A/N: Hello to my beloved readers =) I am so sorry for the delay. Work has been especially brutal lately. However, there is a potential development on the horizon that could allow me a much more manageable quality of life (read: no more hundred-hour weeks!), which is completely thrilling – so please, if you would be so kind, cross your fingers for that!
Without further ado, I present for your consideration: Chapter 21.
i.
She can smell snow.
The air has that raw, wet undertone that promises snow is on the way.
Before she turned the corner, she looked behind her, thinking maybe, just-
But he wasn't there.
And so she turned right, uptown, a blast of frigidity hitting her bluntly as she pivoted into its path. The air muted the heat on her cheeks and nose and she closed her eyes for a moment.
And when she inhaled, she could smell the snow.
She pauses again, halfway up the block, daring a quick glance behind her, a casual glance, without a hint of desperation.
And he's still not there.
Tears fill her eyes. She blinks them back- a single traitorous one makes a break for it and slips down her cheek- and when her vision clears, she sees a face she does know, and her heart stops.
Cadence Alexander, an Upper East Side darling a few years older whose family the Waldorfs have known socially for decades, is not twenty feet away, heading south into Blair's northward path. She's coming right at her.
Panic fills her. She swipes at the tear, which has probably already left a white streak on her face, it's so cold.
Cadence has not seen her. She's looking at her phone screen, lower lip caught between perfect white teeth, brow slightly knitted. If Blair had the ability to pay better attention, she might wonder what was bothering her.
In a few seconds, though, she will see her. Blair is nearly at the corner; Cadence is about to step into the crosswalk. And the thought of pasting on a gracious face and making small talk, even a few seconds of it, with role-model-material Cadence Alexander, today of all days floods her with dread. And what if she wants to go for a drink-
Cadence looks up at the crosswalk.
Blair turns, hand coming up to smooth her hair and block her face, and steps onto 77th. Mercifully, the WALK sign is lit up in white, a shining beacon. She steels herself in case Cadence somehow recognizes her from behind and calls out to her; she'll pretend she doesn't hear.
She makes it across as the DON'T WALK sign flips on, a foreboding orange, realizing she doesn't know where she's going. Turns, keeping her face away from the other side of Madison, in case Cadence is lingering on the opposite side of the street, and lets out a long sigh.
Even then, as her eyes brim hotter and fuller with tears, inexplicably, she feels the urge to turn, maybe to check that Cadence hasn't seen her at all- does Cadence read Gossip Girl?, she wonders briefly- but she resists.
Mark Bar is just down the street.
She'll stop in for a drink.
ii.
Monday, February 24
Of course she saw it.
She knows Chuck was there; saw him in the front row, with Bart providing the other parenthesis around the Van der Woodsen trio.
The camera stayed focused on the runway, models in light gray and silver filling the frame, so she didn't get to see his face, or Serena's.
But she knows he saw it, too.
And on the phone that night, she notices how he waits for her to bring up that day's shows, and when she says she didn't see anything particularly mind-blowing, although some of the aesthetics are a little different than what she might have expected, he hesitates just a beat.
And she smiles sadly.
And after Serena is asked point-blank whether Blair will be attending her mother's show, when she's on the phone with Chuck talking about how Reem Acra's palette and necklines were uncharacteristically… violent… this season, she makes a point to casually mention that her physical therapist has advised against going out in public, particularly among crowds, since an accidental elbow could cause some damage.
It's a shame, she sighs.
Another beat.
Chuck says he agrees, but it's flat, like it always is when he knows she's lying.
iii.
This year, the Eleanor Waldorf Designs show takes the six o'clock slot on Monday, kicking off the "prime time" stretch of Fashion Week.
Serena and Erik hustle into Chuck's limo as soon as the last bell rings; they don't have much time to get back to The Palace, get changed and get to Bryant Park if they want to be there for pre-show mingling.
There's an odd pit in Chuck's stomach. Maybe he's worried that Blair will show up after all, a last-minute about-face, and become a media spectacle. Maybe he's worried that Serena will slip and say something stupid in the inevitable impromptu interviews that will be thrust upon her. Maybe he's worried that Eleanor will have heard about how much time he's been spending at the Waldorfs' and say something about it- well-intentioned, of course- in front of the family.
As if on cue, Serena, elbow resting on the sill of the tinted window, palm cradling the side of her head, slants her eyes toward him.
"I haven't seen Eleanor for ages," she remarks coolly.
He tilts his head and meets her gaze. "Neither have I."
Erik glances up, though his head remains bent over his phone.
Serena's mouth curves into chagrinned smile, tired rather than challenging, listless rather than indignant, and they mutually look away from each other.
The Van der Basses rendezvous in the lobby an hour later, Serena and Lily both dressed in classic Waldorf Couture: Serena's in soft green with a structured ruffle at the hem and a stiff, avant-garde tulip neckline that reaches her ears, like a feminine detective with collar popped; Lily in white, a drop-waisted midi dress sewn all over with silk snowdrops, green ribbon loops at their centers, and a band of wide green ribbon at the hip.
