?"
"…Yes. Get up? Please?"
Cherri scowls, eyes narrowed and all playfulness gone, before conceding to his request and standing, one hand on her hip and the other outstretched. "You still have to pay me."
"That's fine." He hands her the hundred dollars - a ridiculous amount of money, especially for something he didn't even enjoy - and walks in the direction of where a collection of closed doors are, needing some quiet. He pushes one open, not paying attention to the VIP sign on the front of it. He wonders what Blair's doing, who Serena's with, what-
"Vanessa?" She's sitting on the edge of a bed, dressed in what appears to be a red and black corset, fishnets, and heels so high they should be illegal. "What are you doing here?"
"Favor to a friend. Well, more like a job for a friend."
Nate frowns, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Carter hired a hooker for my bachelor party?"
"I don't disclose the names of my clients," Vanessa answers, just cryptically enough to answer his question. She crosses her legs at the knee, leans back on the bed. "You seem surprised. …Or are you really that disgusted by what I do?"
Nate sighs; he's offended her, he thinks. It's hard to tell. "I just - I know that you can do better than this. You're better than this."
She tilts her head, her gaze suddenly cold. "What do you know about me or what I'm worth or what I'm better than?"
"I know enough."
She stands abruptly, her finger pointing at him accusingly. "No you don't. Not anymore."
"Ness…"
"We're not high school sweethearts, Nate," she snaps, "so don't call me that."
"What am I supposed to call you, then?" he asks softly.
"Nothing." Her answer, the look in her eyes when he asks, is depressing. She tugs on his belt buckle. "You're wasting time."
"We don't have to do this-"
Vanessa runs her hand down the front of his pants. "Are you telling me you don't want to?" she demands, her voice taking on a sultriness that he would usually associate with Serena. (Never Blair, though.) He can't say he doesn't appreciate it; he can't say he never thought about it back when they were both going to Constance.
But that was a long time ago.
"…Because I think you want to," she says softly into his ear, her hands on him. He's sitting on the bed and Vanessa's kneeling in front of him, situated between his legs. He can vaguely hear the distinct beat of the music from the club. "It's your last night as a free man. Don't you want to enjoy it?"
She's pulling down the zipper of his pants, her eyes on his the whole time. "Vanessa, I-" She shakes her head when he says her name before she dips forward. "I'm sorry."
She stops. "…For what?"
'For everything I couldn't do. For being a coward. For missing chances.' But he doesn't say any of that and the silence is too much for either of them too handle and despite how good it feels to have her wrapped around him, Nate never really thought that it would happen like this under these circumstances. It's odd, how it feels, when she gets him off. He's tugging on her hair, mindful not to hurt her; there's no sense of obligation like in the beginning with Blair, no illicit dirty secret he knows he should feel like with Serena and nothing of the emptiness in his chest that he cut off to the quick with the lap-dance from- what was her name? Crystal? Candi? It's odd and it's different and it's good and reminds Nate of missed opportunities and he knows he's breaking some kind of rule when he pulls her up from the floor and kisses her, full on the mouth, slipping his tongue between her lips.
"I wish that things were different," he starts to say, but she isn't interested in hearing the rest.
She shakes her head. "Wishes are pointless. Especially now."
He wakes up to a note laying on his pillow.
He can tell, by the coolness of the space next to him and the overwhelming silence of his apartment, that she's gone. Dan runs a hand over his face, wondering what the hell he was thinking last night, before picking up the note. Two words:
I'm sorry.
Vanessa gives Carter his money back and tells him that paying upfront - before any deed is done - is never a wise move as not everyone is as honest as she is, and that really, he should know this. Although it's fairly ironic considering she's lying when she tells him Nate is "so devoted" to Blair and their commitment that he only wanted to talk all night long. But it's not as though she doesn't have plenty of other clients and there was something about the way he touched her and kissed her that didn't feel like the usual 'dates' she has with clients. She knows what Juliet would say: "Don't romanticize this. You're nothing more than a whore to him. Just because you knew each other once upon a time doesn't change anything."
But that's not what she's doing. Or, at least, that's what she tells herself (even as she reminisces for maybe the twentieth time about their night together).
