"Good afternoon, I'm Dr. Maloney and you're…," her voice trailed off as she realized that every single page of her new patient's paperwork was blank.

"I'm Chuck Bass," the young man offered in a deep voice.

"I see. Did you need some more time to fill out the patient history and questionnaire?"

"I don't need time, I need answers."

"Answers to…?" Dr. Maloney sat down. It had been a very long week and was looking like it was going to get even longer.

"I'm not here for myself. It's for a friend. My friend is being treated for bulimia. Here. By you. And I need to know that she's okay. That she's going to be okay."

"You know that, even as a therapist, I am bound by doctor-patient confidentiality. I'm afraid I can't discuss another patient's treatment with you or anyone else," she reminded him gently.

He sat down then too and ran a hand through artfully arranged locks. Then he loosened his tie and heaved a sigh. "Look, I really don't have time to argue my case here. We need to come to an understanding. There must be something you need…a weekend suite at the Palace Hotel, new computers for your office…something."

"Mr. Bass!" She was well and truly shocked by his implied offer.

"Chuck, please," he interrupted.

"Chuck," she began again, "I don't know what kind of health professionals you are used to dealing with, but I can assure you that I do not barter confidential information about my patients for free office equipment or a weekend getaway."

"Well, what about my mental health? I need to be sure that my friend is okay, that nothing will mess up her recovery."

"Do you believe something has happened that will hinder her recovery?"

"She's been under a lot of stress lately…," he paused, unsure of how much detail to add. "She's just done so well this far. I want to be sure nothing messes that up."

"You realize that neither you nor I has any real control of her treatment and recovery. That is up to her. You say she's been doing well in treatment?"

"Yes, very well. I'm proud of her," he didn't realize he was smiling as he said it, then his face clouded over, "But a lot of stuff has happened recently…."

"So you said. There's no guarantee that challenges and roadblocks won't come up as a person is going through treatment. Have you talked with her about these recent developments?"

"Not exactly," he hedged.

"How long has it been since your last communication with her?" He'd swear Dr. Maloney sounded like a priest at confession.

"Three days, sixteen hours and...,"He looked down at the very expensive watch on his wrist, "about twenty-two minutes."

Dr. Maloney bit her lip to stop the smile that wanted to form there. Dear Lord, he had it bad. From the unintentionally disheveled hair (which she suspected was unusual for him) to the impatient manner to the bribes, frankly, the boy was a mess.

"Had you been discussing her treatment with her?"

"Yes...and no…well, it's complicated."

She nodded in understanding. "Chuck, you know I cannot discuss her case with you. And I don't feel it's ethical for me to accept you as a patient while I am treating her. Plus, my specialty is eating disorders and addictive behaviors, not relationships."

"Oh, this is not a relationship," he was quick to argue. "She has a boyfriend. Well, had. Now she's dating other guys. Several other guys. But not me."

Once again, Dr. Maloney resisted the impulse to smile. She rather figured that was the reason for his sense of urgency.

She reached down in the pocket of her notebook binder and pulled out a card and handed it to him. "I can't treat you, but I really feel that you would benefit from talking to one of my colleagues. Here's her card. She has later office hours today. I can call and see if she has an opening, if you'd like."

"I don't see why you'd think I need her services," he scoffed.

"Chuck, you want to help your friend, do you not?" At his nod, she continued, "When a person suffers from a disorder like bulimia, they do not suffer in a vacuum; their family and friends feel the effects as well. It sounds as though you could use the extra support right now, to help your friend."

"Fine, if you think it will help her, I'll go. After all, it's only one visit, right?"

Dr. Maloney didn't answer. She was already on the office phone and in the space of a minute and a half had procured an appointment for him within the hour.

When he stood up to leave, she shook his hand. "Goodbye, Chuck. It was a pleasure to meet you, even if I can't be your therapist. I wish you the very best, both with Dr. Gold and with your friend."

He surprised her with a charming smile. "I'm glad I came today, even if I couldn't persuade you with new desktops or a suite. If you ever visit the Palace, feel free to drop my name for a discount."

As he left the office, Dr. Maloney felt free to grin a bit. His visit had been a very educational experience.


Another hour, another office, another therapist. 'What was I thinking?' Chuck wondered.

If he had thought this therapist would be another Dr. Maloney, he was wrong. The office building was the best section of the Upper East Side, discreet and well-appointed. The office featured luxurious furniture and a receptionist with a haircut that cost more than feeding a family of four for a week. Perhaps not surprisingly, Chuck found this reassuring.

