Fumbling Towards Happily Ever After
Chapter Fifteen
April 8 2009
Did I ever tell you about the time that Chuck was fourteen and ran away from home? Chuck was industrious even then. He managed to circumvent the rules for travelling unchaperoned, forge his dad's signature so that he could travel across the full length of the continent. He was angry with his father which was strange because Chuck didn't usually get angry with Bart. They never got along well but Chuck usually responded to the elder man's perfectionist expectations with a kind of resigned hopelessness.
I never really understood what had happened between them until Eric told me about the overdose. Now I think it was probably that. They all tried to get him to come back. Bart flew first before calling on Nate. He should have thought better. Nate might have been Chuck's best friend but the boy had all the bite of a neutered Chihuahua. Serena had tried too. I hadn't wanted to at first. Do you know why? When I talked to him on the phone he sounded so happy. He really enjoyed living with his Aunt Katie and Uncle Jack.
I think when I flew there it was more for me. I think I missed him more than he missed any of us. He was doing well. He'd been there for nearly a month by then, even registered in a local school. I didn't even set out to convince him to come home. I just wanted to see him, talk to him, and see if he was truly as happy as he sounded. In a lot of ways he was. It wasn't until the second night that something changed my mind. It was when he asked about Bart. It was said casually but that casualness didn't run right through. He really wanted to know how his dad was.
That's the thing. No matter everything that has happened between them, and even though it would probably be easier for all involved if they did just go there separate ways, Chuck really loves his dad. I used to doubt Bart on that point, but the older man's affection has become pretty clear.
Blair Waldorf
Chuck couldn't remember when he had started smoking. It was strange. He could remember everything else. He distinctly remembered his first drink. He and Nate had been five years old, at one of Chuck's parents' dinner parties. They'd hidden under the tablecloth of the elaborate buffet, played war with a set of cards they'd found and shared someone else's glass of scotch. Chuck thought he was the one to suggest it but he couldn't be sure. It might have been Nate but history dictated it was more than likely him. He was the kid that flung sand in the sandbox, threw hissy fits that brought everyone else to tears, and straight out refused to share. Maybe that meant it was Nate. If it was Chuck he wouldn't have shared. What he did remember was how angry his parents were when they discovered the two, little bodies drunk on one shared glass. His father had yelled and his mother had cried. It was a pretty good indication of the next six years.
There was only one pleasure on the Southern wing and that was you could smoke freely. The reason for that was not so pleasurable. The Southern wing was a locked wing, kept separate from the rest of the manor house. It was the first stage for a patient at Clayton House, the place most entered high and stayed until they were stable enough to focus on something other than physical symptoms. Chuck had managed to bypass it altogether. He thought it had been a stroke of luck but now he understood why. The patients here scared the hell out of him. The head had split him and Sebastian. Sebe was down the hall to the left and Chuck was placed with a crystal meth case. Sebastian said they did it on purpose. The whole nature of their punishment involved showing you what you could become. They tried to freak you out and, in Chuck's case, it was working.
Perhaps it was cliché but Chuck had always associated drugs as part of a glamorous lifestyle. It was hard to accept that after Martin. The kid had scratched little red holes into his own arms and face, never mind the seven hour space outs or erratic mood shifts. Chuck didn't go into that room until lights out forced him to. Instead he stayed by on the central sofa, chain smoked with his usual roommate. He tried to keep his eyes from anything unpleasant but it was hard to do. Sebastian matched his nicotine consumption but he was more relaxed. By the second day that started to bother Chuck. "How can it not affect you?" Chuck finally asked.
"I've been desensitized," Sebastian admitted through his haze of smoke. "I've lived a third of my treatment here."
"Have you done it?"
"What?"
"Meth, like Martin." Chuck wasn't ignorant. He watched his roommate board the NA bus while he climbed to the AA one.
"God no!" Sebastian guaranteed. "Crystal Meth is the only drug to scare even me!"
"Heroin?" Chuck hoped not. Those kids were nearly as bad.
"I'm saving heroin for my last blaze of glory," Sebastian promised.
