A/N: Is anyone still out there reading GG fanfiction? I sure hope so. I discovered the show ten years late (I KNOW) and I'm really excited to write about it. I hope you'll enjoy!
This story begins directly after the infamous scene in 1x13 and takes things in a completely different direction. Serious adult content and triggers of various kinds; reader beware.
Author's Notes:
The scene in the show with Chuck and Blair takes place at Butai, in Gramercy, which doesn't make sense to me geographically (also closed by the time of this writing). It also doesn't make sense for my storyline, so for purposes of this story, let's assume it took place at Bemelman's on East 76th.
Eleanor Waldorf is in NYC in the show during this episode, but for purposes of this story she's in Paris.
Chuck was born in 1990, not 1991, for this story, making him 17 going on 18 at this time; he is still a junior at St. Jude's, just a year older than his classmates, as part of his father's twisted Outliers philosophy. (Also, because I cannot see him as 16 in the beginning of the first season on several levels. Almost 18 is honestly still a stretch, but more reasonable to me.)
I'm sure other tweaks will come as we go, so stay tuned! 😊
Like every other author, I love, love, love reviews 😊 3
i.
She's not gone from her seat across from him for thirty seconds when he decides to go after her.
For one thing, he's still twitching – grooming gestures, adjusting his hair, clasping and unclasping his hands, tugging at his collar, like people do when they're lying or faking. Badly. He's lying, and though he can apparently make her believe it, he knows himself too well.
For another, he can't stop seeing her eyes. Their slow drifting up and down like the last brittle leaf letting go from the tree. He's never seen her so slow and shy. Never.
And it's not that he hasn't seen her vulnerable, in pain, even afraid. He's seen her naked in his arms, the arch of her back and curve of her head securely in his hands, her breath fluttering against his shoulders, murmuring, "I'm yours" while a streetlight flashes through the window of his limo and illuminates her shining eyes; he's seen her gulping back tears in that same limo on the way to school the morning her father's departure from their penthouse, their family, her, flooded across Page Six and paparazzi swarmed outside her building – "go out the service entrance, I'll wait at the curb," he'd told her, still surprised she'd answered his call after Nate said he couldn't get ahold of her; he's seen her calmly assuring Nate, her face pristine as a china doll's, that she's fine, just scraped her knuckles on the paper towel dispenser in the ladies' room, crunching hard on a mint, draining her water and reaching for Nate's – "do you mind?" – and always, those eyes flick to and fro, calculating like an abacus, the gears of some prototypical machine that has already guessed your next three moves and ushered you into a trap you failed to see, and in fact, were you to step back and look at it, that you helped her lay. You blink, you look down, and the center of the checkered board is somehow filled with her rooks and knights, and your King is brazenly exposed and hers for the taking. She'd be excellent at a chess board, he's thought more than once – or in a court room, or at a poker table.
He's never seen her gears struggle like they just have in front of him, grinding to a halt, baldly and ungracefully plodding along as he pours poison into them.
Poison that only he knows where to find.
Beautiful. Untouched.
I'm yours.
He throws cash on the bar, slides the half-full glass away. Reaches for his coat. He saw which way she went, because he watched her go. Of course. She didn't look back at him after the turn of her head when she finally went – still with a trace of halting confusion, like he just caught her across the jaw with his fist and she can't quite get her bearings – for the door. He fleetingly wishes she did.
ii.
The temperature has dropped since he got out of his limo and let Arthur off early for the night. Arthur warned him there was supposed to be freezing rain and a blizzard on the way and he should get home, but there are times when even the boy billionaire just wants to be alone. Untouched. Untouchable. He turns up his collar at the blast of cold air, wet with the impending storm, that assaults him as he rounds the corner. He tugs his gloves on. She went west, but she's nowhere to be seen. He pauses at the corner, looks both ways, and there she is – walking uptown. At first he thinks that she's probably going home, at a fast clip, but then she's crossing Madison, which is a one-way street, going north. She doesn't need to cross the street if she's hailing a cab. Maybe cabs are more easily procured on the west side of Madison? She'd know better than he; Arthur is procured with a nod of the head. She hesitates, drifts to a stop, lost, on the corner of 77th.
