12. Redux

His hair was beginning to catch on his collar and his jaw was rough, but it didn't matter to Chuck. He'd presented her with the box – large, white, bland – the moment she'd opened her eyes and blinked at him, not moving closer but not pulling away either. Now he watched as she smoothed the dress over her hips and avoided his eyes in the mirror, focusing on rearranging the pleats in the sumptuous fabric until they hung just so. She looked perfect, as always; but then, perfection had never been their problem.

"It's beautiful."

"But not enough."

"Not enough?"

She tracked his movements, and her gaze darted everywhere but his face, methodically taking in his rumpled hair and the anachronistic old movie tux, snowy white shirt, crisp black jacket and the classic white tie. The offering was velvet soft beneath his palms, equally soft against her shoulder when he brushed it and she didn't flinch. Her eyes widened as he lifted the lid, flared with awe and a little touch of horror.

"It's the Erickson Beamon necklace...no, I couldn't."

"Yes, you can."

Because he was already clasping it around her neck, already taking the time to shift each platinum lily into sparkling place. The pendant was a flawless diamond heart, a little too heavy, pulling the circlet slightly out of true. Chuck ran his fingers over it, surprised when hers settled over his and they both clung, unspeaking, to the unbeating heart above and to the right of her own.

"You don't have to do this," she said.

"What?"

"You apologised to me, and I came back. I don't need anything else."

"But I do." His voice was low, rough, so insistent that she tightened her grip as if to restrain him. "I hurt you, but you haven't let me hurt for doing it. I need you to see me trying."

"With thirty five thousand dollars of diamonds?"

"No." She shivered as he traced a line across her clavicle, up and over the ridge of her shoulder. Their eyes met for the first time, as if it were indeed the first time, and the glow of hers was unparalleled by any number of stones. "By the fact that I have made it my business to have this particular design discontinued, and every one like it recalled due to a supposed product fault. It is now priceless – and so are you."

"But why the dress?" The moment broke as November tilted her head to one side, pressing her cheek against his coarse jaw line. "Why the diamonds? Why the tux, for that matter?" Her skin rasped a little across his, and she seemed to enjoy the moment. "You're turning wild," she whispered.

"Don't," he returned. "Don't tempt me." Then, stronger, clearer, "I heard you last night."

Nonchalance sat oddly on her features, blended as it was with petulance and fear. "What does it matter? You said you wanted to be hurt, and you said that that hurts you, not me. Maybe I was hurting you."

"No, no." He rocked her gently from side to side, subconsciously soothing her with an undertone of steel. "You were hurting yourself, and that matters. It won't happen again."

She closed her eyes, still swaying, ignoring the snap behind his words. "You should know by now that you can't dictate to me."

"I can ask."

"So ask."

Chuck wondered if he would always struggle so to bend to her will when it was so easy to say sorry, to make amends, to be forgiven by her in any and all he did. She didn't know him, of course, and perhaps that made things easier. It was also possible, however, that anonymity made them more difficult. Every beauty they found had to be fought over, but she was his beauty – that was how things were, how they had begun not so long but a lifetime ago, how they would be forever if he had his way. Did she really need to have hers?

"I'm trying," he repeated, this time more sombrely. "To be good enough to let you go if I need to."

"I won't go. You know I won't go."

It was as if she hadn't spoken; he pushed on regardless. "And I can't ever let you go if you're doubting yourself, if you're doubting...everything."

"I'm your everything," she returned, an echo of their second time.

"You are."

"Say it."

"Say what?"

"Say it back."

"That I'm your everything? Why?"

"Because I want you to know." November opened her eyes to regard him with equanimity. "I want you to know that you are, and to give up on the idea that I'm just sitting pretty in a cage and one day, you're going to let me out and I'll fly free." Her fingertips darted across the surface of the mirror, swift and silent. "You can open the cage door, and I'll stay exactly where I am. You can carry me out on your arm and throw me as high as you like, but I'll come back down to you again."

He chuckled, deep in his throat. "And do you sing?"

"Like an angel," she said mockingly, and then turned her head and kissed him before he had time to draw breath for a retort. It was a punch in the stomach that pushed the air from his lungs, a sudden lungful after asphyxiation. He didn't know how it was possible for her mouth to mean both of those things, but he needed the taste as well as not to draw her any deeper. He laughed again when she tried to part her lips and move against him, turned her face back to the mirror.

"Are you ready to be released?"

"Why?"

"Because the dress and the tux are because you and I are going out tonight. We're going to meet again: hit refresh, do it over, be civilised so I can make amends."

She made a small humming sound of approval and idly kissed his jaw. "Yes. After you've shaved."

She was happy, so he was happy in the oddly parasitic way he often was around her. Chuck knew that she had skinned him and still didn't know everything just as he didn't know all her secrets; he was torn between the deep dark something of feelings and love and the simple contentment of all being back to the way it was supposed to be. He was searching for something by way of this reworking of their relationship, a relationship of layers which was never meant to be a relationship, sharks hidden beneath the clear blue water, their tigers roaming in the night when she harmed herself or he pushed her away.

