A/N: Back at home! Sorry I was so lame last week- I ended up having way less time on my trip than I had thought I would.
By way of apology, here's an extra-long chapter that I hope you'll enjoy!
And last but not least, thank you again so, so much to all those who have reviewed, followed, and favorited. You all delight me! =) Happy reading.
January 15, evening
i.
"Photographers everywhere."
Nate's complaint buzzes against the polished oak of the table at Divine, the evening-hours-only restaurant at The Palace. He's having dinner downstairs tonight, sautéed spinach and bourbon-seared scallops and fingerlings with fresh rosemary steaming up from the plate in front of him. He's in a corner booth in the back, less because he cares about whether or not he's conspicuous and more because his father once asked him to leave the main tables- the better tables, more like- for patrons. Which he supposes is fair. And he's happy to be invisible; it's served him well.
He spears a forkful of spinach and half a scallop. Chewing it: "Where are you?"
"Home now. Practice after school" ambiguous team sports, as usual- "and no one else had trouble, but as soon as I came out they were everywhere."
He's in the process of telling him to wear a different coat and dye his hair when Nate buzzes again.
"Followed me home, I even got a cab. Almost shoved one out of the way to get in my door. They're still out there yelling about her."
He sighs, looking around the quiet dimness of Divine, candles flickering on every table, including his. He'd probably break someone's camera if they shoved it in his face right now. But Nate's more patient.
Third buzz. "My mom is about to skip town. She can't handle it after everything else."
He swallows, surprised to find asparagus folded deliciously between the spinach leaves. Martin, the chef at Divine- again, he wonders, is he Marty in private life?- certainly knows his craft.
He texts Nate back: "You're both welcome here if you need to hide. You could relocate after they've gone for the night."
The reply is surprisingly quick. It's like old times, like nothing happened.
(You son of a bitch, I oughta kill you.)
"Thanks, man. I'm standing my ground, but might need to take you up on that for my mom."
In reality, he thinks, Anne has always been a breath of Burberry perfume away from full-blown neuroses, petting and preening and tutting her dear boy like a fuzzy duckling. It was adorable when they were six, suffocating by twelve, and downright prison by age seventeen. He's watched Nate battle internally, just a brief moment here and there, between struggling against the confines of her puppet-mistress style of parenting and loving her in the way that only a siblingless boy can love his mother. A dull ache from an empty, otherwise numb part of his heart has confirmed to him many times, watching Nate with her, that while he can't quite understand that conflict, if he could, he might choose love, too.
"Offer stands," he replies, stacking a bite of fingerling with greens. Martin is so good, the potatoes don't even need pepper.
A few minutes later, Nate buzzes again. He flips his phone open, patting at his mouth with an embroidered napkin (darker taupe against lighter taupe, bottom corners of an abstract, vaguely palace-like shape visible, folded in half as it is. The foundation.
It's not Nate.
"See the press conference?"
He finishes patting at his mouth and replaces the napkin on his lap- blue plaid sport coat that he could probably pass off as a school-approved uniform if he wanted- while he decides how to answer.
I knew last night…?
…And didn't tell you…?
I saw the pictures days ago…?
My PI is the one who tipped off the NYPD on who we're looking for…?
He clears his throat like he's going to say it out loud.
"Yes. Paparazzi all over school."
Plus Nate and Serena. But she'll guess that anyway.
Right on cue: "Following you guys?"
He smiles faintly. You guys. Just like old times, just like nothing happened.
"Not me."
"Outside my building too. My mother is about to hire a sniper."
He glances up through the candlelight, toward the entrance of the restaurant, right at the front of the lobby. Definitely no one inside- the staff take their jobs seriously- but he's sure they're outside.
He texts back with one hand, tines searching for another asparagus tip. "Let me know if she needs any references."
He catches a glimmer of blonde hair, spun gold in the candlelight, loitering at the threshold of Divine. She's just slipped around the corner, perhaps ducking behind the large pillar that's big enough to obscure her path from the elevator bank further up the wall, and is now in the shadow of another pillar.
Blair buzzes against his hands. "The Times called to ask my father if we have any comment. They're rebooting my Night Out With profile from December."
He snorts as he replies: "Classy."
It crosses with another text as he presses Send.
"Like a zillion paparazzi outside!" Serena complains. "Can't your dad make them go away?"
He raises his eyebrows at her, but she hasn't seen him. She's leaning in the corner of Divine's entrance, back against the wall, shouldered into the corner where pillar and wide doorframe meet, neck craned to peer around the opposite pillar like a spy.
"Sidewalks are public property in Manhattan, VDW."
Blair: "Paper sales mean more than keeping it classy, apparently."
He swipes it away as Serena comes back, exclamation points matching the pout he can see on her face from here. "Seriously like two hundred people out there! Way more than when I came home."
With uncharacteristically flawless timing, Nate pops up on top of her: "Wow. Paps gone, every last one. Maybe decided I'm not interesting."
One corner of his mouth quirks. Or Serena is just more interesting.
He answers Blair first- "Should I send the snipers there first, or?"
He's in the process of replying to Nate when Serena cuts in: "Seriously, nothing Bart can do? I don't want to deal with questions about Blair."
He glances up to see she's idly drilling the tip of one shoe into the ground, knee swiveling like a flag blown by the wind.
"Maybe they want to talk about you," he punches with his index finger, other hand busy cutting fingerlings. "Are those flats you're wearing?"
He winks when her eyes find his, inhaling rosemary as he takes a bite.
He finishes with Nate while she walks over. "They've moved the party over here." He holds up a finger at Serena while he finishes. "If your mom wants to stay here and needs a discreet car, we can arrange."
Blair again. "We'd need an army of snipers at this point. You start assembling and wait for my word."
Serena gets tired of waiting and sits down across from him. "No Scotch?"
Actually, he hasn't. All day.
He blinks at her. Clears his throat quickly. So much conversation, yet he hasn't spoken for hours. Certainly not because the fact surprises him.
"Doesn't go with scallops," he replies.
Blair, double-texting: "Besides, I heard from a credible source that you wore out your Armani loafers trying to plug the dam on the Post yesterday."
