A/N: Because losing a parent doesn't really get any easier as the years go on. Chapter One takes place in Season 4 between Episodes 11 and 12. More chapters taking place in subsequent seasons to come.

Chuck told his friends he'd be leaving for New Zealand for the holidays as soon as they all cleared out, but he has a hunch that his plane will be taking off later than expected. It's more than a hunch, really. The sinking feeling in his stomach has been growing for weeks, even months. Ever since the weather turned cold, stripping the trees of their leaves. The same thing happened last year. Because no matter how hard he tries to erase the exact date from his mind, he feels it coming this year just like he did last year. It's impossible for him to ignore the two year anniversary of his father's death.

He thinks he's been doing a good job of holding himself together, but with that dreaded day right around the corner, he feels himself slipping more and more every minute. Cracking, like a glass that gets chipped. It starts with a small fissure, but it grows and spreads until the whole thing shatters into shards. And this year, there's no Blair to glue him back together. He has to do it himself. Well, that isn't entirely true.

He's glad they're speaking again. More than glad. He thinks it's a small miracle. He wants to thank God for it. Almost. But their relationship is still … complicated. They didn't exactly end things on a platonic note after the Saints and Sinners Ball. With the way she was talking about them and the future, he can't help but feel hopeful that they have a shot at being together again one day. Not right now. They need to focus on themselves, not on each other. But maybe soon.

As it turns out, Blair's finding it surprisingly hard to focus on herself. She almost forgets Bart's two-year mark. Almost. After she leaves Chuck's place that night, something nags at her. She dismisses it as the normal jitters she gets after spending too much time with him, but it keeps her up all night. It's not until she wakes up the next morning that she somehow remembers what day it is. It's like alarms are going off in her head and she can't silence them, no matter how hard she tries. She knows Chuck's suffering. She can just tell. So she sends him a text.

Hey, is all it says.

Then, a couple of hours later: How's New Zealand?

When, at midday, he still hasn't replied, she fires off a couple of question marks.

She tries to convince herself his phone is off because he's on the plane, or he's adjusting to the time difference, or he's having so much fun on his vacation he simply doesn't have the time to text her back. But she still feels uneasy, so she decides to stop by his place anyway. It can't hurt, she reasons. If he's not there, the front desk will tell her, and she'll drop it. But, when she asks for Mr. Bass, they send her right up to his room. She finds him passed out on his couch, clad in silk pajamas halfway through the afternoon.

His father is calling his name. No, that's not right. His father is dead. He groans, needing the voice to shut up.

He tried not to get drunk last night. He really did. But after pacing the penthouse for hours, watching the clock slowly tick towards midnight, thinking about how Lily betrayed him by trying to sell his father's business, his legacy, he's so worked up he's afraid if he doesn't have a drink, he'll put his fist through the wall. So he shakily pours himself a glass of Scotch. And, as always, it calms him down. So he has another and another and another until he stops seeing his father's disapproving face staring back at him in the mirror. Which he punches anyway, bloodying his knuckles. He tries to make his way to the first aid kit in his kitchen, but he's waylaid by the unfinished bottle of Scotch. He drains it, but finds he's unable to make it off the couch. So he closes his eyes and tries to forget the misery that is his life. His last thought before he blacks out isn't of his departed father, but, as usual, of Blair's face.

When he comes to, he thinks he's still imagining her. The light from the lamp above him is making him nauseous, so he closes his eyes again, but he still hears the voice calling his name. He forces his eyes open again when he realizes the voice is Blair's.

"What are you doing here?" He asks.

"I could ask you the same. You're supposed to be in New Zealand."

"I will be. Tomorrow."

He sits up, ashamed she found him passed out alone on his couch, although she's seen him looking much worse for the wear.

"Why didn't you leave last night?"

"I don't like flying drunk."

"Chuck," she starts, using that motherly tone she reserves for when she knows he's hurting, which automatically makes him defensive.