Chuck, Serena and Erik make for the door, but Chuck's ears, tuned to hear the Bass rumble that's so like his own, catch his father's low suggestion that they should just go get married right now, that Lily is perfection in her white dress. And, as Lily tugs him along behind her, her teasing reply that he's wearing argyle socks, and that's certainly not fit for a groom.
They barely see Eleanor before curtain; she buzzes up, her smile tight and anxious as usual, but there's a leaden quality even in the way she fusses. Thankfully, she doesn't spend much time on him, just gives him a quick embrace the way she does everyone else, and remarks absently that it's wonderful to see him.
As they're seated, Lily looks mournfully at the first chair.
She leans over to Serena. "I wish she'd come. She'd be surrounded by nothing but love."
Before Serena can reply, the house lights go down.
iv.
"That was nice," Bart offers.
Lily clears her throat, glancing down at her couture as though self-conscious.
"It certainly was a departure," she says, red lips curving into a neutral smile.
They're all getting to their feet; Serena and Chuck, at the end of the family lineup, linger on their chairs. Serena's hollow gaze is riveted on the empty runway. Chuck's eyes are on the floor, temples rippling.
"Charles? Serena?"
Serena closes her eyes briefly. She turns and looks at her mother, who has drifted toward the end of the row; Chuck doesn't move.
"We'll be along in a minute." She gives a small smile, and Erik steps away too.
Serena looks over at him. "Fuck," she whispers after a few seconds of fraught silence.
He meets her eyes. "Tell me about it."
"There's no way she didn't see this, right?"
He looks her in the eyes but doesn't bother to answer.
She rakes her hands through her hair. "These people… sensationalizing her like this… I mean, the gown, I can sort of understand. But her own mother?"
"In her defense," Chuck says slowly, "not too many people grasp the connection."
It didn't take long for either of them to see it, though: just a few outfits in, relaxed tailoring, straight-cut pants cut too long so they scrunched at the ankles; wide-cut shift dresses with bateau or structured turtleneck collars; tapered midi-length pencil skirts paired with boxy, smocklike sweaters done in stiff fabric.
In a muted palette of faded blue, mauve heather, rusty maroon, dusty pink, faded moss, dove gray and mustard.
Pausing at the end of the runway in front of the object that had been placed there by two stagehands clad head-to-toe in black a few moments after the house lights went off, that made audience members crane their necks and whisper inquisitively to their seatmates.
A high-backed chair, it turned out, when the show lights came up.
And when the first look came down the runway, unkempt half-curled hair spilling over her shoulders, and slid effortlessly into the chair, pausing there as the photographers directly in front of the runway began, confusedly, to set off their flash bulbs – capturing the dirty blonde in a nondescript v-neck in an unremarkable shade, eased against the carved background (this one was white, at least), Serena's heart rate had steadily increased until she was almost panting, and her fingers hesitantly found Chuck's arm, and they shared a look of mutual horror.
Serena thankfully lets the chance to barb at him for his obvious knowledge of Blair's current appearance slide. The row of a dozen mannequin-Blairs trailing listlessly up and down the runway, photographed against what looks very much like Blair's headboard, sobers her hostility into silence.
When Eleanor comes out to a throng of supportive friends and fans, Chuck gets to his feet and says they need to go pay her their compliments. She nods sadly but doesn't move.
He holds his hand out to her, palm up, and says they'll get a drink after.
She squeezes her fingers while she stands up, and then pats his back in solidarity, like they're in this together.
v.
Blair is subdued when he calls her that night; she says she's tired. Her voice is hoarse, like she's been crying.
She doesn't bring up the show.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, timid as Serena was with her hand on his arm.
She clears her raspy throat. He remembers her in the hospital bed, sandpapery and flushed, shaking with post-hypothermia.
"I'm not," she says simply.
"Me neither," he says- flat, like always when he knows she's lying. There's a quick, one-syllable chuckle- hmm - on the other end.
vi.
Tuesday, February 5
Her patient is not talkative today. Silence falls several times: Miss Waldorf will answer direct questions, but she seems quite unconcerned with talking any further about the events of the night they're meant to be discussing.
Not wanting to force the issue when they've clearly plateaued, Dr. Genove settles back in her seat.
"Have you watched many of the shows so far this week?" she tries.
Blair doesn't even glance up; she's not at all startled by the change in topic.
Like it was on her mind all the time.
"Yes," she replies.
"Anything of particular interest to you?"
Blair shrugs, but her mouth opens. Closes halfway; opens again, with an inhale.
"My mother's show was a real departure from her usual aesthetic."
"How so?"
Blair spares her a glance. This woman is chic and successful; there's almost no way she's not interested in fashion herself. But she'll humor the good doctor.
"Not very feminine. Not the classic silhouette. Different colors… less bright." Just one shoulder shrugs this time, like the other is preoccupied. "She's usually all about the fitted sheath dresses and the empire waists, sweetheart necklines, the works. Cocktail and formal attire and upscale career wardrobe. This time, it was..."
One hand comes up and pulls her turtleneck up her neck as though she's going to hide in it.
Wrinkles her nose.
"I'm not even sure where you'd wear some of it, in public," she finishes quietly.
