Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with Gossip Girl. If I was, certain unspeakable events in the season three finale would never have happened… and I'm not talking about Chuck getting shot.
All poem excerpts are taken from T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men"
Description: "This is the way the world ends… not with a bang, but a whimper." Post 3X22.
THIS IS THE WAY THE WORLD ENDS
A Gossip Girl Fan Fiction by darris7
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang, but a whimper
T.S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"
CHAPTER 1
Shape without form; shade without colour
Paralyzed force; gesture without motion
Cold.
It's the only thing he's aware of. The frigid stone, the night air stirring faintly, the freezing, paralyzing chill spreading into every inch of his subconscious, holding him captive.
And then in an instant, it's all shattered.
Something strikes him hard across the face. A commanding voice shouts overhead, but he can't make out the words. Strong hands close over an area just below his ribs, and pain hits him, sweeps over him like a wave, drives away the cold away in one brief, excruciating half second.
And his eyes fly open.
City lights. Dancing, spinning. A whirl of colour.
Above stretches a night sky, peppered with stars barely visible beyond the red glow of the streetlights. Images swim before him, vague figures darting in and out of his blurred field of vision. More shouting, and then someone is shining a flashlight into his eyes, and still those strong hands are intensifying the pain radiating outward from the gunshot wound.
Because that's what it is. He remembers now. The bastards shot him. Shot him and took the ring.
They're speaking to him, asking him questions, but he can't understand the words. He struggles to remember where he is, but any semblance of coherent thought is dragged away by the confusion surrounding him. A voice to his right breaks through the haze briefly and he understands the words, heavily accented, but English nonetheless.
"Sir, can you tell me your name?"
I'm Chuck Bass.
"Do you know where you are?"
No one cares.
He wants to answer, but he knows if he opens his mouth right now, he'll be screaming.
God. God.
The world is tilting sideways and it's several moments before he realizes that he's moving. The night sky gives way to a view of a pristine white ambulance ceiling. An oxygen mask closes over his mouth and nose. Doors slam closed. He lets his eyes fall shut again as the vehicle starts to move.
Blair. Dancing on a crimson-lit stage. Throwing a teasing glance back over her shoulder. Laughing at the incredulous look on his face.
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
His name breaks on her lips, but it's a scream, a cry rending the silence, dragging her upward and into the darkness.
Sometimes, in her dreams, she sees him. A blurred film noir scene borrowed from a romance that isn't her own. Sometimes she is in a breathtaking ball gown, tipping her head to smile in the direction of a multitude of admirers, and he's there, throwing amused glances at her from a corner of the room, dressed, as always, to the nines, martini in hand, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Tie perfectly knotted.
She tries to move across the room, but he evades her, always with that teasing, mocking smirk on his face.
Sometimes they're alone, just two figures in a darkened room under an art deco painting. Sometimes her dreams wake her with a heated flush on her cheeks and tears of remembrance in her eyes.
And then there's the worst kind of dream, the kind that pulls her out of a fitful sleep with a strangled scream on her lips. Those are the dreams where she loses him. She never quite manages to get there in time and it always, always ends the same way: Chuck held close in her arms, her fervent pleas for more time going unnoticed by the oblivious, crushing night around them. He never speaks, never imparts any profound last words, but his dark eyes hold hers until he slips away quietly with his hand still closed in hers.
It was one of those dreams that woke Blair Waldorf from a restless sleep at 2:23 am. She started upward, clutching at her blanket, brushing in frustration at the unbidden tears on her cheeks. By morning most of the dream would be forgotten, just like always. By morning it would be a hazy memory easily dismissed in the daylight. But now it was still echoing through her, sending her pulse through the roof.
Shaking, she reached for the bottle of water she had left on the bedside table several hours ago. Yanking her new Michael Kors handbag close, she rummaged inside until she found the small bottle of sleeping pills. She didn't often like to take them, but sometimes a dreamless sleep was worth the next day's grogginess. As she quickly swallowed two of the pills, she threw a sidelong glance at her best friend, asleep in the bed across from her. Serena's long blond mane was falling partially across her face, her expression peaceful. She had left Nate behind with such composure, but Blair knew her better than that; it would be months before Serena was herself again. But Paris had been a good start. For both of them.
Sighing, Blair curled herself back into the bed, arranging the blanket around her. The dreams had been plaguing her more than usual lately, making uninterrupted sleep almost impossible. She hadn't seen Chuck since the fallout at the hospital, but the constant dreams kept his face fresh in her mind. And the history between them stretched back so far that it was impossible to dismiss overnight.
I thought you didn't love me.
But she did. Even now.
I didn't care whether I lived or died.
She cared.
Blair sighed again, fighting back the tears that threatened to well up. She was in Paris, where she had already marveled at the Louvre and shopped on the Champs-Elysees and drank lattes at sidewalk cafes. And flirted with those French boys. More than enough distractions to forget about losing the love of her life.
But forgetting Chuck Bass would be the work of a lifetime.