He reads it four times in rapt succession. Who?
Serena is shedding her coat, pushing it onto the bench beside her. "My mom is late," she murmurs, eyeing his plate. "We're supposed to go see Blair."
An angry growl comes up from her torso. He glances up from his phone.
"Sorry," she apologizes, never one to be bothered with prim manners. He takes her in, eyes tired and caked with a sloppy mascara job; no color on her cheeks or eyes or lips. Same crewneck sweater from school. And flats. And a growling stomach. He's seen this Serena before, a few times. There's no name for it.
He turns his fork over, tines down, and pushes his plate across at her.
"What?" she asks, not touching it, running a hand tiredly over her hairline, smoothing back wisps that have wriggled out of her ponytail.
"I'm full."
He's not full, and they both know it. He remembers the way she shoved down five bites of apple and then lost interest, handing it back to Nate with hardly more than the glance she'd used to ask for it.
They watch each other.
He smirks. "It's too good to go to waste."
"Chuck the Humanitarian," she mocks, eyes narrowed.
"Serena the Good Samaritan," he drags out, just as dry.
She exhales, almost a snort, with a slight smile, and pulls the plate in front of her. He waits for her to make some crack about wanting her own fork- God knows where your mouth has been - but she's already swirling half of a fingerling through the rosemary-and-olive-oil garnish.
"I hate paparazzi," she deadpans.
"That's a shame," he replies, both thumbs texting Blair, "because they seem to love you."
She grimaces around a scallop.
"They were Prada dress shoes, actually."
Send.
"Anything I can do to help?"
Send.
"Charles and Serena, two of my most beloved people." Lily's voice is like stepping under a warm shower stream- probably from a rain head. She kisses the top of Serena's head, smooths his own hair, gives a quick squeeze to his trapezius like she's going to rub his tense shoulders. She spies Serena's fork moving and eyes him. "Charles, aren't you hungry?"
"Full," he beams back up at her.
Serena's flat blue eyes slide over him as she puts a large bite in her mouth.
"This is his," she informs her mother. The latter misses the hard sarcasm. It's muffled by the fingerlings. "He's sharing."
"How nice," Lily says, looking between them with only a little suspicion. "Like siblings already. I can just imagine you both as babies, sharing snacks in high chairs."
The front door of the lobby opens then and there's a burble of voices chasing whatever Palace employee has just crossed the threshold.
"Have you seen Serena Van der Woodsen?"
"Are you acquainted with Miss Waldorf? Does she ever spend nights here?"
"Have you seen Blair Waldorf since the incident?"
"Bart Bass is engaged to Lily Van der Woodsen, is that true-"
Lily looks over and sighs. Chuck and Serena exchange a grimace at the idea of the two of them as babies, sharing snacks in high chairs.
He winks at her again, twice, quickly. Just to keep up appearances.
Luckily, her flats are soft-toed and her aim is off when she drills him in the ankle.
"This is a nightmare," Lily says when she looks back at them.
Serena's mouth tightens. "Imagine how it is for her." She shoves her second-to-last forkful in.
Lily is holding a gift bag, he sees for the first time as she gestures to Serena, outlining their options for getting out of The Palace without being smothered by the crowd of bloodhounds out front.
Buzz.
It's not her.
"Thanks, man. My mom says she's staying here, but she's talking about stapling the curtains together, which seems like a bad idea. I can't really tell if she's kidding. So maybe keep our options open."
"Done," he replies.
Serena pops up as he's placing his phone back on his lap.
"You'd better not be texting some girl right in front of my mom."
He glances up at her in surprise. Her face is still flat, eyes half-lidded, as she drags the last scallop through the rosemary. Her clandestine texting game is stronger than he realized.
His thumbs hover over his phone, swirling as they consider and reject, split seconds each, several biting responses, teasing responses, evasive responses. The blank wariness in her eyes stops him.
Finally:
"Nate."
Lily kisses his cheek, reminding her to "call him if he needs anything," a lingering glance at his fond smile like she's trying to read him as she pads away, the clack of her high heels somehow muted with how lightly she moves.
Serena gets to her feet and looks down at him.
"Thanks for dinner," she says quietly.
He pauses, goes with a quip this time. "Can't have you looking frail on the cover of the Enquirer."
She almost smiles. "I'll tell her you said hi."
Buzz.
"Do," he replies without missing a beat.
Her footsteps are even softer as she follows her mother.
"No. Just want this search to be over."
He flips his napkin onto the table.
"Operation Sniper Army commencing," he types as he notes, one ear processing the information automatically when the front door swings open again, that the paparazzi are still buzzing at the door. Lily and Serena's plan to go through the back exit of Divine to avoid being seen must have worked.
Send.
ii.
Serena comes alive when she's with Blair. Other than that, she's dead.
She's never realized how much of a lifeline Blair really is.
Which is why she has half a mind to throw herself off the Brooklyn Bridge (or another bridge, in case Dan would read into that) for telling her she was on her own. For leaving her on her own. For not trying hard enough to find her that night, and letting her fall right into this trap.
But not yet. Not while Blair needs her.
And Blair does need her- she does- she's crying into Serena's stomach, sobs coming out like whimpers, holding a pillow against her ribs because she's not supposed to be laughing or crying or moving like this, and certainly not horizontal and curled into a ball, face in hands, head in Serena's hands, every shuddering exhalation going on so long that she has to gasp to fill her lungs- which hurts.
"I'm tired," Blair says at last, heel digging at her cheekbone but artfully avoiding the stitches that start just beneath.
Serena rakes her fingers through Blair's hair, like her own mother did to her earlier, and again, just before she left Blair's room a short while ago when she'd realized she wasn't going to be able to hold back crying much longer.
She hesitates.
"Do you want some tea first?"
Lily brought a king's ransom worth of Mariage Freres, one of Blair's favorite Parisian teas. Serena knows for a fact there's a lavender chamomile in there that Lily intended for Blair to drink to soothe her before sleeping. She's pushed it on Serena enough times: sharing a cup, passing it back and forth on top of a cloudlike duvet.
