Two years ago

"By the looks of things, you're over a month along."

The words spilled over her in an empty rush; she couldn't even see the doctor's face any more, peeling wallpaper and shabby furniture blurring into one as she rose to her feet.

This couldn't be happening.

She couldn't be with child. She was Blair Waldorf.

It was what she'd told herself over and over; every day that no menstruation came. She'd never been so desperate for that time of the month.

"Miss-"

She pushed past him, out of his grasp; out into the corridor and as far away from the disgusting building as her feet could carry her.

Over.

It was all over.

She couldn't breathe, she realized, as she struggled with the front door and stumbled down the steps. She didn't even know where she was going - what the hell she was going to do -

And a pair of arms suddenly caught her, forcing her to stop; she found herself staring up into dark eyes, held securely - the last face and the only face she wanted to see.

"Blair."

She whimpered, still struggling to breathe; gasping because he couldn't be here -

And then he was wrapping her in his arms, leading her out of the glare of the street and into a secluded alley; gripping her till her breathing finally calmed, eyes never leaving hers, till she finally managed to return his gaze.

She'd been avoiding him for two weeks - brushing off his advances with snaps of I'm not in the mood; shutting the door in his face and wriggling out of his grasp when he tried to hold her, never meeting his eyes.

She'd been twice as spiteful - not that it had worked for a second. He knew her tactics. He knew something was wrong.

And, since she wouldn't tell him what that was, he'd taken to following her. Which was how he'd seen her leave her house at the crack of dawn this morning, before the maids were even awake, pay her driver to take her one of the furthest neighborhoods on the island, and enter the nondescript townhouse on the corner of the road.

It had taken every inch of his willpower not to go in there after her - he'd promised himself he would wait, at least twenty minutes, and do his enquires in the meantime.

The house belonged to a doctor.

"What's going on?" he said, very quietly, studying her face - though he already knew, really. He just needed it confirmed.

She'd collected herself a little more now; enough to insist, weakly, "Nothing." Then, with a little more vehemence; "Why are you following me?"

He ignored that. "Are you pregnant?"

Just hearing him say the word was enough.

There it was.

She was pregnant, and there was no escaping.

Her eyes lifted to his, filled with tears. "Yes."

She tried to read the emotion on his face - fear? He took a half step back, and she froze immediately. She should have known. She yanked her arm free from his hold, stumbling away from him; "Well, I can see you're going to be a wonderful support in all of this-" stumbling over her words, spitting as she backed away -

And he caught her arm again, pulling her to him. "Just slow down."

"I think it's a bit late for that, don't you?" she snapped, but there a thin verge of hysteria underneath it; her eyes were wild.

He didn't know what to think; didn't know which emotion was running more rampage - guilt or fear. All he realized was that she needed neither. He kept hold of her; just as firmly, but more gentle now. "There's no question of doubt?" His voice was low - an attempt at rationality.

"None." She suddenly crumpled in his hands. "What am I going to do?" she whispered.

What was he supposed to do - pat her back and tell her it would all be fine? Lies wouldn't help either of them. So, silently, he pulled her closer against him, pinning her against his chest as he buried his mouth in her hair. He felt her eyelashes flutter closed against his chest, and, for a moment, she simply pressed her face into his coat and he held her.

He was torn between two desires; the desire to run - to get away, as fast as he could, because that was what Chuck Bass did - and the need to hold her, crush her to him and never let her go.

It was the conflict between the two that decided it for him.

"We'll run away."

She paused in his arms, pulling away to stare at him in disbelief. "What?"

"We can get out of here. Both of us." His chin was set.

"No, we can't," she snapped. "Leave New York? What do you think this is, some kind of romance novel? Have you taken leave of your senses?"

She pushed aside the flutter that had suddenly filled her - romance novels had alway been one of her weaknesses. But no one in any romance novel was ever this terrified. And the reality was all too horrifying. She couldn't bury her head in the perfect version of her life any more.

Except he wasn't being romantic. Not really. "It's the only solution," he pressed, voice low and urgent. "Think about it. We have the money - all we have to do is move to a city far enough away." A young couple - recently moved from Europe, perhaps, families dead - "What's the alternative? We're both going to hell if we stay here either way."

There was no way of convincing anyone the baby was Nate's, after all - not with the engagement date set a year away.

Blair shook her head, weakly. Chuck always ran away when things got difficult - she knew that. But he always, always came back. There was no coming back if they left now.

"There are options," she struggled.

"Name them." His gaze was fixing hers, and she suddenly was too overwhelmed and too afraid.

"There are places." She lifted her chin, trying to steady her voice; "Places you can get this taken care of."

