A/N - I own nothing. Is partially inspired by my wifey, Court. Balcony. I've decided to do a few of these little ILY drabbles. If you have a request, feel free to...well, request it:). Let me know what you think . :)

The ding of the elevator announced her arrival and she was reminded of the time not too long ago that he stood in her shoes, flowers in hand.

But that elevator had closed, that moment was gone and she was here now, egged on by her mother and Serena and everyone else claiming to have her best interest at heart.

If only they'd had her best heart at heart, they wouldn't have forced her into the shoes she wore now and made her attend.

But that was impossible; her heart lay in pieces at his feet.

Her smile was tight as she offered the not so lonely widow a curt nod. Why they even were bothering with a memorial service when the man who had given life to the boy that had caused hers to end had already been mourned and buried, was beyond her.

No, it's not, that voice in her head whispered. She knew damn well why everyone had slipped behind the sad, black curtain to reenact the morbid scene once more.

Chuck.

He'd been too engulfed by sorrow; too enraged by grief to even make it past the threshold of the home he'd played house in after his father had bound them by law to the harlot and her blond babes.

She'd be kinder to the trio of blondes later, when they'd fallen further down her list of targets. Now, they occupied slots one through three as they'd promised her her visit needn't be long. But as her eyes slide to the evening's focus slipping through the heavy velour curtain to lace fresh air with tobacco and she caught sight of Serena's anything but subtle head jerk towards the balcony, she knew they'd lied.

Blood was thicker than water, true, but it would also make more of a mess when spilt.

She knew she shouldn't follow him, but the music suddenly seemed too loud, the air too stale, and her face too hot so she didn't mount a mutiny when she realized her feet were already carrying her toward the cool night air.

He stood there, with his dark suit and dark hair and dark eyes, unlit cigarette poised between his fingers and spoke but one word.

"Blair."

And with that one word the tiny piece of her heart that hadn't been ripped from her chest and didn't lay crumbled at his feet began to thump louder and louder in her ears until she was convinced its call could be heard from the ends of the earth.

Because he hadn't said it with malice like when his uncle's words had surged past his lips to tear at her flesh, or with the quiet apology of a boy who'd been too late to stitch the wound together. The name hadn't slipped from his lips in passion, or been spat angrily in disgusted desire.

He'd said it with relief, with warmth, with love.

He didn't move to bridge the gap between them. She'd made her decision; she was done. But the bridge hadn't entirely been engulfed in flames, despite her best efforts to fan the fires, and she could still plot a path across its rickety planks…if she was sure that was what she wanted.

But it wasn't. What she had wanted was fairytales and white knights. What she had wanted was poetic declarations and starry nights. Fragrant petals and precious gems. What she had wanted was perfection.

No, hadn't wanted this. She was sure of it. She'd traveled that path before; her debonair and bland white knight following on his off-white steed as she picked her way through the thicket in search of her fairytale ending.

And there'd been no fairies to speak of, no tale to tell; she'd only gotten an ending.

But had it really been an ending? Or had the beginnings of something more, something she didn't want but needed desperately, interwoven themselves so closely with the endings of nothing that it was hard to pinpoint where the end began and the beginning ended.

She told herself she didn't want this, didn't want his eyes looking at her as they had the night she'd given herself to him, didn't want his lips trembling ever so slightly from the hesitation he saw in her.

And she didn't.

She needed it.

"I love you."

The words flowed from his mouth before she'd reached out a foot to test the bridge between them, nearly even before she'd become aware that she was about to.

He still didn't shuffle towards her, or plead with her to come to him. His hands didn't shake, his throat didn't work; he didn't gulp in quick breaths. His eyes weren't wide with fear. Neither did he tack on a number to his words as if it were some obligatory response.

No. His posture was lax, his eyes dancing. And so were hers. Because he'd chased away Charles and had once more found himself.

Found Chuck.

Found his way back to her.

And she realized then, as she chanced falling through the scorched planks that had separated them once and her hand found its way into his, that sometimes the prince had to save himself before he could rescue his princess.

A/N - I can't decide if I want his ILY to be inside, outside, in public, or in private. I'll just do them all.

Lynne