"I'm too tired," Blair says, as though she's just realizing it herself. "God, I'm tired." She eases herself up, cringing visibly when she shifts her ribs in a way she shouldn't, and throws her best glare toward the greenery and bamboo on her dresser. It doesn't work particularly well, pink-nosed and puffy-eyed as she is, even her waterlines swollen from being rubbed so viciously. "I blame that thing."
Serena chuckles, nose wrinkled, as she gets into bed. Her mother knows both her and Blair well; at the bottom of the Mariage Freres bag, tugged out and passed to Serena before they made a run for it into the Waldorf building, was a set of pajamas for Serena, in case you need to stay.
She didn't invite me.
And maybe she won't, but darling, in times like these you have to be ready to bend yourself around what the person you love needs. She touched Serena's shoulder, wet eyes visible in the darkness, like she was about to say something like, just like she would for you.
But she didn't have to, because Serena already knew, and turned away.
Not just like she would for Serena. Just like she has for Serena.
And where is Serena every time?
Drunk. Self-absorbed. Coked out. Fucking Blair's boyfriend. Running away. Ignoring her mother's mentions of the Waldorf scandal and divorce.
Bend yourself, she told herself as dread filled her stomach, trotting up the stairs behind her mother. But then she stepped into Blair's bedroom, and her life lit up again. Because people that describe Serena as free and uplifting, that think she's lighter than air and full of life, have it backwards. Even like this, Blair- Blair is the lifeline.
And Serena is what sucks the life out.
"Bart doesn't have great instincts about flowers," Serena agrees, "true. He sends my mom these random planters of mini bushes and cactuses. Once he sent her a Venus flytrap." Erik had tried to feed caviar to it, and it died.
"That's disgusting," Blair says flatly, with a reverent shake of the head. "If taste were a church, he'd be excommunicated. Who gives someone bamboo, for God's sake?"
Serena clamps a palm over her mouth and nose, muzzling a snort. "Maybe he thinks you're a panda."
Blair wriggles down next to Serena. "Make sure your mother makes all decorating decisions, forever and ever," plumping her pillow- "amen. Tea in the morning," she requests- "can you stay?"
Constance and St. Jude's have cancelled classes for the next few days while the administration figures out how to handle the unprecedented presence of paparazzi on their doorstep. The parents of their matriculation certainly don't pay the tuition fees they do for their children to fend off harassment with one foot while pursuing an education with the other. Reading and homework, at a higher volume than normal, will be assigned via the school's web portal, until in-person classes can resume.
"Chuck says hi," Serena said when conversation lagged just past pleasantries.
"I understand he's been quite helpful with… over the last few days," Lily added, watching Blair carefully.
Blair was watching carefully back. Her bandaged hand slid over to the blank spot to her right, absently smoothed the duvet. "He has," she agreed.
"I'll stay forever," Serena tells her again when the lights go off, smiling at the promise. "Come here?"
Blair turns down the duvet and curls back up on Serena's stomach. She shudders again, a few tears, but clutches the pillow closer and stops herself. "I love you," she tells Serena in the dark.
"I love you." It warbles. "Blair- last week, when we had that fight, I'm really sorry I said…"
"Please don't."
Silence.
"It doesn't matter."
Serena swallows, eyes on the ceiling, Blair's cheek warm against her nervous stomach. "It was wrong," she says.
"I know you didn't mean it. It doesn't matter. It's forgotten." Her good hand bunches a little in Serena's sweater. "I love you," she says again.
I don't deserve you, Serena thinks, but says: "I love you more."
iii.
It's somewhere between "up too late" and "don't even bother going to sleep" when Serena tumbles to consciousness, aware of Blair crying again.
She starts once she identifies the sound, and is on the verge of grabbing Blair in her arms- brunette head still on her stomach- when she realizes Blair is asleep. Her tears are hot and wet, soaking Serena's shirt like she's been crying for a while.
"No," Blair murmurs, so low under her breath that Serena isn't completely sure she's not imagining it.
She reaches for Blair's shoulder- aren't you supposed to not wake someone when they're having a nightmare? she wonders, frantic- but her hand pauses in midair when Blair says it again.
"No."
No.
Serena's lips part in panic. "Blair."
She touches her shoulder; Blair's face crumples and she jerks away. "Please," she begs, twisting her body into a tighter ball, a movement that Serena is certain is hurting her.
She tries her hair next. "Blair. Blair. Wake up." She pushes herself up on her other arm.
"Please don't…"
Blair's face sinks into her own palm. Hiding.
Serena freezes, the urge to cry sticking in her throat, but when Blair shifts again and the moonlight catches the evil black marks of her stitches, reminding Serena that there's a word stitched down Blair's thigh, she snaps. Blair won't relive this a second more than she can help it.
"Blair." She sits upright, catching Blair's head, and tugs on her. "Blair, wake up. Blair. Wake up!"
Blair's eyes snap open, and for a few excruciating seconds the brown eyes don't seem to recognize her.
And then they do, and she blinks, over and over, collected tears spilling, a faint hiss when the pain in her ribs registers.
But- and this stops Serena's heart for a beat- Blair doesn't look relieved to see her.
"Serena," she says. Her lower lip is quivering, stitches punctuating the movement. "Serena."
"I'm here. I'm here. What?" Blair's face crumples again. "Blair, what? Tell me."
Her fingertips run down Blair's arms; Blair doesn't look to have been aware that Serena has been touching her this whole time, and flinches away.
"I'm right here," Serena says again, hesitantly, removing her hands.
Blair swallows, touches the stitches on her lip, swipes at one eye, tucks hair behind one ear. Serena is about to sit up straighter, cross her legs to face her friend fully, when Blair finally opens her mouth.
"I think I should be alone right now," she says quietly.
Serena's heart sinks. "Okay. You want me to go?" She struggles to keep her tone neutral. Bend yourself.