"Then what do you do?" Chuck asked and the other boy went strangely quiet. Part of Chuck expected it. Sebastian could wind a thousand tales, mingle adjectives with adverbs, train the ear to fables and follies but that was all. Approach the who, what, where, when, why or how of his reason for being here and the boy stopped talking altogether. "Nevermind," Chuck said with another drag.
"I didn't use drugs until after my first stint at rehab," Sebastian admitted instead. "My parents threw me into the Florida Recovery Center for Troubled Youth at twelve, after a really bad case of alcohol poisoning. That's where I learned about drugs."
Chuck took a deep breath at the thought.
"I'm just waiting for that moment," Sebastian finished. "That moment of desperation. I've seen it in others. I've seen lots of people come and go. I can tell who will be back for a second or third time. You can always tell the serious ones. They have this kind of abject desperation. You need that to get better. Happiness doesn't work in places like this."
"And what do you think I have?"
Sebastian took a long look at his bunkmate, took a drag on his cigarette and shrugged his shoulders.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
The sun had crested and dipped behind Bart, his usually sunlight office reduced to lamp light. He had to get work done. He'd spent the last three days trying to solve the problem of Chuck. If he didn't focus on Bass Industries then there wasn't going to be anything for Chuck to move home to anyway. He worked quickly, scanned papers and wrote reports. It was second nature to him and far more comforting than solving the conundrum that was his only child. The secretary was in his office when the door opened. She had a portfolio laid out, various structural and architectural drawings for a row of Ocean view housing.
"You're sending him to a foreign country?" Blair spat at the older man as she entered, secretary staring in shock. No one had ever seen Bart Bass addressed in such a manner. The secretary's jaw dropped further when she, rather than the teenage girl, was ushered out.
"Blair, this isn't..."
"Are you that embarrassed?"
"No," Bart insisted in such a strong tone that Blair halted her attack. "This doesn't have anything to do with me."
Blair snorted, she couldn't help herself.
"Chuck owns a townhouse in Vancouver and is choosing to relocate there."
"After one of your pep talks?" Blair asked.
"I don't want this," Bart insisted. "I just can't talk him out of it."
That seemed to deflate the brunette's anger or at least redirect it. "You're his father; you should be able to..."
"He's not a child anymore," Bart pointed out. "I can't force him to do anything he doesn't wish to."
"Then you need to figure something else out," Blair pressed forward. "You know this is a stupid choice that he's making."
"I have tried Blair. He doesn't care."
"So try harder. You need to figure something out."
"I..."
"You're CEO of the biggest corporation in New York," Blair waved at the office. "Figure it out."
Bart shook his head in agreement but it didn't really reassure him. Blair didn't stay longer, she had said her piece. Bart tried to turn back to the papers on his desk, attempted to focus on his latest acquisition but it was beyond his reasoning. He was still too run up with agitation. He had tried so damn hard but his son's mind was made up. He wished Blair could understand that.
Except maybe he didn't understand it either. He pushed the papers aside and concentrated where his mind wanted to go, pushed through possible scenarios in his mind but they all came up fruitless. He flipped through his rolodex idly, tried to figure out who could help. It was then that he came across the name and the first surge of anticipation in nearly two days. He finally had a way of proceeding. He paged the secretary immediately, ordered her to have the Bass jet ready within an hour.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Chuck had never been so happy to be institutionalized as the hour they let Sebastian and he return to their regular room. He tossed his carry bag on the floor, chose his bed to fall onto. He was exhausted. He'd barely slept in the three nights he'd bunked with Martin the meth case. "They must really like you," Sebastian explained as he tossed his own bag to the side. "They usually keep people there for a week."
"I have to go to Yale tomorrow," Chuck reminded his bunkmate. They'd changed the photo shoot to the morning. It was one small thing to be thankful for.
"They're still letting you?" Sebastian asked.
"It's only four hours," Chuck pointed out. "And I'm a voluntary committal."
"Still a lucky bastard." Sebastian decided as Chuck rolled over.
"Do you really want to leave?"
"No," Sebastian drawled sarcastically. "I was hoping to spend all my high school years incarcerated."
"Why don't you just get better then?"
Sebastian shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know."
"Just say no," Chuck repeated the familiar slogan.
