Author's Note: This one belongs to mustbemotswana. It was inspired by a recent conversation between us and a quote from an interview in January 2012 with Ed Westwick about working with Leighton Meester. The words from that quote have been rearranged and modified slightly to fit.
Her curls are no longer brown.
The minute change is always the first feature he notices about her when she steps into his line of sight. He tells himself that he spies this change first because the way she pleats, sets, and styles her hair is an indicator of who she is today. But the real reason is that he still expects to see her the way she was all those years ago when it had been just the two of them; when he had curled a soft, brunette ringlet around his finger and she would chastise him for messing up her hair.
He sees her before she spies him, and he cannot help the exhale of relief that escapes. She is wearing a headband today; the red band firmly holding her gray, softly curled hair in place. A headband is a good sign, an indication that today just might be a good day.
For a moment, he watches her – watches the way she eyes the maid with evident distrust as Volha hands her a small cup of pills, watches the way her hair flounces in that oh so familiar way as she tosses back her head and dry swallows the pills. He doesn't want to think about how she learned to do that (or, better yet, who taught her to do that); he doesn't want to think about why she has to take so many drugs. Instead, he clears his throat and waits for that flicker of recognition to cross her face.
It takes longer every day, and he worries that one day he will never be acknowledged again. But, today, she smiles at him and greets him by name. Volha tries to assist her off the chaise lounge, but her employer's cutting glare and sharp tongue is enough to force the maid to back off.
He greets her with a hug and a soft kiss against her cheek. She is too distracted by the maid to comment on the deflection, and she doesn't even wait until they are out of the house before telling him that she cannot wait for Dorota's return because this seasonal maid is incorrigible and insubordinate. He hums out a noncommittal answer because he doesn't have the heart to tell her that is April.
She exclaims over the limo that he guides her to, says that he's spoiling her, and asks what the occasion is. The glint in her eyes says that she secretly loves it, that she enjoys the spontaneous extravagance, and she is too excited to notice that the driver greets her by name.
Of course, it is the wrong name and he bristles at the greeting. He wants to scream, wants to correct the army of staff members that carefully follow her every whim anytime they call her by anything than what she actually is.
She's eying him with confusion as he seats himself next to her in the limo, and he can see the question forming on her lips. She does what she was raised to do, though, and lets his odd behavior go. The rest of the ride is mostly a one-sided conversation as she regales him with stories about this society function or that charity gala. He has heard all these stories before, listens half-heartedly as she inserts him into memories and weaves new ones.
The name of the restaurant gives her pause as he pulls out her chair like the gentleman he was raised to be because wasn't this place called something else just last week. He makes some joke about this being the city that never sleeps, the city that swallows you up and spits you out as it charges towards the next fashionable trend. Now it is her turn to hum out a noncommittal answer as she mulls over the options on the menu.
His hair may also be grayer, but he is still him and he fails to notice the way she is mentally counting the fat content of everything on the menu. Her eyes drift downward to appraise her body; her hand falls from the table to poke the last bit of pregnancy weight she was never able to shed. He notices none of this, says nothing when she orders the small salad with dressing on the side.
He does, however, manage to make her smile when he compliments her new dress, when he comments on how her party on Friday night will be a raving success. She launches into a discussion of the guest list, debates the merits of inviting too many of the nouveau riche with minimal input from him. The names she mentions are lost in the memories of his youth, and they flitter past his ears without immediate recognition. He is halfway through his lunch when she places her hand over his and softly asks if she can ask him a question.
He braces himself for the worst, takes a swig of his drink as he mulls over all the possibilities. Last week, she asked him why the alumni affairs office at Yale had no record of her ever attending. The week before, she asked him why they never had children.
"Why is that man staring at me?"
The question should be an easy one yet it is possibly the hardest of them all because he doesn't even have to turn around to know who the man in question is. He glances because answering her without looking would raise suspicion and tries to discreetly sigh before turning around with a fake grin plastered to his face.
"Don't you recognize him?" He teases lightly. Or at least, that this how he hopes his question comes across because this is a cruel joke to him.
"No," she replies. "Should I?"
