Chapter 16 – Swing

A/N – I have no excuse for how late this is other than I've been very easy to distract lately. So forgive me for the lateness as well as any typos. I didn't want to wait any longer, so I forewent the proofreading. As always, reviews are appreciated (:

"So, Blair, how has your week been so far?"

Blair absently twirled a hazel curl between her fingers before shrugging. "It's been fine, I guess," she replied, her focus on searching for split ends, rather than the man in the leather armchair in front of her.

"Just fine?"

Blair let out a huff before making eye contact with her new therapist. Dr. Ellis – a man Blair had already deemed completely impossible, and certainly unqualified. This was her fourth session with the therapist Dr. Sherman had recommended, and Blair was ready to call it quits with all of his inane questions. "Why do you always ask me that? Aren't you supposed be shrinking me? Relating all of my underlying issues to my mother?" she retorted.

Dr. Ellis shrugged casually. "I'm just curious about how your week has been, Blair. And as for your mother; I suppose you'd have to tell me about her before I can blame all your problems on her," he replied with a small smirk.

Blair couldn't help but smirk in return. "This week has been…all right, I guess," she relented. "Chuck's been busy with work…Serena's been busy with her boyfriend. I'm still ignoring all of my mother's calls...so yeah, just fine." She shrugged.

"How has your anxiety been? Any panic attacks?" Dr. Ellis questioned.

"The anxiety hasn't been too bad. It's still there, but nothing I can't handle," she replied, picking a piece of invisible lint from her skirt. "No panic attacks since the night I agreed to try therapy." Dr. Ellis' eyes never left Blair's face, making her feel slightly uneasy. Silence filled the room and Blair began to fidget, growing more uncomfortable by the second.

Silence.

Suddenly Dr. Ellis' shoes seemed very interesting, and Blair studied them thoroughly. Older, but good quality. Definitely leather. Artisan. Coach, she concluded, eventually.

Silence.

The horrible painting on the wall – Was it of Venice, perhaps? Perhaps. The angles were wrong. The shadows weren't in the right places.

Hotel art.

But Blair was enraptured. It was better than the expectant silence.

Dr. Ellis appeared completely at ease, his eyes trained on Blair, the corners of his lips lifting in a slight smile.

"Aren't you going to ask me another insipid question?" she eventually blurted, simply hoping for an end to the infernal silence.

Fuck, you're not supposed to give in first!

Dr. Ellis chuckled. "I wasn't planning on it. But I do have one question, Blair. Why are you really here?"

Blair's eyes snapped up from studying her skirt to look at the aging therapist. "What?"

"Why are you really here, Blair?" he repeated, unblinkingly, as if he was waiting for a reaction.

As if he could already see.

"I told you why the first day I came. My boyfriend wanted me to come because of my panic attacks," she replied quietly. She knew her voice wavered as she spoke, and she mentally chastised herself.

"Oh, I'm sure that's certainly part of it. But I can tell you're hiding the real reason," he countered immediately.

"Am not!" Blair shot back, eyes narrowed.

Dr. Ellis leaned back in his chair, removing his glasses and setting his aging leather notebook aside. "Let me tell you something, Blair. I have been at this for a long time. A very long time. I have a degree in Psychology from Harvard, and a Master's and Ph.D. in Clinical Counseling from Columbia. I am no fool. And from what I've seen, neither are you. You've been coming to me for a month now, and I know nothing about you that you didn't tell me during our first intake session. So, care to tell me why you're really here? Or are we going to tiptoe around it for another few months?"

Blair felt herself flush. "I'll have your license revoked," she replied darkly. "You can't talk to me like that."

Dr. Ellis' face remained impassive. "I'm here to help you, Blair. I can't do that if you don't tell me what you need help with." He shrugged, almost as if he couldn't care less.

Blair swallowed the lump that had grown in her throat before she responded. "I'm here for my boyfriend. He wanted me to try it," she replied coldly.

"Why?"