"Ha ha," Sebastian rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I wish I could."
"Just try."
"It's like the last time, when they sent me to Kansas; they only did it because my mom grew up in Kansas. She swore that there were no drugs there. I guess I had to prove her wrong."
"How many times have you come and gone?" Chuck asked with a sudden need to know.
"What? Here? Or rehab in general?"
"Generally."
Sebastian looked to the roof and Chuck could see him counting. It was the way his eyes shook and then steadied. "This is my seventeenth go around."
"Seventeen?" Chuck repeated in outright shock. Sebastian gave a casual shrug of his shoulders, sat on his bed across the room. "Why can't you stay sober?"
"Because I have the absurd nickname of Sebe," The younger boy tried to laugh off the question. It didn't ring true and Sebastian was left hanging for a different answer. He kicked one foot over the other and thought long before speaking. "It's not the drugs," He admitted. "Who actually wants to be wasted all the time? It's how everything changes when you don't use them. All these stupid things change in subtle ways until you just want so badly for things to go back to normal, but you know they won't until you use again. It's realizing that dinner parties truly are dull, that your friends are a little stupider than you remembered and it's actually kind of scary to slip your hand up some unknown girl's skirt."
And that was the moment Chuck knew, that despite a week of debating it in his head, Sebastian wasn't like either Nathaniel or Eric. Sebastian was the mirror image of him. They had the same oversexed nature, same propensity for misadventure and the same style of self-preservation. Sebastian was him or at least a version of what he could have turned into if Bart had chosen to commit him after the first overdose. That thought scared him as much as Martin the meth head.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Bart hesitated outside the whitewashed brick building. He'd opened the metal gate, climbed the small set of stairs in pitch black. It was nearly midnight and Bart was reconsidering knocking at this hour. He should find a hotel for the night and try again in the morning. Then he remembered he'd flown across the country to this precise end. Besides, she was young enough to still be up. So he knocked. When Lewis opened the door clad only in her pyjamas Bart realized the miscalculation. Then again, maybe a little payback was in order. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and Bart tried to keep his eyes from her legs. They stretched a mile from her tiny boxer shorts, taunt and toned...
"Bart Bass?" Lewis mumbled once her eyes could focus.
"Ms. Smith."
"Do you know what hour it is?"
"Can I talk to you?"
"Now!" Lewis took a look at her wrist only to find it bare. She stared at the small mantle clock instead, tried to focus her tired eyes on the tiny numbers. "It's nearly midnight."
"I'm sorry..."
"I'm tired! I have my PhD defence in less than ten hours..." A high shrieked scream cut through the apartment on cue. "And my son is teething!"
Bart bounced on his feet. Okay so it was probably a bad time but he had already assigned Lewis to be his last hope. So he threw out everything he had. "My son tried to kill himself."
That led to both a wave in and a sympathetic look before Lewis disappeared into the back. Bart tried to wait for her in the foyer but after fifteen minutes she was still gone and that kid didn't seem to be letting up. So he walked hesitantly through the rest of the small town home, stopped outside the boy's room and looked. Lewis was trying her best to comfort Aidan; she had him wrapped in her arms, hand brushing reassuringly at the mop of blonde hair. Bart knew it wouldn't work. He could remember when Chuck had cut his molars. He'd screamed for a month straight. "You should try some frozen peas," Bart suggested.
"He's not hungry," Lewis shot back.
"Not to eat! To rub on his cheek. Chuck used to like that."
Lewis arched a brow in distrust but still carried her son towards the kitchen. The toddler was clearly disgruntled at his lot in life, tiny fists clutching at his mother's shirt, face red with the force of his tears. She tried to open the freezer door but Aidan kept shifting in her arms, stopped her from performing the simplest of tasks.
"Would you like me to hold him?" Bart suggested.
Lewis just turned and glared. It was Bart Bass after all! The man was likely to drop him on his head.
"I know how to hold a baby you know," Bart pointed out. It's not like he didn't have a son of his own. Then again, maybe Lewis had a point.