And leans against her headboard, eyes drifting skyward.
"You didn't like it, then?"
Blair sidesteps the question. "When she came home, I congratulated her and told her it was beautiful. That I liked the modern angle, and the colors were like a Monet. 'Artistic genius.'"
Eleanor's bloodshot eyes misted when she said that.
Dr. Genove tilts her head appraisingly. "That's nice."
Blair leaned carefully in for her mother's hug, blinking flatly at nothing, Eleanor's cheek resting on top of her head warmly as she murmured thanks.
"Yes," Blair agrees. "It was."
Dr. Genove hides a sad smile behind the rim of her teacup. When she places it back into the saucer, she asks what, other than her mother, has been the most memorable collection she's seen this season?
Blair takes a slow, deep breath, mulling it over.
"Let's talk about that at the end of the week," she says. "Plenty more shows to go."
vii.
Lily loves Marc Jacobs, and she's been waiting for his show all week, she bubbles. Bart successfully begged off the rest of the shows until the farewell reception, citing that he can't leave the office at five that many days in a row, on the condition he attend this show with her.
(To be fair, he has attended five shows in three days, Erik points out when Lily mock-pouts to her children.)
Chuck wears a pink suit with a burgundy tie- why not?- and Serena is at his side in canary yellow, alongside her mother's tangerine brocade dress and matching long jacket. Bart eyes his son's outfit, looks down at his own charcoal gray, and nudges himself behind his fiancée as she and Marc kiss each other on both cheeks, sticking an arm around her to shake the designer's hand.
Lily's face is vibrant as she tells Marc in confidential tones that she's been looking forward to this for months- and what does he have in store?
He winks and says he couldn't bear to spoil the surprise at this stage in the game; kisses her hand extravagantly and says he'll see her after.
She mock-scowls at him.
Serena catches Chuck's eye and frowns.
"Agreed," he says under his breath.
To his credit, Marc Jacobs is more subtle than those who have come before him.
He's always been a fan of headwear, and this season is no exception: a three-point in velvet; a scroll-edge topper with a great plume.
A fascinator with a dramatic bow on top.
An equestrian hat with a scalloped edge and a rosebud on the side of the brim – a blue rose. Held in place with a blue hat pin.
Everywhere, blue.
A blue coat over ivory trousers; an oversized blue cameo at the gathered neck of a high-collar ivory lace blouse. Perfectly matched blue suede gloves and heeled boots accessorizing a sedate blue Oxford-style shirtdress.
Light blue.
Powder blue.
Mid-lineup, a model in monochromatic blue: slim-cut pants, sweater, beret.
As the drama begins to build, a frilly knee-length dress bounces underneath a blue peacoat, with an enormous blue hat with bobbing feathers and a tightly-wrapped blue veil over the model's face.
The camera comes partway up the runway to follow alongside this one, the Chuck watches it glide along next to her, wishing he could untether it from its livestream.
Lily leans over and whispers that there's "a bit of a French Revolution theme." Serena nods back dejectedly.
Followed by an ivory silk scarf draped like a hood, adorning a blue lace jumpsuit.
Blue-beaded collars and cuffs; a giant blue ascot, tied to one side in dramatic fashion on a sedate white button-down.
In the eveningwear section, a gown with a portrait neckline, long fitted sleeves and a tapered bodice- no puffy petticoat, thank God- in what could be described as no other shade than French blue.
At the end of the runway, the model pulls as if from nowhere- a hidden pocket, maybe?- a large blue fan, snaps it open with a dramatic crack, and poses with it raised opposite her profile.
Erik understood it at Abaete, though he said nothing; he didn't know the details, but got the picture at Eleanor's show; and now he sighs, long and low, and catches Chuck's eye.
Marc takes the runway, dressed in the usual designer's outfit of black and white, to a standing ovation. He returns the applause, gesturing to the audience as if to give them the credit.
Like this is all because of them.
He bows his head, raises his clapping hands higher, as cheers go up from his fans.
"Drink," Serena says in his ear, more of a plea than a suggestion.
viii.
She drinks three glasses of champagne before the next show- Betsey Johnson, which Lily, Bart and Erik aren't attending- and when her empty stomach growls, he teasingly asks if she'd like a fourth.
"No," she shrugs, "I'm meeting Dan for dinner after."
Great. Three champagnes on an empty stomach.
He plucks an ice water from a passing tray and hands it to her. "You'll need to sober up, then," he chides.
She rolls her eyes good-naturedly but drinks it down.
Without saying it, they're both hoping that there won't be any nasty surprises in Betsey Johnson's lineup. When they make their way to their third-row seats, Serena asks if he also makes sport of identifying his conquests' lingerie: "Like, 'oh, is this Betsey Johnson?'"
He smirks. "Rule number one, sis: Once you've made the sale, stop selling. When they're half naked and you're raring to go is not the time to confuse Agent Provocateur with Betsey Johnson."
Mock-crying, Serena buries her face in her hands.
"Don't be such an amateur," he teases, and she elbows him as the house lights dim.
