Disclaimer: I don't own nuttin'
A/N: I don't actually have a plan for this, I don't know if I will continue it or not. Let me know what you think, please!
Blair took a step backwards into the apartment, allowing Chuck to enter. She clutched onto the flowers.
"I screwed up," his eyes begged her but she wouldn't look at him.
"It's too late, Chuck," she finally managed to mutter, if he hadn't been so focused on her he might not have heard. He looked up at her, of course he had anticipated this. "I've stood by you through all this, but I can't watch you self-destruct anymore," he wanted to lash out, make her believe that he couldn't help himself, that he was out of control, that he needed her, that she had already pulled him out of the worst, but most of all he wanted her to know that she couldn't trust Jack, that she couldn't side with him on this one.
"It was Jack, he set me up," the elevator threatened to dismiss him but he pushed it off, finally stepping out of it, he was going to continue, to tell Blair what had happened, but she didn't let him.
"You have no one to blame but yourself!" she exclaimed. He saw that she was right, more than she could know. He should have been joining her for dinner but instead he had chosen to go out with Jack. Jack knew the words to say and he manipulated him sure, but Chuck knew the difference between right and wrong and he chose wrong anyway, even though right would have been easier. He knew that it would hurt Blair. He didn't mean for Blair to find out about it though, that was the difference between him and Jack.
"I believed in you," she finally looked at him, gazing into his eyes, her own glazed over, "your father believed in you," she continued meaningfully, "you, you were the only one who didn't." He didn't know how to respond. Should he be embarrassed? Should he agree with her? He sighed and looked down, waiting for her to continue. She obliged. "All I wanted," she looked around for the words, "was to be there." She looked at him but he couldn't look back at her, he thought he had felt the full weight of his actions and his shame that morning, but in fact he was feeling it so much more now that he was standing there in front of her. "But today, when you called me your wife," he shifted uncomfortably at the reminder of his inexcusable insensitivity, "you made it sound like the ugliest word ever."
His jaw set and he managed to look up at her, his own eyes now awash with water, feeling that familiar burn. He hated himself. He hated himself for making her cry, for repaying her kindness with coldness. He wished with all his heart that they could return to her bed before he took off to Thailand, or to the Snow Ball before all this bad stuff had creeped into their life, or to the roof in Brooklyn, where he should have told her those words instead of insisting (ever so immaturely) that she say them first, or to the White Party, where she begged him to say them to her, begged him to claim her. He wished he could return to the helipad that day at the beginning of the summer, taken her hand and led her onto the helicopter, or back to the night at the hotel bar when he had spurned her, or back to the Debutante Ball, he would have let well enough alone even then. It was true, their relationship was full of regrets. On his part at least. Now he had yet another to add to the pile. All he needed was one more undeserved chance.
"Blair," he took a step towards her and gently claimed her wrists as he had done at the White Party, "please," he choked out.