Blair's eyes never leave hers. They fill with tears again, unwillingly, but Blair doesn't try to blink them away. One eye overfills and the drops spill out onto her cheek. "I think it would be best right now," she says, just as quietly. "I can have the doorman call you a taxi…"
"No- no, that's okay," Serena says, hushed, forcing the hurt out of her voice. She waits for a beat before putting her feet on the floor. She turns the duvet back up to the pillow where she's just been lying. Fluffs them both.
Her flats are by the elevator; she picks up her coat, which is thrown over Blair's vanity chair, next to the Mariage Freres, a few feet from the bamboo.
"Call me if you need anything," she tries before she turns to go. Blair hasn't moved, hasn't turned, but now she does, slowly and carefully.
"I will," Blair says back, absently. Serena seeks her eyes, but they don't meet hers.
Serena backs up a step, free hand fumbling for the doorknob. "I love you," she tries again.
There's a pause, and Blair's voice is thick. "I love you, too."
Serena closes the door, and that dead feeling settles back around her again, familiar and terrible.
iv.
January 16, early morning
The Waldorf penthouse is the ultimate paparazzi hot spot and like New York, a scoop never sleeps.
And so it is that Serena is photographed stumbling out of Blair's building at an ungodly hour of the morning, misery etched in her face too deeply for her to wipe away fast enough- it takes her more time than she's proud of to even realize she's got company- in pajamas with the backs of her pants tucked into flats, still clutching her coat to her torso. She stumbles out into the 20-degree weather, ignoring or not hearing the doorman's protests and inquiries about whether she'd like him to hail a cab for her, and does she want to wait in the private parlor behind the elevators until her car is at the curb, or perhaps go out the service corridor, because- Miss Van der Woodsen- Miss Van der Woodsen-
She's not aware until her breath is coming out in white clouds, like powdered sugar into a mixing bowl or cocaine when someone sneezes in the middle of a line, the wee-hours darkness spinning around her and a cab driver already pulled over, front passenger window rolled down, that the flashing in her eyes is not, in fact, from the replaying of Blair's nervous tucking of hair behind one ear, shaking jaw, terrified eyes – that it is, in fact, the flash bulb of the small handful of New York's finest paparazzi approaching her on the sidewalk.
They're yelling questions right at her, attached finger-covers slid off of fingerless gloves, groping for pencils and pads, an overhead mic like a big shower loofah dangling in her face. She hears "Miss Waldorf" and "Miss Van der Woodsen" and "statement" and "condition" and "injuries" and "rapist" and "manhunt" and for one awful second her knees sway underneath her and she's sure she's going to be filmed live, vomiting her nerves all over the sidewalk in front of the Waldorf penthouse.
As if she's not done enough to Blair already. Jesus.
And that, finally, snaps the world into focus, and the cab driver has kindly reached across and shoved the front passenger door open, and she slides in, expressionless, palming the microphone as it tries to follow her through the still-open window and pushing it out, and turns, cab driver clicking on the meter, and says, as he rolls up the window for her:
"I have no comment."
v.
Of course, that's not what the headlines say.
Miserable Serena, the photo enhanced to saturate the shadows against the lightened paleness of the rest of her face, almost white in the flash bulbs' illumination, is in the hand of every New Yorker who gives a whit about New York society the next morning.
"BLAIR'S BEST FRIEND: DESTROYED!" reads one headline.
Side-by-sides of Lily and Serena leaving- Lily's paparazzi photo somehow effortlessly chic in a black coat, oversized collar shrouding her shoulders as she slips sideways into a black town car, caught in the last possible moment before her face disappeared before the opaque-tinted window: angled up, up, a last glance at the penthouse, eyes Waldorf-ward, lips poised, chin delicate, neck graceful.
"WALDORF RECEIVING VISITORS!" announces this one.
Arthur passes copies of these to Kathryn, who has them sealed in an envelope and dropped at Chuck's door by 6 AM- what, they put this to press in a few hours? What time did Serena leave? he wonders- with a ring of the doorbell, but no human there to greet him.
He texts Serena: "Apparently breakfast comes with a side of VDW this morning. See them?"
He expects it will take her hours to reply- no school, no need to be awake- but she responds in seconds.
"Not the print, but it's online."
No hostility for suggesting she's part of his breakfast? He pauses. Types slowly.
"Everything okay?"
He holds for several seconds before sending.
She replies, again, with businesslike efficiency.
"Yes. Thanks."
Exhaling, he tosses the phone carelessly in the air, and it lands with a soft thump on his bed.
He's pouring himself a Scotch- he's Chuck Bass, after all, and has catching up to do from yesterday- when Nate buzzes. He almost doesn't hear it, and crawls back onto his bed, childlike, tumbler in hand.
"Paps back in full force. Even more than yesterday. Mom realized we don't own a stapler and is talking about having one couriered over."
He smirks. "Keep her off the internet." He's sure the Archibalds don't subscribe to trashy gossip rags.
"Haha right."
He takes a sip. "I'm serious. Lily and Serena are all over the tabloids. They're out for blood."
vi.
There's nothing they can do now; nothing anyone can do.
The manhunt has picked up full force: the FBI have set up temporary headquarters in Westchester County, with law enforcement contingencies from New York (City and upstate), Connecticut, New Jersey and Pennsylvania – and a representative from Massachusetts, just for good measure – convening to discuss tactics overnight.
They have boots on the ground by 7 AM, flooding the airwaves and all broadcast television stations with warnings, descriptions, mug shots, and instructions for how to tip off law enforcement of any suspected sightings, all underlined with a firm order to not approach the suspect under any circumstances, as he is, at this time, considered extremely dangerous.
Task forces of various combinations of detectives, prosecutors, grief counselors, criminal profilers- whoever is available in each precinct on such short notice- write and dispatch warnings; set up hotlines to funnel all tips back to the FBI-NYPD headquarters; paper public places with fliers. Coffee-and-sandwich food trucks appear in town centers, with grim-faced people murmuring about "not here" and "I don't know what I'd do…" lining up to pay for the paper cups and wax paper bundles.
Parents lock their children indoors and keep them home from school. Hands caress small heads, tiny sets of shoulders.