The collection is, thankfully, not recognizably based on anything Blair-reminiscent. It's typical Betsey Johnson: edgy, spunky, unabashedly sexy and aggressively feminine. Lace-up tops and bright micro-minis with platform boots; classy leopard-print leggings with an oversized button-down and big sunglasses; a shorts-and-corset romper under a polka dot bolero; patterned fishnets and spiked heels with soft ruffled negligees; a French-cut bikini in purple with fringe and a gold belly chain.
He eyes the camera, which stays rooted at the end of the runway the entire time, moving back and forth to capture the models as they pose. He wonders if she's watching; hopes, in a way, that she is, that she didn't turn off the feed after Marc Jacobs; so she'll see that not everyone is making a sideshow of her.
Serena sparkles on the edge of her seat just like Lily did an hour ago. He can read in the happy lines of her face that she's finally, just for a few minutes, taking a break from the mental torture of the last few weeks.
At the end of the show, she shoots to her feet and he stands with her, applauding, and means it.
ix.
Chuck returns the cheek-kiss from one of the Betsey Johnson models- whoops; he forgot he knew her- still in her final outfit (leggings and sunglasses; he blames them for obscuring her face) and fresh off the runway high.
"How have you been?" she starts to ask, but is then accosted by a socialite that she apparently knows, and has to stop so she can accept the flurry of compliments.
Serena rolls her eyes at him.
"I'll have you know that we shared a very special night together," Chuck informs her. "Her last name is Saxe, thank you very much."
He's saved from her retort when the model turns back, but it's not him she turns toward.
"You're Serena Van der Woodsen, right?"
It's rhetorical.
"I am; it's great to meet you. You are?" Serena extends a hand.
"Havolynne." She glances at Chuck when she says it.
Now it's his turn to roll his eyes.
"There are pictures of you all over our dressing room," Havolynne says to Serena.
That stuns them both into silence. Serena's smile falters. "I'm sorry?"
"Pictures of you!" Havolynne repeats, louder, though it's clear that the din isn't drowning her out. "All over." She lowers her voice. "I think you were quite an inspiration for this season's collection."
Serena withdraws her hand. "Oh, that's very sweet, but I'm sure- "
"Are you guys coming to the afterparty?"
Chuck opens his mouth with a smile on his face, but Serena cuts in: "I actually have- "
"I'm sure the other girls would love to meet you," Havolynne bubbles on. "If you can't stay, do you want to just pop backstage and say hello?"
Her genuine face- she's a well-meaning Southern belle, Chuck remembers- seems to endear her to Serena.
"Maybe just for a minute," she allows, and turns to him: "Are you staying for the afterparty?"
"You know how much I love fashion."
He watches as Havolynne links her arm through Serena's and leads her away, auburn head tilting toward blonde one. He has a half hour while they turn over the space for the party, which is a loose term for when the models and younger VIP attendees of the last show of the night stay after and drink; more civilized hobknobbing is taken across the street to the Bryant Park Hotel.
He steps outside.
x.
He's waiting for Serena to arrive back at The Palace for their date; the bar at Divine is running coverage of Fashion Week- which, given it's nothing like the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show, he's sure the straight male bartenders just love- but he sees the finish of the Betsey Johnson show, which Serena said was one of her favorites and not to be missed.
She'll meet him after for dinner.
He's trying to pace himself- this is his third ice water, but they splashed some lime and a sprig of mint in this time- but he's hungry. He's checking his watch and eyeing the entrance every few minutes. She said she was wearing one of her favorite dresses to the shows tonight, and he'd replied that he couldn't wait to see it.
She seemed happy.
So he was happy.
The Betsey Johnson show ended a half hour ago, though, and she hasn't arrived; it's not that far away.
But, he reasons, taking another sip, Fashion Week traffic in Midtown can probably be a nightmare.
xi.
"How's the weather?" Blair asks him at a whisper.
"It sucks."
She sounds strangled. "Betsey Johnson was a nice show, wasn't it?"
She doesn't really like Betsey Johnson. It's not her taste.
"Sure."
"They…" she clears her throat and tries to sound perkier. "They have good champagne there?"
He shuts his eyes, shivering in the thirty-degree weather because he stepped out to call her without his coat on.
"Blair…"
"Don't," she insists. "Just tell me about the champagne."
He pauses. "It sucks."
"Everything sucks, then?" He can hear a slight smile. "Weather? Champagne?"
"Yes. And I'm even wearing pink, which we both know isn't my color. What was I thinking?"
She actually giggles. "Company?"
"Serena's here somewhere," he offers.
"That's nice, at least. No Erik?"
"Lily says he's too young for Betsey Johnson."
"Most people are too young for Betsey Johnson," Blair teases.
He smiles. Licks his lips. "Would you want some company?"
She pauses. "I want you to have fun at the party."
She doesn't say: For both of us.
"I always have fun," he says, trying to ignore the misery of watching Blair-symbolism parading down runways in front of him, and having to applaud for it.
She ignores it, too. "Maybe call me later and tell me how the party was, if you're not… busy?"
(… with a model?)
"Will do. Spoiler alert: I'm guessing it will suck."
A quick chuckle. "Obviously."
xii.
