Author's Note: I wanted to take a moment to assure those readers who feel like progress has been very slow in this story. My purpose in writing this story wasn't so much to correct the mistake of romantically linking Dan and Blair, although I have no intention of repeating that tragedy, but in correcting the mistake of how Blair losing her baby was handled. If you believe in the Kübler-Ross Model – better known as the five stages of grief – then one has to go through denial, anger, bargaining, and depression before reaching the acceptance stage. I won't divulge which stage Chuck and Blair are in as I loathe giving out even a glimpse of my outline, but I have continually kept this theory in mind while writing this story and each chapter contains a significant event despite a perceived slowness in the progress of the story.

Civility of the incivility – a situation he grown accustomed to over the years because sometimes to get your needs met, you have to choose an unsavory partner. A private investigator just as skilled at finding all your secrets as those of your adversary whose loyalty is only as deep as your pockets. An uncle hell bent on the destruction of his nephew whose veins incidentally hold the only thing that can save said nephew. An anonymous blogger who gets off on sharing secrets and ruining peoples' lives whose vast network of informants hold the key to the mystery of why this happened to them and who committed such a horrific crime.

A bed made by others prepared and readied for him as the incriminating photographs – the only evidence of this crime – are spread out before him. His best friend encouraging him to lie in bed with the one who set that horrid chain of events in motion as he shuffles from one photo to the next and points out the shadowy figure in the background of the photographs. The man who drained the town car of vital brake fluid so they could not stop even if she had changed her mind and was no longer sure is shown lurking just behind the parked cars in the very last photograph of the stack.

A risk he had not calculated; a risk he barely sees because even now he is distracted by those in the forefront of the screenshot from the grainy security camera mounted in the garage. Yellow sweater, small glowing smile, and his hand pressed against her back. The last point in the before to his after.

"I know Gossip Girl isn't exactly our favorite person right now, but the photos don't lie."

And yet something is not adding up because Gossip Girl would not be the first gossip site to doctor a photo and, given her most recent posting, it seems unimaginable that she would want to help Nate in his attempt at playing Nancy Drew. Nate's suggestion that maybe the gossip monger turned whistleblower was peeved he would sit on the information for twenty-four hours is met with the murmured, acidic reply that she would not be the only one.

A comment that is taken in stride for the expected outburst of anger was performed alone on his perch above the city. The passersby below unperturbed as the construction below swallows his sounds; the friend standing beside him unflinching as the photograph of the before is pushed aside and out of view. The only remaining visual of the moment that was happy for them both because his dreams were coming true and his best friend was no longer a spectator to the long, arduous will-they-or-won't-they punctuated with reunions and wrong goodbyes that had come to define their lives over the past year.

Another piece of the evidence – weak yet substantial, a conclusion yet somehow still only the beginning – is plucked off the table and held up to the light because the man with the envelope standing in front of the Empire fails to fit into the narrative being spun for him. Conjecture about familial ties and the contents of the envelope being cash barely meeting his standards for a scheme let alone anything else. Yet the conceding confession that some of the pieces fail to fit is quickly followed up with an explanation of how the blond plans to move forward: a half-formed scheme concocted by the novice schemers in their group of four while the masters were busy dealing with the fallout of Gossip Girl's revelation alone on the roof.

Busy facing the reality that an accident was actually a crime; busy facing the reality that people who choose to stay deserve certain titles more than those who choose to leave and return at whim. Busy facing the reality that rooftop ledges and fingers shoved down their throats will not bring back the dreams they barely allowed themselves to weave that were ripped apart in the blink of an eye.

A scheme where the two blondes will stage a fight and then stage a comforting reunion between a man and his former mistress until all the gaps in this investigation are filled in and all the connections between a grandfather and his heir are severed. A scheme requiring acting abilities he is not entirely convinced the two have; a scheme that could work but leaves too much up to change, depends too much on his sister's feminine wiles, and fails to subdue the need for revenge currently needling him in the heart.

An angry, unrelenting jab that stokes the fires burning hot and bright inside him; an illumination against the darkness of despair that leads him down a particular path. A shove forward that threatens to bring him to his knees because a fist to the jaw is Nathaniel's specialty and hands that try to imitate such responses cost him more than he would ever be willing to gamble again. A decision too often made in haste and anger that can and will rob him of the opportunity to correct a mistake made years before.