She didn't mean it, though; she just wanted something - anything -

His eyes flashed in disbelief, darkened; he grabbed her arm and he almost wanted to shake her. "There are no places that you'll be going to," he hissed. "Do you want to get yourself killed? Or crippled?"

He'd heard the horror stories - back alleys and dirty metal implements, lethal cocktails of drugs -

He didn't have to convince her, though. She knew she'd never have been able to forgive herself that.

"I know," she said softly, at last.

"Blair. This is the only way."

...

Now

"Charles. This came for you today."

Chuck glanced up in surprise from the book he'd been reading, almost doing a double take at the unfamiliar sight of Bart in his bedroom. His father never visited him. If he really had to talk to him, Chuck was summoned into his office.

Unconsciously, he sat up straighter, pulling at his shirt.

"I - thank you, father." He cleared his throat, getting to his feet to reach for the offered letter.

"It looks like a court summons."

Chuck paused, staring at the official envelope. No. He'd been on his best behavior - they couldn't do this to him now, not when he was so close to the London trip - "Father, I swear to you. I haven't done anything."

"Just open it."

Chuck's gaze flickered up - to his surprise, though, Bart didn't appear annoyed. So he did as he was told, scanning the first few lines - and then all thoughts of a possible arraignment left his head. Because this was far, far worse.

"It's a court summons," he said hoarsely, his throat suddenly dry. "To the last will and testament of Nathaniel Archibald."

Of all things, that was the last he'd ever have expected. He looked up at Bart, trying to understand; "But I don't - "

Why on earth had they summoned him?

"Come," his father sighed. "You can't be that surprised. I thought you were supposed to be his best friend?"

Best friend.

Chuck stared at the letter. "I don't want anything."

"Well, that's really neither here nor there. You've been summoned, Charles - you don't have a choice." His father's tone was final, and Chuck hated it.

"He should be leaving everything to his wife," he snapped.

Bart just fixed him with a cold stare, unmoved. "Well, he obviously wanted to leave something to you. And I think Blair could use your support."

Chuck stared back in disbelief. "Are you being serious?" He no longer cared how insolent he sounded, furious frustration suddenly rising; "You want me to use the reading of my best friend's will to cosy up to his wife?"

None of which made any impression on Bart. "Don't be so overdramatic." He sighed. "I thought I'd made this clear - you need to prove to me that you can be relied on. Helping that young lady - who has been your friend as long as Nathaniel, lest you forget - is the least you can do. You don't think this will be hard for her?"

Bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. "I don't see how emotionally manipulating her is going to help her," Chuck ground out.

Bart seemed to forget that Chuck had known him his whole life - he'd seen all of his tactics, studied and taken notes. He used them himself. Bart could care less about helping - being vulnerable just opened them up for attack.

Could his father even hear himself?

Bart's eyes turned flinty, regarding his son with contempt. "You're going to be at that will-reading. And you're going to support Miss Waldorf. I don't expect any more discussion on it."

And with that, he left - leaving Chuck to spit to an empty room, "It's Mrs Archibald."

...

Blair sat upright in her chair, hands clutched in her lap. She didn't want to be here. Didn't want another reminder that her husband was dead; didn't want to have to sit in a room and hear Nate's final words from his doddering solicitor.

And to make things ten times worse - he was here.

Another dreaded reminder of the trip that was now only three days away. Another reminder that nothing in her life was in her control any more - she didn't have a husband; didn't have the security of Nate's arms - everything was decided by her mother, and Nate's family, and stupid bureaucrats like the one currently seated on the other side of the desk. She didn't even get to hold the piece of paper - all she could do was sit and wait.

And the truth was, she didn't want anything from Nate.

Their shared house, to live alone in?

And there was that tiny voice in the back of her head, whispering that she didn't deserve anything.

She'd wanted Nate.

She'd wanted married life.

"Are we ready to proceed?"

Chuck tried not to let the old man's high, nasal voice get under his skin; but it grated. He felt Blair shift in the seat next to him and wondered if it did her, too.

Then he reminded himself to focus.

The lawyer, meanwhile, was frowning, peering over the top of his spectacles. "We appear to be missing a person."

"Who?"

"It says here that-"

Just then, the door was flung open, and a whirl of skirts and golden hair spilled into the office, an all too familiar voice gasping; "I'm sorry I'm late."

Blair had frozen in her seat, staring at the person in front of them. Even Chuck was stunned.

"Not to worry, you're here now." The man cleared his throat. "Won't you take a seat, Miss van der Woodsen?"

...

Blair was still rigid in her seat, eyes fixed firmly on the lawyer - anywhere but at her former best friend.

Chuck watched out of the corner of his eye as Serena continued to shift in her chair, nervously tugging at her hair, eyes sliding all over the place - but drifting continuously back to Blair.