The special coverage of Fashion Week jumps from pre-recorded interviews with models, stylists and production leads to live shots with on-site correspondents at Bryant Park, milling inside and out and asking bystanders for interviews. The television behind the bar is muted; it was on surround-sound during the shows, but now the restaurant speakers are alive with ambient jazz again.
She's still not here. No call, no text.
He's declined a fourth water and is chewing on his sprig of mint.
Without warning, the screen shifts from the dazzling twinkle lights strung around the canopy of Bryant Park to a scene inside, where a crew in head-to-toe black is clearing away the chairs and the cater-waiters are making their last rounds before the place switches to bar service only. A correspondent is talking animatedly, soundlessly, to a model in a cobalt blue minidress with a massive bow in her hair. The model answers pensively, seriously; the anchor nods along, expression melting into seriousness as the model provides insights on how, as the subtitles say, Some people might not see fashion as art, but for those of us in this world, and for Betsey Johnson, it really is, and we're proud to be the ambassadors that bring her brand to life in the runway…
He glances down at his black pants and white button-up.
When he looks back up, his eyes flick straight past the subtitles and to a girl in the background… tall, gorgeous, blue-eyed, with a mane of blonde hair that she's gently uncoiling from its high bun on top of her head.
She's wearing- not a dress that's one of her favorites- but a short black robe- very short- that matches what the other models in the frame are wearing, including the one who's now talking about how fashion is the art of the future, and someday- who knows- there might not even be paintings and sculpture-
And she's trading one of the cater-waiters her empty champagne flute for the last full one on his tray.
She smiles at him flirtatiously, lifting one shoulder and peeping at him over it as she turns away and disappears, with a bit of a stumble in her sky-high spiked heels, behind a white wall that he guesses, based on its proximity to the runway in the now-chairless tent, is backstage.
He glances at his phone one last time as he gets to his feet, tossing a cash tip on the bar for his waters.
xiii.
Chuck heads back inside when the crowd sounds a little livelier; he's always hated to be seen at a lame party. The crush of bodies around the bar is thick. As he gets closer, he looks around for Serena, forgetting for a brief moment that her height is not such an anomaly here: the room is full of tall, willowy young women. Still, her blonde topknot should put her a cut above most-
No sign of her, though. He checks his phone; nothing. Hopefully she left for her dinner with Humphrey without having anything else to drink and without being upset by whatever photos of her are backstage.
Speaking of-
He glances toward the dressing room, obscured as it is by a white wall and security guards that don't seem to go off-duty.
"What'll it be tonight?" The bartender, petite, caramel-skinned and beautiful, smiles up at him.
One more glance; no Serena.
"Scotch, please."
xiv.
"Sir, if you don't have a VIP pass- "
The bouncer holds up his hands and shakes his head.
Dan swallows back his frustration.
"I- look, I just need to get in there for one minute."
The bouncer looks at him skeptically.
"I need to find someone." He bites his lip; a minute shake of the head. "My girlfriend."
The guy actually scoffs. "What, she's one of the models?"
She's better.
Dan glares at him. "No; she was attending the show."
"And you didn't go with her?" He tsk-tsks.
Dan fights back a wave of anger. The guy wants to play with him now?
"No. I didn't. We were supposed to meet for dinner afterward."
"She doesn't have a cell phone?"
He grips his own in his pocket. 'She doesn't want to answer it' seems like the wrong thing to admit right now.
"Listen, I just need to speak to her- "
He steps forward; the bouncer stands firmly.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"I- " Dan leans forward against him, just for a moment, but it's more like a slump. "I… I got invited to the Met Gala," he tries, his own pathetic words whining in his ears.
"What?" the bouncer snaps, and gives him a little shove. He shakes his head with finality. "You'll have to wait out here. I can't guarantee which entrance she'll come out, either." He nods over his shoulder, indicating she might come out of some other door.
He steps back before he makes a scene; that's all he needs right now; and turns and walks away.
xv.
Chuck drifts through the crowd, quietly pleased to find that he sees no one else he knows. There's always a risk of running into a scornful former bedmate at functions that bring together so many beautiful young women.
The music is loud, amplifiers blaring the deep thrum of bass and the fast-paced electronic dance music that tends to accompany Fashion Week parties. Since there are no more waiters, partygoers drift between bar and dance floor as they please, with everyone from stylists in skinny jeans and black button-downs to editors in chic, on-trend outfits to models from other shows, recognizable by their afterthought-looking outfits (whatever they threw in their bag before leaving this morning) and hairspray-frozen hair.
He actually hates sleeping with models right after a show; their makeup and hairspray stain his pillows. He learned the hard way that the key is to ask them out for for the following night, when their hair will be clean.
But he finds himself deliberately slotting his gaze in other directions, deliberately avoiding eye contact and giving a polite nod before turning away when a female gaze lingers on him.
He hasn't touched a girl since it happened. Not since Cadence.
And, quite frankly, he doesn't want to.
There's a stirring in his heart when he admits this privately to himself, a warning that he needs to get out of this funk and be himself- that there's nothing wrong with having a little fun- and he keeps reminding himself of that.
