Disclaimer: I don't own Gossip Girl, just the specific story I choose to bring the characters into.
Next thing I know, we're touching.
-- Ellie Goulding
Chapter Seven:
Blair was exhausted as she finished stacking the dishwasher. She realized though that she was comforted by the stillness of everything in the night. For the past ten years it had always felt like there was never enough time in the day to just be - and as a mother she had to take what little time she could. With the latch on the dishwasher firmly secured, she moved to stand up, catching her reflection in the window pane.
In an hour she would be at the dinnertable in a place she hadn't been to in years. It was the same penthouse she had eagerly attempted to carve a life of the floorboards with, in hopes that it would help to better define Chuck and Blair the couple. Why did he have to live there still, rebuild atop the ashes of their failed romance? She thumbed the crumpled paper in her jacket pocket with the directions scribbled on it - as though she might not remember - when she could hardly forget.
It was so long ago but why then did it only feel like yesterday? She inched closer to the window tracing the hint of laugh lines around her lips, examining the femininity that softened her. The planes of her face and the high cheek bones, features her daughter would one day inherit.
"Blair," she twirled quickly towards Mark, "ready to go?"
Would she ever be ready for this? There was nothing more she could do except smile and wish away the night until she was safely home. She grinned and closed the distance between them, looping her arm in the crook of her husbands elbow.
As Mark drove over the bridge she focused on the shadows that stretched along the interior of the range rover. Eventually she resorted to counting the passing cars, the grey clouds, anything to keep herself calm.
"When will the kids be back?" He asked, just as they entered Manhattan.
She had to think for a moment, step around the murky waters of her memory.
"Soon, the play should be over in twenty minutes or so." The twins had been taken to "Peter Pan" with Dorota an hour earlier, amidst much indecision on how to spend the evening without their parents.
Mark was just as nervous as his wife, although for entirely different reasons, and the rest of the journey was spent in a humming silence of anxiety. A buisness deal had to be closed before the end of their visit. It was something to anchor his cause firmly to the ground and he couldn't have been more visibly concerned about accidentally loosing the prospect.
They entered the lobby of the building together as Blair tried, without success, to stiffle the small flicker of excitement that bolted through her veins. All around her was the sorrow of passed years. She had crossed this same lobby so many times before - it was like entering a faded memory - breathing life into it again.
It felt as though she were staring at a broken toy that communicated, in the way it was damaged, all the days in which it had once been loved.
She thought of all the things she would rather be doing – that she would be doing – right at this moment as a butler took her coat, which she parted with reluctantly. In her dress she felt as though it weren't enough, like Chuck would be able to see every part of her regardless.
Mark kissed her, his lips were dry she noticed, as she skirted his teeth with her tongue. She wanted to inflate him with the confidence he needed, if he had weakness in this moment how could she be strong?
"Mark, good to see you," they broke apart hastily; Blair rubbed her thumb across the smeared lipstick on her chin, rubbing away the indescretion, "Coming from Brooklyn I thought you might be a little late."
Chuck made no sudden movements towards them; he stood in the doorframe, a tumbler between his fingers. She wasn't sure she could bring herself to say anything. It was like he had frozen the moment and she could see everything only with reflective thought.
Mark blushed lightly, embarrassed at being caught in such an intimate exchange.
"Yes well, we left early."
His hand dropped to her shoulder and secured itself on her lower back, a gesture that made her shutter instinctively for the first time in her life.
A thick disconcerting aroma of expensive perfume had applied itself like static electricity to the air around them. As they were led further into the living-room, Blair recognized the painful amounts of familiarity surrounding her. And then, as it was, she first laid eyes on Mrs Bass.
"Blair Hutlen!" the woman grinned wildly, her eyes half hidden under what could only be described as the most hideous hat that could ever be seen. She looked around; breathing in the penthouse she had once loved with every cell in her body.
It hadn't changed as much as she expected, there were still hints of her touch on the walls, in the furniture, of their love that had wasted away like stale affection. Blair wondered if this were merely an oversight on Chuck's behalf or if he had purposely left it this way. A partial museum, the crumbling dedication to the one thing they had both counted on for so many years.
Each other.
The woman rose to her feet rather clumsily, probably due to the spandex that wound around her thighs tightly. "I'm Abigail Bass, and I am beyond honoured to have the Blair Hutlen in our home!" Her name was uttered in a type of squeal reserved for fangirls and concert-goers but she managed to stiffle the scowl that threatened to cross her features.
Blair looked her over, the blonde hair that coiled around her neck and the American Apparel dress she was trying to pass for couture. She wondered where Charles had found her, at the five and dime, maybe McDonalds?
She smiled politely and watched as her husband took a seat across from Chuck, not two feet from this awkward embrace she had been caught in.
"Hello …" she searched for something further to say, "I must say Abigail, that is a rather beautiful hat." It was the perfect compliment to drain the intensity. She couldn't concentrate with Chuck's heated gaze on her back; it was as though he was burning holes through her dress.
It took three martinis before she could actually formulate thoughts beyond panic. Too far away from the situation to even regard the danger that lingered behind the brown eyes that remained glued to her every gesture.
In the first half-hour she dared not look over at him but as the alcohol soaked into her veins she became bold in her exploration. The conversation had turned into a business discussion that left both wives bored and distracted.
