A/N: Thank you, thank you all for reading, subscribing and reviewing. I deeply appreciate you lending me your ear! And to my very kind anonymous reviewer, I appreciate your time in reading whether or not you write a review (though I'll never turn that down ;D).
January 14, morning
i.
The operation is underway in room 1812, coats and scarves strewn about like it's a party south of 14th Street – though collectively they look more like a study group, a half dozen pairs of tense shoulders in school uniforms poised beneath serious expressions, downing coffee from room service, laptops pulled out from bags and balanced on any available surface – when Bart calls him back.
"It's done. It'll be off the internet in the next 30 minutes."
He's actually speechless, stammering- "How-?"- feeling several pairs of eyes on him.
"Friend of a friend. They agreed to pull it. But Charles- it's already been picked up by TMZ."
He sighs noiselessly. "I see."
"TMZ is heavily trafficked – probably more so than Page Six Online. And it's worldwide."
He glances sidelong at the ragtag army assembled in his suite. He's not even sure he and Blair could come up with an adequate plan to attack something on this scale.
"Well," he manages. "At least the Post taking it down is something."
"I wish we'd known before the papers went out. Gossip columnists in New York are the ones who will make noise about it."
And they're the ones who are buying the Post.
They're the Patient Zero of any story on a Waldorf.
He looks at them again- two Humphreys, two Van der Woodsens and an Archibald. Pawns, really.
But perhaps enough, if they arrange themselves strategically, to at least make a go of protecting the Queen.
ii.
"One of us has to stay here and track whether anyone else picks it up," Dan points out as they all reach for their coats.
"Jenny," Serena nominates.
Jenny makes a noise of dismay. "I want to help…"
"You are helping," Dan cuts her off. "You're the eyes and ears of the operation. Stay glued to the computer screen and don't leave this suite for any reason."
"I wish Blair was here," Nate says to Chuck. "Between the two of you, you'd have this wrapped up by lunch."
He smirks mirthlessly as he plucks his scarf from the foot of his bed, draining the last of his coffee.
Serena turns to Dan. "Oh, lunch," she murmurs. "Maybe we can get a bite later- are you in the mood for sushi at all-?"
Chuck suppresses an eyeroll, waving a hand at them. "You two are going separately. No lunch dates while we're mid-operation. Get sushi on your own time."
They separate in the lobby, Bass credit cards shuffled like clubs and spades and diamonds and handed out to all of them: "No great strategy required here. Just grit. Buy everything you can find."
"Are we recycling?" Nate asks.
"Within reason," Serena replies.
Chuck doesn't suppress his eyeroll this time.
"Just make sure they're gone."
It's almost funny. Almost hilarious, actually- a group of elite Upper-East-Side private school students, the world at their feet, dashing on foot- designer footwear, more like- from newsstand to corner store to bookshop, buying every copy of the Post they can get their hands on. Dumping every stack they can find in the nearest bin. A guerrilla operation, hasty and retrograde, to physically plug the dam of scandal and shame. A circling of wagons around the girl that all but one of them has betrayed in some way in the last week.
All but one from Brooklyn, who doesn't have the world at his feet and whose shoes weren't handmade in Italy.
Who didn't betray her, but who feels a stinging tug at his heart every time he thinks of her, every time someone mentions her, every time a shadow crosses someone's face or a tear falls from someone's eye.
Though he had nothing to do with any of what happened to her last week. He's the only one who didn't have a hand in putting her in harm's way. The only one whose lips haven't uttered her secrets.
Even still, he pauses on the sidewalk.
And Jenny clicks through the tabs of her browser, sending group text updates when NewYorkRag and SocietyUnderground, two other scandal sites, pick up the story from TMZ, linking back to Page Six Online, which now returns an error message.
And reports that Gossip Girl is still deafening in her silence. And as a matter of fact, the- ahem- the posts from last Thursday have disappeared, too.
The one from Brooklyn blinks, breath white in the chill, taking a long look at the city around him.
Xoxo.
iii.
The forecast didn't call for snow that day, but flakes begin to flutter around 10 AM.