Her cell phone rings, interrupting her train of thought and Vanessa answers without looking at the caller ID. "I need an escort to a wedding."
She recognizes the timber of Chuck's voice almost immediately and doesn't ask how he got this number. He's a very resourceful man, she knows this. "'Escort' or 'date'?"
"To me, there really is no difference."
Three years ago, she might have found that statement sad. Now she understands it, on some level. "How long will I need to be there with you?"
"Two hours, at most. Need to put an appearance, make the press believe I actually want to be there."
"Is there a reason why you wouldn't?"
"I hate weddings."
"In general, or is it just the Waldorf-Archibald nuptials that have you on edge?"
"Two."
"Hours? Yeah, I know; you just said-"
"Two thousand."
"Why does Chuck Bass need to pay for a harem of women in order to not feel lonely?"
"It's less of a hassle."
"Really? The price of drinks must have sky-rocketed since I've last been on a date." She wonders idly if this is what flirting feels like. It's been a while. Too long, really.
"I'd say you're no more screwed up than I am."
"You have more in common with a hooker than you do with anyone else. That's not a good thing."
"I thought you weren't ashamed of what you do."
"I'm not-"
"Funny, didn't sound like it from my end."
"Am I meeting you there?" she asks, her tone clipped.
"My driver will pick you up." A snark about Pretty Woman is on her tongue but she swallows it down and hangs up her phone without saying goodbye.
Blair hesitates, no more than a fraction of a second, really, before she says "I do" but Dan is probably the only one who notices. He watches the kiss that solidifies her and Nate's "union" and tells himself that they can still be friends, that what happened between them was simply a momentary lapse in judgment - something she would say.
He wouldn't know, though, as they haven't talked since.
The live band is playing a slow, jazzy tune he doesn't recognize, but Serena doesn't seem to care, as she grabs his hand and pulls him onto the dance floor, never once stumbling in her heels in spite of the fact that he's watched her knock back at least four successive flutes of champagne.
"We were good together, don't you think?" the question is so sudden and unexpected that Dan nearly gets whiplash.
"How much champagne have you had?" Dan asks idly. Serena's arms are wrapped around his neck, her thumbs rubbing small circles just behind his ear. He wonders if she even realizes what she's doing.
She pouts, her plump lips a perfect shade of pink. "Oh, don't be like that. We're at a party, Dan."
They're at a wedding reception, actually, and the most boring one in the history of formal ceremonies but he guesses that anywhere there is booze and an inch of a dance-floor equals a party to Serena. "I'm just looking out for you."
She smiles and for a moment it's hard to remember why he ever thought breaking up with her was a good idea. "You always did. You were good at that."
"You think they'll be happy together?" Serena's staring, misty-eyed, at Nate and Blair, sitting at their own private little table, being sure to make their intertwined hands visible to anyone who happens to glance in their direction.
"I don't know," he answers honestly. I doubt it.
"I hope so," she sighs wistfully before turning half-lidded eyes towards him. "We were happy, you know."
"Serena..."
"Weren't we?"
Saying no to her would be akin to kicking a wounded, dying puppy. And, it would also be a lie. "Yeah," he admits quietly, reluctantly, "we were."
But that was a long time ago.
Over the curve of Serena's bare shoulder, he notices Chuck making an entrance and posing for a camera; the woman on his arm, Dan recognizes, is Vanessa and he can't help but wonder if those rumors he's heard about her 'occupation' are true, but even if they aren't Dan knows her involvement with Chuck can't be a good one. He hopes not. Despite the dissolution of their friendship, he does think she deserves better. Before Vanessa (and now Blair), he doesn't think he's ever lost a friend - certainly not a best friend - and it bothers him that he still can't remember the exact moment that that happened.
"We could be happy again, right?" Serena rests her head on his shoulder. "I mean, if we were happy before, then maybe if we just tried again, then-"
"Serena, I really don't think-"
She doesn't let him finish the sentence before she's framing his face with her hands and kissing him deeply. He remembers this kind of kiss. She's trying to give him a reason to stay with her, to say yes. "Come home with me?" she asks, her voice low.
It would be easy to say yes, too easy.
