A/N: okaaaaaay, so was watching the season finale – swear to God, it took me, literally, two hours because I kept having to pause and, like, digest everything. It was fecking hard work, you know, like watching The Lord of the Rings Extended Edition. Anyhoo, t'was amazing, which I wasn't expecting because the season itself left a lot to be desired – I'm just going to say Chuck and Jenny had better be back, because they're the best actors and, really, the best characters. Chair IS the show. And Nate IS a manslut, I'm so glad he's finally living up to his potential, though not so sure about the sudden affinty for flannel... And Dan and Serena? WOO-HOO!
A/N II: ignoring the fact that Georgina's "pregnant" because I completely believe it's one of her crazy plots – she did say this baby's going to do some things that make everybody hate her and I'm taking that as proof. If you don't like it, well than go fuck a kangaroo
A/N III: also BLATANTLY IGNORING the fact that Chuck's middle name is Bartholomew. For no reason, other than my basic abhorration for the name. So I have selected a DIFFERENT one. Again, the kangaroo awaits dissenters
A/N IV: (sorry) if anyone can spot the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy references (yes, PLURAL), you will get a cookie
Disclaimer: If I owned Gossip Girl WOULD I HAVE SHOT CHUCK? Really ... hmmm. Though a badass scar, now ... I digress. I own nothing but Dr. Finnegan. The sexy beast. Oh, and the lyrics belong to Less Than Jake
Warning: 3x22 spoilers and extreme creative license regarding season 4 ... And, as of yet, unBeta'd. Sorry, I couldn't wait
Reviews: are love! And, such, I love Taylorr x333, ohmyeffinggossipgirl, follow-ur-dreams, Nicoley117-LadyBlueMartini, MrsCullen-Bass, CheeseSwiss, Gennyxoxo, READER120, thegoodgossipgirl, Nathascha, ana-12, ronan03, ChairLoveK, Ziah, LifeRX, HnM skinnys, Syrianora, Besotted B, Kate2008, chairobsessor, calliope26
THE REST OF MY LIFE
.
Late last night I made my plans
It was the only thing I felt I could do
Said goodbye to my best friend
Sometimes there's no one left to tell you the truth
And it's going to kill me the rest of my life
"I promise I will make it up to you. Even if it takes me the rest of my life."
.
Chapter Two. Charles De Gaulle, 5AM
Serena had many a life philosophy. Some were gleaned from bumper stickers, others read in sombre-worded leaflets scattered with haphazard precision across coffee tables in doctor's waiting rooms. Some originated from she wasn't quite sure where – a dream, perhaps? A Ben Stiller movie? A trip (and not the kind that involves travelling further than the refrigerator)? Most of them were a bit of fun: What would Chuck do? was always good for inspiration. She considered herself an optimist at heart, so For every one thing you regret, there are always one hundred more to be thankful for was on the list. If you're afraid to jump, you can always get a hang glider, though it took her a while to actually deduce its meaning, reminded her that support would always be there should she need it. DON'T PANIC! – which she actually read off the cover of a book lying on Dan's desk – was a bit of a no-brainer. But, truth be told, whenever the shit hit the fan, Serena did not try to think like Chuck. Already free-falling, she forgot about the hang-glider – and DON'T PANIC!, again, was a no-brainer. When life philosophies truly counted, she had but one.
When in doubt, call Dan.
And so Serena stood alone among the million people thronging the Departures Lounge, one ear pricked for flight 6815, one eye on the huge screens detailing times and gates, the other on their minimal luggage, One hand on Blair, holding tight lest she run away or evaporate, the other clutching their tickets – still hot from the printer – her cell clamped between her free ear and her shoulder, praying that Dan might answer.
As it turned out, there was a God.
"Er – hello?"
"Dan."
It was supposed to be a greeting, bright and cheery even at five AM, only her voice collapsed like a soufflé halfway through. She held a little tighter to Blair, compensating.
"Serena?"
"Dan."
"Serena ... What's wrong? Speak louder, I can't hear you. Serena?"
But all she could say was "Dan."