They're all making progress, in what Serena wrinkled her brow and likened to a "six-handed massage" when Nate described it as a zone defense: Chuck covering midtown; Nate 23rd Street downward; Serena Upper East; Dan Upper West; Erik FiDi upward, until he meets Nate in the middle.
Around noon, Jenny sends another group text that The Palace has delicious espresso and she's not finding anything new online.
"No more caffeine," Dan replies.
She sends a frownie face.
Erik reports that almost no newsstands in FiDi carry the Post; they're all full of a curious mix of financial newspapers in various languages and pamphlets for 24-hour food delivery services with discreet ads for prostitutes tucked into their centers.
Serena: "Gross. Shield your eyes!"
Erik replies that at this rate, he'll be at Houston Street by 2pm.
Nate's faring worse in the East Village: "Bookstores and cafes with tabloids everywhere I look."
"UWS is pretty bare," Dan notes.
"UES a nightmare! Getting stopped everywhere I go!" Serena is in two of the photos, and much of the Upper East Side knows her and Blair by sight. She stopped after the first thirty minutes to buy a knitted beanie, tucking her hair inside and pulling the brim low.
"What about north of the Park?" Jenny asks. "Should I go?"
"Different universe," Chuck dismisses. "Stay where you are."
"No more caffeine," Dan warns her again.
"Do you have to be so bossy?"
"LOL don't make me turn this car around!" Serena punctuates her exclamations with smiley faces.
"Haha flashback." Erik winks at Serena.
Patience, he tells himself. These are novices, but they're all you have.
"Focus." He snaps his phone shut and puts it on silent, and so misses his father's call two minutes later.
He's most of the way through Midtown.
iv.
He finally sees Bart's call over a half hour later, and calls him back at once. It's just past 1:00.
"I was just about to try you again. It'll be taken down everywhere – well, should be down now, actually. Let me refresh." He pauses. Chuck's mouth is too dry to speak. "Still up on that NewYorkRag site. What trash." Another click. "Gone everywhere else, though."
He can't put breath behind a single word, though several bounce in his throat.
"Charles?"
"I'm here," he says weakly, turning on the street, the sharp blast of the Midtown wind tunnels blowing his hair back and ruffling the Ace bandage looped carelessly around his smarting knuckles. He looks at the newsstand up the block, his next target. "I'm sorry, sir, I just can't form a thought…"
"I regret that it took so long."
"This is the most unbelievable… How- how did you do this, sir?"
"Friends, threats, holding the deeds to buildings where people live and earn their livelihoods- they all have their uses." There's not a hint of arrogance in Bart's quiet tone.
In a flash, he sees both how alike he and his father are and how much he has yet to learn from him. He's never wanted to wrap his arms around the man as much as he does right now.
He screws his eyes shut, one hand fisting and knocking softly, idly, at his own temple. "I'm so grateful. Please- take whatever funds out of my trust-"
Bart clears his throat, a subtle indication that he doesn't wish to pursue this part of the conversation further. "Word has been put out. No one else is going to pick this up. The inventory of physical papers should be virtually depleted by the end of the day." He pauses. "Congratulations on the success of your first endeavor in crisis PR."
Now there's a hint of amusement. "And make up your classwork."
Click.
New messages from Jenny. "They're gone! They're all gone!"
Serena: "All of them?"
Erik: "TMZ?"
"Yes! All error messages!"
He breathes out, a smile of relief on his face, as he types. "All units back to 1812. Jenny, ask room service to send up a lunch spread."
He grabs a cab going eastward on 42nd and texts Tyler on the way: "Anything for me?"
"Not yet," comes the reply. Then: "But I'm on it."
He catches the corner of his smirk reflected in the rearview mirror. One battle is won, if not in a massacre then a sound defeat.
Now onto the next.
v.
In the end, he knows, they only got a fraction of the newspapers that were out there. He figures he made the most progress, but even with the hundreds or thousands of papers they disposed of between them, there are untold copies still in circulation, not to mention the ones that were delivered by subscription direct to offices, residences and hotels- other than The Palace, that is.
The rest of the group seems to think they eradicated the plague, the way they're clinking glasses and exchanging serious looks.