For the most part the evening had been bearable. Only in the stolen movements, the loving way Abigail leaned into Chuck's shoulder, the way he grazed her ear with his lips, did a faint feeling of stomach sickness creep up her throat.
She was almost worried about dry heaving every day they spent together, every secret she kept tucked in her heart, onto the carpet.
"So, I hear that you know my husband from school?" Abigail said after a while, trying as best she could to maintain some kind of narrative between them.
Blair shifted against the couch; she shook her hand free from the cushion and placed it on her lap. Where to begin and what exactly to say? She shot a glance at Chuck who seemed amused in her struggle to announce something non-commitally.
This is what you wanted, his eyes told her, I haven't said anything.
How easy then it would have been to be honest, we were lovers once … and now we aren't.
"Mm, I do –"
"It has been a while," Chuck said, "Years."
Mark leaned forward, clearly interested in this exchange, "Ah, someone who knew Blair as a kid. Perhaps you could tell me then what she refuses to talk about!"
Her eyes slid towards the door, she wanted to run home, bury her nose in the pillows on her bed and never speak to Chuck Bass again.
"It seems too long ago now," he sighed, "I feel terribly old." She watched as Abigail's hand slide up the arm of his suit to rest on his shoulder, she wanted to swat it away. Wait – what? As if to remind herself of his presence, Mark curved his hand further around the back of her hip.
"She never talks about her past," Mark admitted, his smile warm against her ice cold stare.
She sipped at remains of the martini in her hand and placed it less than gracefully on the coaster, resolving not to drink any more.
"If you'll excuse me," she didn't want to hear any more of the banter that circled her. "I just need to go freshen up."
Mark released his grasp on her as she stood, shaking out her hair as it hung around her shoulders in thick curls. Everyone looked up and for a split second she watched Chuck as he looked at her, daring him to stare. In a heartbeat she turned and started towards the hall, stopping mid-step when she realized that she wasn't supposed to know where to go.
"It's down the hall, fourth door from the left" Abigail called, "Dinner will be served in about seven minutes."
Good. She needed to fill her stomach with something other than vodka and olives, maybe then her senses would return.
Chuck didn't know how he had managed to hold it together for the past fourty-minutes. It were as though he was about to unravel - surely by now - at the sight of Blair drunk and aching to be elsewhere. Honestly, he didn't know how he kept a straight face, to feel less of how she felt as he watched her leave the room.
He counted in his head, waiting out the regular amount of time before making an excuse to depart from the conversation. He didn't have to look for her to know where she would be, he could feel it in his bones and smell her on his clothing. Even though they hadn't come within three feet of each other all night her scent had been imprinted on him since the day they had met.
It was a hunger that he feared he had lost the day they broke up - for more than food, more than his wife - for everything that Blair had been, could ever be and currently was.
He slowed at the door, closing his eyes against the cold metal of the frame as she sobbed into her hands. There would be no right time to interject, to split the moment into two distinct emotions. Blair looked up, her big brown eyes searing his own and it was the tug he needed to fall apart. In two long strides he was in front of her and on his knees, not entirely sure of his own intentions.
"Blair," She flinched as he pushed her hair away from her face, "What's wrong?" He enclosed her in his arms, inhaled her in greedy gulps. He was trying to soak in as much of her as he could, if they never had another second alone together he wanted to remember every detail. It would have to be enough to sustain him for the next twenty years. She buried her face into his suit and draped an arm over his shoulder. They were simple gestures that held more meaning than years of marriage to Abby.
"I -" she cleared her throat, "Why didn't you move? Why did you have to keep it like this?" He opened his mouth to say something, to answer, but nothing came out.
I can't let you go even after all this time.
That would sound too much like a cheesy novel or a bad movie, it wasn't what he wanted to express nor what he needed to say. She smelt strongly of vodka and of the martini's she had been drinking. She was drunk enough, beyond the point of caring whether or not either of their spouses walked in on them.
He could give a damn about Abigail, but he knew that Blair needed Mark. Her husband - the man who had been taking care of her - loving her and probably doing a better job of it than Chuck could ever have done. He would always love her and always need her but he wasn't what she wanted anymore.
Her lips were soft against his neck at first, like she was asking a question - uncertian of the answer.
He didn't even need to think, lifting her chin to his own, the force of her lips against his own almost knocking him flat on the floor. There was an urgency to their movements, a fluid motion of knowing that they were doing something wrong - in the middle of a bedroom where it had always been considered right. How many times had they slept together under this very roof where they were now huddled in the shadows?
Then she broke away from him with a heavy defeated sigh, "I can't do this."
Blair stood up and walked to the door, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. "I wish I could hate you" she said, "And that you could deserve it."
With those words she left. He watched her heels click against the hardwood as she got further away from where he was crouched. He ran a hand through his hair, he was confused and utterly flustered with an emotion he had not felt in years. It had always been a silent understanding that they had fallen out of love, that there was nothing he could have done to get it back, but then why did every part of him ache to hold her in his arms again?
Minutes passed before he got off of his knees and left the bedroom, closing the door quickly. He brushed a finger to his lips, the taste of Blair still fresh in his mouth, of alcohol and lust. Her words stuck in his head, floating around without enough explanation.
I wish I could hate you and that you could deserve it, but didn't he?
A/N: MERRY CHRISTMAS! Sorry for any mistakes if there are any, I produced this chapter really quickly and didn't even go through my beta before posting. I hope you liked it and that you drop a review if you have some time because that would just be epic.