"That is my name, yes, I am glad you remembered it. It's been, what, sixteen hours? So. What, uh, what's up?"
"Oh, Dan."
"I'm here Serena, talk to me. What's up?"
She could hear the telltale rumble of a crowd on his end. "Where are you?" She asked.
"I ..."
"Dan?"
"I'm – I'm looking at you."
She could have cried. Dan snapped his cell shut, navigating his way through shoal of orange backpacks, past a couple of less-than-sober Irish soccer fans celebrating in the face of anyone who looked remotely French – OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ and if you're Irish come into the bar, if you're French go fuck a frog OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ – and up and over a chain of plastic seats, to hug her tightly.
"What are you doing here?" she gasped, momentarily releasing Blair to return the embrace, almost laughing. "Like – in France? Dan!"
Dan's face depicted the same pleasant surprise that was bubbling up in her stomach. "I could say the same about you. I was planning on surprising you at breakfast, but here – here is good, too. You know. Seriously, though, Serena." His smile hardened as he scrutinised her. "What's wrong? On the phone – looking at you now ... What happened?"
"It's awful," she whispered.
His voice was level, but his eyes flared. "Tell me."
"Blair– " And she grabbed for her friend again, but Blair had not moved an inch. "Blair got a phonecall an hour ago. From a ..." She took a ragged breath. The words felt like a raw egg in her mouth, all slippery and cold and difficult to contain.
"From a ..." Dan prompted, eyeing Blair. "A ..."
"A hospital. In Prague."
"Why would a hospital in Prague call Blair at, like, three in the morning ...?"
Even as he said the words, Serena saw comprehension dawn upon him. Dan scrubbed his face with his hands. "Chuck."
Serena nodded miserably. Dan glanced from Blair – wearing a little black dress and pearls and hotel slippers, with a run in her tights and panda eyes, just existing – to Serena, whose eyes were red-rimmed, as she clutched at her best friend with a drowning man's grip. Only Dan wasn't quite sure which one was drowning.
He exhaled more than air. Serena could taste the animosity on his breath. She had forgotten about Jenny.
And Chuck.
And Chuck and Jenny – who, no matter what she did, no matter whom – what – she slept with, would always be Dan's little sister. She didn't quite know what relation Chuck had to Dad, being the adopted son of his stepmother, but wasn't about to hold her breath for a bromance. Or even brotherly love. Or fraternal obligation. Mutual respect was out of the question for both, and indifference impossible. Which left only loathing.
Unadulterated loathing.
Yet Dan did not crack open a bottle of champagne or do the Cha Cha Slide – or anything that suggested he welcomed the news. He simple asked, "How bad is it?"
She shrugged. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"Blair hung up. Well, actually, she threw her cell at the wall. Before the doctor could tell us anything. And I've been trying, but I haven't been able to get through. I don't know the name of the hospital he was taken to and Blair won't tell me, so I've been calling all the hospitals in Prague and… Oh, my God, Dan. What if…?"
"Don't," said Dan shortly and softly. "C'mon. We've got to get to the gate, and we have ... exactly twenty-two minutes."
Serena stared at him. "We?"
Dan snorted. "I, uh, I love Prague. Completely. Always wanted to go there. Lifelong dream of mine. Vanessa went there last summer, said it was ..." He trailed off, grimacing. Serena felt herself flush and ducked her head.
Vanessa.
"You don't have to," she muttered, not meaning it.
"Hey. I've already flown to Paris and, let me tell you, it wasn't because I was craving a croissant. I think I can manage Prague."
"Thank you. I know ... You and Chuck. Jenny. It's– "
"Complicated?" Dan cut her off. "Yeah. But I'm not going for Chuck."
She reached for his hand, almost subconsciously, and her fingers collided with his midway.
They stitch him up with the bullet still inside. A nurse washes the blood from his hair, from his hands and chest and everywhere, so he's nice and clean when they come. She slipped on a tag, declaring him Charles Michael Bass, as per the passport found in his coat.
Michael?
He doesn't look it.