He clinks along with them, almost smiling fondly, despite himself, at the rush of having done something indisputably right. Something good.
Serena drops a kiss on Dan's mouth, her smile wider and deeper than his, and smooths Jenny's hair- bright red headband nowhere to be seen- when the younger blonde throws her arms around her. Dan and Nate are shaking hands and toasting.
Amateurs.
His phone rings shortly before 2:30 PM. He steps into the hall to answer it.
"The story was picked up by a bunch of other websites, and then disappeared," she says when he says hello. "Do I have you to thank for that?"
"I thought you were sleeping." She doesn't even dignify his put-off with a response; just waits. "No, not directly. But I did what I could."
"Thank you," she whispers, and it rushes over him, warm and luxurious. Something good. Then she clears her throat. "My parents want to see you."
"Why?"
"They want to thank you for helping me. I warn you, my mother's probably going to hug you. She's suddenly very affectionate." She pauses. "I told them you had a big test to study for and I didn't know if you could take a break."
He snorts. "I'm glad they know me so abstractly that that alibi holds water. I'll be there in an hour."
vi.
Eleanor not only hugs him, she hugs him twice. First a tight squeeze around his shoulders; second after two kisses, one on each cheek, followed by an affectionate ruffle of his hair.
"Charles, Charles, my dear boy," she's murmuring, makeup freshly applied, pearls in place. She's decked herself out in Chanel for him – skirt suit and No. 5 perfume.
He's glad he put on a tie along with his school jacket: the dutiful Charles, having just taken a break from academic drills in the St. Jude's library after another devoted day of scholastic pursuits. He decides his big test will be in European history, if anyone asks. With a final essay, if he had to take an educated guess based on the curriculum this semester, on the effectiveness of Sun Tzu's tactical methodologies as employed during the Napoleonic Wars.
Just to imagine Blair covering a smirk if it's mentioned in front of her.
Harold waits his turn, his embrace more abbreviated, less tense. "It's good to see you, Charles."
Eleanor is beaming at him. "Can we offer you anything? An after-school snack?" He keeps his polite smile intact with effort. What a wholesome idea. If these weren't Blair's parents, he'd innocently ask for a cheese sandwich or crackers with peanut butter. "Some tea? Can you stay for dinner?"
"Let him breathe," Harold injects, eyes crinkling at the corners.
"We just- we both just," Eleanor continues, hand on his shoulder guiding him into their front parlor, pressing him into an armchair and sitting down opposite, "we don't know how to express our gratitude to you. The medical staff at Mt. Sinai, despite their many inadequacies-" Harold tries and fails to cover a sigh- "were very clear about the role you played in saving Blair's life."
He opens his mouth to protest, not sure what he's going to say.
Certainly not the truth.
Certainly not would you like to see the surveillance footage of her crying on the street just beforehand, after I essentially called her worthless trash?
Something more mannered than that.
"I won't hear a word of humility out of you," she tuts, pressing on his knee now. "I realize it was by chance that you were walking by, but without you- had it been someone who didn't know her- we might not be sitting here right now, with her safe in her bedroom."
Her voice quavers.
"We might be at her wake."
Harold closes his eyes. "Eleanor."
"I'm sorry." She withdraws her hand from his knee and puts it in her lap. "Charles, just know, we are so grateful that it was you who found her. Please take our blessing with you wherever you go."
They tell him Blair is up in her room; she's not supposed to be getting out of bed. The statement is almost an apology.
vii.
He pauses a few feet from her door and texts Tyler to ask for an update.
He knocks, but it's unlocked and cracks open. Her eyes are dancing when he shuts the door behind him. "How many hugs did you get?"
"Two." He looks up at her wryly, playing along, but doesn't miss the hollowness around her eyes.
He settles himself into her vanity chair, twisting it out from its crevice with a thoughtless flick of the wrist. The gesture is familiar, reflexive. She watches him do it.
It's getting dark outside; just past 4 PM, but it's January, and the sun hasn't shone since the blizzard. Her bedroom looks like twilight.
"How was your day?" she asks him blandly.