Then Dr. Gold walked in with Chuck's papers. She was maybe a half dozen years younger than Dr. Maloney and her movements were quicker, her manner more business-like. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was styled in a pageboy that flattered her forehead and showcased piercing, dark blue eyes. Her keen gaze seemed to be looking him over and summing him up.

Though he was no stranger to piercing blue gazes (namely the steely ones of his father), Chuck immediately felt uncomfortable.

And then he smelled her perfume, and was made doubly so.

Before he could do or say anything, she looked down at the papers again and frowned. "You didn't fill out the paperwork, Charles."

"Since it's my first visit…," he tried to explain.

She wasn't having any of that. "How am I supposed to help you when I don't know your history and your concerns?"

Great, when it came to therapists, Blair had gotten the maternal one and he had gotten the drill sergeant.

"Isn't that what this session is for?" Chuck demanded. Really, what kind of therapist was she? If his concerns could be resolved by writing them on paper, why would he even be here?

"It wastes valuable time we could use for other things."

This woman was clearly a quack.

"Where did you go to school?"

His question seemed to come from out of the blue, but she knew what he was getting at: he wanted to know her credentials. "Yale."

Well, at least Blair would be impressed.

"I graduated at the top of my class and I have seven years' experience seeing patients. I can assure you, Charles, I am not new at this." She sounded confident but not arrogant.

"Sounds like you are doing well for yourself."

"I like to think I am making a difference. Now that we've established that you approve of my career path, let's talk about what brings you here."

He paced a bit, looking around her office, still unsettled. His eyes lit on a photo of the doctor in sporting clothes with her arm around another woman beside a raft on a river.

He knew that face. "Dr. Maloney, I presume?" He raised a brow.

"Yes," Dr. Gold allowed herself to smile then. "She's my partner. We took that trip rafting down the Colorado River two years ago."

"Dr. Maloney couldn't see me as a patient because of a conflict of interest and because she specializes in eating disorders and addictions. What do you specialize in?"

"Relationships. Finding love is always a challenge, especially here on the Upper East Side."

"Love?! I am not here for love!" he sneered. "I am here to help a friend who happens to have an eating disorder. I really don't see how you're going to help me."

"Well, then it appears that I can't. Thank you for coming in. It was a pleasure." She sounded so casual that she might have been turning down sugar in her tea.

"You're just…dismissing me?!" He couldn't believe he had wasted his time with this.

"Look, you clearly don't trust me and you don't seem to want to talk about your concerns, so why waste my time and yours?"

He turned to go. "I can't believe you'd treat a patient like this. What if I had come here with real problems?"

"Charles," she sighed, "everyone has real problems. If you acknowledged that you did too, you'd talk to me about your girlfriend and about why you tensed up the second you smelled my perfume."

"She's not my girlfriend!" he snarled.

"Do you want her to be?"

"It's like this," he sat down with a sigh and then poured out the whole story, ending with, "Now I haven't been in communication with her for several days and I'm worried about her and her recovery."

"That's admirable," she conceded. "Tell me, you see her at school, right?" He nodded. "Does she appear to be fine?"

"It doesn't matter how she appears. She's Blair; she's very good at concealing what she doesn't want known."

"But you haven't actually observed any behaviors that might cause you to worry she's relapsed?"

"No," he shook his head.

"Maybe you just miss her."

"You talk like she broke up with me or something. It was just some gifts and emails and messaging. That's not a real relationship."

"Did it feel real to you?"

"Her boyfriend—well, ex now—is my best friend. I'm not trying to steal my best friend's girlfriend."

She noticed he hadn't answered the question she asked.

"Besides, I don't do girlfriends. I never have." He sounded quite dedicated to his anti-relationship stance.

"Growing up, what was your parents' relationship like?"

"I wouldn't know. My mother died the day I was born."

She hadn't meant to hit a sore spot.

"That White Shoulders perfume you're wearing? That was her favorite," he said quietly.

"How do you know that? Does your father talk about her often?"

"Not at all. Ever. I only know because I was playing in his room when I was little, maybe five years old. The bottle was still on his dresser and I wanted to smell it. I was trying to get it open, but it spilled and the perfume went everywhere. I've never heard him yell like that before or since."

A bad memory, when it should have been a bittersweet one.

"I'm sorry it brought up bad memories for you."

"I'm fine," he brushed it off. "It was a long time ago. It just took me by surprise when you came into the room."

"What perfume does Blair wear?"

"Chanel No.5," he grinned. "She prefers the time-honored classics."

"It's rather a shame you don't do girlfriends. You favor a classic style as well," she gestured to his well-cut suit. "You have a great deal in common, an interesting rapport, and now she is free."

