RESCUE ME

He can't rescue you
Can't pull the demons from your head
Can't lull you from your sleepy bed
He can't rescue you
What can he do?
Tie some ribbons in your hair
Show you that he'll always care
That's all he can do
'Rescue' – Lucinda Williams

Chuck Bass knew an OD when he saw one. It was an old secret. His father left him in Moscow to recover, Christmas of Sophomore Year. Carter Baizen dropped in, though, said howdy, filched some Grade A morphine and made like a banana. Sent him a postcard from Tahiti. Chuck knew what it felt like, when your heart beats too fast for your body, when it feels like it's going to come exploding out of your chest, like that fucking thing from Alien. He knew, because that was how he felt, everything he saw her.

And she lay on the ground, blood leaking from her pretty nose, her pretty lips white with foam.

"CHUCK! Oh my God, Chuck, do SOMETHING!"

There was blonde hair and lots of hysteria and Chuck shoved his stepsister aside. Blair's pulse skyrocketed. He laid a hand across her brow. Cold, clammy. He slapped her cheeks, but her pretty eyes stayed shut. The blood running out her nose was a thick, shining red. Chuck swore.

Her heart was going crazy but his had forgotten to beat.

Blair? Cocaine? It didn't make sense.

The fuck?

Life didn't make sense.

He bent down, sliding a hand beneath her shoulders, her knees, picking her up. Her hand rolled free, pretty fingertips dusting the ground. The party had died. They all watched him walk the Superhero walk, carrying the damsel in the distress, doing that saving-people-thing.

Serena slammed on the shower. The cold stung like a billion tiny needles, little teeth, but he ignored it. "Oh, God, Chuck," Serena moaned. "Blair. Honey. Blair. Wake up."

"Ambulance?" Chuck asked, tilting her head back to ensure her airways were unobstructed.

"On the way."

"Fuck, Blair," he ground into her wet hair, as though, if he spat the words out hard enough, they would go right through her skull, into her brain, and stay there, indelible. "Why?"

She opened her eyes, but they were dark and dim, and all around them pink water swirled down the drain, staining the grout between the tiny fish-scale tiles.

Chuck wiped away a fresh stream of blood with the cuff of his shirt. He was tender. "Why did you do that?" he whispered. "Huh?" – did he, Chuck Bass, just say huh? The things he did for this girl – "Why did you do that me? Blair, you're so stupid. You're so stupid. Why did you do that?"

She did that thing where she went all floppy in his arms and Chuck felt his arms break under the weight of her trust. Her head found his heart. He kissed the top of her head. Cold, clammy.

"So you could save me."

The paramedics had to prise her from his cold, dead hands. Serena held on to him in the ambulance, and he held on to the Blair, and she held on as best she could. Chuck wanted to hold on tight enough for both of them. He wanted to carry her. Rescue her. But he didn't know how. Then they pulled up and everything was flashing blue and red and they took her away. Serena cried on his shoulder and he was a brother. He slung his jacket around her shoulders.

"I should have known," she sobbed.

Chuck's face was wet. The shower, rain, tears.

"I should have known. She's supposed to be my best friend. I'm supposed to look out for her."

So you could rescue me

Chuck didn't understand. He wasn't a hero. He didn't rescue people. He watched them drown and drank scotch and said, oh, look, a drowning person. Oh, how original. Can you down it again, only SHUT THE FUCK UP because I'm kinda busy being miserable here. He wasn't the white knight, he didn't have a white horse, he didn't even fucking like horses, white or black or brown or fucking rainbow. He wasn't Superman. He didn't have a cape. He wasn't a fireman. He didn't rescue people.

But, for her, he would run into worse than a burning building.

He'd run into a burning building – but he couldn't say those three little words.

Chuck was no rescuer. He was Chuck Bass. Why couldn't she see that? Why could she see that there was no Supersuit beneath the white collar? There was no Nate lurking down there, waiting to be let out, waiting to do that saving-people-thing. She could rip him back, and rip him back, and she'd only find bones and dark, empty spaces. Why couldn't she see that?

They sat on hard plastic seats. Legs apart, elbows on knees, head down. He was still wet. His face was still wet. Serena had fallen asleep against his shoulder.

So you could rescue me

She had saved him, coaxed him back off more than a rooftop. It was only gentlemanly to return the favour. Chuck Bass was indebted to no one. But Chuck Bass was no gentleman, he had proved that. Couldn't she see, he was rescuing her, by staying away? She deserved so much more, so much better; someone who made her smile and laugh and held her hand and stayed away from rooftops. Someone who wasn't too busy losing himself to catch her when she fell. Someone who would rescue her.

Chuck wanted to, oh, fuck, he did. But he couldn't. He couldn't even rescue himself.

The doctors led him down nasty white corridors, the stench of disinfectant and luck making his eyes water. "She's in ICU, but she's stable. She won't wake up for while, but you're welcome to take a seat." Doc pointed to a chair. Chuck waited until she left, her cheap trainers flapping against the floor, and climbed up on to the bed beside her. He wrapped a stray curl around his finger, wrapped his arms around her, wrapped his love all around her, like bubblewrap and candyfloss and bulletproof glass and vests and armoured tanks. He couldn't rescue her, but he could be there.

He promised her, in the dark, when words mean more, when they whisper and fly like little soft things, warm things.

"I'll always be here."