They send the bloody clothes for incineration, bag the personal affects. Watch, wallet, hip flask (empty, decidedly), Zippo, pinky ring, bag of Ecstasy. Take blood and culture samples for a toxicology panel. The police drop by and shake their heads, the American Embassy is notified. Dr. Finnegan steps out for a smoke. In Prague, it rains.
Dan called his dad from the on-flight telephone while Serena slept. Rufus told Lily, who told Eric, who rang Dan and injected a sense of quiet wisdom into the frazzled situation. Lily, according to Eric, had people ringing around the hospitals and Rufus was having fun Googling useful Czech phrases. Neither of them mentioned Jenny. Eric said he didn't want to upset her, in case she felt guilty or something. Dan replied flatly that Jenny had nothing to feel guilty about, so Eric passed him back to Lily.
"The jet is being prepped as we speak," she said, her voice strained. "We'll be there as soon as possible – And Dan?"
He paused, about to hang up. "Yes?"
"Thank you."
"For what?" he asked with wary bewilderment.
"For being there for Serena," she said.
"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," Dan confessed.
A stewardess arrived with coffee in a delicate bone china cup. Dan didn't have bone china in his loft. He dunked the complimentary biscuit in the dark liquid and looked about him. First Class was all but deserted, only themselves and a scattering of business types hammering away on their laptops, ties thrown over their shoulders.
After a moment's hesitation, he rang Nate. Nate hesitated himself, and then asked, "How's Blair taking it?"
"She's been better," he replied delicately, winding the phone's cord around his pinky.
Nate sighed, a rush of static down the line. "Is she crying, or yelling, or what?"
"I've gotten more response from a brick wall. Serena stopped tried an hour ago."
Nate swore. "Lily's calling the hospitals now, so we should know. Soon enough. Probably just got smashed and passed out," he said with the false bravado of someone who knows that they are pulling at straws.
"Yeah," agreed Dan thickly, swallowing. "Probably. I mean, this is Chuck we're talking about. I shouldn't get my hopes up that he got shot or anything."
Nate didn't laugh. Dan didn't apologise. The line hung between them, full of rattling breathing and things unsaid.
Dan unwound and rewound the cord.
"Just look out for Blair, okay?" Nate compromised. "And Serena. I'll be there as soon as pos– " He didn't even try to disguise the disinclination in his voice. "I'll be there soon. You're right, I doubt he's seriously hurt."
"Yeah," Dan agreed. "See you in Prague. It'll be a regular summer holiday."
Nate chuckled darkly before disconnecting.
The situation, he hoped, would be bearable with Nate around to counteract the fest of Chuck love he would soon be enduring: all the Van der Woodsens had a curious affinity for the creature. Even Serena, though her favour tended to ebb and flow along with Blair's. Then again, Nate was Chuck's best friend. And hadn't Blair's reaction – Blair, who had more reason than himself to despise Chuck's guts until the cows came home, reason even to disembowel him and have said intestines embalmed and buried with her so that the loathing could continue after death – hadn't her reaction just proved that near-death defied disenchantment? He sighed and sank back into his seat, hands linked across his stomach, and wondered, for just one second, if Chuck had orchestrated this whole debacle in order to regain everyone's love. It wasn't so outlandish an idea, he thought. If anyone would, Chuck would. He was so desperate to win back Blair that Dan doubted there was any level to which he wouldn't stoop.
Jenny's image flitted across his mind and anger burned his tongue.
He was certain there wasn't any level Chuck wouldn't stoop to – with or without Blair.
Dan snuck a sideways glance at the petite brunette; she was curled up in a near foetal position, her eyes staring straight ahead. With her black dress and panda eyes, she was already dressed for grieving. Seeing Blair, for whom he held no great affection, in such a state only made him hate Chuck more. Was there no end to the destruction? He was like a nuclear bomb, still causing cancer generations after detonation.
With an ominous cracking sound, he stretched and crossed the aisle to sit beside her.
