AN: Thank you for the welcome.

Part 2

She was the same, all the same, beautiful in his eyes to such extreme it hurt to stare. At the sight of her with her bag slung on her left shoulder, teetering in heels down the steps of the Empire, his lips curved as her curls bounced around her face. He looked back at his father, who looked instead at the first building that Chuck had purchased with his Bass Industries shares. Bart nodded at Chuck, a proof of his approval, and Chuck thought he was right when he thought that Bart would be happy over his dead body.

"Look at her," Chuck said. And she walked across the lobby of his hotel with a confident stride that told him it had been years since she had been the worried about her worth, wondered who it was that gave her the boost, envied the person who took her hand today. "She's fine."

He should be a little hurt, he thought.

"It's been five years," his father said.

Five years without him over the five months they had been together. A lot could change. A lot did change.

It was her smile, fixed, reaching her eyes with a crinkle at their corners. It was the smile that drew her lips tight and wide, the smile that bared her teeth. It was the smile that accompanied the eager hand when she shook hands with a man who walked with her to a plush couch in the lobby.

"She does look like she's happy," his father told him.

He was familiar with that smile. She used it way back when they were younger, when she just knew that the reason that Nate arrived forty five minutes after schedule was someone she denied, when she wanted to show him she was fine when he could not admit what he felt.

It was a famous smile, a popular one, and he killed that smile every day they were together, chipped away at the false brightness until he unearthed the smile he remembered. The smile she discovered for him. So he made his way over to where she sat.

And he listened to her when she enumerated everything she hated about the interior. He looked up and found the brass he had fought so hard to install changed into polished modern silver, and the carpeted balcony tiled and floored with thick glass. His Empire turned from its old, aged beauty to burnished sophistication.

"Five years ago, this was home," she said. "Now it's a knock off of Marriott and doesn't deserve its name."

And he let out a snort of laughter, because her words could have come from his mouth. If the man could hear him his ears would burn.

"We used to have chandeliers," she said.

"The lighting is top notch. The manufacturer lit the lobby of the Hyatt."

"You shouldn't have asked to meet me if you're not going to listen," she told the man, then stood. "You know I have more important things to take care of."

Blair rose from her seat and so did he. In reflex, or just nature borne from having done the same countless times before, he reached for her hand. Underneath his touch she jerked away as if shocked.

She could feel him. Feel him like a touch of electricity that still charged within her. Five years and he should have been forgotten, should barely have been a shadow in the corner of her eye. But he heard her audible breath, almost feel the thunderous beating of her heart.

And with something born of impulse he quickly kissed the corner of her mouth.

~o~o~o~

It brushed against her lips, and her fingers drifted up to her mouth. So briefly, so tentatively. Her lashes fluttered closed and she drew a breath. And then her eyes opened and she looked around her at the empty space that was filled with the comings and goings of strangers in her life.

"You're here," she whispered.

It was thrill, a chill, an overwhelming feeling that made her look. She looked down; she drew a breath; she willed herself to calm.

"Took you long enough," she said softly. Her hand drifted to her chest, to rest over her heart. With her palm open and resting over her left breast, she waited. Her fingers tangled in the chain, and she held on to the cold metal ring that hung from there. It took a few seconds, but it was silent. She could not tell what she hoped for, but like always it was dead and silent.

"Well?"

Dead silent like everything that mattered.

She swallowed the tight coil in her throat, and she raised her head, fixed her gaze on the door. A few steps, a little while longer.

"Hey!"

She turned around, slowly, like she was immersed in heavy fluid. There were moments when she thought she was, and she was in preservatives, never growing old, never hurting, and worst of all never dying. But when she turned, she was herself. And she had on a smile, welcoming if superior—because she was. She always was.

"S," she said in greeting, thrifty and direct.

And Serena nodded towards the corridor that led to the Empire offices. There were photographs there, and when she was alone she enjoyed spending a moment. In there, she could pretend that he was looking at her, watching her, and she would pretend she smiled back at a coarse joke.

"I think Jack wants to talk to you."

When everything that was his—hers—everything theirs changed hands and went to a man she knew that he despised, there were two choices. She could walk away for the sake of her pride, or stay for the sake of his.

And she said to the girl who used to be her best friend, "I don't really have time right now."

And Serena reached for her, for the hand that still crawled with a phantom touch. Blair drew away quickly and inserted it in her pocket.

"You know we're relaunching the hotel, Blair. The designer mentioned your notes, and Jack swears he'll consider them."

When promises from people who did not matter were the best news she heard, when they lit a fire of hope within her—

"And New York knows this hotel is Blair Waldorf," Serena continued.

Because it was. Chuck had made sure of that. Every night, every event, for the three months when the Empire had been a spectacular landmark of New York City, to the day that Blair Waldorf had been photographed standing at the entrance when the news broke of the accident that mirrored his father's, up until the day she was filmed in full black couture led through the Empire's wide open doorways to the limousine that took her to the church—the Empire was her.

But she returned, to look at the old familiar haunt, to touch old familiar things, to smell the old familiar scents. And every week, every month it became a little less of him.

One month after he died, she still slept in his bed. Until one morning she turned and buried her face in his pillow and she breathed. And she stood from the bed and wrapped the sheets around herself, slumped in the artificial darkness of the drawn drapes. And when the door opened she looked at the maid and said softly, "It doesn't smell like him anymore."

And it was not even Dorota, but it crept so powerfully and incessantly that she allowed the strange woman to sit with her and pull her close.

One year, and it was their club. It turned into an elegant restaurant where lute players were on the schedule and the finest chefs were brought from Madrid. Four years later and she still could not taste a bit of flavor from their dishes.

Five years and he was completely gone.