"That's Chuck Bass," he replies solemnly. He watches her contemplate the name, watches her place him in her mind as the smirk forms on her lips.
"Figures," she replies as she raises a delicate bite of salad to her lips. "I always knew he would end up alone, drinking in a bar at one in the afternoon on a Tuesday."
The inaccuracies in her statement still cause him to fumble, but he is saved by the graceful way she is able to continue their conversation. She asks him if he and Chuck are still friends, keeps her disapproving tut in check when he affirms that they are in fact still friends. More like brothers, actually.
"I suppose you'll want me to invite him to our soirée?"
"Um," he hesitates, "no."
She visibly relaxes with his answer, and he visibly relaxes when she redirects their conversation back to something safer than the man drinking scotch alone at the bar at one in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Her attention is pulled away from their stimulating discussion of oeuvres and party themes every so often as she feels the heat of his gaze, and the man across from her wonders if she will ask him to confront his friend for staring at her. But she never does, and eventually she declares that she is ready to go.
He escorts her back to the limo; too busy marveling over the feeling of her hand in his to notice that her gaze lingers on the man at the bar. He makes some excuse about having to return to the office and doesn't correct her when she assumes he is talking about his family's company. Instead, he passes her into the care of the driver and instructs the man to take her straight home before doubling back into the restaurant.
The pre-ordered drink is the only acknowledgement that the man at the bar is expecting him, and he nearly drains it before he finds the courage to speak.
"What are you doing here, Chuck?"
"Enjoying a lovely scotch," his friend replies before finishing off the drink in hand. A new one is ordered with the flick of a wrist, placed in front of Chuck before he can even set the empty one down. The staff here is well-trained, but he would expect nothing less of an employee of Chuck Bass.
"I thought we agreed you'd stop coming to these things," he says.
"I never agreed," Chuck corrects. "I merely let you think that I did."
"Come on, man," he replies, using a term that long ago fell out of a favor and in a way answering himself – old habits die hard. "You shouldn't torture yourself like this."
"It's not torture," he snaps. The poor rebuttal hangs in air between them; the lie gnawing at them both as they drown their chosen drinks. "This makes her happy. Being here, being with you makes her happy."
"She's the only one," he snorts back. "I feel like I'm cheating on my wife."
"Why? It's just lunch."
His friend eyes him suspiciously, staring him down and trying to see if his friend is hiding something from him. They had an agreement – no kissing, no intimate touches – just lunch together every Tuesday.
"It is just lunch, right?" Chuck clarifies.
"Of course," he replies before taking a drink. "But this is messed up. Why did I agree to this?"
"Because you once sold me out to my father," Chuck reminds him as he stands up from the bar stool and prepares to leave.
"I don't like this form of redemption."
"We all have our crosses to bear."
He contemplates returning to the office for a bit as he steps out onto the busy streets of Manhattan. He has been semi-retired for a decade now, leaving the day to day operations under his son's skilled management. But he still maintains a presence at Bass Industries, still reports to every board meeting and reads every proposal. It is not that he doesn't trust his son; rather, he has nothing else left to do with his time. Retirement meant something entirely different ten years ago.
The amount of alcohol he has consumed in the last two hours, though, makes returning to the office out of the question, and he resigns himself to the idea of returning to his new living quarters. It's not a home, it will never be his home, and he will never call it such. But there is some familiarity in the place that he finds comforting.
His staff seems on edge when he arrives, and quickly whispered words from the concierge downstairs tell him why. He has a contingency plan for these kinds of situations, but it has been so long that he's not even sure he knows how to execute it anymore. The ride to the top inches by slowly; his lungs clawing for oxygen in protest over him subconsciously holding his breath in anticipation.
Her curls are no longer brown.
The minute change is not the first feature he notices about her. Rather, he drinks in the entire sight of her – flawless features, unblemished skin, long lashes, a peek of her neck, kissable lips, and curves from the extra bit of weight around her waist that he loves and she loathes. He finds her standing in front of the fireplace, watches as her eyes roam over the faces with a mixture of frustration and confusion written on her face.
"What are you doing here?"