"Blair," he mimics. "You didn't answer my question. Why are you here?"

"I … I don't really know."

"Well then I suggest you get out."

"Not until I see you still have the ability to stand."

He pushes himself off the couch and almost vomits.

"Happy?" He asks.

"Not exactly."

He looks at his watch and lies to her about having a business meeting, hoping she'll leave him alone so he can get drunk again. He's a firm believer that the best cure for a hangover is more alcohol.

She can spot one of his lies from a mile away, though, so she just walks closer to him and tells him she knows that isn't true. He tries to escape to his bedroom, but before he can close the door, she stops him with a hand on his bicep.

"I know what day it is," she says.

Just like last year. Except last year, they were a couple. Last year, she called him all day and refused to let him push her away. She talked him back down to sanity and stayed with him all night, even though his tossing and turning kept them both awake. This year, she owes him nothing. She's not his girlfriend. There's no reason for her to stay.

So they linger in the doorway, just like last year. Except this year, she has nothing to lose, so she doesn't let him tell her to get out.

"I want to leave," she tells him. "But I can't."

"You're not my girlfriend," he tells her somewhat ironically. It's what he said to her the day his father died, before they even started dating.

She tells him what she told him two years ago.

"But I am me. And you're you. We're Chuck and Blair. Blair and Chuck."

"I thought we weren't anymore," he says.

"We're not. Not exactly. But that doesn't mean I won't always be here for you."

"I don't need you," he tries.

"You're a liar."

She takes a step closer to him and he holds up a hand for her to stop. When she catches a glimpse of his cutup knuckles, she's all over him.

"What is this? What happened? What did you do?"

His eyes betray him, flashing towards his broken mirror.

Her concerns catch in her throat when she sees the shattered glass.

"I know you don't need me," she says. "But I want to be here. You need a friend today."

"A friend," he says, testing the word. It doesn't nearly do justice to his relationship with Blair.

"Yes. A friend."

"Okay," he sighs.

"Good," she says, and busies herself in his kitchen.

He doesn't really know what to do with himself now that she's here, so he decides to take a shower, hoping it'll help clear his head. He's pulling off his shirt when she reappears in his doorway.

"What are you doing?" She asks, startling him.

"I was going to take a shower."

"Your hand," she says vaguely.

"What about it?"

"You need to clean it up."

He notices the first aid supplies in her hands and goes to take them from her, but she pulls them out of reach.

"Let me."

"Blair," he warns.

He knows it's enough. She can read him so well. She knows his tone is a warning, a plea for her to stay away. He doesn't want to lean on her anymore. He needs to learn how to stand on his own. He needs to take care of himself for a change. But she doesn't care.

"Just let me do it, Bass."

With that, she forces him into a sitting position on his bed and starts dabbing antiseptic on his knuckles. The smell of alcohol reminds him he's not nearly drunk enough to deal with the ghost of his father and Blair's all-to-real form right now. So he stops her first aid attempts and beelines for the kitchen. When he returns with the bottle of Scotch, she sighs.

"Stay or leave, Waldorf. I don't care, but I'm not changing my plans for you."

"What plans? Getting drunk off your ass?"

"Exactly."

"Fine. Just give me your hand."

She doesn't interfere with his drinking, so he lets her mother him a little. It's something she's been doing since they were kids. She's so maternal, and he never had a mom. So it worked. It's comfortable. He can allow it.

He's several glasses in and sufficiently buzzed when she scoots up to his headboard and rests her head on his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" He asks.

She's silent for a few seconds before she replies.

"If I'm making things worse, I'll leave," she tells him.

"Don't," he says, afraid to be alone but hating himself for his inability to force her out so he can stand on his own.

"We don't even have to talk," she says. "I know you don't want to talk about it."