But somehow, recently, the thought of an indulgent tumble with a beautiful stranger doesn't sound as fun as it ordinarily would.
As if on cue, just as he's thinking that Havolynne might be the only female here that he knows- though he hasn't seen her since she disappeared with Serena an hour or so ago- a familiar face materializes right in front of him.
"Remember me?"
Black hair; olive skin.
"Jessica, right?"
The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself.
Her name is Jennifer and he knows that.
He wants for the scoff.
"Jennifer," she corrects.
No such luck.
"Right," he says, trying to sound disinterested, although that's a bit difficult when his normal tone sounds disinterested. "I trust you're well?"
"Pretty well," she says. "Opening Hermes tomorrow night."
That explains the no-makeup-but-mascara and simple spaghetti strap dress. Hair brushed, shiny and draped over one shoulder.
He holds up his Scotch in toast. "Congratulations."
She clinks excitedly, starting to say "Thanks," but the word is overpowered by the exquisite boom of a new song, the vibrations from the speakers so powerful that he feels it in his chest. Someone clearly cranked the bass and set the volume to full blast. He cringes; Jennifer frowns. They both look around.
She smiles briefly before channeling her effort into speaking loudly enough for him to hear: "How have you been?"
"Great," he lies, looking away.
"I just got back from Italy last week," she says. "I was actually working with an agency there as well- "
Not that he was interested before, but her voice completely fades into oblivion when he sees what's happening behind her. The models from the Betsey Johnson show, none of whom have emerged to join the noisy party that's happening just beyond the definitely-not-soundproof wall of their dressing room, are making their way out from backstage onto the runway.
They're wearing matching black robes – short, with bell sleeves – and stilettoes. And dancing, somewhat haphazardly given an obvious level of intoxication.
And the partygoers are applauding.
And Serena is seventh among the models; directly in the middle of the twelve-girl lineup.
No sooner are they all positioned along the runway, glancing back and forth to make sure they're all in place- what, did they rehearse this? he wonders absently- they all make a show of untying the loose bows at their waists, and off come the robes.
And a roar goes up from the crowd.
Jennifer turns around to glance over her shoulder at the spectacle and looks back with an eyeroll. "A bit immature," she says good-naturedly.
Serena is smiling, sparkling; the way she closes her eyes, the sumptuousness with which she moves her hips- and he can see far too much of her hips for his liking- smacks of a very specific Serena.
A Serena he once knew.
"I agree," he says. "Excuse me."
xvi.
He tries to get her attention, but it's way too loud and she's not even living in the same world he is right now.
All the other girls are working models; most of them have just been photographed in lingerie and high heels for all the world to see.
Serena is different. She's a well-bred Ivy legacy and her mother would die if she saw her like this.
And here she is, in black fishnets with gleaming brass-hooked garters, black satin panties and a black lace babydoll with three gold bows down the front which is- thank God- opaque in the cups.
He glances around; luckily, no one seems to be taking photographs. The journalists, corralled into the press area as the official coverage ended, must have all gone home.
When he looks back at her, hissing her name again- she ignores or does not hear him; her eyes are still closed- she's slipping one bow open, just above her navel.
His mouth goes dry.
He pushes past the few people in front of him.
"Serena- "
He reaches for her hand. He doesn't want to draw attention to her more than she's doing to herself.
Her hands move above her head, though, fingertips trailing down the opposite bare arm, then raking into her hair and fluffing it up, looking out into the crowd for a moment before closing her eyes again.
"Van der Woodsen," he shouts, inaudible above the din. He's certainly not going to reach for her basically-bare leg.
When she puts her hands down, he reaches again, and brushes her fingers. She blinks, looks at the person next to her and then down.
When she looks at him, he sees that her eyes are massively dilated.
"Fuck," he whispers under his breath.
She blinks rapidly, almost squinting under the bright lights beating down on her, and then shuts her eyes and takes a step back, beyond his reach.
She settles her head back again, face lifted heavenward, hips swaying dangerously, not in time to the music the rest of the room hears but to whatever is playing in her own head. Her fingertips skim over her own thighs, and then down her ribcage to her waist, and pluck at the upper band of her panties, the gesture suggestive, and finally back up to untie the second bow out of three, as her hips sway- not overtly sexually, but in a slow, subtle way that's probably mouthwatering for every straight guy in the room. Except him.
And one other.
Humphrey is on him before he even hears him; he doesn't seem to realize who Chuck is, just shoves him, hard, out of the way and steps up.
"Serena!"
So much for not making a scene.
Dan clambers onto the runway beside Serena, grabbing her by the arms, and she blinks confusedly at him, the smile draining from her face.
She struggles back, but his grip is firm.
"Fuck off" is the first thing she says to him; Chuck can't hear her, but can read her lips.
Dan falters, but doesn't give up. "Come on," he yells at her.
For once, Chuck agrees with Brooklyn.
He reaches up for her, too, to give her a hand down from the runway.
Comically, Serena yanks her arm, hard, away from Dan and then places her hand in his, as though showing that this is her decision and not his. When she sees Chuck's hand, she takes it, expression darkening.