Lewis gave him one last lingering, doubting look and begrudgingly handed her son over. When the full weight of the two year old hit, Bart remembered just how long it had been. He rocked the toddler back and forth, everything coming back on instinct. He ran a finger under the tap without thinking; put it in the young boy's mouth to chew. Aidan did so happily, drooling all over Bart's hand in the process. The elder Bass hardly noticed.
Lewis crushed a bag of peas against the counter, carried it to where Bart stood and held it against her son's swollen cheek. Aidan cried harder at the initial chill but once his skin had numbed along with the gums beneath the little boy calmed, tiny head falling against Bart's chest. Bart didn't even notice because he was far more bothered by the familiar citrus scent that Lewis brought as she drew close. When Lewis took Aidan away Bart was almost thankful for the distance. He watched her rub the toddler's back, kiss at his cheek and he remembered how simple things were at this age. All Chuck had wanted was his favourite fire truck, a new book or a smile and a hug. When did things get so complicated?
Bart followed Lewis back to the bedroom. He watched her give her son a kiss on the head. She tucked Aidan in, curling the blankets around his tiny body before turning on the nightlight. She preened and fussed, made sure her own son was positioned just right for the best nights sleep. "They're a lot easier at that age," Bart said as she finished. When Lewis finally turned away from the sleeping toddler there was a resignation in her eyes.
"Why don't you tell me what happened?"
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
"I'm not wearing those," Chuck said as the stylist held up a pair of jeans and a Yale sweatshirt. He was a slender man in his early forties, dusting of grey contrasting with the denim he wore. Chuck hadn't worn a pair of jeans in nearly a year and those were part of a disguise. The Yale sweatshirt looked a lot like the top of the Wal-Mart set he'd picked up on the road trip. It was all wrong. If they wanted to showcase Chuck Bass they really needed to do it the way he was.
"They want you to look like a student," The stylist said with a pointed look at his clothes.
Chuck stared down at his suit. He was wearing a yellow and tan stripped suit, plain white collared shirt beneath it. He looked perfectly fine. He looked like Chuck Bass. "What's wrong with this?"
"How about we compromise?" The stylist suggested in exasperation.
"As long as compromise doesn't include denim or sweats."
The stylist gave a huff of frustration at that. "Come with me," He marched towards the back room. It took nearly half an hour but the stylist managed to find something that didn't offend Chuck. He settled on a pair of black pants pinstriped through with grey. Chuck kept his own plain shirt on but layered it with a blue Yale sweater. Once the Y was sewn to wool rather than cotton Chuck decided he quite liked the logo. Around his neck was one familiar red chequered scarf. The stylist had tried to pull it off but Chuck had pulled back twice as hard. It had to stay. "Go get your hair washed," The stylist ordered once he was finally clothed.
"What's wrong with my hair?" Chuck asked. He'd spent extra time styling it that morning.
"You need to look like a university student!"
"Was I supposed to abandon all fashion sense at first admission?"
That led to another huff of frustration from the stylist and another suggestion of compromise by Chuck. He compromised his way through hair and make up. When he noticed the other supposed university students he realized the purpose of this little picture. In the room were represented some of the most powerful names in business and finance, or at least the next generation of them. There were three girls and one other boy, all sons or daughters of the wealthiest industrialists in North America and abroad. Dean Baraby might just have been brilliant.
Chuck checked his watch between frames. The set up was simple. They were spread out over the lawn, books provided to them and the Yale Apartments forming the backdrop. He grabbed a few snatches of conversation between shots, actually read a bit of the text he'd been provided with (it was on international trade) but mostly relaxed his face from all the forced smiling. His hair kept flopping in the slight morning breeze and he took it as proof of the need for gel. The stylist didn't agree.
They moved to one more location before they finished up, traded books for a few coffee cups and a smaller table. Chuck was starting to grow bored. The photographer bit at him when his eyes started to cloud over and the smile drooped. Then the girl beside slipped her hand into his lap and the smile returned on instinct. Her name was Ming Li Huang and she'd been hanging off him all morning. Her father was Wei Huang, the wealthiest man in Hong Kong until he had relocated his entire family to California. He should have reconsidered the decision after the reputation his daughter had accumulated. Chuck checked his watch after the last photograph. He had only twenty minutes to return on time. Then the girl whispered something in his ear and he was presented with a tempting alternative: return to Clayton House or prove Sebastian wrong.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Bart had woven the whole tale for her, explained every single moment that led to the present. He had provided the entire history through narrative, sheer size taking them well into the next morning. Lewis yawned into her tea cup before Bart finally reached the point of his journey. "My son is determined to move to Vancouver. It doesn't matter what I say or offer. He's dead set!"
