A/N: okay, gotta make this brief, because dinner is getting cold. 1) don't own GG 2) LOVE ALL MY REVIEWERS WITH A BURNING PASSION OF LOVE 3) love my Beta TATIANA equally flammably (flammably? Is that even a word? LOL) 4) personally, as the show goes, I think Blair should get funky with Dan, to make Chuck jealous, and than Chuck and Jenny can be bitches together, and Nate will ditch Serena, who'll go back to Carter so I can drool over Seb, and, obv, Blair will totally bitch fight with Jenny over Chuck and everything will end happily ever after
STOCKHOLM SYNDROME
Chapter Eleven
If you want a boxer
I will step into the ring for you
And if you want a doctor
I'll examine every inch of you
If you want a partner, take my hand
Or if you want to strike me down in anger
Here I stand
I'm your man
'I'm Your Man' – Leonard Cohen
xoxo
"I'm bored." It was the first time she had actually uttered the words, and the first time she needed to. Being angry and upset over Chuck had taken up her time, energy and mental faculties. Now that she was free from those feelings, Blair was most definitely bored. Scared, yes, but also bored. Chuck dozed fitfully in the pink morning blush, and she prodded his shoulder. "Chuck. I'm bored."
Chuck mumbled something indiscernible.
"What?"
"I said, go fuck yourself."
"No, seriously, Chuck."
"I was being serious." He rolled off his side onto his stomach, jaded but grinning. "Can't you tell?"
"Eww."
He lay his head down on his arms and closed his eyes again. He was sleeping a lot, which disturbed Blair. She knew he must be exhausted, drained physically and emotionally, but wasn't this a little excessive? Maybe he was concussed. She poked him again, more insistent this time. "Chuck!"
She pulled his hair. He swotted at her hand.
Chuck's head snapped up. "What?" There were vast dark smudges under his eyes. "What, Blair?"
"I'm bored."
"So you've said."
"So unbore me."
Chuck yawned. "I'm too tired." Not too tired to smirk, though. Blair stuck out her tongue.
"We're going to play a game," she dictated.
"I love it when you talk dirty," Chuck murmured.
She pretended that didn't make goosebumps erupt all over her body.
"I went to the shop," Blair said loudly, "and I bought an Armani clutch."
Chuck rolled onto his back and flopped his hands up over his eyes, shielding them from the light. "I went to the shop and bought an Armani clutch and a box."
"A box of what?"
"Does it matter?" Chuck groaned. "A box. Your turn."
Blair tossed her head over her shoulder. "Fine. I went to the shop and bought an Armani clutch, a box and a cashmere sweater."
"I went to the shop and bought an Armani clutch, a box, a cashmere sweater and," Chuck paused to think, yawning more widely than before, "a dildo."
Blair snorted with laughter. "A dildo?"
"An Armani clutch, a box, a cashmere sweater and a dildo," Chuck corrected smugly.
"I went to the shop and bought an Armani clutch, a box, a cashmere sweater, a dildo and an ..." Blair giggled, "An ejaculation."
Chuck stared at her, eyebrows raised. "You can't buy an ejaculation, Waldorf."
"Because you've tried."
"Homosexual prostitutes aren't a regular fixture in my shopping cart, no."
Blair clapped a hand over her mouth, gasping. "But then who taught you how to dress?"
"Are you implying my fashion sense is– "
"Gay? As Christmas."
"I went to the shop and bought an Armani clutch, a box, a cashmere sweater, a dildo, an– " He paused to glare at her, though he wasn't trying very hard, " –ejaculation and a fireman's pole."
Blair smiled. "I went to the shop and bought an Armani clutch, a box, a cashmere sweater, a dildo, an ejaculation, a fireman's pole and a Gucci ... shawl."
"You can't use the brand name as your letter," Chuck objected, rising.
"Well then I won't be buying much," Blair replied. "Everyone knows that if something is worth buying, it will be signature – Why else does plebeian couture not carry names? Because nobody wants to claim it."
Chuck groaned and slunk back to the floor. "I went to the shop and bought an Armani clutch, a box, a cashmere sweater, a dildo, an ejaculation, a fireman's pole, a Gucci shawl and a hat. And don't ask what kind. It's a hat."
Blair wrinkled her nose. "That's like something Nate would say. It's only a hat, when it's clearly a Stella McCartney exclusive."