She steps down, landing lightly, and as Dan and Chuck guide her partway through the crowd, she's being clapped on the back, partygoers extending their applauding hands in front of her to show their appreciation, whistling and cheering and a few of them booing Dan.
After a few moments, she rears back from Dan and stares at him hotly. "What are you doing here?"
He gapes. "What am I- what am I- Serena, what are you doing here? You were supposed to meet me for dinner an hour ago, and I find you here? And doing…"
She's squinting, again, which seems to irritate her further.
"Dan, it's a free country. I can do whatever I…"
She shuts her eyes, clapping a hand over them.
Chuck nudges her. "Come on, let's get you away from the lights."
She shoves at him, but doesn't argue, and takes off, half a head taller than both of them. He glances down; she's wearing runway shoes, easily six inches.
No sooner is he wondering at how she's not stumbled yet than she does, losing her balance when she jostles against someone, having shrugged off both sets of hands that tried to guide her. Dan catches her. She's come out of one shoe, and carelessly flicks her foot to get rid of the other one, bringing her eye-level with her boyfriend when she whirls on him.
"Can't you just leave me alone?" she pleads, loud, dramatic.
He falters again, swallowing visibly. "Is that- is that what you want, for me to leave you alone?" He's angry, but Chuck can see, in the relative dimness away from the stage, the vulnerability in his face.
"I want to… I want to be free to make my own choices," she insists, not sounding particularly coherent. "I want…" she tips her head back again, closing her eyes. Serena the Prophet, who is very nearly naked in public. "I want to be with someone who has their own life and isn't constantly following me around."
"Serena," Chuck tries. She has a point, but this is not the time or place. Or state of mind.
She turns. "Don't get me started on you," she says, dilated eyes holding his, blinking frantically. "Think you're so sly, don't you. Think you've got everyone fooled."
They aren't questions.
She steps closer. "You don't fool me."
He tries to bite down his temper, but one slips out: "Fine. You want to hear I'm spending time with her? I'm spending time with her. Yes. Okay?"
Her face twists into a scowl. "Oh, the Honest Chuck Bass."
Dan chooses the wrong moment to touch her. "Serena, you need to come with me," he urges, grabbing her by both arms and trying to turn her toward him again.
"Don't touch me," she hisses, yanking her hands away.
She steps back and, before Chuck knows what she's doing, she slaps Dan clean across the face.
"Get a life and stop trying to control mine."
Humphrey is covering the blush-colored splotch on his cheekbone. He swallows, lips parted, as Serena turns and stalks away.
Chuck moves to go after her; Dan is right behind him.
He turns, and puts a hand on Brooklyn's chest.
"Best if you stay out of it for now," he says, low and serious. No mockery. "You don't know her like this."
He gives him a light, final shove backward.
xvii.
He catches Serena walking down 40th, opposite traffic – where the hell is she going? – and rushes after her, grabbing his coat at record speed and not bothering to put it on.
Luckily, the bouncers stopped admitting attendees ages ago, and few people seem to be out. But this is open water; a reporter or blogger is bound to be close by. He has to get her covered up and out of sight before this winds up on Page Six or worse, someone at the Bryant Park Hotel across the street calls Bart or Lily.
"Serena." She can hear him; he knows it. Louder: "Serena."
She turns, flinging her arms wide, messy blonde mane flying out around her and settling. She continues walking, backward now, and stumbles a little.
"What?"
"Let's go home."
"To your hotel, you mean? That's not home." She hisses a little; must have stepped on something sharp. She's only in fishnets now.
And a half-untied lace babydoll.
"Wherever you want," he concedes. He glances around; he texted Arthur need you now as he waited the ten seconds to get his coat, and mercifully, he sees the limo pulling up in the background.
"I want to go to Blair's," she says, "because that's the only place I don't hate myself."
Arthur pulls to a stop and puts on his hazards.
She shrugs, arms and all. "But I can't."
He sees before she trips that she's going to; the sidewalk is uneven. Majestic tree roots and all.
"Serena-"
Too late. She yelps on the way down and lands with a sharp wince.
He sighs. Extends a hand. Reluctantly, she lets him pull her to her feet.
"Put this on." He holds out his coat.
"No," she says, but she sounds like a child.
"Making a spectacle of yourself isn't going to help her, you know," he says, stepping closer.
"I've given up on helping her. She doesn't want me. So I might as well try to have some fun."
He smirks, and dips his head so she'll meet his eyes. "Is this fun?" She glares and nods at the tent.
"That was."
"Come on," he tries again. "You've put this stuff behind you."
She lets him lead her to the limo; with one last longing glance, she slips inside.
xviii.
Dan watches as Chuck's hand falls to Serena's lower back, bringing an arm up to steady her as she balances on one foot to get into the limo.
She doesn't look for him.
Chuck exhales visibly, mist pouring from his mouth, before he folds himself in after her.
Neither does he.
xix.
Chuck raises the partition as they turn onto 6th Avenue, to make a long U-turn around Bryant Park.
When they turn west onto 42nd, he licks his lips.
"How much?"
Serena exhales angrily through her nose, head lolling away, like when Serena Doesn't Want To Talk About It.
"Who cares?"