The funny thing is, this year, he kind of does. He's spent a long time pushing people away, but he's learned he can't do that to Blair. Not just because she refuses to let him, but because he needs her even if he doesn't want to. Still, he finishes half the bottle before he actually speaks.

"I kind of miss the bastard," he says. "Is that sick?"

"No," Blair says immediately. "He's your father. You should miss him."

"He wouldn't miss me. If I died and he lived, he wouldn't miss me. The most he would feel would be disappointment. He'd see it as just another let down."

"Chuck…"

She's at a loss for words.

"See? You know it's true," he slurs.

She pulls the bottle out of his hands and sets it on the nightstand.

"You're just drunk," she says. "You should get some sleep."

"I know I was a disappointment," he says, ignoring her. "Bart hated me for it. I don't blame him. I fucked up a lot when I was younger. I was a shithead. I didn't give a fuck about school, didn't wanna talk business with him, I mean, just look at what I did to you. You were my best friend's girlfriend and I took your virginity. What kind of fucked up kid does that?"

She wraps her arms securely around his waist, reacting to an instinct telling her he's going to try to leave as soon as she lets him go. So she vows not to let him.

"First of all, you didn't take anything from me. Second of all, I think it's safe to say that we can stop referring to me as Nate's girlfriend. And third of all, I thought we've been through this. You're not that kid anymore. You've grown up so much. You're …"

"Spare me, Blair. I know, okay? I know what you're going to say, but you can save your breath. Bart never knew me like that. He knew the fucked up kid who cheated on tests and got suspended for smoking weed at school. And there's no changing that now. Give me back the Scotch."

He hates himself for this weakness. He hates that for the past few months, he's been letting these emotions grow stronger instead of stamping them out. He hates that he can't just ignore this anniversary and get on with his life, with his business. He should be focusing on New Zealand, on finding Jack, on taking down Lily, but instead he's exactly where he was two years ago. Drunk, fatherless, and Blairless, but with her looking him right in the eye.

"I thought we were done with this. With you pushing me away."

"We're not a couple anymore, Blair. I don't owe you anything."

When he reaches for the alcohol, she pushes it further our of his reach.

"Fuck you," he mumbles, pulling a joint from his nightstand and lighting it right there on his bed. Usually, he goes outside to smoke, but right now he's just trying to piss off Blair.

"Fine," she says, pushing herself off his bed and taking long strides towards the door. "Get fucked up and pretend you don't feel anything. But it'll only make things worse."

"I don't know what you want from me, Blair! You say you can't be with me, but then you come over here and pull this shit! So either …"

The room spins a little and he loses his train of thought.

"Either what?"

"Either you love me enough to make sacrifices to be with me, or you don't. But I can't take whatever game this is. I can be your boyfriend and I can be your enemy at war, but I can't be your friend. It hurts too much."

The fight goes out of him and she's stunned silent, so he just pushes past her and finishes his joint outside on the roof despite the near freezing temperatures. He can't feel anything, anyway. When he comes back in, she's gone. It's a relief. If he's going to fall apart, he wants to do it in private.

Unfortunately for him, tonight is one of those nights where, no matter how much he drinks, he's not getting sufficiently drunk. Just feeling shittier and shittier. His vision blurs, but he can still see his father clear as day. Just when he thought he was forgetting his face. So he gives up on getting wasted and decides he might try to shower again. But when he passes his bathroom mirror, he sees Bart staring back at him.

That's when Chuck punches another mirror. His knuckles hit the glass for the second time that day, splitting even further. But the jab wasn't enough. He throws a cross at the already destroyed mirror, cutting his other hand. He punches the mirror until there's blood in his sink and nothing left but the frame hanging on the wall. He grips the rims of the sink for support, reveling in the burning sensation on his knuckles. He lets himself focus on that for a second. Lets it ground him. He takes a deep breath and then forces himself into a scalding hot shower. He stands under the spray for seconds, minutes, hours, until the steam finally relaxes his muscles and the tension leaves his body for the first time all day. When he gets out of the shower, his fingertips are saturated with water but his knuckles are still bleeding. He hears his father command him not to let anyone see him bleed. It shows weakness. So he doesn't bother to clean his hands, just wraps them, pulls on the single pair of sweatpants he owns and heads back out onto the roof.