Sexual assault survivors cry silent tears, sending silent vows of solidarity to the two victims, and silent prayers that there won't be another.
People who have never heard the name Waldorf, who barely know the name Astor beyond the neighborhood in Queens, comment how pretty she is, how wholesome she seems, how pure and articulate and accomplished, and how unfair, how terribly unfair that such a lovely and kind young woman should have to suffer this way. And, with a cold firmness like it's already been done, that he will be caught.
vii.
The first visitors arrive to her building before 10 AM.
"Miss Waldorf is not receiving visitors," her doorman tells them, again and again. "You'll need to come back when you've been invited."
Penelope and Hazel, both of them soberly pale and in school uniforms even though they knew yesterday that school was cancelled at least through the end of the week, blink back at him, unimpressed and meek at the same time. It's an odd role reversal when a doorman has authority over a pair of Upper East Side princesses.
"Could you just tell her we're here," Penelope asks, her voice cracking. "Please?"
"We're her friends," Hazel adds. "We've been here before, tons of times."
"I understand that, young ladies, but she is not receiving unsolicited visitors."
"Could we at least leave her these flowers?" Penelope holds up the arrangement, the kind that's meant to lie on its side, an ivy plant dotted with white flowers, wrapped in gold linen with navy stripes. The closest thing to a floral tribute to Yale as it gets. "Please? And just ask if she's willing to see us?"
He sighs.
Blair hears her mother yelping in outrage from down the hall and gets stiffly to her feet, cup of Mariage Freres plinking softly to her nightstand. She opens her door. "Mother?"
The doorman looks both ways when the revolving door deposits him on the sidewalk. He sees two peacoats (ivory and red), two plaid skirts that touch past the knee, on the corner. Shoulders low.
"Ladies!"
Penelope turns first; Hazel reels after her.
"Miss Waldorf will see you."
viii.
January 16, midday
She's on at least her sixth cup of Mariage Freres several hours later, sighing in bed. She gave them an inch, and they took a mile.
First Penelope and Hazel, satisfying if a little irritating- like when you want a spoonful of ice cream but wind up eating the whole sundae, Blair thinks- in their effusive praise and apologies for their behavior last week. They have the intelligence not to snivel too much. There's a flicker in her stomach that tells her this is the moment to assert herself, to use their haunted, desperate expressions to her own advantage, to solidify them as her inferiors forever, but the whole maneuver somehow feels exhausting, rather than invigorating, as it should.
She's just tired, she tells herself. She didn't sleep enough last night. She'll take a nap after they leave.
But after they do- enjoying one cup too many of Mariage Freres, in her opinion- the floodgates open. She swears Penelope must have texted Kati and Iz in the elevator, because they're in the lobby by the time Penelope and Hazel are leaving, and they bring her twin orchids.
"So- after a while, the flower will fall off," Kati explains, and Blair bites back an eyeroll. As if she doesn't know how orchids work.
"But," Iz chimes in, eyes bright, "then it will come back, stronger than ever!"
"Just like you," Kati carries on as Blair's smile freezes.
"Stronger than ever!" Iz agrees.
Oh, God.
"Wow," she breathes, voice and smile tight. "Thanks. The symbolism would have been positively lost on me if not for your insightful analogies."
Iz beams; Kati flinches, but recovers quickly. They fall to praising her outfit (navy lounge set this time, changed after she showered to wash off the sweat from her nightmare, with a wide-cut neck on the thick sweater, which is faintly threaded with single strands of pink, white, green and sky blue here and there – ridiculous as an object of praise, by any standards), seeking her advice on their matching gowns for next month's gala, and complaining that Penelope and Hazel have stopped wearing headbands and told them, sharply, to do the same.
Pleading eyes turn to Blair.
"Keep the headband alive," she says firmly, with a brief nod.
They exchange grins then, and jostle at each other's elbows, breaking into a whisper, as they go.
ix.
She does sleep then, half-drunk cup of tea at her bedside, exhausted and comforted because it's light out and it's not as bad when it's light out. It's not as bad to be alone or close her eyes or both.
As she's about to doze, her phone buzzes against her wrist.
Serena: "I heard everyone is lining up to spend a few minutes with you today, not that that's unusual."
Smiley face.
"Should I line up now, or wait until the crowd dies down and try to get a VIP pass?"
The lighthearted sweetness, the inherent message that Serena is lucky to spend time with her, that it's somehow an honor, makes her want to cry.
But she doesn't, because she's Blair Waldorf.
She types steadily, evenly, each press of the thumb deliberate.
"No need. I just saw you. Talk to you soon."
x.
When she wakes, Dorota seems to know, and glances in guiltily. Blair looks up expectantly, late-afternoon sun now streaming in, though it's just 3:45.
"Miss Blair- there is crowd downstairs."
She blinks. A crowd?
"Line up to see you, as like you are queen." Dorota's face is pinched and wary. "And they all bring…" She flaps a hand. "Flowers. Many, many flowers."
Word must have gotten around that Blair Waldorf wants flowers. And what the queen wants, the queen gets.
"More tea," she says, holding out the cup. "Who's here?"
xi.
There are more than a dozen people downstairs; all schoolmates from Constance and St. Jude's, people she's grown up with, taunted and teased, bested in public speaking and races for class president, whose shoes she's mocked and whose parents' hospitality and admiration she's enjoyed. They file in one by one, Dorota announcing each name as though these are literally audiences with royalty, not short visits with a girl on bedrest whose facial stitches make most of her visitors struggle between staring and averting their eyes.
What's worse is that every visitor sings her praises.
"I've always admired your sense of self," says one.
"Your confidence inspires me. You really know who you are."
Clasped hands: "You're so intelligent. You're such an inspiration to me."
"Ever since your hard work on the NYPL benefit last year, I've been inspired to help my parents with our family foundation, and it's been really fulfilling. I wanted to thank you for being the catalyst for me to become a better person."
"You've been the glue that holds people together at school. Without your leadership, we wouldn't be accomplishing what we are as a student body; not even close."