"My ex-fiancée hit me, ok?" she exclaimed, before she even realized the words were leaving her lips. She could feel the blush twinging at her cheeks. She closed her eyes to save herself from her embarrassment, and the pity that was surely on Dr. Ellis' face at the moment. Her slender fingers touched her lips of their own accord, as if to warn them against blurting out anymore of her secrets.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Blair. It sounds like you were in a really tough situation."

Dr. Ellis' voice was warm and comforting, and Blair opened her eyes to look at him. "It was a fucking terrible situation," she seethed. "I'd probably be dead if it wasn't for Chuck."

"Your current boyfriend?" Dr. Ellis asked.

"He saved me," she replied quietly, nodding.

"He saved you?" Dr. Ellis questioned.

"I almost died. Chuck called 911," she replied quietly. "I really don't want to talk about this anymore."

Dr. Ellis nodded. "We're almost out of time for today anyway. But I appreciate you finally telling me the truth, Blair. I'd like to pick back up here next week."

"Sure. Fine," Blair mumbled, grabbing her bag and standing up from the plush leather sofa. She had to get out of here NOW.

Dr. Ellis smiled at her warmly, rising to open his door for her. "I'll see you next week, Blair," he said kindly.

Blair didn't respond, having found Chuck waiting for her in the small waiting room, absently flipping through the latest issue of GQ, which she knew he had already read. She abruptly grabbed his hand and pulled him forward. "Let's go, Bass," she growled.

Chuck narrowed his eyes in confusion, but dutifully followed her out the door of Dr. Ellis' office and onto the sidewalk. "Bad, huh?" he asked as she pulled him forward.

"Just be quiet, Bass," she seethed, stomping towards the limo. She felt uneasy in her heels. Why the choice to wear heels for therapy? She had no idea.

Chuck raised an eyebrow as he opened the car door for her, beckoning her inside. He slid in after her, but she was already on the other side of the long leather seat, her head leaning against the glass of the tinted window, her breath frosting creating a network of frost against the glass. "Blair?" he asked gently.

"I have a headache, ok?" she said quietly, really not wanting to discuss the conversation she had just had with Dr. Ellis.

No.

In fact, she wanted to forget about it completely.

"Ok," Chuck replied softly, taking her hand from where it rested in her lap and placing it in his own. "I'm here if you want to talk. Or if you don't."

"I know, Chuck," she replied wearily.

Blair Waldorf had always considered herself a force of nature, a power not to be reckoned with. During her time at Constance, there had once been a time when she was sure she was absolutely, positively, indisputably pregnant. Of course, she had lied to herself for as long as possible before Serena felt the need to insert herself into the situation – as she always did. But before then, Blair was perfectly content to live in her own denial. If she could tell herself it was absolutely, positively, indisputably not true – then it wasn't. Obviously.

And then Serena had calamitously gotten involved in Blair's private affairs – the nerve – and forced Blair's hand: Denial or truth. Of course, being pregnant, Blair wouldn't have been able to hang onto her denial for much longer, and Serena had forced her hand to face the truth.

The inevitable.

In the back of the limo, with her head pressed against the cool glass and her slender fingers twined with Chuck's, she could remember every detail of that day.

It was Chuck's. Of that much, she had been certain.

She hadn't slept with Nate at Cotillion – she couldn't. She had hated Chuck that night, of course. But when it came down to the absolute, raw truth, she loved him. Perhaps, she was even in love with him, even then.

She remembered the feeling of opening the box. This was would be it, the end. She was already in the grave, and the test would effectively bury her. It would bury her social empire completely. Herself. Her family – her mother, specifically. Chuck.

And Chuck would hate her.

Blair Waldorf had peed on a stick, clad in designer sleepwear which she had hiked up above her hips, and she had never felt less refined. What was even the point? She was pregnant with Chuck Bass' baby and she knew it.

As she had set the test on her counter and set the timer on her phone, she stared at herself in the mirror. What the fuck have you come to, Blair?