"It's a bad choice," Lewis reflected Blair's earlier refrain.
"I know that." Bart repeated his. He took one deep breath and then offered what he'd come to. "I will pay you one million dollars to stay with him, to make sure that he's safe."
Lewis knew enough of Bart to know he'd pay. He'd probably pay two or three times that but it wouldn't help. "Your money isn't going to save him."
"Will you consider..."
"Neither will I."
"I just..."
"He likes me," Lewis admitted. "But he loves you!"
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
When it was done, Chuck was nearly two hours late returning to Clayton House. He watched the petite Asian shimmy back into her knee length skirt and smoked liberally in the dorm room. It was her room. They'd given it to her for the visit. His hand shook as he withdrew the cigarette, his brilliant plan of proving Sebastian wrong undone by the truth.
The bastard was right. Chuck's senses had always been dulled before; he'd always pushed through in a haze of sometimes drugs but more usually just alcohol. Without it everything was discomfortingly clear. His senses felt everything, an overwhelming twisting of touch, scent and taste that he'd only half experienced before. He felt fully creeped out, hid behind his cigarette smoke as he realized: there was nothing casual about sex!
Ming spun once she was reclothed, pushed back her thick black hair and smiled like a contented cat. At least he hadn't lost his skills along with his nerves. "You should come out with us tonight," She suggested. "We're heading up to Bar None."
Chuck took a longer drag and blew the smoke upward. "Can't...I have a place to be."
The girl shrugged her shoulders and started to brush out her hair.
Chuck took one more puff and then butted his cigarette on the side table. He buttoned his shirt and grabbed the phone from the side table. There were three calls from the intake officer. Chuck deleted them all. He had a place to be but it wasn't Clayton House. He was nothing like Sebastian. He'd find a way to deal that didn't involve drugs or alcohol. He would figure things out. He didn't need seventeen trips to rehab. He didn't even need this one.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
The realization that Lewis wasn't in her bed the next morning didn't start with the heavy weight on top of her, the total absence of blankets or even the hard coffee table that one toe dangled on. Lewis realized she was on the couch once she felt the tiny felted buttons in the small of her back. She shifted only to feel the dead weight on top of her. Sometime the evening prior Bart had fallen asleep on her shoulder, had slipped down from there to sleep soundly on one arm. It was half numb from the weight and couldn't be moved from under him. She blinked into the morning light, terror starting when she realized just how bright it was. She had set her clock radio for 5:00am but it was all the way in the other room. She strained her ears and heard the radio already playing.
"Get up!" She slapped Bart on the arm.
"What?" The older man mumbled into her shoulder.
"Get the hell up," Lewis tried again. When she caught sight of the time on the mantle she gave a shove with her entire body. "I'm late!"
Bart opened his eyes, blinked twice before he realized where he was. Then he shot up, pushed over to the far side of the couch. "I'm sorry," he mumbled again. He was getting good at it.
Lewis was on her feet immediately, grabbed at her folders and dissertation. She threw them on the coffee table. "Most important two hours of my life, and I spend the night before coddling Bart fucking Bass!"
"Maybe I could help you prepare."
Lewis opened her folder with an amused snort. "Can you explain why you draw so heavily on Kubler-Ross even though contemporaries find her research into grief to be too simplistic and formulistic?"
That earned Lewis the biggest what the fuck face ever worn by Bart Bass. He's not sure he liked feeling stupid.
"That's what I thought," Lewis shot off as she flipped through. "And I just know they're going to ask that question."
"Surely there's something I can do," Bart asked as Lewis began to stamp her feet in nervousness.
"I have sixty minutes and I haven't even showered yet!" Lewis snapped. "How about you just shut up!" Her son took that moment to greet the morning with another shrieking cry. "Oh my God!" Lewis threw out in frustration, tears already forming in her eyes.