"Enchanting." He smirks back. "And yours?"
"Beyond magical."
He laces his fingertips over one knee. "For the record- I actually don't think it was Humphrey. He and his sister were both quite perturbed by the whole episode."
"Little J," she sighs, as though she's forgotten about her entirely until now. Which she certainly hasn't. She presses her lips gently together in thought. "Whoever it was, they created something that can never be undone."
His clasped hands lift and re-settle further over his knee, absently tugging it toward him. "They'll pay."
She lifts her eyes to his. Shrugs one shoulder.
He peers back. "You don't want them to?"
"I'd settle," she says, flicking away what's next to her on the bed, and he sees it for the first time: a copy of Page Six, "for surviving my parents trying to suddenly be… parents. And avoiding any further pity from anyone." She frowns. "And being able to sleep."
He tugs at his tie, loosening it- Oh, what a day of studying the failed Russian Campaign of 1812, of shaking his fist at Napoleon's overconfidence in advancing into the tundra without secured supply lines. N'avance pas, monsieur!
She'd find that funny. "Want me to tell you a story?"
Her mouth curves, and the smirk reaches her eyes, which hold his. Her gaze is traveling over him now, and he wonders, absently, if she can see the dark circles under his own eyes. She's quiet for a few seconds too long.
His hand stills on the knot.
"What?"
"You look tired," she says.
He couldn't have slept more than five hours last night, and that was by far the most sleep he's had since last Wednesday. Before Bemelman's.
He pulls on his tie again, to the other side of his neck this time, and the knot gives way, sliding an inch or two under his hooked fingers. "Are you saying I've seen better days?"
"No."
They look at each other, two halves of a smirk making one whole.
Wordlessly, she nods her head to her right, the empty half of the bed beside her. His smirk fades, hand stills. She picks up her splinted hand and lays it firmly on the coverlet, face serious too.
He pushes the chair back in, jacket draped over its back, and- toes of one foot at the heel of the other- pries off his shoes. As he places one knee on the bed, she nods at his chest. "No ties in my bed."
How could he forget?
He tosses Page Six on the floor. His fingers tuck into the crook of her elbow; the other hand releases the top button on his shirt. She sighs in the gray stillness.
He's shaking Harold's hand, Eleanor beaming at him through wet eyes, when something occurs to him. "Does Blair know a Monsieur Petitdemange?"
Harold frowns, finishing the handshake at half speed. "Petitdemange?"
"When we were in the cab on the way to the hospital, she was in and out of consciousness, and for a while she was only speaking in French. She was talking to a Monsieur Petitdemange."
Eleanor turns to Harold. "The bookseller?"
"Ah." He nods, thoughtful, a small smile warming his face. "When Blair was little, we spent a few summers in various towns in France, first in the Loire and then on the coast- and in…" he turns to Eleanor. "Was it Chartres?"
"Honfleur," she supplies.
"Honfleur, yes- in Honfleur, the most charming town square with a children's book store. The bookseller was a delightful older Frenchman."
"He was wonderful with children," Eleanor agrees, expression dreaming along with Harold's. "We were in there at least once a week."
"At least." Raised eyebrows indicate it was more than that. "That was the summer when Blair's fluency really took hold. She must have been six or seven." His eyes mist as he glances at the stairs. "Darling girl."
Eleanor comes back to reality, too, and fights a frown. "What did she say about him?"
"She wanted him to sing with her. A song about a bird."
They don't need to know that the song was essentially a narration of the different parts of the bird's body being plucked.
Eleanor smiles up at Harold, patting his arm. "That's lovely. A fond memory she's held onto. I had no idea she remembered him."
Alouette, alouette.
He glances at her in the dark when he knows she's asleep and- remembering the first moment he realized her stockings were gone, the surprising sharpness of his fingers finding the dried blood on her leg, the way she looked into his eyes under the streetlights muffled by snow and didn't know him- moves himself as smoothly as he can, just an inch or two closer to her.
He silenced his phone in the elevator, and so misses the second important call of the day, and the text that follows, illuminating the silk lining of his interior jacket pocket:
"Heads up- NYPD coming Waldorfs' way. This is definitely our guy, but there's been an unfortunate complication with the DNA match."
viii.