A full block away, she's a shadow, small and still. She raises a gloved hand as though to wave, or embrace, or surrender; it, too, founders. She turns in a half circle, looking around her. There's a long, slow exhalation that shows white in the air around her. He's rooted to his spot. He can see through her eyes at that moment, suddenly: alone, unwanted, abandoned. Not wanting to go home to nothing; not having anywhere else to go. I have no one left to turn to but you.
Looking for anywhere to run.
And I can't see why anyone else would.
He takes a step to go after her. He can catch her. He can jolt her back to life. He doesn't have to drag her down with him.
"Hi, you."
He turns and finds his own mind shuffling, too preoccupied to properly grab a name, a coherent memory, from his deck. The girl in front of him speaks again, turning her card face-up for him.
"Do you remember me, by any chance? We met at your father's Labor Day party. Cadence Alexander. My mother's team at Skadden manages his deals."
By 'his,' she means Bart's. Her ready smile is a shot in his arm. "Forgive me- of course I do. It's great to see you again. I beg your pardon, but- "
He turns. Blair is gone. No hand in the air. He glances up and down his block, wondering if, maybe, she's seen him and is coming his way. But there's no sign of her, except perhaps the number of cabs humming up Madison toward 95th Street.
Cadence tips her head backward, then brings one gloved hand to her face. "Ugh- the rain is starting already. Do you have somewhere to be?"
He glances once again. No shadow anywhere. She's gone home, and he's not about to show up there uninvited at this hour, which would be risky under good circumstances, let alone what they are.
"No." He manages to turn up one side of his mouth, but he's aware it doesn't reach his eyes.
He'll wait outside her building tomorrow and ask for sixty seconds of her time. It took him less than that to knife her in the jugular just now; surely- surely he can find some way to take it back.
Rapidly blinking, she rears back. Breathless. Her eyes slide from one side of his face to the other.
"He's never done this to you?" he asks, low, incredulous.
One bare temple – the hair is smoothed behind her ear, where he put it – ripples. She's clenching her jaw. She swallows. "Of course he has. Why wouldn't he?" her demand would be shrill if it weren't a whisper. "Do you think he doesn't think I'm beautiful or something?"
A long beat passes. His heart is hammering in his ears. He could strangle Nate for being such an idiot. He palms her kneecap, trails his thumb up a few inches on her inner thigh, still wet from his tongue just moments ago. He doesn't know what Nate thinks of her, and doesn't care, because it's wrong.
She's half-reclined, propped on one arm, the other hand on his shoulder. He leans forward, besting her grasp with his own on her shoulder, propelling her upward, kissing her deep and long. Her eyes still dart about and he sees her nerves jumbling at a frantic pace behind them. He sidesteps Nate altogether. Kisses her again, like she's air and he can't breathe. She's panting when he lets up. "Can we see if I can do it better?" he asks, his palm on her kneecap swiveling, comforting.
It's too dim, but he could almost swear she blushes then. Certainly, she smiles, and means it.
Thirty seconds later, the arches of her feet are fitted around his ribs, her toes curling against his back, while he shows her that it doesn't matter what Nate thinks. That she is beyond beautiful.
The first cold raindrop splashes on his nose. Cadence is readjusting her scarf to cover her blonde hair. She's a real blonde – they don't make too many like this anymore.
"Want to grab a drink? I'm taking a break from studying before the weather gets too bad to dream of going out." She's an East Asian studies major at Columbia; she told him that over mint screwdrivers when they met.
When you were… beautiful.
"Sure." He checks his watch. 9:41 PM. The night is young. Nothing wrong with a bit of distraction, both female and alcoholic, to soothe him. "Pleiades?"
Cadence's eyes – blue, if he remembers – widen. "I love that place."
iii.
He knows he won't have a problem at Pleiades – Boulud and his father are old friends – but he takes pleasure in how much Cadence admires it. Her company is easy. She asks after Bart, politely; asks how his school year is going; is he thinking about where he wants to go to college yet?
"Do you think you'll follow in your father's footsteps? Be a legendary deal-maker?" Her eyes sparkle over her second cocktail, a hot one that comes served in an art deco teapot, clean lines and a chic fleur-de-lis as the handle to the matching teacup she sips from.