"Why don't you take that shower," Bart suggested. "I'll calm your son down."
Lewis was inclined to say no but she was a little afraid that if she did then she'd show up to her PhD defence smelling of body odour and men's cologne. Hardly the professional presentation she was hoping for.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
The friends were gathered around a table at Cranberry when the text came. They were sipping martinis and talking about Prom. Blair's hard work all year was less than three months from fruition. The school had started selling tickets yesterday morning but none of their party had bought any. Eric because he was still a junior but the rest, well they didn't have any plans. So they tried to form some but they came up empty. They'd all lapsed into silence when the phone beeped. The message was a shock to them all. First because they didn't realize Chuck had gotten his phone back. The second shock was the nature of the text that lit Eric's phone.
E.
Can you meet me at my dad's place?
C
Eric stared at the phone a moment before he texted the answer.
C
Just tell me when you're heading back.
E
It took only thirty seconds for the reply. It was enough to turn their surprise to a full freak out.
E
I'm here now
C
Eric was slow to arrive at the town home. He'd stayed with the rest long enough to scheme a solution to their newest problem. Nothing really insightful developed. They didn't know why Chuck was back in the first place. So Eric climbed the stairs in the townhouse and found his brother on the third floor. He was on the outside patio, tan and yellow striped suit blending with the neutral backdrop. He was leaned against the outside cushions, one arm dangling over the ledge behind. When he caught sight of his brother he stood.
"Why are you here?" Eric asked first.
"I discharged myself," Chuck admitted.
"Why?"
"I didn't need it anymore."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah," Chuck shook his head. He'd learned what he needed to and some stuff he wished he hadn't.
"So are you back to stay?" Eric asked. "I heard about your plans to move."
"I'm still moving," Chuck admitted. He leaned against the outdoor arbour. "I need to live in my own house."
"In a foreign country?"
"It's a beautiful apartment. You'd have to see it. It dangles so far over the water you'd think you were falling into a sea of blue."
"And this is why you're moving."
"I just need something new."
"Are you sure that you're not just trying to avoid the rest?" Eric asked. It was a reasonable point. Chuck hadn't talked to Serena, Nate or Blair, well really talked to them anyway, since his desperate phone calls. He'd defected to another group of friends just to avoid the humiliation. It was reasonable that he was flying away for the same end.
"It's not about that," Chuck promised. "I just need a fresh start."
"You won't know anyone there," Eric pointed out.
"That's partly the point."
"There will be no one there to help you through."
"Don't begrudge me a new start," Chuck offered with a look over the cement block. "I just want to go to a place where Chuck Bass doesn't mean anything. Where I can recreate myself as something new, without all the hang ups and expectations that encircle me here."
"It still sounds like running away."
"It's less than six months," Chuck pointed out. "In September I start at Yale."
"So stay here. It's only six months."
"I can't," Chuck insisted. Eric was going to say something else but then Chuck told the truth. "I'm afraid to stay here." Eric couldn't really say anything to that. His brother had finally argued right. So he nodded his head in resignation instead. "I wanted to give you something before I left." Chuck unbuttoned the top of his shirt and unclipped the St. Christopher's medal he wore around his neck. He wound it through his hand and held it out to his brother. "I'd like you to have this because if it wasn't for you then I wouldn't be here right now."
"Chuck..."
"The person who gave it to me said it's the Patron Saint of Travellers. She said it would protect you on any journey, whether that be a physical or a personal one."
"Then you should keep it," Eric pushed the medallion back. "Because you're not done yours."
Chuck kept his hand up for another moment before he accepted Eric's logic. He returned it to his neck and leaned against the balcony.
"When are you leaving?" Eric asked.
"Tomorrow morning. I have to fill out some paperwork at the Canadian embassy first."