So he interrupts, concocts a new plan, and plunges his best friend back into confusion because, yes, he has had a private investigator on speed dial for years, but the police have so rarely played such a prominent role in his schemes and solutions before.

"There are three things I care about, Nathaniel—"

And his best friend throws in with a semi-serious, semi-teasing grin the words that used to be true about his life before a limo ride left him unable to sleep and feeling like there is something inside his stomach – fluttering. Before categories were established where money and the pleasure money brings him were rolled into one; Nathaniel's ranking on the list expanded to include the van der Woodsen women and an adopted mutt; and the brunette from whom the butterflies derive their strength and their beauty that became an entity of adoration, consideration, and care all unto herself.

"Two years ago, Serena was the one in the car. Then it was Blair and I and the baby. Who is to say that next time your cousin won't succeed in hurting you and getting away with it again?"

His challenge to the suggestion that the culprit be allowed to self-report is answered not by Nathaniel but by the clatter of a cell phone buzzing across a glass table. A cell phone he snatches up in his hand half-expecting to find another blast; a cell phone that continues to buzz as the name of his sister flashes on the screen. A cell phone that sends a thrill of panic coursing through him; a cell phone he holds up to his ear and tries not to let the panic drip from his voice as he questions the caller.

One word into her correction of his misidentification and he knows that it is her. Strangers may not smile at the coquettish sound of her laughter, but her voice reaches deep inside him and pulls on the parts of him that he once did not know existed. Melts the cold exterior and sends the wings of the butterflies inside him beating so quickly that he has no choice but to excuse himself from the quizzical and confused gaze of his best friend.

The door to his bedroom quickly opened and then shut behind him because her perfume still lingers and he does not want to let it go. The crumpled blankets and dented pillows left uncorrected while the clothes are left scattered on the floor because moving anything would smooth away all traces that she was once here. That she came to him and, for a brief moment, he was allowed to lie down at the feet of his queen, hold her in his arms, and finally began to breathe again.

A burst of fresh air returning and filling his lungs as she tells him about her mother's decision, about the way she charmed the representative from Bendel's so completely that he has been asking for her all morning. A burst of warmth returning and illuminating him in this darkened room because she sounds more and more like herself – the young woman ready to make a power play for the throne despite her youth, the young woman who craved her mother's validation and finally received it – with each and every word.

A malicious twisting of his stomach as her voice becomes restrained, as she sinks back into the woman she was this morning – broken, mourning, and fearful – and explains that her mother knows about the return of her condition – the word the Waldorfs use to ghost around the problem causing his stomach to roll - and plans to inform her father.

"I don't—Can you be he—"

"I'll have Arthur bring the limo around."

The silence holds them both; the silence answering his question that maybe she was not going to ask him to come. The silence breaking with her softly whispered words of thanks because he understands how much she loathes to disappoint Daddy, because he is the one she ran to when her solution failed her, because he is the only one who understands the before and the after and the moments in between.

Except, as the line clicks off in his ear, he wonders if maybe he does not understand. At least, not in the ways that matter because she was so quick to apologize even after the revelation that she tried to save him when he was the one who refused to answer her the way she wanted him to when she called, he was the one who mucked it all up over and over again, he was the one who insisted she did not have the moves—

He swallows back this second game of 'what if' because there are some things he will never wish to undo, some moments he will never look back upon with regret, and some places that will always be sacred no matter what. Pieces of their 'us' that he will hold onto forever even as they do the tango of hello and goodbye; the resolve for retribution needling him further when he thinks about how that tango came close to ending.

Eyes rise from the evidence of the events of the past to the evidence of the events of the present; eyes soften with half-confusion and half-understanding as he finalizes his edicts and the decision of the group with a phone call to his private investigator and another to his driver.

"You really want to go this route?"

"Before the accident, she was ready to run away with me, spend the rest of our lives together, raise the baby together, and now—Do you not see what he cost her? What he cost me?"

"I do. I'm going to see to it that he doesn't get away with this."

His exit is stopped only for a moment by the engulfing topic that hangs between them because neither one of them wants to touch it. His gaze dart to hold that of his friend and to make sure that the words he says are understood as final because she is not his mother and he is needed by someone who actually is his family.

The ebb and flow of people jostling to get closer to the queen leaves him on the outskirts of the room yet admiration fills him as he watches the scene from the foyer of the Waldorf penthouse just beside the elevator. The return of her glow casting out a brilliant light that entrances all those around her like moths to a flame; the return of her glow reminding him of just how much he loves to see her shine.