She's smarter than he originally assumed – smarter than most girls he knows. Both her parents are giants in their respective industries: her mother, a senior managing director at Skadden; her father, head of global something or other at Goldman. The Alexanders, he knows, are old money. Cadence has a legacy at Stern. A bright future ahead of her. Smarts, breeding, looks. Shining gold hair, shorter than shoulder-length with voluptuous curls at the ends rendering her closer to an old Hollywood leading lady than 21st-century college freshman, and a flawless red manicure. His father's hand on her elbow, eyes on his own, when he introduced them last September had communicated what a catch she would be. Well- 'catch' would be the way Bart would phrase it; 'conquest' would be his choice.
But as she smiles at him, tilting her head when she asks questions, she's just a girl, a nice girl, a good girl, and when her stockinged foot brushes his ankle for the second time, he finds that he doesn't want to do this.
Her phone vibrates. She wrinkles her nose and sighs. "Classes are cancelled for me tomorrow," she murmurs, drowsily, her voice velvety. "I guess I don't need to rush back to studying for that exam." She pours the last of her cocktail into her teacup. A ribbon of steam unfurls from it.
"You're free," he says drily, not without charm.
"Free." Her toes skim his calf now. "As a bird."
He takes a long sip.
"I have a great view of the park."
He wants to make some excuse. He hopes his phone will vibrate and jolt him before he does something he knows he should not do, because more than usual – much, much more than usual – he's doing it for the wrongest of wrong reasons. Anything. Nate with expletives. Serena with a scold. His father with a lecture. Blair with… anything. But he also doesn't want Cadence to go. He doesn't want to be alone now. Above all, he doesn't want to be alone until he goes to see her in the morning. He won't sleep. He can't get drunk. He has to keep his head straight until he can talk to Blair. He needs distraction. Someone who doesn't know how terrible he is, who doesn't hate him, who thinks – mistakenly – that he deserves something good. Warmth, a smile … a body near his, focusing its energy on him. A lifeline.
Cadence is beautiful. She's too good for him. And she's not the lifeline he wants. And he deserves to spend the evening alone, no warm body, if he has any honor at all.
Untouched.
But he's Chuck Bass.
"Is that so?" His eyes sparkle right back at her. It's not difficult to do, even after months of not needing to think about it – of it coming naturally. He might have unlearnt how to turn it on in the last few months, but apparently not. His glass is still in his hand, and he puts away the last mouthful.
"Don't believe me?" she teases.
"Oh, I believe you." He signals for the check; has cash ready. "I'm just not sure how much I care." She falters – he knows it without looking up from tucking the bills in the fold – but he's Chuck Bass and he's already there, a chess player, a litigator, with his poker face: "That's not the view I'm interested in."
Cadence throws the end of her scarf – luxurious, cashmere, blush-colored against her black velvet coat – over her shoulder, then smiles at him, tucking her gloved hand in the crook of the elbow he offers her.
iv.
She lives on Fifth, just a few blocks away, between 81st and 82nd. Her apartment is exactly what he would expect: timeless furniture, youthful touches like bright silk throw pillows and modern art.
"Another drink?" she offers.
He mock-scoffs. "I came for the view, remember?"
She laughs, a real laugh. She's fun. Light. She hangs up her coat and presses a button to raise the shade. One entire wall of her apartment is glass; floor to ceiling, at least ten feet of windows.
"Ugh!" she exclaims. The storm, which is now in its beginning stages, with freezing rain spilling onto the sidewalks below – to be followed overnight by six to nine inches of snow, if forecasts are to be believed – has settled in the air; the park looks like a meadow of dense, fibrous grey clouds interspersed with shrubs, which are actually the tops of trees.
Cadence shakes her head. Her expression is one of similar counterfeit frustration. "I never. Of all the nights."
"It's an outrage," he agrees, taking a step closer. She's in stockings, and just slightly shorter than he. "So. I was promised a view, and we've already had a drink." She twinkles up at him. "… Board games, then?"
A peal of laughter. He hasn't made anyone laugh like that in months. She approaches him; moves into his arms; kisses him full on the lips. It's she that comes to him. She wants him. She's warm and there and smiling. For him.
"Maybe," she whispers, a confident flirt, pulling back in his loose, tentative grip, "there's another view I can interest you in?"