"I'm not pregnant. I command myself not to be pregnant," she said to her reflection in the mirror. It was ridiculous and she knew it. Blair Waldorf was powerful, but she was not a force of nature.

She remembered the sound of her timer going off. A horribly annoying melody, devoid of any real instruments, any real music, any real life. Is this real life? She had wondered.

No, it's not.

Honestly, what even was the point of looking at the test? She knew that she was absolutely, positively, indisputably pregnant.

When she allowed her eyes to flutter to the test, she thought she was facing her own denial. She even chuckled.

Not pregnant.

Yeah, right.

She had Dorota bring her a slew of tests, all of which were negative. Eventually she saw a doctor, and the same was said.

I'm not pregnant. I command myself not to be pregnant.

And so, Blair Waldorf decided she was, in fact, a force of nature.

Blair Waldorf was not to be fucked with. Teachers feared her, her minions hung on her every word. She was queen.

She sighed, the cloud on the glass growing larger. Queen. She chuckled against the glass. She didn't even make it to princess. Blair Waldorf had always considered herself a force of nature. So why did talking about Louis feel like it could break her, shatter her? Why did she feel so weak? When did she become weak?

"Waldorf?" Chuck's voice interrupted her thoughts.

Chuck's fingers were wiping her tears away before she even realized they were falling. "I don't want to be queen anymore, Chuck," she whispered.

"Blair—"

"No, I know. It's made up." I made it up. "And it sucks."

"You're my queen," he offered.

"I am, aren't I?" she replied with a grin, pushing away the errant on his forehead.

"Tell me," he murmured, squeezing her hand.

"He's actually going to make me talk about it," she grumbled.

Chuck blinked. Once. Then twice, clearly in disbelief. "What the fuck did you think therapy was, Waldorf?"

Blair shrugged. "Dr. Sherman and I never really talked. She prescribed me medication and made me promise to not throw up my food. There was a whole contract involved, honestly –"

"Blair," he interrupted. "Dr. Sherman was a quack. We both know it. Please try." His face was drawn, pale, slightly drained.

"Yes," she agreed. "She was…is. Chuck –"

"Don't," he murmured.

"You know it was you, don't you? "

"Me, what?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"You're why I stopped…. Stopped. You know, the thing."

Chuck blinked, clearly surprised. "Me?" he asked.

Blair nodded in affirmation. "Yes."

"Why?" he questioned, eyes narrowed, his fingers tightening over hers.

Blair shrugged. "Apparently, I'll do whatever you want if you look sad enough." A look of hurt flashed over Chuck's features momentarily, and she sighed, softening, looking him pointedly in the eye. "You were the only one who asked," she offered. "Do you remember what you said to me when you found out?"

Chuck nodded. "You know I never forget anything, Waldorf," he replied grimly. Another squeeze of her fingers, then the pads of his fingers brushing gently across her knuckles.

It had been a completely ordinary day for Chuck Bass. Well, most days were ordinary for Chuck Bass. Or, at least, they had been. The days just passed, a haze of pot, booze, and random women he never took the time to get to know. Women were just like the days of the week – Boring. Always the same. Inevitable. Occasionally, torturous.

Well, they had been.

He had just stepped out to finish off the blunt he and Nate had started smoking before school, as English literature was especially torturous that day. Romeo and Juliet, honestly?

Romeo couldn't have waited five seconds before he killed himself, really? Honestly, it was just poor writing, in Chuck's opinion. He figured that if he was high, maybe he could maybe find some humor in the star-crossed lovers' inevitable demise – because, really, it was all just ridiculous.

The corridor had been empty as he stepped back inside, his hands numb from the cold. He took a look around, momentarily confused, before he realized that in his drugged haze, he had stepped into the wrong side of Constance/St. Jude's.

Man, this stuff is strong. I'll have to call Jessie, get some more.

He laughed to himself, amused at his error and obviously stoned when he heard the sound. A muffled sob, a gasp, and then the sound of someone retching. Chuck rolled his eyes.

Fucking bulimics.