"Hardly free," he snorted. "She was dating within a day of breaking up with Nate. Since they broke up, she's been out with some old money society guy, a jock and a brain. Her dance card is full." He had no idea how envious he sounded.

"And you don't do girlfriends," she reminded him. "I'm sure you'll eventually meet someone at your school who you'll find more attractive."

"More attractive than Blair? She's ten times hotter than any other girl at our school…at any school."

"If you're attracted to her, why not explore that attraction? Have you discussed it with her?"

"No, we haven't been in communication since right before Gossip Girl sent out that text about Nate and Serena."

"She just suddenly disappeared? She hasn't tried to message or text you? Really?"

Chuck looked sheepish here. "I've been having difficulties with my phone. Besides, she doesn't even know it's me." Did he sound disappointed or relieved by that?

"Chuck, what happened to your phone? You don't strike me as the type who'd tolerate days of technical difficulties."

Damn, had she guessed? He looked at her. Her eyes were steadily looking at him, as if she could somehow see the truth. He might as well tell her; it wasn't like the information was going to leave this room. "I broke it."

"When?"

"When I saw the pictures of Blair on her date with Cooper Astor."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I was angry."

"Why were you angry? What's the first thing that went through your mind when you saw the picture?"

"I couldn't believe she didn't wait for me. I thought she would. With Nate out of the picture…." He shrugged. "I just lost my temper. Next thing I knew, the phone was across the room and the screen was shredded glass."

"You didn't go out and get another?"

"What was the point? By that time it was clear she was working her way through every eligible guy at our school. She doesn't need me, so I thought it would be a good time to bow out as her secret admirer."

"But you still admire her…and miss her." The woman had a knack for pointing out the obvious.

"I didn't think I would miss her this much. She'd cut back on our texts and messages last week—to be a better girlfriend to Nate, I think-so I was trying to get used to less of her. Now there's none of her. And I don't know how she's doing. I miss her wit. I just miss her…and I don't know why I just told you all that."

"Because I'm on your side," she reminded him. "You're supposed to be able to count on my support. I am Team Charles." She gave him a little smile then.

"Actually, it's Chuck. Only my father calls me Charles."

"I shall order my t-shirt with Team Chuck on it then. And I wouldn't be too hasty to discount Blair as not being on your team as well. She has tried to contact you since then, right?"

"Yes, but I haven't responded."

"Don't you see, Chuck? She probably believes you have abandoned her, not the other way around. How do you know what she's thinking if you won't talk to her?"

"But…," he fumbled a bit here, "what if I'm not ready for a girlfriend? What if I hurt her? What if she learns I'm her admirer…and she's disgusted by that?"

Ah, the real reason for his retreat!

"That's quite a few questions, Chuck. I don't have a crystal ball. I don't have any written guarantees. No one does. Answer me this: do you miss her?"

"God, yes!" There was no hesitation.

"Do you want to be her friend?"

"Of course I do. We've been friends almost our whole lives."

"Well, then, I suggest you start there. Just talk to her and be her friend. You can figure the rest out as you go along."

He nodded. "You know, when you first came in here, I didn't like you."

She raised a well-groomed brow. "Really? I liked you immediately. And now that we've actually talked, I like you even more. Think about what I've said. I may not be able to write songs like Melissa Etheridge, but I do know something about forbidden feelings." She glanced over at the rafting photo again. "Come see me again next week and let me know how things are going."

After the door clicked closed behind her patient, Dr. Gold looked again at the photo and muttered under her breath, "Oh, Allison, when you said he would be an 'interesting' patient, that was definitely an understatement!"


Chuck spent the rest of the day pondering how best to carry out Operation Befriend Blair. It wasn't as though he could just pick up a phone (though replacing the damaged burner phone was definitely on his to-do list) and call her and say, "Hey, I'm back. I've missed you like crazy and I need to know how you are doing."

He supposed he could just message her, but what if she asked where he'd been? Was he ready to answer that? It was one thing to tell one's therapist (He had a therapist now? How had that even happened?!), it was quite another to confess to the lady herself.

No, this was going to require a little more finesse, a bit of a segue.

Should he send another gift? No, not yet, he wanted to focus on the friendship factor, not a romantic gesture. Besides, he didn't even know how she'd reacted to his last gift and that rankled a little. Ordinarily, he would have been quite sure that a custom lipstick would be right up Blair's alley. He'd taken a great deal of care in designing the packaging and consulting with the color masters for just the right shade. When it had arrived at his home right after her breakup with Nate, it was like the universe telling him it was the perfect time to give it to her. He'd had it sent by personal messenger the following day. Because it was special, because she was special. Still, he had yet to see it on her lips.