Neither calling her name nor gently shaking her shoulder elicited a response. He recounted his various conversations and felt like he was talking to Jenny's mannequin. He asked if she wanted anything, a drink, something to eat, debated whether he should wake Serena so they could talk – but nothing. Carefully, Dan threw a blanket over her shoulders. He moved to return to his own seat, but instead found himself settling in beside her.
"He'll be fine," he said, without quite knowing why, and trying not to sound too disappointed. "He's Chuck Bass. Cockroaches are hard to kill."
And Blair laughed. It sounded like breaking glass, but it was a laugh.
Serena woke up to find Blair curled up against Dan's chest while he dozed behind the in-flight magazine, and said, without thinking, "The best friend and the boyfriend. Classy."
"Very," Dan returned, winking blearily, but completely unfazed.
Three factors combine to determine the severity of a gunshot wound:
1. Location of the injury
2. Size of the projectile
3. Speed of the projectile
Nate had taken to wearing flannel purely because he never wore flannel and, by doing so, he was symbolising his attempt at metamorphosis and profound self-exploration and shit. It wasn't that he yearned to be the kind of person who actually wore flannel, he simply wanted to be a different person. Only he wasn't quite sure who, because he quite liked being himself.
Or maybe he was reading too deeply into things. Flannel was comfy.
But after Dan called, he stood in the kitchen in his boxers and a flannel shirt and shivered like the kitchen had suddenly transported itself to Siberia. The flannel was not working. He couldn't remember where he had left his clothes and wandered about the dark apartment, banging into things and swearing, louder and louder, feeling around for something unknown.
It took him a while to realise that he was angry – then even longer to realize at whom and why.
Nate sat in the dark in his flannel and fumed. He really needed some new friends.
He was angry at Jenny because:
A) she slept with Chuck;
B) tried to break up him and Serena, though it was a little flattering that she had gone to such lengths over him;
C) moved to Hudson without telling him; finding out through her Facebook status was not cool, and he felt a great rush of empathy towards Blair and the way she handled the whole Serena-Boarding School-Connecticut debacle;
D) turned to Chuck instead of him;
E) slept with Chuck.
He was angry with Serena because:
A) he loved her, but not as he had thought he had, and that was a letdown. For years, he had constructed an elaborate fantasy of them as a pair, only the reality turned out to be quite different;
B) She made him question himself.
He was angry with Dan because:
A) Serena;
B) Jenny – by only default, because he was her brother, and thus he could be hated for Jenny in her absence. Only he didn't hate Jenny, and Dan was a pretty cool guy to bum around with. He wore flannel;
C) Vanessa. It wasn't fair on her, the whole Dan/Serena thing, though he supposed it was inevitable, and that also made him angry. What did Dan have that he didn't?
He was angry with Blair because:
A) Chuck;
B) Always Chuck.
And he was angry, and very, with Chuck because:
A) Blair;
B) Jenny;
C) Vanessa – though that was more of a 'Dude. Uncalled for' than a 'Fuck's sake, man! That's my girl!';
D) he had slept with all the girls he had, or wanted to (though he had never actually asked, not exactly wanting to hear the answer, he suspected Chuck and Serena, once upon a drunken haze, had become a little more than friendly). And he had deflowered his girlfriend. And Jenny, though he couldn't quite think of a label for her. She was just ... Jenny. His Jenny;
E) he had far too much scotch lying about and not enough vodka;
F) he could drink scotch without puking, and that had always made Nate feel slightly inferior, because a tumbler of scotch looked far more impressive than a Heineken;
G) he had to get hurt in Prague, which was totally inconvenient and messed up his plans of getting baked with his flannel and a friend or two;
H) they were best friends and, as such, existed in a permanent state of amicable mutual repugnance for each other, rather like a couple that's been married for too long;
I) Chuck hadn't said goodbye.
Nate's hands connected with something soft and smooth. He slipped his arms into Chuck's robe and felt suddenly warmer. The smell of desolation clung to the fabric like a stubborn blood stain and Nate walked out the penthouse, barefoot, and hailed a cab.
Rufus answered the door. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Rufus nodded grimly. "You heard?"
Nate nodded. "Can I bum a ride?"
