A/N: OMG! I'm not sure if people realised, I only did, like, two seconds ago, but in the Yale episode – when they all go up there (2.06, I think?) – the instrumental in the background, at the Dean's shindig, the violins: IT'S MUSE?!?! TIME IS RUNNING OUT!!?!? Like, ARGH!?! Going to see them at Oxigen this summer (for, like, the fifth time) and duly excited.

Disclaimer: honestly? If I owned Chuck Bass, do you think he would wear bowties? Or, like, ANYTHING?

REVIEWS – I think we've established that you peeps are MY LIFE over the course of the past nine chapter (ARGH! THIS IS CHAPTER TEN!) but let's share the love one more time, kk? polarblairbear & mrsblairbass & voguelover1996 & Maddtown & LuLuLG & ana-12 & Ellie & IcingTheCake & Ingridmarie & mrschuckbassx3 & Kate2008 & HnM skinnys & Fancy Piece of Work & egbert13 & Cathybronte & VanillaCokeQueen & BassKingdom & schizoOntheDancefloor & ggloverxx19 & Luv2Laff & MrsCullen-Bass & Princess Persephone & :D & ggff-fan & itsoglatime & ilovecujo1993 & rose & CheeseSwiss & odyjha & Melissa & BrittyKay247 & MizMizMi & 3Words8letterssayit&I'myours & Krazy4Spike & ronan03 & pandagirl1001 & dreamgurl & Killer Newton

And to my Beta, Titania, girl, I love you so much I might even THINK about giving you my Blink-182 tickets. And, as Led Zepplin say, that's a WHOLE LOTTA LOVE

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME


Chapter Ten


Is it getting better or do you feel the same?
Will it make it easier on you now,
You got someone to blame?
Did I disappoint you,
Leave a bad taste in your mouth?
You act like you never had love
And you want me to go without
Well it's too late tonight
To drag the past out into the light
Did I ask too much, more than a lot?
You gave me nothing now it's all I got
We're one but we're not the same
Well we hurt each other
Then we do it again
You ask me to enter
But then you make me crawl
And I can't be holding on
To what you got
When all you got is hurt
One love, but we're not the same
We have to carry each other,
Carry each other
One
'One' – U2

A weak, white sun filtered in through the dirty window, the kind that sends a shaft of the clearest light and illuminates the hovering dust. They sat by the radiator, first aid kit open at their feet, last night locked away somewhere dark and deep. There was silence, but it drifted lazily like the dust, basking in the sunlight and not shirking from it. Chuck kept his head down as Blair re-dressed his fingers. She could feel him shaking with the effort to hold everything inside. She gave his knee a squeeze, not wanting to break the silence.

He looked up. His lip was bleeding again. Blair reached, and wiped it away. "Breakfast, I think," she said, wrapping up the last wound. They were, if possible, worse than last night, but she forced them away into the box as well. Chuck sat back and went almost floppy. His head was titled back and his breathing was too shallow, his eyes jammed shut. This was the time when people broke, and drank, or smoke, or shot heroin into their toes – whatever they did to escape. Blair could only offer cheap candy and herself. "Here," she said, throwing him two of the bars her friend had gifted her in the 7-11 bag. She called him her friend, because there was nothing else. It wasn't Stockholm syndrome.

She rolled up the bandages, repacking the kit before she opened her own candy. It was plain chocolate this time, and she could only nibble at the edges, sick to death of sweets. "I would kill for a grapefruit right now," she declared to the dust, waving the bar. She wanted to see him smile. He looked so wasted, and not in the drunk sense. "I would gladly beat someone to death with this candy bar if it meant citrus."

Chuck gave her a lame smile and his eyes drifted closed. The sun lit up his face. He was white.

"Eat, Chuck," Blair pressed gently. "You have to eat."

"Pot kettle black," he muttered flatly.

Blair scowled. "Eat. Or else."

"You'll bludgeon me to death with that Twix?"

"This is a Hershey."

Chuck made a gagging sound. Blair rolled her eyes. "Please, Chuck. For me. You're so pale."

He looked at her, his eyes dark, and then grabbed the bar. He didn't say fine, he didn't stamp his foot, but Blair knew that was only because he couldn't be bothered – or because he didn't have the energy. She watched, not seeing, as he struggled with the candy wrapper.

"Here," she said quickly, almost laughing as his blunt fingers scrabbled against the slick plastic. "Let me." She went to take the candy, but he yanked it free of her helpful hand, turning aside altogether.

Blair stared.

"Chuck, I– "

"I'm not. Fucking. Handicapped."

The sunlight turned into a spotlight, and Blair felt herself blotch scarlet. She cursed herself for being so tactless. "I'm sorry. I just saw you– "

He spat venomously, "Yeah? Well you saw wrong."

"I'm here to help, Chuck. I'm not the bad gu– "

"I DON'T NEED YOUR FUCKING HELP!"

Chuck tore open the candy bar with his teeth and flung it, with all his strength at the wall. Blair had never seen chocolate splinter before. She broke off half of hers and laid it down beside him. A peace offering? A plea?