Her eyes flare at him in surprise, and she drops her hands back to her side. There is a beat of silence then two – three – before she answers him.
"I went to the Palace," she replies softly. "To your suite there. But they said you lived here now."
"That doesn't answer my question."
Her eyes sweep over the room as though she is seeing it for the first time. Yet some of the items stand out to her, and she cannot figure out why.
"What are you doing here?" He repeats.
"I don't know, okay?" She snaps before she turns an accusing glare towards him. "You kept staring at me and…"
He raises an eyebrow at her trying to compel her to face her fears and finish the thought rather than retreating back into the person she thinks she should be.
"I don't know," she whispers as her voice drops an octave or two. "It was like we were in a scheme together, but I can't figure out who the target is."
The target, of course, is her. But he cannot tell her that, too stunned by the mention that they once schemed together. She has never mentioned that little detail before.
"You have children?" She finally asks, transitioning the conversation to something she perceives to be safer. It's not, but he appreciates the gesture towards the portrait hanging above the mantel of his fireplace. He owns newer ones – his youngest is still in diapers in this one – but this has always been one of his favorites. It's a candid snapped in between formal takes, full of life and laughter and missing the woman that haunts him.
All the portraits of her have been banished from here, but the effort is futile. He closes his eyes and he sees her. He walks down Fifth Avenue and he sees her.
"They look like you," she says as her eyes flicker over the faces.
"They look like my wife," he corrects.
"Your wife? You're married?"
"Yes," he replies without hesitation. He watches her eyes flick to the simple band on his finger before dropping her gaze to examine the two bands on her own finger. She loses herself in thought for a moment, and a funny expression flits across her face.
"What?" He asks.
"Nothing. I just…" she trails off with a smile. "I never thought someone would ever get you to the altar."
"She didn't," he replies with a soft laugh. "We married in Central Park."
"Where is she?"
The million dollar question causes his heart to seize. Maybe it would have broken had she asked this of him months ago, but the organ inside his chest is nothing more than that. It pumps blood for him, forces him to get out bed every morning, but it no longer has that magical part where feelings and love are stored. It hasn't in a long time.
"Gone," he replies. The choice of words is the wrong one, and he finds himself having to correct her erroneous assumption that his wife passed away. "She left."
"Oh," she says. "I'm sorry."
"I'm not," he replies truthfully. "She's happy now, and that's enough."
"You still love her."
It is a statement not a question, and he finds himself smiling at the thought that even the lost woman standing in front him can recognize it.
"Madly."
"So how did you let her go?" She boldly asks. "How can her happiness be enough?"
"Because no matter whom she is with or where she is, she's mine. She doesn't even have to be in love with me. I love enough for the both of us."
He watches a stray tear roll down her face, has to stop himself for reaching out and brushing it away. She turns away from him; her eyes sweeping back to the portrait above the fireplace.
"Of course, she's yours," she replies smartly. "Why else would she carry your demon spawn?"
He laughs at her joke, cringes at the familiarity of it. All those months of heartburn and weight gain; all those months filled with claims that she would never carry his demon spawn ever again.
"I can be quite persuasive," he informs her, and she rolls her eyes at him.
They stand side by side for a moment, both eyes affixed on the portrait. The names are right there, always on the tip of his tongue. But there is no clue that she recognizes anything, no dawning realization that her nose and her eyes and her mouth are looking back at her.
"I should go," she abruptly declares. She moves towards the couch to collect her purse without seeing his nod of agreement. He escorts her to the elevator and down through the lobby without asking, insists that she take his limo home so she won't have to deal with a cab. He opens the door for her, ready to assist her into the limo when she stops, turns around, and stares at him. Before he can register what she is doing, he is lost in the feeling of her soft lips against the worn, wrinkly skin of his cheek.
"Goodbye, Chuck," she mumbles in his ear before ducking into the limo.
"Goodbye, Blair," he replies as he shuts the car door with a firm thud. He exhales softly before striding back towards the doors he just exited from.
"Mark," the older man bids as the doorman opens the door for him and he enters the building, "do not let Mrs. Bass into the Empire again."