Author's Note: Thank you all for your words of encouragement either through reviews or PMs. I shall try to stop doubting myself.
Less than a week later, he is privy to one of her schemes. She didn't invite him to join her, doesn't seem too thrilled at the fact that he saw her. But it's not entirely his fault that she chose to hide behind the tree his limo is parked next to.
She is all shadows and allusions, hiding behind her beret and curls, and he is so very intrigued. He asks her what she is doing, why she is in midtown Manhattan on a Tuesday night when she should be in New Haven. But she shushes him, tells him to shut up as she pulls him around to the other side of his car and forces him to duck.
"Not enough drama in domestic bliss with Nate? You know when people step outside their relationship for a thrill it's usually not alone and in the dark."
He watches her watch a poorly dressed man with a mop of curly black hair on top of his head walk down the street alone. She snaps multiple photos of him with her Blackberry yet the mysterious man never notices the woman watching him. She pockets her phone, starts to walk away from him in the opposite direction of the mysterious man, but he catches up to her and demands an answer.
(Actually, it isn't so much as a demand as a plea, but he refuses to acknowledge that particular tone in his voice.)
"Where have you been living?" She asks him in disbelief. "Under a rock on Staten Island?"
He raises an eyebrow at her barb, silently asking her to fill him in on the information that he has clearly been denied. She sighs in frustration, steps closer to him, and drops her voice to something closer to a whisper.
"That horrible, little man is Dan Humphrey. He's from Brooklyn," she tells him with a voice dripping in disdain as those his hometown is the gravest of sins he might commit. "He dated Serena when we were in high school, and when she woke up and smelled Brooklyn, he published details – intimate details – about her on the internet."
She huffs in frustration at the way he asks her what exactly she is planning on doing about this because it sounds like he doesn't believe she's capable of really doing anything. Her reputation on the Upper East Side for revenge and schemes normally precedes her, and she is annoyed that someone who does not quake under her glare is being forced into her life.
"Do yourself a favor," she instructs him. "If you want to belong on the Upper East Side, get yourself an education on how things work around here."
"And where do you suggest I start?"
"I don't know," she snaps before stalking away from him. "Google revenge and click on the first search result."
He pulls out his own cell phone, launches the internet browser, and googles revenge just as she suggested. He chokes on a laugh when he reads the name of the first website returned by the search engine – Blair Waldorf dot com.
The laugh tumbles out when he clicks on the website and is greeted by a message congratulating him on his attempt to be better before reminding him that there can only be one Queen B. He closes out of the browser and presses number two on his speed dial before raising the phone to his ear.
"Mike? Chuck Bass. I need everything you can find on one Dan Humphrey of Brooklyn."
Chuck attends the Shepherd wedding because Bart tells him he has to, demands he make an appearance so as to not insult Mister Shepherd. He doesn't want to go, and it's not because he has slept with the bride and the maid of honor and two of the bridesmaids but rather because he does not like weddings.
It seems illogical to stand in front of all of high society and promise yourself to one person when everyone knows the groom will start sleeping with his secretary by year's end and the bride will start sleeping with her yoga instructor after she has a kid or two and is desperately trying to whip her body back into shape. They – like nearly all their business partners and so-called friends in attendance – will end up divorced in five or six years; the prenuptial agreement making it easy to divide up the assets with neither side really wanting custody of the kids.
Weddings are not his forte; marriage is not his cup of tea.
But he shows up at the reception, expensive present purchased by Bart's secretary under his arm. He is annoyed to find that he is seated with the bride's eighty-nine-year-old Aunt Mildred, relieved to hear that Blair had to miss the wedding, and curious at the fact that Nate and Serena are seated together.
At some point, while he's busy getting hammered or dancing with the bridesmaids he hasn't slept with yet, Nate and Serena disappear. They are too smart to leave together, too stupid to actually leave the establishment. So when he excuses himself from the party and goes searching for the bathroom, he ends up walking into them mid-tryst on the bar.
He ends up watching for a bit because he likes to do that, likes to watch. Their hands are sliding all over one another, grabbing and pulling with such desperation that there is no way they can claim that they were drunk. Tipsy? Maybe. But their actions speak louder than words, and Chuck leaves when the moment ends up feeling less like a turn on and more like rage.
Arthur is already waiting at the curb for him when he leaves the party for good, ready and waiting to drive him anywhere around the city that he wants to go. His first instruction is for Arthur to head straight for the Waldorf's penthouse, dead set on telling Blair what her fiancé is up to right now before remembering that she is still in New Haven studying for midterm exams.
Instead, he tells Arthur to drive around the city as he debates what to do. It's nearly four in the morning before he arrives back at the Palace weary and exhausted and crawls between his sheets. In the afternoon, an unmarked envelope is couriered to a dorm room at Yale by Arthur so that when Blair returns from her economics class she finds all the information she needs to aid in her takedown. It is his apology even if he doesn't know what he is apologizing for.