He questioned whether the harsh beating of his heart was like that – something dangerous, something which wrecked – or whether it was something which could survive in the daylight, where she could dwell and dance if only he were man enough to fix her.

~#~

Blair's skin was on fire, the fear of being discovered and the excitement of being nameless before everyone she knew irrational, unbelievable. There was little chance that they would survive this evening unscathed, and she didn't care; her stomach still bubbled with fear and they were still standing at the edge of every precipice possible, but now she was giddy with the risk. November had eaten Blair Waldorf alive the second she had been unleashed unto the real world, and now she pressed eager kisses against Chuck's face as they turned corner after corner and he refused her tongue.

"Yes..."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

She was out of control, because she had decided. She couldn't wait any longer. She couldn't hold her ribs closed, not when her heart was singing to be free. I love you – Blair tested the words in her head. They exhilarated her and terrified her and just about tore her in two, but she had courage. It was strange that his fall had made her valiant, but now they were both debased, ground to the same level, flawed and painted black in the same measure. That was all her experiment had been in the bathroom the night before, of course: an experiment. They were so wonderful when they fell, after all, and there'd been no compulsion to lay her cheek against the cool tiles, no reasoning other than her own.

That was true.

What reason did she have to lie?

It was true.

"I'll break your back," she whispered as they glided to a smooth halt and she snapped playfully at his bottom lip. "One day, I will."

He looked at her curiously. "What's gotten into you?"

I love you.

"Nothing," she supplied breezily and exited the limo ahead of him, clocking five minutes before he would make his entrance. They would never succeed if they arrived together, Miss Blair Waldorf and the ambiguous Chuck/Charlie/Charles. The deep blue of her dress swept the sidewalk as she headed up the red carpet into the hotel's plush interior, rebelling against form by pausing to tip a wink at a photog and receive several delighted flash bulbs in return. If she were asked, she knew there was only one thing she would be able to say.

I'm going to tell him I love him.

Of course she didn't feel faint.

Blair sashayed across the ballroom and felt bathed by its cruel glitter. She wasn't afraid, for once, of the eyes of those who had spurned her; New York always came to realise that the semblance of money was almost as good as the real thing in the end. Tonight she was as much their princess as she had ever been, and her diamonds shimmered. She waltzed into the bathroom, turned the lock, felt her phone vibrate as it had been doing at least five times an hour since she'd returned to the apartment. It was from Serena – R U OK? – and destined to join the host of other irritating call me bck! and where R U? messages her friend had also sent, well meant as they were.

I'm fine, she replied. He's fine. We're fine. Tonight's the night.

4 wat?

ILY.

Her cheeks were flushed, fiery, bright with colour and her eyes gleamed, overripe and coal black. She bit her lip, and it bloomed full red. Her phone buzzed once more, this time longer as the caller waited to be answered. Sighing, Blair extracted it from her purse and ran a finger beneath the cool perfection of the necklace at her throat as she picked up.

"Serena, I already told you –"

"Blair?"

November crashed and burned, like the dream of depravity she was. Every inch of bare skin iced over, and Blair's bitten lip blazed.

"Hello, Mother."

"Why haven't I been able to reach you at home, darling? All I could get my hands on was one of those horrible automated messages telling me that the party I wanted was inaccessible! Why in the world would you disconnect that number when you know I need it to touch base with my New York clients?"

Harold Waldorf had run off with a gay model, and no self-respecting society matron would call on Eleanor again. But perhaps...perhaps this was an opportunity for Blair. Though her stomach had automatically began to heave in apprehension of what was to come from the tinny speaker, in fear of the mounting numbers on the scales he had removed from her sight, in recognition of every meal she had eaten instead of pushing around her plate and artfully rearranging, Eleanor was still her mother, not a monster. She deserved at least some part in her daughter's happiness.

"I haven't been living at the apartment," she said carefully.

"Then where on earth have you been?"

"There's...someone." Each word was selected with precision, and each hit the silent air like a bullet. "He asked me to live with him. We're in a penthouse on Park." No I love him would justify the desires of the daughter over the mother, so she had to rely on the fiscal. Blair unconsciously began to pull at the quick of her neatly manicured thumbnail, ignoring the way it smarted as she waited, listening to the quiet sound of Eleanor's inscrutable breathing.

"And this...this person...the two of you are in a relationship?"

"Yes."

"But how in the world did that come about, darling?"

"I'm sorry?" The skin ruptured. A bead of blood blossomed, scarlet against inflamed cerise skin.

"You haven't told me what you weigh, so I assume you haven't been trying. If you haven't been trying, you've become lazy. If you're lazy, you are good for nothing as a clothes horse, and I always told you that men flatter women who are flattered by their clothes. Are you sure he finds you desirable?" Venom laced her tone, and though the intimate question made Blair blush, it was the ache below her breastbone which hurt the most. Still Eleanor continued to speak, and blood began to trickle down Blair's thumb. "Imagine what he feels, darling, what he sees. Indelicacy, a lack of elegance, a lack of determination...and no one could care for a creature like that, don't you agree? Now, there's the most delicious vintage Chanel I found for you yesterday, and all I ask is ninety pounds. That's all, darling. I just want you to be happy, to know that this boy isn't trading in on your feelings for him to avoid having to fight for you."