He clutches the railing. The freezing metal bites into his skin, competing with the burn of his knuckles. He didn't want to do this. He didn't expect it. Everyday his father seems further and further away, his face fading, his voice getting quieter, so Chuck thought that maybe he'd be able to forget about him altogether. Or at least be stronger than he was last year. But if you ask him, the two year mark is worse than the one year.

At least last year, he could justify his behavior a little more. And he had Blair. He regrets getting angry when she was trying to help him, but he can't help but wonder if that was her only motive.

He knows their relationship is complicated. It's clear neither of them can make their feelings disappear, and he doesn't think he's being conceited or obtuse in assuming she wanted to see him more for her own sake than his. They have a hard time being apart, but he wants to learn. She's only made this day harder for him.

He shivers for the first time since he's been outside and realizes he's not wearing a shirt in December, so he goes indoors, turns on the news and orders some food.

He's halfway through his meal when he hears the elevator ding. He prays it's Nate or Serena or even Humphrey, but he smells her perfume almost as soon as the elevator doors open and wills himself to be civil.

"Hey," he says when she rounds the corner.

"Hey?"

He shrugs, knowing this isn't their typical greeting.

"You're eating," she says, eyebrows raising ever so slightly.

"You seem surprised," he deadpans.

"Do you blame me?"

"Not really."

She falls silent, so he goes back to his dinner.

"I shouldn't have left earlier," she says.

"Yes, you should have." He tries not to sound hostile or condescending, but it's hard.

"Oh," she whispers. "Well …"

"No, just let me explain. I'm sorry for yelling at you. I know you were trying to help. But you were selfish. I tried to tell you you weren't doing me any good. And I know I should have been more clear, but you knew what I meant. You know how I feel about you, how much it kills me that we can't be together. But I know we can't be, at least for now. So we need to learn how to be apart."

"You're right," she concedes. "I shouldn't have come in the first place. But you know how I feel about you too, and I couldn't stand not being with you today. I was selfish. So if you really want, I'll leave you alone. But I want to be here. It would make me feel better. You would make me feel better. But it's up to you."

"Blair, you know I want you here, but I just don't think it's a good idea for us to be spending so much time alone together. Is this really easier for you than just giving each other space?"

"No, but I don't like to rip the bandaid off. You're leaving for New Zealand tomorrow, so why can't we just … have a time out for tonight? Let's just sit on the couch and watch a movie."

He takes a long time before he responds. First, he has to fight off any influence his father might be having on his thoughts. He has to accept that he's dead, and even if Bart died without pride in his son, nothing Chuck can do is going to change that. He can only make himself proud now. So then, he considers himself.

He thinks about if this is what's best for him. If he can really be alone with Blair so soon after they called things off without having his heart broken again. Because as much as he hates to admit it, when she left him, it destroyed him. He loved her too much.

"I get it," he says seriously. "You just wanted someone to watch Breakfast at Tiffany's with you …"

Her stone-faced facade cracks, and her laughter fills the room.

"You know that's not true, you ass."

She collapses on the opposite end of the couch and reaches for the remote. Predictably, she orders her favorite film on demand, and he jokes about how well he knows her. He tells her she can't surprise him, that she hasn't changed since high school, that she's boring. She throws it right back at him, proudly letting him know she'll be watching Breakfast at Tiffany's on her deathbed, and nobody, least of all him, will be able to stop her.

He doesn't believe any of their banter. She'll always be able to surprise him, she's grown and matured into someone so amazing since their teenage years, and even when she's on her deathbed, he won't find her boring. He didn't love her too much. He loved her with everything that he could give. He still does.