Later, when he meets Nate for drinks after his best friend has a particularly hard day at the office, he manages to steer the conversation towards Blair and Serena. The blonde next to him at the bar seems cagy as Chuck questions him about Serena, almost possessive as he talks about the woman. Chuck never mentions that he saw the two of them at the Shepherd wedding, tries to pretend that he isn't dying to ask Nate why he fucked over his beautiful fiancée.
Instead, he asks Nate why Blair, why propose marriage to a freshman in college when he graduated from Dartmouth last spring. He could tolerate a passing fancy for the blonde, could almost expect it if Nate's answers were not the ones they were.
My dad adores her. She's a Waldorf. She's good for my family. Her mother's company is important to my dad.
Yes, he wants to say, but what about her?
On a Saturday morning a few weeks later, right about the time he starts wondering why he agreed to get up this early and play a sport he has no interest in, Nate decides to inform him that he needs to get fitted for a tuxedo for the wedding. The caveat – because there is always is a caveat – is that Blair has to have final approval on his tuxedo and thus she will be attending his fitting with him.
He has been picking out his own clothes since he was four, and he assures Nate that he can find something suitable on his own, particularly since their wedding isn't until next April. But Nate refuses, mumbles something about Blair and control freak and perfection. In the end, he agrees only because his best friend asks him to do this, to make things with her go a little more smoothly.
So he shows up at that tailors on a Wednesday afternoon when he should be finalizing his business proposal for his father and she should be attending her Introduction to Psychology class. He picks the time in the hopes she won't attend, but this is Blair Waldorf and she's not about to let him to pick the wrong cut or show up at her wedding in black-blue rather than black-black. Or, so she says to him via text message after Nate gives her his phone number.
His late arrival is met with disapproving eyes, and he almost remarks about how ridiculous it is that he must be on time but Nate can just show up whenever he damn well pleases. He strips off his suit (thankfully, alone in the dressing room) and allows the tailor to help dress him in the shirt, pants, bowtie, and coat she has selected. The tails are too small, though, and the tailor ducks away from the pair to find a coat in a larger size for him to try on.
She steps towards him, close enough that the sweet smell of her grows stronger with every inhale of breath, and tries to adjust his attire. He side steps her, tries to adjust everything himself because if she comes any closer, if she touches him…
"Oh, don't be such a baby," she snaps as she bats away his hand and adjusts the pale pink bow tie at his neck. She fixes the collar, pulls on the starched fabric around his waist until it is smooth against his stomach. Stepping away from him, her eyes rake over his form with a critical eye.
"Not bad, Bass," she praises before stepping forward towards him again. Her hand skims his waist band, tugging on the fabric of his tuxedo pants. "Nate is wearing silver, but black is classic and-"
Her hand ghosts too close, and he swallows the hiss before it can escape his lips. His pants grow painfully tight; his heart thuds louder in his ears. And even then she does not stop, does not realize what she's doing until the bumbling tailor returns and bumps her right into his arms.
His reaction is involuntary; his fingers snake around her waist to keep her from falling and he holds her closer to his body. He grows harder – hard than he thought possible – and she lets out an audible gasp at the feeling. He drops his hands from her waist, backs away from her with his palms up in deference. Her doe eyes are wide in surprise, wider still when the tailor opens his mouth.
"My apologies, Miss Waldorf," the elderly man says. Concern is dripping from his voice, but it's not concern for her safety but rather concern about the loss of this large account that causes him to apologize so quickly. A quick, cutting glare and a barked dismissal from her sends him scurrying away.
He won't look her in the eye, adverts his gaze as he tries to figure out how he will extract himself from this situation. His clothes are still in the dressing room and while he would have no qualms about leaving them behind and telling the tailor to charge him for the new tuxedo, his cell phone and wallet were left with his attire.
"I don't understand," she whispers softly.
His brain barely registers her words as he decides to just abandon everything, to escape before he can do anything that he will regret. But her words – her innocence gives him pause. Surely, she must know. Surely, she must understand the effect she has on him, the effect she has on any man in her presence.
"I'm not...I'm not blonde or –"
"Stop," he yells.
The harshness in his voice causes her to jump, causes her eyes to flash in confusion. But he does not care. He will not listen to this; he will not let her find fault within herself. But she is also engaged to his best friend – the closest thing he has to a brother – and he cannot – will not – ruin this for them.
"Don't flatter yourself. I'm a man," he reminds her. "You're a woman. You were touching me. What did you think would happen?"
The confusion in her eyes is replaced with indignation, with disgust. She doesn't protest when he excuses himself, doesn't see the way his shoulders sag as he walks away from her.
He doesn't see much of her after the fitting room incident, only small glimpses at parties or other functions they both decide to attend. She is perfectly poised, perfectly presentable every time he sees her but for a brief moment her posture is shaken when she sees him. He doesn't always see it and for that she is thankful.
But her best friend sees it, sees it in the same way that Blair notices how distant Nate has become. In other words, she notices it but never mentions it because she'd rather pretend her eyes are playing tricks on her than face the truth.