Eric nodded his head and the two lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Eric knew what he wanted to say but he couldn't phrase it right and Chuck was too firm to chip away at. So in the end they simply hugged with good wishes and Eric left the house with a gnawing sense of dread. He was three steps down the street when he texted for reinforcement.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Bart stood outside the graduate building, two cups of coffee barely warming his hands. His was nearly empty and Lewis' was closer to iced coffee at this point. He tossed them both in the garbage and took a look at his watch. It had been nearly five hours at that point. It seemed like an unnaturally long time. Perhaps he really had screwed up her doctorate defence. I mean it's not like she'd slept. She'd spent the entire night listening to him ramble about his problems. Maybe she stumbled over that question about Rober-Klutz or whatever it was. Wow, he was certain he didn't like feeling stupid.
Then he caught sight of her walking out. Her head was down to follow the steps and Bart felt a surge of guilt. Then she looked up and the beaming smile washed it away. When she caught sight of him she ran down the last couple steps and flew into his arms. Okay, so maybe at that point she'd have hugged a dog but it didn't bother him. She was that good looking after all.
"Congratulations," Bart offered as she jumped back in surprise at her own actions. "Dr. Lewis."
That washed her blush away, returned the joyful smile to her face. He tried to ask her about it but his mind was too preoccupied to attempt it. She figured it out pretty quickly. It wasn't surprising. She had just graduated with a doctorate in psychology. "What's the matter?"
"Chuck checked himself out." Bart admitted.
Lewis took a deep breath at that, bit at her cheek and considered. "I'll give you eight weeks."
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Chuck was swimming laps when she found him, cutting through the water with well timed strokes, kicking at each wall after a tight spin. She watched his body move through, bare chest contrasting with his bold purple trunks, face partially hidden under a set of matching goggles. He didn't stop as she reached the edge of the pool; he just kicked harder, arms thrashing to match. She knew he had seen her. He always did. She let him play the game. He couldn't stay in the pool forever. It took another twenty laps before he emerged, water running from his thick hair, bouncing off his shoulders and puddling across his stomach. He brushed at his hair with the towel, didn't remove the goggles until it was dried through, then he pulled them back to rest on the top of his head. He tossed the towel over one shoulder and just stood awkwardly, eyes fixed to the ground.
"You were going to leave without seeing me," Blair started with a cross of her arms.
Chuck looked up at her words, tiny flicker of something that disappeared as he looked down again. "It's better this way," He promised into the cement.
"Better for me or for you?"
"Blair..." He mumbled into the floor.
"How can you do this?" Blair asked. "If you ever cared about me then you wouldn't do this to me."
Chuck stared harder into the cement, words failed. He could neither admit nor deny. It was a lose-lose situation.
"Do you know how much I will worry about you if you leave?" Blair continued. "I won't be able to..."
"Stop," Chuck ordered with a fleeting look upward. "Don't you see I can't live my life according to what you want?"
That was the moment Blair's last romantic ideal shattered to nothing. It was a jarring rip, one that left her doubting his once sworn declaration of love. It made her angry. "Look at me," she snapped as he kept his eyes downward. "Look at me," She ordered as she moved across the room to stand in front of him. When he still didn't she grabbed at his chin. He tried to push her hand away but she grabbed again, competing desires played out in a battle of hands.
The battle ended once Chuck threw himself forward, closed the distance and kissed her hard on the lips. She gasped in surprise and he pushed further, snaked his tongue between her parted lips. His eyes were as squeezed shut as his hands were open. They played at the edge of her shirt, traced the length of her back and below, wound through her curls and forced her closer to him. She was lost for a moment in the sensation, she could taste the chlorine on his lips, felt her knee length skirt dampen from his still wet shorts. She could feel his attempt to dominate; his arms were dragging on her, trying to urge her downward. Blair wouldn't let him pull to the cement because she understood. Sex to Chuck was as much about creating distance as breaking it. He could take her here on the floor and two hours later be on a transcontinental flight. So she shoved him backward, reclaimed control of the situation. She grabbed at his chin, nails digging deep so he couldn't turn away. "Look at me!"
That time he didn't have a choice. He'd done everything he could and was left with only one option, to meet her brown eyes. She saw it when he did, the shame which clouded his pupils and keep him from staring fully. "Just look at me," She softened her tone and waited for his fleeting looks to turn steady. "Chuck," She lightened her grip, cupped rather than held his chin. "I'm not angry about what you did. I'm not even upset," She continued. She was upset at the time but after reflection she recognized something else. "I'm thankful," She smiled and some of his clouding cleared. "All I ever wanted was for you to confide in me."