What none of them says is that they're just here out of guilt, because most of them probably dislike her, and rightfully so- she's probably been cruel to and humiliated most of them at one point or another; made a point of proving them wrong in front of a teacher, and then smiled demurely when she received praise for knowing the answer; hit back with ten times the venom if they ever dared slight her in any way; berated them if they fell short during team athletics or group projects.
What none of them says is that they've probably wished her ill at some point in the past- not this, specifically, and not real bodily harm, but certainly their warm feelings haven't extended further back than the past few days.
What none of them says it that they had to really dig to find something positive to say about her, but they're Upper East Siders and there are expectations and damn if they weren't going to act like the society darlings they all are.
What none of them says is "I'm here because you were raped and I feel bad for you."
But it's what every single one of them means.
She snaps on her smile, pristine and flat-eyed, and thanks them all for coming, for their kind words; she had no idea, truly- and how gratifying it is, how inspiring- that she's been the source of such positivity and joy and growth for those around her.
Between each visitor, idly, her hand traces through her pants: WHORE.
"Miss Jenny Humphrey, Miss Blair."
Jenny shuffles in with a huge armful of gorgeous blue delphinium tied with a black velvet bow.
"Little J." She tilts her head. "All the way from Brooklyn?"
Jenny shifts her feet. "All the way."
Eyes dart from blonde to vanity chair to blonde. "Sit."
She does, and gets right to it: "H-how are you?"
It's a question everyone else has asked, and her thoughtful-yet-hollow response is on her lips when she remembers something that perks her up.
Jenny Humphrey doesn't matter.
Her eyes roll heavenward and back in real thought. "I'm in a lot of pain," she tells her, words clear and clipped. She hears Blair Waldorf, the real Blair Waldorf, speaking. Not Blair Waldorf the Tragic. "My ribs are broken. I have stitches, as you can see. I'm recovering from having been overexposed to cold for several hours. I'm sick of it."
Jenny's blue eyes blink back at her at a rapid pace.
"But," she goes on, "do you know what I'm more sick of?"
A slow shake of the head.
"People acting like I've caused such wonderful things to happen to them." She keeps her placid expression in place. "I'd think it was a joke if I didn't know better. They're serious. Suddenly I'm Blair Waldorf, the next Mother Theresa."
"Well…" Jenny fumbles a little. "I mean, it's not like you've never done anything good for anyone."
"No," Blair agrees. "But I lie and manipulate and use people and make sure they know they're beneath me, through any means necessary. And I'm not ashamed of it. And now-" just briefly, the expression slips- "now, they think I'm beneath them, and any respect I've built has been replaced with pity. Now they have to prop me up with nice words, real or imagined doesn't make much difference, because they think I'm fragile and broken and helpless."
Jenny is silent, blue turtleneck belying that she's breathing a little too quickly. Nerves.
"So." The smile deepens. "Go ahead, Little J. Are you going to tell me how great a role model I've been for you? How I make you want to be a stronger, smarter, kinder person? I'm listening."
She picks up her teacup- left hand floating out from under the duvet, where Jenny hadn't realized it was- and takes a sip.
And Jenny takes a deep breath, eyes shifting, and licks her lips.
"You did," she starts, "make me want to be stronger. You did make me want to be smarter. But not because you were a good person. Because I wanted to be like you- and other than at the very beginning, I wasn't blind to what that meant. But I didn't… care." She swallows. "I didn't care, because for a long time I wanted to be like you anyway. I didn't care that I knew you weren't a good person."
Blair smacks her lips, the gesture affected, but Jenny's not experienced enough to realize that.
Brown eyes sparkle.
"And then?"
Jenny's cheeks flush. "And then I saw that you'd never be my friend, and I realized finally… that if I wanted to be like you, I'd have to learn how to be cruel to other people. And…"
Blair waits.
"And I did."
Game recognizes game. "You sure did. How did it feel?"
Jenny looks down now, teeth biting into her lower lip, and closes her eyes. "It felt good," she admitted.
"It does, doesn't it." She takes a sip. "And you weren't regretting it and wishing you'd been a better friend to me over the weekend and planning how you were going to apologize."
Under the blue turtleneck, Jenny's heart pounds a little. She remembers buying a new pair of tights that screamed "I'm the New Blair Waldorf" on Sunday, dragging a white-faced, silent Dan out with her for sandwiches because he was moping in his room all day- and spotting them in a shop window, his eyes not even rolling as he followed her in, looking over at him as they left, small shopping bag in hand, startled to find him almost in tears, stopping him on the street and turning him toward her, demanding he tell her what was wrong. A long, hard look over her face, jaw set- "Jen, I love you, you know that?"- a palm on her shoulder dragging her to his opposite side, putting himself between her and a leering older man on the walk back to the loft, head in his hands while she made him a cup of coffee after they got home. All those wordless, fraught glances all weekend that she didn't understand until Penelope, tear-stained, shoved a copy of Page Six into her hands as soon as she planted her feet, formidable in tall black heels and her new stockings, on the Met steps the following morning.
Did you know?! she'd demanded of him in Chuck's limo, even though she knew the answer already, knew it as soon as she saw the spread. Knew that every time he'd looked at her on Sunday, all he saw was Blair Waldorf.
"No," Jenny says slowly, finally. "I was picking the perfect outfit to be the new queen."
A smirk, now. She raises her teacup in salute and then drains it.
"Just wishing I'd disappear?"
The blonde licks her lips slowly, clearly deciding whether to say it.
"Hoping you'd be in school so I could throw it in your face." She can't meet Blair's eyes. "But that isn't what I came here to say."
She came to say she's sorry for telling Nate, and for thinking she's better than anyone, because that's not how she was raised, and not a version of herself that she even recognizes, and this isn't because of what happened, but because she knows she can't live in this world this way- it's just not for her, not like this. Game also recognizes when it's out of its league.
She doesn't get the chance. Blair shrugs. "At least you were honest," she says, "which is more than I can say for anyone else so far."
Jenny finally looks up. "I wish this hadn't happened to you, Blair," she whispers.
In the same bored tone of voice she uses to order a refill on ice water: "Me, too."