He had fought for her.

He had fought for November, the girl he fucked.

Blair swallowed.

"Goodbye, Mother," she said firmly, and then she let the phone fall from her grasp with her mother still squawking indecipherably and crushed it beneath the heel of her satin evening pump.

There was a knock on the door, and Blair could hardly bear to open it. She knew his hair would be rakishly tousled, and it would hurt to look at him and love him now. Tonight was not the night. Tonight was hardly even a night to keep her head up and believe. He had fought for her, and he always would – the fact remained, however, that her mother had pushed her buttons with no apparent motive other than to inflict pain. Blair couldn't even begin to fathom the complexities of a mother who would envy her own daughter for being loved by her father, for being half her father, for being imperfect from the first.

He knew – what didn't he know? – the moment she opened in the door with her body curved over and masking her midsection, for all it was flat.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," she repeated, so that her sick little fantasy had come full circle.

"I see. Tell me."

She shook her head, letting the obligatory curls which had made her pretty just minutes before slide forwards and hide her, shield her. "It's a real problem, not a November problem – but don't worry, she's fine."

He bent to force his way into her eye line, her face, drew back when she flinched. "I don't give a damn what she feels. I need to know you're alright, that you –"

"My mother," she whispered, cutting across him when the words just wouldn't stay in any longer. "My mother called."

Chuck's face was impassive, and Blair hoped it would stay that way. She couldn't bear another emotional beating for believing what she had always been told, for not believing in him and only him. His fall would be nothing to hers if he did so, because God knew she would purge until she bled like her fingers were bleeding and they would tell lies at her funeral about how she was perfect and gifted and happy and how no one could have wanted for more out of life.

But instead he reached out, because he felt her. She knew he felt her, because she felt him sometimes, beating in her blood.

Her head rested lightly on the expensive woolen shoulder of his jacket, and it smelt of cologne and scotch because it was his tux, his for real, not a rented one, and his hand held her there as if she might break her word and fly away from him. That was him, fighting; this was them, trying.

"It's safe in the cage."

"Yes – no one can hurt me there but you." She raised her head a little despite his grip, twisted to look him in the eyes. "You did hurt me. It did hurt."

And those eyes, much to her surprise, closed in relief. "Will you hate me a little?" He murmured, wrapping his free arm around her waist so that they eclipsed the light of the doorway with their embrace.

"Always."

"Good."

"Good?"

It wasn't laughter, but something like it passed over the crown of her head. "I'll always hate you a little too."

They exited in silence, without ceremony, going their separate ways, finding their separate paths through the crowd as if they had before each other. Only inside the sleek comfort of the limo did she let herself be lulled enough to take hold of his hand, though she looked out of the window and felt him looking at her. Their doorman smiled and said nothing. The elevator ride was silent.

She knew something was wrong when the bed was suddenly there and he stilled her hands on her zipper.

"Don't you want to..."

"No." Blair grew a little taller as he took her hand once again and raised it to his lips. He didn't kiss because he was who he was – whoever that might be – but turned it over to breathe warmth across her palm and shoot tremors through her. "No," Chuck reiterated, as he did brush his lips over the cut in her finger and the stinging skin. Then he pulled her down onto the bed, ball gown and all, heels and all, hurt and all, and held her as if she were a butterfly beating her wings against his arms that he did not wish to crush.

"I just want this," he told her when her breathing had calmed, shushing her as if he were soothing her through an illness and not the surprising mingling of heartache and lust.

"This?"

"I just want to lie here, with you."

She couldn't tell him even then, so she waited until he was asleep, still holding her as tightly as a favoured toy. "I love you," she breathed, and then pressed her forehead just above his heart so she could drown comfortably in the place she loved best.

Some people took umbrage last chapter at Chuck's refusal to have Blair perform oral sex on him although he let 'whores' do so. I'm sorry for not being clear on that: I do not, nor have I ever thought that the giving or receiving of oral sex makes a person a whore. What Chuck (and what I) was trying to communicate by refusing was that he wanted to give to Blair without the expectation of receiving, just as he had received without the expectation of giving with prostitutes. I'm sorry to anyone who was offended.
Thanks to: QueenBee10, GoodGirl793, blair4eva, ellibells, jwoo2525, LovelyAmanda, Kensley-Jackson, fswickar, ggloverxx19, gen, wrighthangal, Maudie, MegamiTenchi, Krazy4Spike, SaturnineSunshine, mlharper, louboutinlove, Iluvenis, Tiff xoxo, Whatevergirl1985, CBfanhere, cj-the-greatest, Noirreigne, Rosss, Poinsettia, libertine84, Stella296, CBLove21, s.i.c, notoutforawalk, thegoodgossipgirl, G, A friend, lesliexhale, READER120, jamieerin, BellaB2010, annablake (welcome back to the Valkyrie fold!), L and Nikki999, plus special thanks to signaturescarf for all the Tumblr love. You guys bring out the best in me.