He really needed to stop thinking about Blair's lips…and questions he didn't have answers for.

No, he needed something simpler.

A note.

He would write her a note. Something that said supportive and friendly, hold the sexy. He got a plain note card of heavy vellum and a pen.

How to begin? "Good morning, beautiful."

He stopped, scratched out the 'beautiful' and ripped the card in two.

On a fresh card, he began again. "Good morning, Your Majesty."

Ah, better. Nothing conveyed proper like referencing royalty.

"Just a reminder that you are still the most powerful woman I know. Here's to a day of using your powers for good."

There, it was finished. Short. Simple. A show of support without resorting to wearing a Team Blair t-shirt.

How best to close? Your Secret Santa? YSS? Your Dirty Little Secret Admirer? Uh-oh, there he went again. He decided to just leave it blank, sealing the card in the envelope.

He was ready for tomorrow and whatever the day might bring.


He was so not ready for this day.

Oh, he had thought he was. He'd risen early and surprised Arthur with a request to get to school well before his usual time (which usually coincided with the tardy bell). Then he'd surreptitiously stolen into Constance Billard and deftly dialed the combination to Blair's locker.

Her birthdate.

He released the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. She hadn't changed it! She hadn't given up, even when he did…or tried to.

It was a good thing he took that breath; he really needed the oxygen when he saw what was sitting there on the shelf. An envelope, propped up for easy visibility, with the words "For You" in Blair's elegant script. It sat atop a small, flat rectangular box wrapped in silver paper.

Was it for him? "You" could refer to any number of people. But it had to be him, right? Before he knew it, he was holding the box in his hands.

To his delight, both the top and bottom of the box were wrapped so that he could simply lift the lid and take a peek.

He did.

Neatly folded into a square was a Burberry cashmere scarf in a bold plaid pattern with black, grey and just a hint of red. To be honest, it reminded him a little of his signature silk scarf. It was the perfect gift. So perfect that a frisson of fear ran through him that perhaps she'd discovered his identity.

Taking a quick check down the hall and finding it empty, he reached up and took the card, ripping it open without pause.

Dear Secret Santa, It must get cold in the corridors of Constance/St. Jude's and the streets of the Upper East Side, so here's a little something to keep you warm in style. Think of the red in the scarf as a little kiss from me, in gratitude for all your lovely gifts—especially the gift of your friendship.

There was no signature.

Okay, so she was still blissfully unaware that it was him. That was good…wasn't it? It gave him more time to figure things out. The relief he felt warred with regret that he could not put the scarf on right now, not if he wanted to maintain his anonymity a little longer.

It wasn't until he was closing the card that he saw it.

There, at the bottom of the message, in a spot previously covered by his fingers, was the imprint of two perfect lips in a shade he had designed just for them. The kiss print warmed his heart and heated his blood in a way no scarf ever could.

He just stood there for a moment, thinking about how his fingers had touched the same spot as her lips and wondering for the millionth time what it would be like to touch those lips, to kiss those lips…

He was startled out of his reverie by the sounds of other students arriving, so he tucked his gift and the card into the inner pocket of his uniform jacket and made haste to exit the area.

But not hastily enough, it would seem, for there, coming down the hall, straight for him, was Blair. Dark curls bouncing, high heels clicking, a cloud of Chanel No.5 and bemused minions in her wake.

Before he could stop himself, he smiled at her.

And wonder of wonders, for the briefest of seconds, she smiled back. Then she seemed to remember that they were still at war.

She spoke first. "Bass," she nodded at him, "are you lost? I believe St. Jude's is across the street. Or perhaps something else has led you to grace our halls? Has the dragon left his lair in search of some fresh virgins for breakfast?"

He liked her wit…and her choice of visual.

"Waldorf," he nodded back. "Word has it that finding a virgin here is a bit like finding a unicorn or a four-leaf clover. Besides, virgins are not exactly my usual palate. I typically prefer something a bit more…ripe." He was looking at her mouth as he drawled out the words. "Though I'm sure I could be tempted if the fare were tasty enough…." He looked her up and down as he said it.

For a second he would swear she was blushing, then she reverted to her Ice Princess mode. "If you're hungry, Sarabeth's is still serving breakfast. I recommend the almond encrusted French toast or the lemon ricotta pancakes. Now, if you'll excuse me," she moved to walk past him, but ended up brushing up against him in the confines of the hall.