He makes a show of sucking in breath, a hiss, shaking his head. "I must warn you, I'm very picky. As you know, my father owns half this island; I can safely say I've seen the best views there are."
"How can you be sure?" Cadence teases, unbuttoning her blouse. It's tucked into a wool skirt, warm and comfortable and classy. "You haven't seen them all."
"No," he breathes. He can't help but appreciate how comfortable she is in her own skin. No slip; narrow waist, delicate shoulders. It's not lost on him that with her hair curled up like that, he wouldn't even have to brush her hair to the side to see the nape of her neck if she turned around.
She's unzipping the side of her skirt, and in a moment it's around her feet. Her stockings are knee-highs; no garter. He reaches for her, and they're kissing again.
"More windows in the bedroom," she tells him breathlessly a minute later. "We could always check the view from in there."
He smiles, leaning in to kiss her neck.
His phone buzzes in his front pocket. He pauses; if it's a text or email, it will stop. But it picks up again: a phone call.
He doesn't hesitate.
"I'm sorry, excuse me for just one second."
"Sure." Cadence smiles, turns away and scoops up her discarded clothing, draping it over the back of a chair.
Serena.
He stifles a sigh for Cadence's benefit. She's the last person he wants to talk to live right now; Nate or Blair would have him hitting 'Answer,' but Serena probably wants to lecture him for sending the tip earlier today, and that ranks squarely after the next hour or two with Cadence on his priority list. His need to not be alone, to not spend the next eight hours hating himself in solitude, outweighs his need to not sleep with someone – a smart, pretty, old-money heiress at that – just to validate his existence.
He declines the call and switches his phone off. In the moment before it shuts down, the time illuminates: 10:43 PM.
"Everything all right?" Cadence asks him with a smile, a respectful few feet away.
"And about to be even better," he murmurs, drawing her close suddenly and hoisting her off her feet. She chuckles in surprise. He's surprised at how much he enjoys playing the romantic – something he's never done and has had no interest in doing until a few months ago, yet it's not only something he can do now, but something he craves. He's been craving it for the last few weeks, and unable to give it to anyone, now he's going to give it to Cadence. Right place, right time, Cadence. "You mentioned a bedroom?"
"That way." She points. "Chuck Bass the romantic. Who knew?"
"Very few," he says honestly, "and I'd like to keep it that way, so mums the word." He kisses her, her arms slipping around his neck, all the way to the bed.
v.
When he wakes up, it's started snowing, and it's coming down heavy. Cadence is breathing deeply, fast asleep, satisfied, facing away from him with one hand on her pillow underneath her head. He glances at the clock on the bedside table. It's a few minutes past three.
Blair will still be warm in her bed, hopefully asleep and not awake like he is but if she is awake, then ideally plotting revenge or dreaming up things to level in his face when she sees him next. Not replaying his words over and over, like he is. Not believing them.
He shifts silently on the mattress. It's a great bed, actually. Expensive, firm foam mattress that doesn't bounce when one moves on or off it. Cadence doesn't even stir as he gets up. The snow is beautiful, heavy, romantic – if he had to guess, it's just turned from freezing rain to snow; there's still a weighty quality to the white dots. They're like small snowballs more than flakes. Beside the fog that's settled over Cadence's view of the park, he can see a firm white cover on Fifth Avenue below.
He dresses silently. He doesn't have her number; she doesn't have his. He's not in any condition to write her a note. He'll send flowers or something tomorrow, so he comes off as less terrible than he is. He leans over her, desperate not to wake her and have to explain why he can't stay – the nerves in his stomach are alive and jostling now, with a few hours until his Waldorf stakeout begins – and kisses her lips.
He finds his shoes by the door, slips into them silently, and closes her front door behind him as quietly as he can. He breathes a sigh of relief, shrugging into his coat. He powers up his phone in the elevator, forces himself not to look at it until he's out of the lobby, pausing to memorize the address so he can send those flowers – 1001 Fifth Avenue – and giving texts time to load, hoping against reason.
Nothing. Three more calls from Serena: 10:51, 11:07, 11:18. No voice messages.