He was supposed to be better now.
He'd done everything right.
He'd had a job in the library and volunteered to teach his peers to read. Taught them about philosophy and history and art, flipping through the encyclopedia and explaining what the pictures were when they got frustrated at their own lack of intellectual abilities.
He'd made his bed the way he was supposed to and kept his belongings in neat order.
He'd attended therapy sessions every day. Group sessions three times a week.
And once, when he'd broken down- early days then, memories like shards of glass still tearing at him as he tried to piece together what he'd been told he had done- seeing the dark hair and eyelashes, the graceful face of a woman who worked in the cafeteria and looked like an older version of her, unable to tear his eyes away, and stopped moving in the lunch line with tray in hands, lump in his throat, lips barely parting to speak one syllable:
"Mom?"
- he'd patiently borne solitary confinement.
He didn't remember, but he'd been told later that he'd stood still in the line, crowd gathering behind him and trying to jostle him forward. That the woman had eventually noticed, darted a few glances his way, before discreetly getting the attention of the guard on duty. And that when he'd been approached, he'd sunk to the floor, balling knees to chest and forearms lacing ferociously through his own hair, sobbing like a little boy and shouting, Stop, stop -
But that didn't make sense, really.
Because he'd loved it.
The woman had been gone when he came out of solitary. The lips were different- plumper. And of course, he'd never know what she would look like at that age, but that was her fault, not his. Her fault for being a whore.
But after all of that, and thousands of therapy sessions which, in time, he'd come to see he had needed, actually craved- hot tears, shaking shoulders when he finally, finally grasped the gravity of what he'd done to that girl- he was supposed to be better.
He'd written letters of apology. Dozens. Worked out the phrases over and over, forming and reforming them as he dreamed and exercised and filed books on their shelves. He'd always been good with words; he had a high IQ, his therapist had told him. He'd written and written, stripping bare an entire spiral bound notebook, and then another, until he got the words right.
He was sorry. He felt. He understood.
He'd lacked empathy for their daughter- for anyone- especially for women. Especially for dark-haired, pretty-eyed, petite women. He hadn't seen her for who she was when he looked at her. He saw someone else. He saw another world, another life, a past that he couldn't escape from, that rose up everywhere like walls in front of him and ripped him open even as he tried to get away-
He'd stopped writing then and thrown that sheet away.
He was sorry. He'd been ill. Sick and twisted in the heart. He hadn't meant to be that way, but that was no excuse. She'd been there, alone, and with one look he knew she was just what he needed. A second chance.
He hadn't intended for it to go like that, he'd just been looking for- for the warm sweetness of the past, the only sensation of comfort he'd known in his short life so far, from someone who, the way she looked in the half-light, could be, just for a few minutes-
He'd thrown that sheet away too.
But she'd struggled against him, and she hadn't been soft and magnetic and hadn't known where to touch and how to kiss, and she'd pushed at his chest and yelped, loud, but by then he'd tasted her and there was no stopping him. He'd needed it. And she wouldn't- she wouldn't just hold still.
If she'd held still, it might have gone differently. All he'd wanted, in his grieving, melancholic soul, was to have a second chance at that. It would never be quite perfect- his mother had been so perfect, clouded eyes and a nose dripping blood, white residue under her nostrils that she wiped away with a finger, smiling brightly at him- and twining him in her arms and not letting him go even as he tried to wriggle away, whining, shoving back- touching and exploring-
Of course, he'd thrown that sheet away. Balled it up with a fury that had made him study his hands, puzzled.
And he'd felt, somewhere under layers of calm recollections with his therapist and the melodic sound of her voice, a twisted, cold undercurrent that insisted: You hated it. You hated it.
But that was just as confusing as his furious hands, because she'd always murmured, even as he fought her, how much he loved it.
On that autumn night near Boston Harbor, she'd fought, bracing the heels of her hands on his shoulders. So he bent her wrists backward until they were limp. Then she'd kicked at him, trying to force her way out from underneath him, so he caught one knee under his and leant all of his weight on it, until he felt the satisfying snap.