"Please," she said, hanging her head for shame.

Chuck turned the other cheek. His shiner was turning yellow. Blair knew she must look equally attractive.

"I don't need your pity." His voice was too quiet now. She preferred it when he shouted.

"It's not pity, Chuck," she said flatly, too tired to fight. "It's food."

"I'll eat when I'm hungry, Mother."

He said 'mother' like it was the ugliest word in the world.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

There was pain, and it was constant. His fingers felt like they were being held in a furnace, and he had nothing, no pills, no alcohol, nothing with which to douse the flame. He doubted the first aid kit contained medication, and he was certainly not about to confess the pain to Blair. Chuck was a silent sufferer, always had been. It was skill he had perfected to such an extent over the years that now detection was rare, and he was left to stew in peace. The way he liked it.

Or had liked it, until she came along and shot him full of morphine. Blair was a drug, and he was the world's worst addict. She would kill him one day, he knew it, maybe even with her bare hands. He couldn't blame her. Perhaps his father would even send her roses.

Chuck tipped his head back against the hot metal. The sun was high in the sky and such a dazzling white that it burned his eyes just to look at it. He closed them, not that it made much of a difference; the light leaked in through regardless. It hurt, but he didn't move. The sun's cool caress proved that life went on.

He couldn't lie. He had thought, last night, maybe. Chuck remembered thinking of Blair, Blair in the moonlight, and how their combined beauty was enough to compensate for all the wonders he would never see. But it was morning now, and he was still here.

Blair sat across the room, watching him. He could feel her eyes on him like an X-ray. She acted like he was this china doll, just one puff of wind and he would fall and shatter. He could take care of himself. Hadn't he just proved that? Proved his strength and worth, proved he cared about her more than Nate ever did. The only thing Nate had sacrificed for her were Knicks tickets, and they were hardly courtside.

He was suddenly furious. There was all this anger, and there wasn't enough space in his body to contain it. He wanted to yell out loud and break precious things, but Basses did not throw temper tantrums.

The pressure was building up in Chuck's jaw. His teeth ached. There was a jack-hammer inside his skull and the pain echoed off his skull, reverberating, magnifying into something that made his stomach somersault ominously. And it was all her fault. She, who sat up on her high horse beside the door, her legs crossed, looking so fucking holier than thou, when her tongue was black as hell. He should know. Blair Waldorf was as filthy as he was. Only dirt never stuck to her ... Or, it hadn't until recently.

But revenge had not given him the satisfaction he craved; it did not stop the sinkhole she had created when she left his arms for Nate's.

His hands hurt. As experienced as he was with internal torment, Chuck had little practice in dealing with physical pain. Little things, like black eyes and bitch slaps, they were part and parcel, but anything exceeding a graze – from broken wrists to large, inexplicable bumps to the head – were treated instantly, by professionals: doctors or drink. The worst he had ever endured was impaling his foot on a stray nail when Bart took him around a constructive site. His father had dismissed him, as if he had purposely planted the nail and then stamped down hard on it, just to inconvenience Bart Bass. He rode with his son in the ambulance like it was some huge chore, and Chuck had not uttered a single cry, even though he could see the point of the nail poking up through his flesh. By the time he got home, Bart had left for a month long tour of South-East Asia, Australia and China, without leaving so much as a note. He didn't call for another four days, and seemed to have forgotten the incident completely. He was seven.

Chuck hadn't; his hands hurt from using crutches. But that, all of it, nail included, was incomparable - a paper cut. His hands hurt now, like someone had locked his fingertips in a vat of liquid nitrogen.

He wanted to cry.

"Turn around, Bass." Blair had straightened up, empty Volvic bottle in hand. "Please. I need to pee."

He was grudgingly impressed at the speed with which she had adapted to her new toilet facilities. But that didn't mean he had to oblige her.

"Chuck. Turn around, please," she repeated, a little more than impatient, waving the empty bottle.

"No."

"Excuse me."

Chuck would have picked imaginary dirt from beneath his nails, had he had nails. "You're excused."

Blair stared at him, her face scrunching up in odd little full-face frowns. To him, she seemed thrown by his sudden acridity, perplexed and a little disgusted. As if his motives were so common.

"Look. Bass." She was using her Caesar voice. "I want to go to the toilet. And I don't want you watching. So I want you to turn around. Right now."

Chuck yawned widely and obviously. "Unfortunately, Waldorf, the world doesn't revolve around what you want."

Blair's face took on an ugly look. She looked like she'd bitten into the sourest lemon. "Of course," she replied, all prim and tight. He could have wrung the sarcasm from her words like a wet tea-towel. "How could I forget? It revolves around you."

His lip curled, and Blair sneered like a man.