He pockets the phone and slips on his gloves. The world outside is a wet, freezing mess. What looked like a snow globe from above looks from below like a swamp frozen over. He picks his way openly across Fifth – there are almost no cars, not to mention that he doesn't care about not jaywalking at the best of times – and walks under cover of trees on the edge of the park, where considerably less snow manages to reach the ground. The temperature has dipped low, at least ten degrees below freezing, and wind gusts knock him in the face, but he has no desire to try to find a cab. Several lumber past, surely empty.
There's nothing waiting for him at The Palace other than a cold bed and a mirror he doesn't want to look in.
He turns up his collar again. No, walking is good. The cold sobers him. It grounds him. The discomfort distracts him from replaying it in his mind – any of it –
"What, you don't want me?"
She tilts up to him, kissing him teasingly, knowing his bellowing breathing is conclusive evidence of the opposite.
His hand finds the back of her head, so when she breaks the kiss she can stop straining upward and literally put herself in his hands, and lowers it back to horizontal, following with his forehead, which grazes hers.
"I just want to make sure you're sure," he whispers, his lips brushing hers at some of the syllables.
Her eyes close, a smile.
"I told you I am."
He's aching – it feels like it's going to kill him to stop – but he can't pretend this is meaningless or casual. She doesn't belong to him. She never has. Not in this way, anyway. He's a bit put off by his own hesitation.
Now she hesitates, too. – "Do you not want to?" she asks seriously. "It's okay if you don't."
This snaps him back to reality. He looks at her, stunning, naked, wrapped in his jacket and lying on her back underneath him on the long, deep side seat of his limo, her legs parted and hooked around his own. Hair a wonderous mess from his hands. She's tipsy, but by no means too far gone to grasp what she's doing. And he knows, from the way she grabbed his shoulders with strangled insistence a few minutes ago, demanding he stop what he was doing to her because she didn't want to finish until- until- … that she's ready and eager for him.
He tells her the truth. "I want you more than I want to breathe."
"You're breathing," she retorts, sharp as ever. Her own breath comes in gasping little waves, hitting his shoulders and neck in a way that's not unarousing.
"Take me."
He wraps his other arm underneath her, palm flattening against the graceful curve of her back. There's still a question on his lips, and he almost asks it, and stops himself, and she sees.
And she can't be that drunk, because she knows.
And she wraps her arms around him right back. Nudging herself into his arms, as if to convince him before she says it. And then she says it:
"I'm yours."
He's only made it five blocks, with twenty-five to go, when his resolution to walk to clear his head begins to crumble. His feet are soaked and freezing and he's considering hailing a cab. He could call the front desk and ask them to send a car, he thinks. He pulls out his phone, slowing to a halt under a dense pine tree that shields him from the snow, and looks around, weighing his options. A hot shower and time to organize his thoughts would be good before seeing her. Maybe he should bring her coffee. A peace offering. She'd probably throw it on him, so maybe not too hot.
I want you more than I want to breathe.
I don't want you anymore. And I can't see why anyone else would.
In the light of the lampposts, he sees only two solitary figures in all 360 degrees. One in a much more substantial coat than he, gender uncertain but probably a man, with a proper hat and scarf covering all exposed skin, trudging down the opposite side of Fifth; the other, a figure picking its way toward the park entrance on the footpath, almost definitely a female. He swipes at another notification that has come through, delayed: 1 New Voice Message.
He sighs. Serena.
Ignore.
He dials the front desk of The Palace. The roads are passable, he reasons. He'd tip well in cash, and no one would tell his father that his son was commandeering the on-call chauffer to venture out at 3 AM in a blizzard so he could have a comfortable ride home from God knows where.
A cab slides by. The figure on Fifth hurries into an apartment building a block down. He presses Send and turns idly, waiting for the front desk to pick up, to see that the figure in the park has turned the other way. Seems to be picking its way in the other direction now, toward the middle of the park or the west side. But there's no particular urgency in the person's gait.
"Palace Hotel. How may I help you?"
"Kathryn, is that you?" he asks warmly. Kathryn, the overnight manager, is probably around 40 and is like an aunt to him. He adores her.
"Chuck. Good evening. Do you need something sent up?" He can almost hear her eyeing the clock.