There wasn't even a pause after the mention of Nate's name. It didn't seem to have registered with Chuck at all. "I went to the shop," he said, lying in her lap, "and bought an Armani clutch, a box, a cashmere sweater, a dildo, an ejaculation, a fireman's pole and a Gucci shawl, a hat and an igloo."
She stroked his hair back from his forehead. Outside the window, everything was bathed in pink and grey. "I went to the shop and – Wait! No! You stole my turn!"
"Too bad. I want an igloo."
"Well you can't have one. It's my turn, and I want ice-cream."
"And I want my fingernails back but, newsflash Waldorf, you can't always get what you want."
There was a pregnant pause, and then, "I can't believe you brought the Rolling Stones into this," Blair deadpanned.
Chuck smirked, twisting to look up at her. "I thought it was time we enlisted the big guns."
"I wonder if Versace does bulletproof vests," Blair pondered, scratching her chin. She was sure Michelle Obama didn't wear any old FBI hand-me-down. Absently, she intertwined her fingers in Chuck's.
He kissed her hand. "I'm your bulletproof vest." And then he kissed her lips.
xoxoxoxoxoxoxo
Dinner was a subdued affair. Harold drank two bottles of 1989 Côtes du Rhône and began to cry into the Daniel Brulee black forest gateau Lily had brought. Bart and Eleanor weren't talking. Serena, Eric and Nate – who now seemed a constant fixture, not that Lily was complaining – whispered at the end of the table. Serena's plate was almost untouched. Lily touched her hand, really having to reach because they were sitting further apart than was normal; no one wanted to see empty chairs, so Dorota had subtly stretched out the placemats. Jack, of course, had then pulled up a vacant one and was using it for his feet. No one had the heart to tell him to behave, not today.
"Serena, honey," Lily began. "Eat something."
Serena shook her head. "I can't, Mom. Don't ask me to. I feel so guilty."
"Serena– "
"I'll eat it," Nate offered quickly, "We'll share." And the situation was diffused. Lily caught Bart's eyes. He was staring at Nate, anger and shame in his hard blue orbs.
"He's only trying to help," she murmured. "He's been there for Serena and Eric. Chuck was his best friend."
However subtly, Bart recoiled as though slapped, and it took Lily a moment to realise her mistake.
She didn't correct herself, just moved on. "Agent Ryan told me, just before we left, that they've located the bike messenger who delivered the original ransom note, and that his statement corroborates with this morning's one."
The details had arrived, typed neatly. They were very simple: sign on the dotted line, and we'll pick up the day after tomorrow. And we'll bring the boy. We'll keep the girl until the deal goes through, for insurance. Bart had wanted to persuade them to release Blair first, and Chuck later, a gesture to Eleanor and Harold, but there was no telephone number, no email address, no postal box – nothing to contact the kidnappers by to negotiate. This wasn't a Hollywood movie where they talked on the phone using synthesised voices that sounded like the Terminator. This was a business deal, and it meant manila envelopes and express delivery.
Bart had spoken to the board. They were sympathetic, and encouraged him not to issue a press release, lest their stocks suffer. He had agreed, intending to keep it private anyway. But after the Waldorfs' statement, it was easy for the media to put two and two together, thanks to some inane teenage site called Gossip Girl–
There's good news and there's bad news, Upper East Side. B's parents told the press this morning that B had been kidnapped. Bass Senior hasn't opened his mouth, but I'm sure you can put two and two together and get Chuck. And the bad news: Lonely Boy and Nate Archibald spotted get steamy in chemistry today – and I don't mean Brokeback Mountain. Sparks flew when a Bunsen burner accidently took a tumble onto N's project binder. It's your move, S, don't keep us in suspense.
You know you love me,
XOXO, Gossip Girl
xoxoxoxoxoxoxo
It was well past midnight, and Nate and Serena were watching a moviein Blair's room. Bart and Lily had left shortly after dinner, and Blair's parents dispersed just as quickly, leaving the three teenagers to fend for themselves. Jenny dropped by for Eric and handed Serena a plastic bag from Dan. It lay on Blair's bed unopened as Nate went to insert the DVD.
Breakfast At Tiffany's was in the drive. Quickly, he took it out and put it face down. Blair had made him watch it countless times and, much as he was ashamed to admit it, it had short of grown on him over the years. It his mind, Breakfast At Tiffany's meant Blair. Nate roughly wiped his eyes. He wasn't crying, there was just a lot of dust in the room.
Because it hadn't been slept in for eight days.