Rufus didn't know what had happened between Blair and Chuck and everyone. Jenny had avoided the question like the plague when he posed it her, and he had not asked again. He wasn't quite sure he wanted to know the answer. Yet he couldn't help feeling, as they settled on the Bass Industries jet, all of them, himself, Lily, Eric and Nate – and the others, waiting in Prague – that he was walking into the belly of the beast without his towel.
And no hoopy frood went anywhere without his towel.
Lily and Nate were talking about Christmas eight years ago, and Rufus drifted over to Eric. He really liked the kid. Eric was rock solid, a calming presence with a good, kind heart. Sensible, too. As much as Rufus wanted a clean slate for Jenny, he felt like the bad cop for splitting them up.
"Hey. That seat taken?"
It wasn't a seat. It was a cream leather sofa curling in a semi-circle, good to seat about fifty people.
Eric looked up, and shook his head. "I think you could just about squeeze in."
Rufus smiled. They sat together in amiable silence, listening to the pilot flirting with the stewardess, waiting for the runway to clear. It was nearing seven AM. He waited until after breakfast, eggs benedict with smoked salmon, broaching the subject as they streaked over the Atlantic. Somehow, he thought the clouds wrapping the plane would provide adequate cover.
Eric did not look surprised when he asked. He thought for a long moment, glancing down at his neat nails, and then said, "How much do you want to know?"
Rufus sat back. Sat forward. And sat back again, sinking into the sofa's plush embrace. How much did he want to know? They say ignorance is bliss, but the last thing he wanted was to come over as insensitive to some major fallout, to say something – completely unintentionally, of course – to Serena, or Dan, or even Blair, and cause undue upset. If Chuck was badly hurt, nerves would already be frazzled.
But how much did he want to know? That was the question.
And what was Eric asking, exactly. Rufus interpreted it two different ways, and, thinking back, he wasn't sure which one he himself had asked. Either Eric inquired how badly did he want to know, to know everything – or how many facts he could arm himself with and get by.
Rufus ran a hand through his hair. "How much do I need to know?"
"Chuck and Blair broke up," Eric started cautiously, with the deliberate air of one carefully choosing his words. This did not do much for Rufus' sanity; he knew Jenny had been involved. "And Dan punched Chuck. And ... And that's all."
"That's all?" Rufus repeated.
Eric nodded tightly. "That's all you want to know."
Rufus shot the teenager a shrewd look. "And what about what I don't want to know?"
"Trust me. You don't want to know it."
"C'mon," he coaxed. "Give me something more here."
Eric sighed, chewing his lip pensively. "Weeeell. Nate and Serena broke up, I think because Serena and Dan are – well, because they're Serena and Dan, really. And ... Blair and Chuck– "
" –broke up, yes," Rufus interrupted.
"And we hate Chuck," Eric finished lamely. "Only, we don't really. He's Chuck."
Ah. Yes. The inevitable Chuck Bass. The boy was still an enigma to Rufus, though; they had never exchanged a word. He had lived with Serena, and with Nate, and was, to say, acquainted with Blair, but Chuck? He knew nothing of Chuck, despite the fact that he was Lily's stepson. And Rufus was Lily's husband. Did that make him Chuck's step-step-father?
"And who is Chuck?" he asked. "His name keeps cropping up, but I don't know him at all."
"He's my brother," Eric replied.
They bring her a glass of water and, for five minutes, she stares at it. The liquid wobbles as the wing dips. She stares, but can't think what else to do. What does one normally do with a glass of water? She can't think.
"It's water," Dan says. "You drink it."
"Oh. Yes. I knew that."
The voice that comes out of her mouth does not sound like her own. A different person is talking. A new person.
"Blair?"
It takes her a while to realise it's her name Serena's calling.
"B," she murmurs, and Blair feels warm arms around her, a head against her shoulder. Serena's voice is damp and rough. "Where are you? Talk to me. B, please. Please."
And Blair thinks. She thinks, where are you? Talk to me, baby, please.
I can't feel you anymore.
She clings tight to Serena's hand and the hard pinch of bitten nails reminds her that she still exists.