Of how he was willing to beg, barter, steal, and sell his soul to see her smile like this for the rest of their lives even if it meant lurking in the shadows. A place he thinks he will have to return to when her smile falters at the sight of him, when her gaze is pulled away from his by one of those in the crowd before he has to chance to read the words written in soul and reflected in her eyes.

But there are others who see him – the best friend confined to the perimeter of the room because not everyone loves days of endless sunshine, the mother on the edge of the circle watching her daughter be anything but passive, the maid who sneaks up behind him and offers him a grateful smile as she takes his coat, and the stepfather who stops him on the edge of the living to offer him a glass of scotch.

"She came to you."

The words are pressed upon him as the glass is pressed into his hand. The merry twinkle of her stepfather's eyes showing just how well Cyrus knows this game – the chase of a Waldorf woman, the way grief can swallow a person whole. Words meant to remind him that while her glow moves with her, eventually it will find its way into the shadows and illuminate both their paths. Words meant to sustain him as her stepfather inquires after his business and employees of Waldorf Designs twitter around them in not so hushed voices about how often Mister Alyseka kept enquiring after a lowly intern.

The Waldorf women may have never met a party theme they did not like, but they also have never thrown a party they did not know how to end. Coats and farewells given out in tandem as guests are shown to the elevator and business deals are solidified even before he has the chance to finish his drink. Eleanor's smile melting off her face just as soon as the elevator door closes; Eleanor's voice dropping just as soon as she turns to face those still assembled in the living room.

"Laurel, what are you still doing here? Out! Out!"

The assistant chased out by the same motherly concern that causes Eleanor's eyes to flick towards the taller of the two men in the room. A harden gaze that softens as she watches her daughter tangle her fingers with his and brush her cheek against his shoulder in a debate of whether she has the right to rest her burdens upon him.

Burdens he gladly gathers up as his hello is a murmured whisper against her hair and his weary body leans into hers. Burdens he gently holds and carries in his hands as he asks how she is feeling while his lips ghost against her cheek.

Yet her reply is engulfed by the force that is her mother. Words scattered to the wind as Eleanor dials the numbers he once employed in a threat – thirty-three five six two and so on – and explains the situation to her ex-husband in terms that cause her daughter to press her body deeper into the sofa. Words scattered to the wind as he drops his arm over the back of the sofa and strokes her shoulder, as she leans into his embrace and squeezes the hand of her best friend seated on the other side of her when the call is placed on speaker.

"What happened, Blair Bear?"

Tears gather in the corner of her eyes; tears fall as she explains that she never meant for her condition to get so out of hand. Words and excuses he has heard before offered up as enough of an explanation only to be splintered by the soft confession those gathered strained to hear.

"Chuck and I were going to raise the baby together."

His eyes slide across the room looking for hints of surprise, and yet no one gathered bats an eye and no one listening on one side of the phone call or the other lets out a gasp. No one she loves seems at all perturbed by the announcement that she was going to give up a crown and man that loved her in a way too many saw as right for a man that loves her in a way too many see as crazy. "You knew?"

"You and Charles were in a car alone together on your way to the consulate of Monaco. Of course, we knew that something had changed between you two."

Eleanor pushes for the answers he has only begun to receive and throws out explanations that cause her to tense beside him. Because maybe this was her way of punishing herself and maybe she tried to control her body so she could keep on pretending, but the very incivility of someone trying to plumb the depths of her soul is an offense because that is a place only a few chosen people are allowed to see.

Harold pushes forward the suggestion he offered up once before and throws out a solution that causes all those gathered in the Waldorf penthouse to tense. Because maybe walks amidst the vineyards would do her some good, but Harold often has a blind eye to his daughter's schemes and antics and no one here can bear to be parted from her.

"Harold, we agreed last time that Doctor Sherman was the way to handle this."

"No."

Her adamant refusal cause those who did not see her this morning – clothes stained with blood and vomit, cheeks stained with tears – to recoil in surprise because, yes, she has always hated the idea of therapy, but what person trapped in this cycle of control and self-abuse does? And it falls on him and her best friend to offer up their voices in support of her decision, to step aside when she is ready to wage her own battle.

"I will not go back to Doctor Sherman. He makes assumptions about me, about what happened in the back of that car, about Chuck."

"And so you went to him."