"Jack will do what he wants, S."

And gently, she touched her, and Blair paused for a moment because there was a time when Serena had cared. "I saw what you wanted, but you can't really think it would be good for the hotel to turn it back to exactly how it looked like five years ago."

"What's wrong with five years ago?" And she smiled, because it was her greatest, her best, her most. "The Empire was at its very best five years ago."

But Serena looked at her sadly, and most horribly—with sympathy. So she turned on her heel and walked away.

The limo waited right outside, and she thanked the doorman curtly when he held the door open for her. She slid on the leather seat, cool against her skin. The door slammed shut, and in the privacy of the vehicle the smile faded and she rested back her head.

~o~o~o~

He slid beside her, close enough that when he rested his cheek against the back of the seat he felt her breath against his face. If he had a breath she would feel it too. He had only just abandoned his father in the hotel, but Bart Bass always found a way in life—what more now.

Her eyes were closed, but her cheeks were dry. She forced her smile outside, but that she was no longer crying was a testament to how far she had come in the years since he died.

"Is he right?" Chuck said quietly, knowing she could not hear him.

"Hmmm," she said softly, her lips curved gently, thoughtfully.

"Tell me you're okay."

Her eyes remained closed, and he wondered if she was asleep. If she was, he wondered how many of the nights she dreamed of him, or if she dreamed of him at all. He turned to face the roof of the limo, and with her beside him he could tell the exact moment his life began. How apt to know his first breath was the day she turned to kiss him.

"You know, Chuck—"

He started at the sound, then looked at her as she stared off to a vacant point beside where he was. And he played on his fantasy, because even though she could not hear him, still he answered, "What, Waldorf?"

"Someday I'm going to need you less."

"Is that so?"

"I promise," she breathed. And at that he smiled a little, because nothing could bring her down. He had said it once, and she could not believe it before. But he did, and he knew she only had to believe in herself enough for it to be true. "So you died. A long time ago," she reasoned. "You died—But I'm Blair Waldorf." When she said the name, her voice was strong, like he needed it to be.

He placed a hand on her cheek, and he said, "Yes. You are."

And a teardrop stained his thumb. "You died—" A pause, as if nothing came after that.

And once more, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut to block out the world around her. He shook his head, then he leaned and pressed his forehead against hers. He felt her gentle tremor under him. "Waldorf, how am I supposed to leave when you're like this?"

This trip—what his father showed him—this was supposed to be his comfort in knowing that he could leave and she would be fine. And here she was, twenty three and nothing like the way he had always imagined she would be.

The limo slowed, came to a full stop. They were in front of the Palace now, ran still by Lily and was in the midst of what appeared like a full blown party. She straightened, took a tissue from a box before her and dabbed at her eyes. She took a compact from her purse and he wanted to tell her she looked beautiful.

He followed her out of the limo and spotted his father standing by the line of the photographers who snapped pictures of her as she paused and politely posed for a couple of shots.

Chuck shook his head. "I can't leave," he told his father. "She's not fine, dad."

"You know, son, that can be your vanity talking."

"She hasn't moved on," Chuck pointed out. "Clearly, she still—"

The ruckus from the entrance of the Palace brought his attention back. And Blair stood once more with a bright smile as she held out her hand. Nate walked out of the Palace with a casual wave to the photographers. Her voice was light, and she greeted, "Congressman, congratulations!"

He watched when Nate stopped at her side and wrapped an arm around her waist.

The bright, flashing bulbs of the cameras were blinding. He raised an arm to shield his eyes.

~o~o~o~

When his vision cleared, the room dimmed a little at a time. Chuck blinked until his retinas were no longer painfully seared. As he adjusted his sight the shadowed figure of his father appeared before him, slowly mellowing back into color.

"Have you seen enough?" his father asked.

Had he?

"I was there, Chuck," he offered sadly. "And I know it's a blow, but five years is enough time. It's understandable if she's moved on."

"She hasn't," Chuck insisted. He wondered then why it was that his father could not be there for the moments that he saw. "I saw her, dad. I talked to her."

At that, his father's brows rose. "You thought you talked to her."

"I swear—she knows when I'm there."

And that was when he heard her voice. "Hey," she said softly. Chuck turned around and saw himself inside a hospital room. "Hi!" He willed himself to respond. The look on her face when the figure on the bed—him—only it wasn't because he stood a few feet away—was still. She took a deep breath, then leaned forward and placed a kiss on an ugly bruise on his forehead.

It felt like the fluttering wing of a butterfly dancing by his brow. He touched briefly where he felt it, and wondered if this was how it felt for her. A thousand little fingers grazed his arms gently. He watched her wrap him in an embrace.

She bent low, then murmured into his ear.

And from where he stood he heard her whisper, "Wake up, Chuck. I got something in the mail today." He felt it against his ear, when her lips brushed tenderly. "Well, you got something," she amended, holding on to a piece that had replaced her pendant. "And I love it."

Slowly, he made his way towards her, with every step just a little farther from his father.

"Chuck, do you really want to make this longer?"

His eyes were entranced on what she held, and flickering memories teased him again—in their vague, jigsaw pieces melding together in his head.

He hated games, adored them. So much he dared forever with it.

ENDGAME, it said, in thin stark capitalized letters. On either side, their names. Just because it seemed right, even after the worst fight they had ever had.

He stopped across the hospital bed, so he could glimpse at his ring hanging close to her heart. She covered the tubes that ran into the back of his hand, and he almost felt the pain ease from his body. Despite the promise, the false cheer, he could see the pain in her eyes as starkly as he saw it in their bathroom. But she held herself well, and he was never prouder.

"Don't leave," she said, a command, a plea. It was the same to him.

"Never," he swore.

tbc