He hadn't planned to do those things.
He'd just needed to have a second chance. Their daughter hadn't had the white under her nostrils, but, he thought as he handed her the drink, this might be close enough. He wouldn't fault her, of course, for not being perfect. It was really his mother's fault that he had such exacting standards.
You hated it.
He'd loved it.
She was supposed to love it too. She was supposed to twine her arms around him, drowsy and delighted, and then slip away. She was supposed to be his second chance.
He understood, he'd written at last, what he'd done. Taken her away from them. He'd never atone for it. He was so sorry.
They'd written back- he wondered if they'd tried as many different ways of phrasing their letter as he had his- and said that they'd turned to God and He'd helped them find the depths of their souls, and that therein had lain forgiveness for what he'd done.
He'd read the letter out loud to his therapist and cried.
He'd meant it, every word of what he wrote, and he meant the tears, too. He understood that he'd caused pain, which, his therapist explained, was the same thing he had inside him.
So why wasn't he better?
After six years of flawless conduct, model behavior, he'd tasted fresh air and sunlight. He'd found his way to New York, money from well-meaning maternal grandparents left long ago in an account with his name on it, determined to start again.
He'd done everything right. Begun studying for the SAT, his therapist's insistence that he could actually be something thrumming with every flipped page. Maybe he could move on.
Maybe didn't need a second chance after all.
But he'd found himself frequenting restaurants, nightclubs, speakeasies, dressing more sharply than an aspiring college student would ever need to. One of the first rules of getting out was to get a job, to create structure, to have a purpose. He'd told himself his purpose was to get into college, but he wondered, later, if sinking into the shapeless fading of one day into the next had been a mistake.
In dim rooms with ice tinkling in glasses and softly sloping red lips, he'd found himself tracing the lines of dark brows and pretty eyes. They'd never be quite right, he kept telling himself, so he was safe. Just to look.
He was better now, after all.
But her eyes were so similar. It was too close to perfect. He'd stepped in to get out of the stinging, freezing rain, approached the corner seat, turned to hang up his coat, and turned back around to find those wide brown eyes peering stealthily at him. Then flicking away.
Like she existed, there, in that seat, just for him. Sent by the God he'd heard so much about. A gift, because he'd done so well.
Talkative. An easy smile- dazzling. Warm. She would understand. Not quite perfect, but maybe that was okay, he bargained, as a dark joy built inside him.
His relief at his impending second chance made him easy and confident in her company. She'd turned to find them a table, and he offered to carry over her drink.
It was ready in his blazer pocket the whole time; he'd opened it with two fingers while they talked.
He'd just been carrying it in case- even though he really only wanted to look.
Elation as they sat at a table for two. She'd love it. And then she'd slip away.
And then, then, he would be better. He was sure this time.
But after she'd started to blink more slowly and the lies came pouring out, anything to get her to a spot alone- the promise of a car, the urgency of a crying toddler- it had turned out that she was a whore, just like the one before her, just like his mother. She didn't twine him closer; didn't eagerly kneel down. She didn't even give him a chance to try to wriggle out of her arms. She didn't understand at all. She didn't want to.
So he didn't stay to watch her slip away, just as he hadn't stayed to watch the one before. Whores disgusted him.
And in any event, it was just a temporary weakness. It was her fault, really. He'd gone to all his therapy sessions and written his letters and meant it all.
There was a twisting coldness, still, underneath, that if he was really better he wouldn't, even now, just a few days after choosing the wrong one for his second chance- again- find his gaze sliding from one dark-browed face to another in the crowd, rejecting each one as not close enough to perfect, but seeking, always seeking.
But he was just looking. Because he was better. They'd let him go, so he must be.
He'd cried and apologized. And he didn't need a second chance. He was better.
You loved it.
You hated it.
Or maybe it was all a lie, all along.
A/N Part II: Re: the final section of this chapter, I promise we aren't going to spend more time delving into the mind of Blair's rapist going forward; I actually didn't plan to at all, but it occurred to me that I should provide some dimension to him since he's such a strong catalyst to our plot.
Many thanks again for reading!