Words – a reminder echoing the one offered earlier – pressed upon those gathered to discuss and plan and help the one they all love and adore by her stepfather. Words – a reminder echoing the one offered earlier – opening up his eyes and forcing him to see her return to the Empire and to him as a reaction to the misunderstanding of virtual strangers about who they are and what they are together. As a means to assure herself that despite the darkness and the pain, there are still some things that will always be constant, that can never be spoken of in the past-tense, that only they will understand. A looping connection from how she went to him when she was paralyzed by indecision before the accident to how she went to him when she was paralyzed by a million emotions after the accident; a needed reminder that he is her alpha and omega just as she is his and the pull between them will always bring them back together.

And Eleanor is detailing how they will find her a new therapist and how this condition will be fixed once and for all, but all he can do is continue to stare at her as she sits in profile beside him. Continue to feel the warmth of her glow spread across his body until the darkness is pushed aside; continue to fill his lungs will with the fresh air the glimpses of what she was thinking and how she is still her despite the layers and layers of misunderstanding and grief affords him.

Phone calls are placed, arrangements with another therapist valued for both her knowledge and her secrecy are made, and announcements that those gathered have things to tend to – real or made up as a tool of escape – are made until it is just the two of them alone in the room sitting side by side.

"My mother is going to count the food on my plate again."

"When did she ever stop?"

"When I was preg—"

The word is cut off – an excursion into territory she is still not quite ready to address – and replaced by the same melancholy sadness that engulfed them before when they tried to discuss the loss of their 'us' and lacked the words needed to explain.

"She wants me to take over for her at Waldorf Designs."

The marvel in her voice is still there; the disbelief that Eleanor Waldorf of all people could have ever made such a one-eighty on her daughter being the face of Waldorf Designs still nestled so deep. A sentiment he understands all too well because who would have thought that Bart Bass would ever leave his controlling shares of Bass Industries to his son?

And he wants to take her out to celebrate, to offer up a bottle of Dom and do all the things he would have done before, but alcohol is another a reminder of what they lost and, besides, the unladylike yawn engulfing her face reminds them both of how exhausting – emotionally and physically – today has been. But her hand tugs on his when he murmurs words about leaving and letting her sleep; her eyes glistening with tears tug on his heart when they look up at him and ask him to stay.

He does not carry her bridal style or over the shoulder in one of their games up the stairs, but her fingers squeeze against his and her hand radiates heat against his and the door to her bedroom shutting behind them cues them both for the start of a well-rehearsed dance.

Body on autopilot and working from memory as he retrieves a certain pair of pajamas from the bottom of the drawer. Body on autopilot and immediately leaning into hers as she stands in front of the mirror, sweeps aside her hair, and asks him to assist with her zipper.

Eyes on autopilot as they watch the dress fall and bunch at her feet only to rise up and watch her eyes flutter shut in the mirror. Hands on autopilot as they reach out to tug the hand moving to cover her body from his gaze away because he thought this reaction had been vanquished long ago, because he thought—

Cuts and bruises faded long ago, but the scars of what might have been are still etched across her skin. Nothing angry or red like the scar that used to zigzag across his head or the one that continues to zigzag across his lower abdomen, but the small fold of skin resting just above the lace of her panties remains despite the promise of what it meant having left her body many weeks ago.

"It won't go away. It was supposed to go away."

Anguish cloaks each and every word. His lips whisper words of apology because he failed to notice it this morning when he peeled her clothes from her body. There had been too much blood, too many specks of drying vomit, and too many problems for him to notice each and every one, but the excuses feel weak even as he tells them to himself because he knows every inch of her body, mind, and soul and he should have noticed this.

And then he is spinning her around and holding her in his arms; a gesture that seems to catch her off-guard because she freezes before reciprocating the gesture and burying her face in his neck. The venom dripping from his voice as he explains that Tripp will not get away without any repercussions this time because he will not allow Nate's cousin to continue to hurt the people he cares about cannot be helped even though the words he offers up are meant in comfort. But she is already moving past that, or maybe still fixated on what has to occur before she can deal with other fallout from the accident that was never really an accident.

"Some days I still feel pregnant – food turns my stomach, my body hasn't lost some of its changes – and then I remember how far along I would have been today, then I get my period and – people want me to move on but how can I when I can't stop wanting my baby?"

But he does not have an answer for her; his throat becoming tight and restricted and parched for the words he wishes he could find. Because the baby was a part of her so he loves it just as much as he loves her, and despite the number of times he tried to move on, he cannot imagine the day Chuck Bass will not love and want Blair Waldorf