"Because everything is about you, isn't? Chuck, Chuck, Chuck, morning, noon and night. 'Why are we here?' – 'I'm Chuck Bass'. " She made a parody of herself, and in doing so, reduced him. "'Why do they want us?' – 'I'm Chuck Bass'. 'Why did they pull out your fingernails?' – 'I'm Chuck Bass'." 'Why am I too insecure to accept that anyone might actually want to help me?'" Her voice was getting steadily higher and higher, and her eyes blazed like he had never seen them. She was a goddess, but he was Hades, Lord of the Underworld. "'Why do I push everybody away?' – 'I'm Chuck Bass'. 'Why can't I see that not everyone has a sick ulterior motive like I do, and that they might actually being helping me because they care?' – 'I'm Chuck Bass'. 'Why am I such an insufferable jackass?' – 'I'm Chuck Bass'. 'Why does everybody I know hate my pathetic guts?' – Oh, wait no, let me guess. You're Chuck Bass."

She spat at the ground at his feet. "That's what I think of Chuck Bass."

He watched her spit soak dark across the ruined carpet, mixing in with his blood.

Chuck raised his head and looked up at her. He was smiling, he couldn't help it. She was just too much. He cocked his head to one side, watching her, fighting the laughter. The pain in his hands was building. He didn't care, he didn't care about anything.

"You think this is funny?" she seethed. "Do you?"

He chuckled. "You're a riot, Waldorf," he murmured. "I'm glad I have you around lest I die of boredom. You're like a wind-up doll." He crossed his legs, leaning back and giving his hand a lazy flick. "Continue."

Chuck saw the welts his words raised on her white skin, turning it angry and red.

"Is that what you think of me? A game? Something to keep you amused?"

"You're Nate's girlfriend," he drawled, unleashing the monster. "What, did you delude yourself that I would actually love someone like you? Like you said. I'm Chuck Bass."

She deflated like a popped balloon. Everything rushed out then there was only an empty shell lying on the floor. Chuck forced himself to watch. He felt like a plug had been ripped up somewhere inside his chest, and everything was being sucked away, down the drain.

Blair's eyes glistened. "I should have known."

"Glad we're on the same page, princess."

"Don't call me that."

"I'll call you what I want."

"You're Chuck Bass." She said his name like it meant nothing and everything. And then her face contorted into a feral mask and, crazed like a whirlwind, she swirled around, picking up the empty bottle and hurling it at his head.

It struck his left shoulder, just above his heart.

Chuck gaped at her. He opened his mouth, but she got there first. She didn't yell or scream. Blair heaved a sigh, and held up a hand. "Just shut up, Chuck, okay? No one gives a fuck what you have to say. Don't you get it? People only listen because your dad's Bart Bass. And it's clear just how much he cares. I know, because my mother is the same. And I thought we had something, I thought we had a bond. But I guess I was wrong. I guess I momentarily forget that you were Chuck fucking Bass. And I think you did, too. And I liked that boy, I'll admit it. Quote me, and I won't deny it. He made me forget I was Blair Waldorf, always coming in second place when it counted. He made me forget Serena and Nate and my parents. But then I screwed up, I know that. I hurt him, and I'm sorry. I wish I could go back and change it, but I can't. And I need you to see that, Chuck. Because I can't do this any longer. I'm too tired to fight. It hurts. My head hurts and my throat hurt."

She was crying. Her hands pressed against her heart. "And I hurt."

"Oh. You hurt, do you?" Chuck's voice was thin and light like steam; steam leaves the worst burns. "You hurt. Jesus Fucking Christ. Let me get my violin because I care that much. You have no idea what pain is. You just sit in here, bitching about Serena and your mother and Nate and what a fucking shitpile your life is – while I'm out there having my fingernails ripped out by some ex-IRA psychopath!" He smashed his fist against the wall and the ensuing spasm of pain brought tears to his eyes. Or, at least, he blamed them on the pain. "Don't tell me you're sick of fighting because I'm just getting warmed up. It's time to rejoin reality. You're only alive right now because of me. You're not a Park Avenue Princess here, you're nothing."

"At least I'm not Chuck Bass," Blair said acidly.

"Thank your lucky stars. It's better to be a two-timing, backstabbing bulimic little whore here than be me."

Blair closed her eyes. "Why are you saying this?" She barely whispered, but her voice filled the tiny room, echoing, making it smaller. It stripped back the plaster and revealed the bars of their own private cage. "Why are you making this so hard? I'm sorry, Chuck, I can't say it again. And I noticed you haven't even said it once ... But I can live with that."

Slowly, she stumbled to her feet, and shuffled to the window. The dusk light framed her, and she looked like an angel. Her fingers gripped the sill for support. "I can raise the white flag," she said. "So please. Stop. I know we're in trouble, I know what's going on. I know I'm expendable. And I know what you did last night. And I know that you hate me right now. But we're in this together, Chuck. Whether you like it or not."

It took a tremendous effort to let everything go. To try a little tenderness. "I do."

"You do what?" Blair mumbled, not looking.

"I do like it."

And she looked at him like she had never, not ever, looked at Nate.

And Chair are back! Maybe we should get some Thin Lizzy playing, you know, the boys are back in town – no? crash and burn? Oh well. Really hoped you enjoyed this, those of you who missed our favourite gruesome twosome last chapter. REVIEWS – you the drill – ARE LOVE! Positive or negative, I'll take any and all feedback coming.

Thanks, Plonksie