She didn't say anything else, she didn't need to. Instead she watched one of their divisions dissolve to nothing. She just stared now that she could, was comforted by his chocolate eyes as much as he was by hers.
"How can you..."
"Come with me," She dropped her hand now that he was no longer fighting her. She slipped her arm through his now that he was willing and pulled him through the house. He let her lead him, didn't fight or hesitate until she directed him towards his bedroom. He stood still and that's when she knew. He hadn't seen it yet. "Come on," She pulled harder but he stood firm.
"I don't want to go in there."
"Just trust me," Blair said softly and because of their shared history he did.
He saw the outline before Blair even turned on the lights. When illumination cut the darkness he was rendered speechless. Blair just stood back as he stared, eyes pausing only between the longer passages. Damien had crafted an enormous oak tree on that wall, winding branches from which dangled elaborate leafing. It looked almost lifelike but that wasn't the part that was twisting Chuck's throat in astonishment. It was the lettering that was woven through every branch and leaf. The trunk held his name, and the leaves adjectives to describe him (in much more positive terms than he had put there himself) but the branches were what he couldn't turn away from. They were collections of stories, each an example of a time he had helped his friends. Some he had nearly forgotten but evidently the rest hadn't. And there were so many, so many examples of that kind, generous and empathetic side whose existence he often doubted.
Blair watched as he walked forward, could see just how much effort he was expending on not crying. His shoulders shook with the attempt. She wanted to put a hand to his forehead, urge him to just let it go already but she thought the better of it. So she waited while his fingers traced their affection put to art. They hesitated beneath the signatories. To the far side was the title Non-Judging Breakfast Club and beneath it each of their names, Eric's was in red to their blue, to demonstrate that he was the later addition. Beneath that was the admonishment to Stay Sober in bold red letters. That wasn't the part that drew his fingers. It was the black text that crossed through. Chuck traced with his pointer finger the simple We Love You.
Blair couldn't keep the tears from her own eyes on watching him. They watered as he forced his to stay dry. She wanted to hug him but she didn't dare. She didn't even approach him until he turned his eyes. "Blair," he put his hand out and she crossed the room to take it. It didn't stop there; he pulled her flush to him. It wasn't like before; there was no alternative motivation to the touch. He just wanted to hug her. So he did. His body shook but he didn't cry; he held her until that shaking turned into something beautiful. It was so much, too much maybe but it couldn't change his mind. "I still can't stay here," Chuck admitted and Blair felt her own body shudder against his. She closed her eyes and thought of anything that could change his mind.
"Then don't," She leaned back to suggest. She met his brown eyes and drew her own solution. "Move in with me."
Chuck agreed much the way he had four years before, when he had run away to Seattle and she had flown there to bring him back. He agreed today the same way he had then, not with words but a simple shake of his head.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
A/N – I decided to post all of Chapter Fifteen since I needed the CB as much as everyone else (I also moved a few of the other character's scenes out so I could make it in one). And...Yes...you read that right...Chuck will now be living at the Waldorf Penthouse.
Sky Samuelle – I'm sorry I took away B's chance to kind of deflower C...I want him to know the difference though. As for CN, I don't know how their friendship will survive. N is the only who has barely matured since the start of TH.
Blair – I think C will be happy to help B humilate P. Though whether she'll want her throne back, who knows.
BrittyKay – Sebastian is part insightful and part the evil side of Chuck drawing him downward. That's why I said he'd both friend and foe.
Annablake – A big part of me wanted B to be C's first sober but I think he needed to experience that to know the difference. BTW, thanks for your wonderful review I was kind of deflated after the other one.
Bluestriker – thanks
M – This story is only halfway to 3/4rds of the way through so I suggest the little x on the top right if you're not liking it anymore.
Tiff – thanks
Roswell Dream Girl – Well C isn't going to be ignoring her anymore (they will be living together after all) but it doesn't mean everything will be rosy and easy.
Up Next – The passage of the date they circle in red. Nate gets jealous while Chuck and Blair plot P's downfall.