Jenny's straightening her sweater and tugging up her ill-fitting jeans- what awful shoes, Blair comments to herself, absently- when Blair's voice hooks her back.
"Little J."
She turns.
"Thanks for the delphinium. They were a favorite of Grace Kelly."
"That's why I brought them. I Googled her favorite flowers." A small smile, and a nod, like she's bowing before royalty and she knows it.
Dorota shows in a pair of underclasswomen from Constance, chirping in unison like caffeinated chipmunks with calla lilies in hand.
Blair signals for another cup of tea.
xii.
"OMG."
A minor flood of panic races through him. Stitches split open? Pneumonia from being outside so long? Is it possible a broken rib might have fractured a lung at this stage?
But then: "I'm surrounded by sheep. I've been having visitors all day and they're all telling me how inspirational I am for them to be better people."
His heart sinks in relief. He chuckles, sliding his phone open. "So I should stop working on this sonnet about your many virtues?"
"Dorota told me Brooklyn is downstairs in the queue. Can you imagine?"
This earns a real snort. "He probably wants to file a complaint because you're making him miss school."
She texts back a few minutes later. "Are you coming?"
He licks his lips. Of course he knew that people were lining up to see the Waldorf darling- and not from still-silent Gossip Girl, but from the real-time updates on the most aggressive tabloid sites. Photos of stiletto-tottering girls and tailored-trouser boys tripping into her building with towering and sprawling floral arrangements, like true Upper East Siders, a few of them so comically large that they could fit through neither the revolving door nor the side doors of her building and had to go around the block to the delivery bay.
He was tripped up between not wanting to be photographed, not knowing if she'd want him to visit publicly, and not wanting to show up unannounced. That's not where they are. He thinks.
He shoves away the problem set he was only nominally working on anyway and reaches for his scarf. "On my way. In traffic."
He can almost hear the sweet, toxic hum of her voice when he reads her response, on the heels of his text to Arthur to bring the car around: "How very humbling it must be to live among the unwashed masses of Midtown."
The corners of his mouth turn up. "Anything I can bring?"
"Waldorf penthouse?" Arthur asks when he slams the door, gloves twisted in one hand, forgotten in favor of texting.
"Yes."
Buzz.
"Quick-acting poison and the antidote."
He blinks, thumbs tense.
"I'll flip you for it when you get here."
"Let's get on Madison, and then one stop," he tells Arthur as they pull away from the curb.
xiii.
Blair is in with, of all people, Prince Theodore when he arrives. Dorota tells him- or, rather, remarks to herself, with a slight grumble that's probably not entirely appropriate when one considers she's referring to royalty- that he's taken more than his fair share of her time. She shakes her head with a frown.
He nods knowingly, disapproval clear on his face as well, as if to say, I know, but he's descended from both the Plantagenets and the Hapsburgs. What's one to do under such circumstances?
She's asking him if he'd like a drink, showing him into the sitting room, and there sits none other than Dan Humphrey next to Nate.
And next to Nate, what he briefly thinks is another person, is in fact an absolutely gigantic arrangement of pink peonies. There must be over a hundred blooms, in a tall crystal vase with a bottom two inches thick. They're of varying heights, but all in perfect, enormous, luscious bloom, with scattered ferns and baby's breath punctuating the mounds of pink.
He stares at it for a moment. Not at Nate, but at it.
Nate's eyes are on him, though.
Dan looks from Nate to Chuck tentatively, not sure if Monday's team effort was a sound reconciliation after you stay the hell away from me, Chuck.
He nods at Chuck's hand. "Did I miss the memo or something?"
Nate turns to him affably. "Peonies are her favorite flower." He pauses, glancing sideways, not quite at Chuck, whose coat Dorota is taking. "Everyone knows that, apparently."
The corner of Dan's mouth twitches wryly. "I guess I'm not part of 'everyone.'"
Chuck avoids Nate's oddly accusatory gaze. They're flowers, for crying out loud.
And anyway, he's willing to bet he's known they're her favorite longer than Nate has.
"That's correct," he agrees. He nods at Humphrey's offering. "What is that, anyway, Humphrey? Your pencil box?"
Dan holds up the tablet-sized box, wrapped in pastel green paper with prints of the Eiffel Tower and finished with pink ribbon. "Serena told me she likes macaroons."
He does not add: When I finally managed to get her on the phone; and I've barely spoken two words to her since Monday.
Nate smiles. "Hey, that's really nice. She'll love it."
He stops himself from laughing, but only with strenuous effort. Sure. Fattening snacks while she's not allowed to get out of bed. That probably came from a corner market, no less. She'll love it.
He squeezes a little on the wrapped stems of the hand bouquet of pink peonies he brought- nothing but pink, no filler, no lesser blooms. Just silky pink perfection. Just Blair.
But he doesn't miss the faint trace of arrogance in Nate's smile when he watches Dan go upstairs, eyes trailing back down, ghosting over the bouquet in Chuck's hands that's a fraction of the size of his own.
Chuck takes a seat on the chaise, kicks off his shoes and puts his feet up, languid posture a deliberate contrast with Nate's straight spine in a striped armchair- the same one Eleanor pressed him into, patting his knee and singing his praises, he's tempted to tell Nate- and rests the bouquet on his stomach.
"You can go first if you want to," Nate says suddenly. Chuck glances over, wondering if that's supposed to be some kind of biting virginity reference. If so, it has no teeth.
He shrugs. "Doesn't matter when I go."
He wonders if she invited Nate or if he just showed up.
"I don't mind," Nate persists, and Chuck realizes why. It's past six; they're probably the last for the day.
He suppresses a smirk. "First come, first served." And while we're on the topic, size doesn't matter, he adds silently with a glance at the towering peonies on the table beside Nate's stiff shoulders.
xiv.
Nate, it turns out, spends less time with her than Humphrey does. Although, Humphrey does follow the prince's lead and overstays his welcome. When he comes out, he looks like he's been crying, waving a hand at them- Bye, guys - and accepting his coat from Dorota, heel-toe-ing side to the side with one foot, the other planted, in front of the elevator until it dings open.