A particularly sharp gust of wind is at his back. "Actually, I'm uptown and I wondered if I could impose upon you to send someone up for me. I don't want to call Arthur, though he'd certainly get out of bed to come get me." While he speaks, he eyes the figure in the park again – it's no more than a dark shape, really, a shadow that he could even be imagining. But it's ambling toward a solitary lamppost, and in a few moments he'll be able to see it more clearly.
"We can send someone right up. Where are you, exactly?"
"Fifth and 76th. Right on the park border."
"You're outside?" she asks incredulously. "Can't you find somewhere to go where you're sheltered to wait?"
He closes his eyes a moment. Nowhere but his room, really, and an invitation he doesn't deserve from a girl who is certainly too good for him. Technically, there were two of those tonight; he handled the second one with slightly more honor.
"I'm made of strong stuff," he teases. "If you could send someone up whenever they're available-"
The figure is under the lamppost. The dark coat is not black as he would have guessed. It does look black in the shadows, but it's dark red. The figure raises its forearm, bending it up to do something in front of its chest – her chest – obviously female, his mind reasons – and the bell sleeve unveils itself, and he freezes. He knows that coat. He saw that coat a few hours ago. His nerves quiet to a hushed reverie.
"I can send someone up in a few minutes," Kathryn is saying. "I'm not sure how the roads are up there, but down here they're a bit slippery, so it might take a few-"
He's not listening. He looks lower, and realizes the figure isn't picking along, but stumbling along. Barefoot. The dark hair looks wet. The figure still has its hand up, out of his view, and he takes two unwilling steps closer, already knowing the direction he's going.
"Kathryn, I apologize, but let me call you back. Hold on the car." He ends the call.
vi.
The figure moves its arm, and the coat comes off. It's shrugged off, actually, with a bit of haste and what looks from afar to be annoyance. It's dropped unceremoniously on the ground.
It's completely clear now who he's looking at, even as he's sure he's dreaming. He must be. She's not here, of course. She's at home, warm in her bed, dry, safe, hating him – she got into a cab on Madison Avenue at 9:41 PM, almost six hours ago- in just a few hours, he'll be freshly showered, shaven, and at the curb of her building with Arthur, a latte in his hand for her, and flowers, and macarons, and diamonds, and anything to make this vision go away and turn into a reality where she went home to bed and is not here – not here – alone – outside – wet – barefoot –
He started after her several seconds ago, without realizing it. The park has less tree cover, and it's wetter, with more snow on the ground, than the pavement where he's just been walking.
"Blair?" He calls her name; she's at least 100 yards away, on the winding footpath, but he'll catch her in no time. Even if she hears him and breaks into a run. Which, oddly, he wants her to do. Anything but this wandering.
She doesn't seem to hear him. He tries again, louder: "Waldorf!"
Listlessly, with unsure feet, she trails off the footpath and into the snow-covered grass. Is she avoiding him? She must have heard him the second time. He doesn't want to scream at her – if she's drunk, or on drugs, who knows – but hot fear begins to flow in the spot where his nerves were zinging just a few minutes before.
What is she doing out here? Where is she going?
He's close now; two thirds of the way. He picks up his pace and snatches her coat from the spot where she dropped it. It's heavy. Soaked through. Parts of it feel stiff. He looks at her as he comes closer.
"Blair?"
Her white shirt – if they hadn't been where they were last night, he would have complimented her on the bowtie-like ribbon at her clavicle; something involving a musing on whether he could untie it with his teeth – is transparent. It's wet also. Stuck to her. He looks to her feet. Where are her shoes?
She changes directions again. It does seem she's trying to get away from him, but he doesn't care. He drapes her coat over his arm. Where is her headband? Her hair is clearly wet and unadorned.
He catches her. He can see at this range that her hair is not only wet, but stiff and sparkling in places. Partly frozen. With forceful fingers – he'll make her look at him – he touches her elbow.
She jerks it away. Turns the opposite direction.
"Blair." It's an imploration.
She makes a noise. It's a wince, straight from her throat. No voice. No words. Not even any bile for him. Is she hurt?
His blood rushes in his ears. He plants himself to her right and reaches out, grabbing her arm with both hands, forcing her to stop. She turns toward him, unwillingly.
His heart drops – misses a beat. He's never seen her like this. He's never seen anyone like this.