He restrains himself from grabbing her wrist, which would be counterproductive. "Serena. It's been a while. At least as far as I'm aware." He watches her closely; the corner of her mouth turns up in recognition. "How much?"
She holds up one finger, still looking away.
"Just one line?"
She nods.
He wraps his hand around her finger. "Look at me, please," he whispers.
Reluctantly, she shifts lower, her head against the back of the seat, and looks up at him.
"How much did you drink?"
"Four… five champagnes. And a few sips of vodka."
He's calculating in his head.
"I'm fine," she says.
She probably is.
She's done her fair share of cocaine before, but not for a long time. Mixing coke and alcohol is a no-go; that's Body Chemistry 101.
Serena got alcohol poisoning once, and it was not pretty.
He lets go of her finger and holds his hand up to her forehead, silently asking permission. She closes her eyes.
No fever.
"We'll eat and get some water and you should be okay," he says. She can't go home on coke; Lily will figure it out at once if they cross paths.
Not to mention she's in underwear.
He emails Kathryn to ask her to please send two dinners- anything- to his suite ASAP. He doesn't need to ask Arthur to take them into the garage.
Silence falls as they crawl across town. How is traffic this serious at 11PM on a Monday- even during Fashion Week?
Out of nowhere, Serena says: "I'm not trying to get her to rescue me."
"I don't care what you're doing. I just want you to stop before you get hurt."
Arthur turns left, just before the light goes red, and they start to pick up speed as they climb north on Madison.
"I feel…" she pauses and swallows wetly. "I feel evil. I feel like a terrible person. Horrible. I don't know what to… nothing seems to fix it for long."
He looks at her, watching as stripes of streetlamps flash through the window and illuminate her tortured face.
He slides down so they're level, hips coming to the edge of the seat.
"I know," he says.
"I can't make it go away. I hate myself," she confesses, barely audible. Without turning her head: "Do you ever feel like that?"
The corner of his mouth twitches as he shuts his eyes and tips his head back. "Why do you think I fuck every girl I see? For the pleasure of sexual orgasm?"
He feels her glance over at him, but doesn't move. At this angle, the streetlights are flashing on him, too, against his closed eyelids.
Serena closes her eyes and tips her head back.
Chuck drops his coat over her without looking.
She pulls it up to her chin like a blanket.
xx.
He goes out of the elevator first to make sure the coast is clear, and it is. He beckons her, and out she comes: torn wet fishnets and a black wool coat that she drapes over her shoulders without putting her arms through the sleeves so she can clench the front closed with both hands from inside.
"I'll probably be fine in an hour or two," she says when they get inside, still clutching the coat around her as if she's finally realized it's Chuck she's been half-naked in front of.
"You can go home then."
They both know she won't go home that late. It's better for her to not go home at all and tell Lily she's sleeping at a friend's house than to arrive past midnight.
He finds her a pair of lounge pants and a thick, unsexy sweater- pretending he doesn't even see the more comfortable options, the softer ones that are associated with Blair in some way, as he quickly searches his closet.
Just as she closes the bathroom door, his bell rings with their dinner.
Kathryn sent up tea service as well. That woman has a sixth sense.
He dials Blair, as promised, praying he doesn't wake her. He's heard the shrill brrrrrringggggg of her bedside phone, and wouldn't wish that alarm clock on anyone.
She answers, voice clear and hopeful.
"How was the party?"
He eyes the bathroom door.
Smiles.
"As predicted. It sucked."
She laughs lightly, like she does when she's sleepy. A relaxed sigh. "I'm so excited for…"
She catches herself, before remembering that she's not talking about that.
"For?"
"Carolina Herrera," she confides. "Tomorrow."
A quarter of Blair's (non-lingerie) wardrobe is probably Carolina Herrera.
"Me, too," he says drily.
"You don't wear Carolina Herrera," she retorts.
"That is not true; I use her perfumes."
She snickers into the phone. "Shut up." Then she turns serious. "So, really- the party wasn't fun?"
"I'm home before 11:30. You do the math."
She sounds relieved. "Maybe next year, it will be better."
There's a faint question mark at the end of the sentence.
"Definitely," he confirms. "It's a weak year."
When he hears the shower turn off, he tells Blair his dinner is here.
She whispers goodnight.
After Serena is showered and pajamaed and fed and hydrated, he grabs his spare down comforter from the closet and his two pillows and starts to set up the sofa.
"No," Serena says, seeing what he's doing. "You don't have to."
He holds up a hand to silence her. "If you vomit in my bed, Van der Woodsen, you're getting me a new one and it's coming out of your shoe allowance."
She smiles a small smile. "Deal."
He kills the lights and tells her goodnight.
He's exhausted, and already fading less than a minute after he lies down, when he hears Serena sit up on his bed.
"Chuck?"
He opens his eyes and looks at the ceiling.
"Yeah."
She pauses. "I'm jealous of you. And…" she sighs, quietly, to herself. "I'm really sorry."
He pushes a hand through his hair. "I know. Go to sleep."
There's a few seconds of silence, and he thinks she's going to say something else, but then there's a soft rustle as she curls up under the comforter.