"I give the following legacies." The lawyer lifted the paper, reading closely. "I give to my closest friend, Charles Bartholomew Bass, the property of Twelve Richmond Street, including all rights and deeds, and the sum of ten thousand dollars."

Chuck's breathing suddenly caught.

It couldn't be.

They'd been sixteen - before the Shepherd Wedding, before any of it - drinking at their favourite bar, cigars in hand. Age didn't matter with money like they had.

"Why do I want to think about my future?" Nate had sighed, soaking in the hazy fumes. "Why is there always so much pressure to work out what you want, you know? I don't know where I want to be in ten years. All I know is where I'm supposed to be. I hate it."

Chuck had merely snorted, well used to his friend's half formed ideas of protest. "Thinking about your future is just being practical," he'd assured him lazily. "I, for one, know exactly where I want to be in ten years time." He'd grinned. "One million dollars richer."

Nate had chuckled; he always knew how to make him laugh.

"I'm serious," he'd sighed later. "Father was amending his will the other day - you know he's had it drawn up since he was fifteen? That means he's had his life planned for nearly twenty-five years." He'd repressed a shudder, just thinking about it, and Chuck had glanced at him in amusement.

"Well, of course he has. It would be foolish for anyone of our status not to have a will, Archibald."

Nate had stared. "Don't tell me you've drawn up yours?"

"I had the family solicitor draw up my first draft when I was twelve," Chuck shrugged. Bart had taught him well. "I don't want my fortune to end up in some charitable fund." That idea had made him shudder.

Chuck could remember Nate's gobsmacked expression.

"That's so morbid."

"No, it's practical. You should do the same."

Which was how they'd got onto the conversation of what, exactly, Nate should write in his will - since he had next to no idea. He honestly hadn't given it a single thought - bizarre to Chuck, but then it did make sense for Nate.

Chuck had assured him, drily, that it wasn't too complicated - he had to leave everything to Blair.

"The one advantage of having a girl you know you're going to marry."

Nate had insisted that he wanted to leave something to him, though - ignoring Chuck's protests that he didn't want any of his money.

Chuck had money, after all.

What he didn't have was friends - or many, anyway - and that was all he'd ever needed from Nate.

Nate had finally seized on the idea of giving him the means to set up his own burlesque club. Chuck had been campaigning Bart for a while - he'd done all of the calculations, the detailed business plan; his father simply wasn't interested. I'm not pouring my company's money into an excuse for you to drink and womanize, Charles.

And he'd done it, Chuck realized numbly now. There was no other explanation for the property or sum of money - it was a fund for the club. Which meant that - what, Nate hadn't changed his will since he was sixteen? He must have submitted that as his final draft.

It was so like Nate that Chuck felt a sudden lump in his throat.

"I give to Serena van der Woodsen the sum of forty thousand dollars."

Chuck was dragged back to attention at that, head snapping up. Blair had gone very still next to him; Serena let out a faint gasp.

Forty thousand dollars. It was an insane sum of money.

The solicitor didn't appear to register their reactions, however; he went on - "I give, devise, and bequeath all my real and personal estate of whatsoever nature and whatsoever situate to my future wife, Blair Cornelia Waldorf." He glanced up, pushing his spectacles further up his nose. "Those are the stipulations of the will. However, I also have further instructions." He had reached the final part of the document; "It is my last request," he read, "That in the case of my demise, Charles Bartholomew Bass be entrusted with the care of my wife, Blair Cornelia Waldorf."

Chuck closed his eyes.

They'd been several glasses of scotch along by that point, the haze of the cigars taking full effect; "But, Archibald, you do realize Blair will kill you if you have the audacity to make her a widow?"

Nate had pulled a face; Blair Waldorf, of all people, would have the ability to terrorize people even in death. "In that case, you'd better take care of her."

Chuck had actually laughed - "Me?"

"Who better?"

He'd stared at him in incredulity; "I think you should lay off the scotch, Nathaniel."

"I'm serious," Nate had insisted, blue eyes wide; "There's no one else I'd trust more. You're always there for me."

Chuck had tried to scoff, brush it off; "Don't get all sentimental on me now." But he hadn't quite been able to hide the quiet glow of pleasure. Chuck Bass, trusted. He had a best friend who trusted him. It didn't even matter that no one else did.

Except - he reminded himself now, sitting next to the girl he'd once have given anything to steal from his best friend - he'd blown that all to hell.

...

"Blair - wait!"

Chuck and Blair had walked out of the solicitor's office without a single glance at each other, moving down the corridor with their eyes set firmly ahead; Serena's voice stopped them, now.

Blair turned slowly.

It had been three years.

She stared coldly at the blonde before her, noting with bitterness that she was as sickeningly beautiful as ever, even with her hair in disarray and what looked like a year old dress.