Eight days? Nate straightened up and pressed play. It seemed like eight years.
"What's in the bag?" He asked, sitting down beside Serena. She was wearing one of Blair's old Yale sweatshirts. Nate remembered it was so big, it made Blair look tiny in comparison. She loved it. Serena absently pulled on a stray thread in the cuff.
"I don't know."
"Then maybe you should open it," Nate prompted. He wanted to see what Dan had packed, even if Serena didn't. Serena nodded, and propped herself up on her elbow, smiling a little.
"Yeah, good idea. Help?"
Nate grinned. "Sure."
They went at it together, pulling out several packages haphazardly wrapped in dimestore Christmas wrapping paper. Serena had to smile; it was so Dan. She unwrapped candy and a book. She leafed through it while Nate fought against the Sellotape cocoon imprisoning the final, bigger and lumpier, gift. Dan had inserted several Polaroids inside the cover, and biroed a note.
Fiction is real life with the toilet breaks left out. In this book, they find the girl and kill the bastards.
Here for you, Dan.
The pictures were of them, eating Pizza at the loft, watching Men In Black and finishing a maths assignment. And kissing. Serena went through them again and again, but she couldn't recognise the bold girl in the picture. She looked so light, so carefree, so happy.
"That's a great picture of you," Nate said admiringly. "Scan it up onto Facebook."
Serena blinked. It was a picture of her?
She slipped them back inside the book, Gone Baby Gone, and hid the book under Blair's pillows. She couldn't look at them now. It felt like a betrayal of Blair. So instead she looked at Nate and his frown as he tried, unsuccessfully, to open Dan's parcel.
"Use your teeth," Serena suggested. Nate did as he was told and out fell Cedric. Serena let out a soft 'Oh,' and Nate swore under his breath. Humphrey was smarter than he looked.
Serena clutched the old doll to her and pressed the remote, turning on the television. "What are we watching?" she asked.
"Man On Fire," Nate replied, scanning the back of the box. "It's set in Mexico. Basically Denzel Washington goes apeshit after the girl he's guarding is taken."
"And he gets her back, right?"
Nate nodded. He had read the spoilers on IMBD. He had know what happened, and it had to be a happy ending.
Serena cuddled Cedric closer. "That's good."
"Based on a true story," Nate added quickly.
"Even better."
So far they had seen Along Came A Spider, The Rescuers, Ransom, Taken, The Missing – anything that had a kidnapping and a happy ending. Everything else just felt wrong. How could they laugh at a comedy, cry at a sad romance, or watch people get hurt or shot? Nate hated Sci-Fi. This world was messed up enough without adding on second and third dimensions and aliens and magic. Magic didn't exist.
They watched, popcorn-free, as Denzel Washington kicked some kidnapper ass while Christopher Walken said cool, meaningful things, and for the first time in his life Nate wished he owned a gun. Chuck had rescued him from Carter Baizen; he owed him. He owed his best friend.
xoxoxoxoxoxoxo
Blair woke up with the biggest kink in her neck. She had fallen asleep sitting up, with Chuck lying in her lap, and her back ached from leaning against the wall all night. She made to stretch out the cricks, but collapsed inwards with a yelp, and shook herself instead. Her throat was parched. She touched her lips: they felt puffy, probably from dehydration. And kissing. Blair felt warm all over with the memory. It had only been a tiny thing, just a kiss, just a moment. But last night, it had lasted years.
She looked down at her sleeping boy. Blair didn't want to wake him just yet, and instead reached for his hand, intending to simply hold it.
Chuck's hand was cold and clammy.
Blair was scared. She pressed his wrist for a pulse, but could detect nothing beneath the sticky skin. She felt for a pulse point at his throat, worried. "Chuck, Chuck," she muttered. "Chuck. Wake up. Wake up, Chuck." After frantic searching, she located a dull throb in his carotid artery and released the breath she did not realise she had been holding. Not really wanting to, she took a closer look at his face. He was paler still, and his cheeks were hollow and grey-tinged. His hair was slicked to his forehead with sweat. Slowly, shaking, Blair went to push his hair back.
His hand was icy, but Chuck's forehead was burning.
Well? Reviews, as you know, are like pizza. You can never have too much, especially if there's cheese. And there's ALWAYS cheese with pizza, soooo ... Yeah. About 180 people have this Alert/Favourite. Really? If you can add it to your Favourites, you can review. Even just to complain about my taste in revenge movies.
Thanks, Plonksie