His hand shot out to grasp her arm. "Don't you think it's time we declared a cease-fire in our little war? Now that Nathaniel is your ex, whatever do we have to fight about?"

She shrugged off his hand, but didn't really move away from him. "I'm sure we can come up with something. Hope springs eternal. But yes, I am giving you full custody of Nate. He's all yours."

"That's all I'm getting?" he wheedled.

"What else do you want?" she looked wary, especially when an enigmatic gleam came into his eye.

"I'll take the reconciliation with you and full custody of Nathaniel. You drive a tough bargain. Should we seal the deal with a kiss?" His gaze lingered on her lips, which were sadly devoid of any coloring but a sheer lip gloss.

Onlookers, already staring, gasped at his effrontery. Was he serious?

She swallowed. "I'm sure a handshake will suffice." She had her hand at the ready. When his fingers and palm met hers, a current of electricity seemed to shoot between them and they looked at each in silent awe.

When he was able to let go of her hand, a half dozen bystanders were already texting Gossip Girl. The War Between Chuck and Blair was finally over, and the peace talks looked…interesting.


Chuck skipped his Government class that afternoon. The lecture topic scheduled was "Ethics in Government" and as far as he was concerned, the government really didn't have any ethics, so it was a moot point. He'd much rather sneak into the Natatorium and watch Blair's swim class. It was like art appreciation—and there was a class in that—so clearly Blair-watching was the more educational endeavor.

Girls swarmed out of the locker room area, all dressed in the regulation Constance swim team suit, a conservative and serviceable black maillot. From his post in the hall outside, Chuck peered in through the darkened glass. No Blair.

Some girls had already started lining up for their laps. Still no Blair.

Where was she?

He heard her before he saw her, heels clicking on the mosaic tile floor. Then she leisurely walked over to a pool lounger and sat down, slipping off her pumps.

She unknotted the tie on her cover-up and slowly eased it off her shoulders, revealing a suit that was most definitely not school regulation. Oh, it was black and it had a modest neckline, but there all resemblance ended. The sides had mesh inserts, giving glimpses of porcelain skin below, and the back…well, there was no back. It plunged down to where the fabric began at her waist. The area from her shoulders all down her spine was entirely exposed and the snug suit showcased a derriere that fairly begged to be squeezed.

His mouth went dry. She'd taken his breath away.

It only got worse. She took the ends of her hair and slowly twisted them up into a chignon, revealing that silky column of neck. And then…the piece de resistance: she pulled out the lipstick he had given her and slowly applied it to her bottom lip, pressing her lips together and rubbing them against each other to spread the color. All the while, she seemed to be looking at the window, as if she knew he was there watching her.

Heaven help him, it was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen. The blood rushed south in his body and he was ready to go in there, grab her and kiss that pretty pout until it was naturally the color of the lipstick she'd just applied, teacher and student spectators be damned.

Instead, there he was stuck in the hall, trying to think of every unsexy thing he could to counteract the effects of her on his body. He thought it might get better when she was finally called to swim her laps, but no such luck. Beads of water gliding over her body. Hair slicked down and gleaming black as night. The cold water tightening the buds of her breasts and making them stand out in relief against the tight suit.

Oh, God, it was even worse.

He had to get out of there. Now.

It was ironic that he'd risen that morning with every intention of being her supportive friend, but since then, from the scarf to the note to their talk in the hall to her little (intentional?) strip tease at the pool, every single thing she'd done had created additional more-than-friendly feelings in him. Was she trying to seduce him?

In the face of confronting such an irresistible force, he did what any brave man would have done: he fled, so that he might live to fight another day.

To Be Continued in Chapter 5


Author's Note:

Greetings, dear reader! Thanks for joining me in the Secretverse. I hope you enjoyed this latest installment.

Special thanks to my betas: Chrys1130, Almaloney33, Chairship and SnowedUnderNJ. It was Chrys who was responsible for the perfume spill scene (I wanted Chuck to be instantly uncomfortable with Dr. Gold and she provided excellent motivation) and the comment about the kiss print heating him like no scarf ever could. The scene in the hall at Constance was inspired by Almaloney33, who expressed interest in seeing how CB would interact in person since most of their recent interactions have been through email, texting and notes.

Don't miss Chairship's stories, especially her hot Valentine's Day one-shot. Also from the files of "Is it hot in here, or is it just this story?": check out the newly posted chapter 3 of SnowedUnderNJ's Scenes From The Back Seat. It is scorching!

I'd love to hear from you. Why review? Because Chuck and Blair aren't the only ones who delight in finding little notes.

Xoxo