"Mister Nate," Dorota says then, waving Nate along. "Mister Chuck," she says to him over one shoulder, "I apologize for long time."
Nate doesn't look back at him as he gets out of his chair and collects his peonies.
"I'm happy to wait as long as necessary," Chuck says pleasantly, aiming it at Nate's back- honestly, what is wrong with Archibald? Is he really only capable of wanting Blair out of guilt?- "or come back tomorrow if she's too tired."
"No, please, stay," Dorota tuts, ushering Nate up the stairs. "I make you drink when I come down."
Nate does glance at him then, struggling with the shifting stems, in time to see Chuck's arm come up to cushion his head. It's funny- all the times he's lounged in the Waldorf penthouse, been in her bedroom alone with her, many while they were dating, and it was never an issue. Now she's not his girlfriend, and their circumstances have nothing to do with competing or fighting about that, and suddenly it's all about claiming the girl he could never be bothered to care about when he had her. He has no doubt that seed was planted, actually planted, when she herself said Leave, Nate, the other night in the hospital. The incredulity in Nate's blue eyes had struck Chuck as beyond ironic. Suddenly he's Attentive Nate again, but only, always, when there's a chance she might not be throwing herself in his path.
When her bedroom door clicks open upstairs, he makes sure his expression is neutral. Nate has been his best friend since kindergarten.
But Nate doesn't even look at him.
"Goodnight," he says with a nod.
He guesses Blair didn't swoon and coo at him, because Nate barely checks. "Goodnight."
He stifles a sigh as Dorota waves him up, feeling blue eyes on his back because she doesn't bother escorting him.
Blair rolls her eyes when he lets himself in. "Where's the poison?" she demands in greeting.
"Sorry, the apothecary was fresh out." He tilts his head sympathetically. "I brought these instead." He holds up the bouquet, feeling his phone buzz in his interior pocket.
She smiles a little. And reaches for them, to his surprise. Nate's are on the dresser behind him; others are heaped on every available surface around the room, including the floor. It's like she lives in a meadow.
"Thank you."
He nods at the unwrapped box, green paper and ribbon heaped on top, on the vanity beside his chair. "I saw Humphrey brought you macaroons."
She wrinkles her nose. "They're made with enriched flour. And they're cotton candy flavored. Whatever that is."
"Well," he muses, mocking thoughtfulness- another buzz against his chest- "I suppose it's the thought that counts."
"Did you read that on a greeting card?" She brings the blooms to her nose and inhales.
He regards her for a minute. "I'm not sure if you've been looking online at what's being posted…"
"No, but I can imagine. 'Waldorf Becomes World's Youngest Recluse' and so forth. Throngs of adoring classmates. What a beacon of wholesomeness and good citizenship."
One-shoulder shrug: "Pretty much."
Buzz.
"It's a runaway train. There's nothing I can do about it now." She looks down. "I suppose once they catch him the interest will die."
He doesn't know what to say to that. Yes, the interest will die, but her name will forever be synonymous with this. And this is not The Blair Waldorf Story, not the way it was supposed to be.
She chuckles then. "Little J was the only person who was honest with me today. She at least told me that when she saw I wasn't a good person, she decided it was fine- even necessary- to destroy me."
"She learned from the best."
"That's tighter criteria than I even have," she agrees. "Mine is more like, 'I saw that this person wasn't entirely to my liking in some way for any period of time.'"
She's been polite in ignoring the buzzing, but she's definitely heard it, and when it happens again, she rolls her eyes.
"Pressing business?"
"I'm sorry," he apologizes, fishing it out.
Tyler:
"Where are you? Need to talk."
"News. Big news."
"Not good news."
"Or maybe it is. Call me ASAP."
"Late for a rendezvous…?" she teases, but it doesn't come off as light as she might have wanted. He looks up, and she swallows.
"No- my father," he lies smoothly, hoping that will cover the way he froze when he slid his phone open.
"Do you need to go?"
He stands. "If you don't mind, I'll just call him quickly."
xv.
He's only gone for a few minutes, but when he comes back, his face is a little too relaxed, his movements a little too sanguine, as he drops into her vanity chair with almost a flourish.
She looks him over. There's a faint flush high on his cheeks. She's seen that before, but she doubts he's erotically charged at this moment.
"Everything okay?"
His smile is a little too easy.
"Yes. Nothing to worry about."
Her thumb rubs over the ribs of stems wrapped in deep sage ribbon. "Do you think they'll catch him soon?"
He's tucking his phone back into his interior pocket, too carefully. "I think so." He says it before his eyes slide back to her. He clears his throat. "I'm afraid I do have to go."
"Bart needs you? Is he funding our sniper army?" she guesses.
He nods, a half-smile. "Arthur's bringing the car around."
His jacket sleeve got mussed when it collided with his lapel as he put his phone away- pushed back at the vent, the end folded back a little- and he doesn't even notice. She looks at it, at his carefully careless posture.
"Bart visited me yesterday. He told me what you did with the Post. Running all over town."
"It didn't help," he says after a second, "in the grand scheme."
They hold each other's gaze. She licks her lips. "Who was on the phone just now?"
"No one." He stands up. "I have to go. Call me if you need anything."
There's a tremor- "Chuck." - and it stops him.
He sees it, looking at her, the way she's glancing toward his chest and then back at his face, uneasy. Fear. He wants to go over and reach for her hand, and he knows she'd give it to him, and squeeze her fingers, run his thumb over her knuckles. But he's clammy with sweat and doesn't want to get too close to her, in case she somehow feels his heart pounding.
And he needs to focus on getting the hell out of here, and holding hands is not going to help with that.
"My father is annoyed at me for something," he improvises, "what else? I just have to go deal with him."
She doesn't believe him, but gives a smile. "Let me know how it goes?"
He nods, smiles back. As he turns to close her bedroom door behind him: "Don't worry about anything."
She doesn't answer, just stares, eyes wide, as he shuts the door.
He texts Tyler in the elevator. "Got out as quick as I could. ETA 15. Meet me on the corner of Madison and we'll go up from the underground garage in case of photographers."