"Serena-"
"I just don't want to be alone tonight," she murmurs, toying with the end of his tie. She looks up and her gaze strays over and past his shoulder and he understands, all too clearly. "You were always the better choice, I just never realized it. ...Come home with me tonight."
It would be so easy to say yes. But he and Serena haven't been together in over three years and he doesn't know how or when, but somewhere in between then and now he thinks he might have developed feelings for her best friend.
"Mind if I have a dance with the bride?" His arm is around her waist before she can protest and Nate simply nods, his mind as distant now as it was when he arrived at the church. Chuck pulls her close enough towards his body to just toe the line of indecent. "White. A bit hypocritical, don't you think?"
"It's eggshell."
"Splitting hairs, really."
"Why are you here, Chuck?" She demands, digging her fingers into his shoulders. He only smiles, the satisfaction that he's getting under her skin just enough to get him through the sight of seeing a wedding band on her finger. (But somehow still, not enough.)
"The Bass' and the Archibald's are longtime family friends." He smirks, leaning forward so his lips brush against her ear and he can feel her tense and then shiver. "I'll always be here."
Vanessa leans against the side of the building, inhaling deeply on a cigarette and secure in the knowledge that Chuck doesn't care about the smell of cigarette smoke. She's exhaling a plume of smoke into the sky when she hears the back door bang open; she turns, unexpectedly finding Nate fidgeting with his tie.
"It's bad form for the groom to ditch his own wedding, you know," Vanessa comments idly.
"I'm 'in the bathroom'," Nate excuses. "And I didn't think you cared about bad form. I mean, you're here with Chuck."
She shrugs. "He needed a date."
"Right. Of course." She narrows her eyes at his tone. He fidgets with his tie again, but doesn't undo the knot like she knows he wants to - a reminder that no matter what happens out here, between them, he's going to go back inside. Nate raises his gaze to hers, his emerald green eyes trying to pin her to the spot with a combination of guilt and obligation. "I've tried calling you-"
"I know. I wasn't answering for a reason, Nate."
"What happened between us-"
"There is no 'us', Nate," she hisses, stepping towards him. "What happened was no different than your little tryst with Serena. Does Blair know about that, by the way?"
He looks startled that she knows - although, really, why else would he have been at the Palace that night? - but tries to recover. "No. No that…It was a onetime thing."
"Kind of like the other night, right? One last hurrah before you're shackled down to one woman for the rest of your life? Or, at least, in name only," she adds nastily.
But Nate ignores the insult and she wants to hate him for rising above her pettiness.
"That was different."
"How? How was it possibly any different?"
"Because I've always wanted-"
"To fuck me?"
"No," he bristles.
"Of course not," Vanessa scoffs, angrily tossing her cigarette to the ground. It's stupid, really, because she knows she shouldn't be angry; she doesn't have a right to be angry. But somehow, she is. She's stomping out the stub of the cigarette with the heel of her Manolo, mentally preparing a speech about the fact that there is nothing more for them to say to each other, turning towards him to say just that when she feels his hand on the curve of her hip, pulling her close pausing just a moment to look her in the eyes just before his mouth covers hers, his tongue lightly brushing against her own. It isn't long before she's an active participant, leaning into his touch and contradicting the voice at the back of her mind telling her she's opening herself up to all kinds of complications - he's not a client, this is turning personal, this is Nate - as her eyes slide shut.
(it's too easy not to care about anything else.)
Two weeks after the wedding, he knows Blair and Nate are back from a lavish - and completely expected - honeymoon in Prague extended by a weekend in Paris, but Dan doesn't know what to do, if anything.
Dan is staring at a blank computer screen, telling himself to focus more on the manuscript he's supposed to be writing and less on the bourgeois brunette who spent the night in his bed and ignored his existence afterwards. He would be better off just forgetting it ever happened, since it was apparently so easy for her to do, no matter how he feels about it. He's getting a cup of coffee when the sound of his phone buzzing catches his attention. He picks it up from the counter, ignoring all the his instincts telling him he shouldn't.
...Back in the city. I need to meet with you.
Dan taps the end of the phone against his chin in thought, knowing what he's going to say even before he sends out the message.
Where?