"I didn't know you were back in New York," she deigned icily, at last.

Chuck watched in silence.

"I...I came when I heard." Serena had never been the one to cower before Blair - it was almost ridiculous, given how she towered over her. "Blair, I'm so sorry."

Blair pressed her lips together. "I can tell. Since you didn't bother showing up to the funeral." Serena flinched, but Blair wasn't done - "Still, at least you came to get your money."

"I didn't - I had no idea Nate was going to leave me anything."

Blair just gave her a look. "How fortunate that you made it, then."

Serena's eyes widened with hurt; "Blair, I couldn't..." Her voice shook. "I couldn't go to the funeral. I wanted to, but it was too..."

"Hard?" Blair's eyes narrowed in contempt. "And it was so much easier for his wife, I suppose?"

Serena couldn't answer that. She bit her lip. "I only came here," she said quietly, begging, "Because I was told they couldn't proceed without me."

Of course, nothing could ever proceed without Serena van der Woodsen.

"Well, thank you," Blair sneered.

"Blair-"

They were interrupted by a commotion; a loud wailing and impatient hushing, before a doorman rounded the corner, holding a crying child at arms length.

"I'm sorry, miss, but this really isn't in the requirements for my job!" He thrust the infant into Serena's arms with a significant glower, before storming off with dark mutters of, "...Look like a nursemaid..."

Blair and Chuck stared in absolute silence at the child.

A full head of golden curls, wide blue eyes; she couldn't have been much more than two years old.

It was the blue eyes that held them most, though. Blue eyes neither of them thought they'd ever see again.

Serena was focused on calming her down, stroking her back and kissing her curls, murmuring anxiously, "Hush, baby, mama's here now..."

Blair suddenly felt the room tilt, the blood rushing to her head; Chuck saw the colour drain from her face even in his own stunned state; he caught her arm, acting on instinct alone, as he continued to stare at mother and child.

"Serena," Blair whispered at last, collecting herself; she pulled out of Chuck's grasp, as he instantly dropped his hand.

Serena's eyes flickered up to them, guilt written in every line of her face; "I wanted to leave her at home," she mumbled, desperately, "But I couldn't afford the nurse's pay, and..."

They just stared.

"I have to go." Serena pulled the girl closer, wrapping her in her shawl, turning hastily away; "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have come."

And she was gone before either of them could stop her.

Chuck's eyes met Blair's, slowly.

"Did you..."

But she already knew the answer, and he knew she did.

"No." He swallowed. "I had no idea."

...

Chuck climbed out the car, breathing in the salty air. The docks were a flurry of activity; the shouts of the porters and workers, cars pulling up and cargo being hauled amidst the torrents of passengers, almost drowning out the overhead gull cries.

And looming behind all of it, the gleaming bulk of the Olympic; Chuck had to crane his head just to catch the peaks of gold funnels, white plumes of smoke already disappearing into the sky. Even he had to admit that it was an impressive sight.

The purr of an engine alerted him to the car drawing up behind him; it came to a stop, and Bart moved forwards with the silent expectation for his son to do the same.

The driver climbed out, opening the passengers' door. Eleanor emerged first, graciously brushing aside the driver's help as Bart took her hand.

"Lovely to see you again," she smiled, allowing him a kiss. Her gaze zeroed in on his son with imperious satisfaction. "And you, Charles."

Chuck glanced up as a small gloved hand slid into the driver's - followed by a slender figure dressed in cream and red.

Blair looked out from under her hat, brown eyes taking in the same sight that Chuck had, before Bart intercepted her. His expression matched Eleanor's as he took the girl's hand, eyes sliding to his son's cream suit and crimson waistcoat. His lips curled, slightly.

"Shall we proceed?"

The porters had already taken their luggage, bowing and smiling all the way. There was no queue for first class, of course; the broadly carpeted slope up to the ship's deck could hardly be called a gangplank.

"Let's."

Eleanor took Bart's proffered arm, and they swept the way to the ship.

Chuck and Blair took final glances behind them; the familiar skyline of their city already felt like it was slipping away, along with any chance of avoiding the trip. There really was no turning back now.

Resigned, Chuck held out his arm. Blair slid hers into it in silence, and they followed their parents.

Six whole days and nights with no chance of escaping each other.

...

A/N Now, in terms of the flashback - I hope it doesn't seem too over-dramatic or unrealistic. I do think the idea of Chuck wanting to run away makes sense - in the show it seems to be what he falls back on a lot (e.g. with the nanny, even with Eva). And I know the pregnancy is not the most original idea - but hopefully what going to follow hasn't been done too many times!

Next chapter should wrap up the flashbacks...

Thank you so much for your continued feedback; it really means a lot!