They were a dime-a-dozen at Constance, honestly. It was a cliché at this point to be a bulimic, and if there was one thing Chuck hated, it was a cliché. Well, that, and suit that had been incorrectly pressed.

They all wanted to be beautiful, the girls at Constance. It wasn't enough to be ostentatiously wealthy – no, not nearly enough, never – they had to be impossibly, painfully thin. Had to be perfect. Had to be better, always, always, better, no matter the means. The end would always justify the means. Everything always had to be perfect on the Upper East Side. Well, at least, it had to appear that way.

Always perfect. Chuck grimaced. A curl of dark brown hair, a pair of rich hazel eyes flashed through his mind. He shook his head. Must be the pot.

Chuck hadn't even realized he was still in the hallway, completely unmoved and lost in his own thoughts, until the door to the bathroom swung open, starling him. A curl of dark brown hair, a pair of rich hazel eyes. "Waldorf?" he asked as a strange feeling shot through his whole body. He wasn't sure what to call the feeling, honestly, as Chuck Bass didn't do feelings.

Years later, Chuck realized that nameless feeling that had shot through him that day was, in fact, fear.

"Bass?" she replied, clearly taken by surprise. "What are you doing in the girls' hallway? Trolling for victims?"

"Actually –" he paused, eyes narrowed. "Are you ok?"

Blair blinked, taken aback by the question. "What do you care, Bass? And yes, I'm fine," she replied, tossing a curl over her shoulder.

"Are you sick?" he asked.

Blair visibly flinched. "No," she denied, her voice dropping an octave. What are you talking about, Bass? Oh, I see. You're high. Of course."

Chuck took a step closer to her, noticing that she had been shaken by his questioning. "Waldorf—"

"Don't," she interrupted. "Just don't. I'm fine, Bass."

"I heard you, in there."

"I said I was fine," she asserted, gritting her teeth.

"No," he said quietly, shaking his head. "No, Waldorf. Come on, really?"

Blair blushed and looked away from him. "Stop, Chuck," she pleaded.

He reached a hand out, placing it on her narrow shoulder. "Will you stop?" he had asked, pleadingly.

"You asked me if I would stop. You were the only one. Everyone else just told me to stop," she stated, shaking Chuck out of the memory. "Even then, I guess I'd do whatever you asked of me." She shrugged.

"I'm asking you to try this," he replied, softly, pulling her into his arms. "Just try."

Blair nodded slowly. "I'll try, because you're asking me to. I just…I didn't realize it would be like this."

"Like what?"

"I didn't realize it would be…this hard. It's easier to pretend, isn't it?" she asked, scrunching her nose up distastefully.

"Hmm, yes," Chuck responded thoughtfully "Short term, yes, I suppose it is."

"Long term?" she asked softly.

Chuck settled his arms around her waist, stroking her side with the pad of his fingertips thoughtfully. "Things either change or they stay the same," he finally offered. "You just have to decide what you want." He shrugged. "Are you happy the way things are?"

Blair paused, pressing her face against the hollow of Chuck's throat. "I suppose not entirely," she offered. "But I'm happy with you."

"And I want more than that for you. You know that. I've told you that."

Blair nodded against his shoulder, relaxing into him. "Will you stay with me when it gets too hard?" she asked tentatively.

"Why, Waldorf. You know I'd stick by through anything," he replied, the corners of his mouth turning upwards into a smile – a real smile, she noted.

Anything.

Xoxo.

Andrew Tyler was bored. He had worked for the Bass family – if the word family was even an appropriate term – for many years, and he was officially on his most boring assignment, he was sure of that. Louis Grimaldi, while a prince, was mostly a monotonous subject. He was still shackled up with his brunette assistant - what was her name? Estee? Yes, Estee - on the Lower East Side. Frankly, Andrew was convinced that his following of the Prince of Monaco was entirely, but who was he to question the reasoning of the employer paying him a vulgar amount of money to simply watch the man as he ran out for a bit of takeout?

No, he was certainly not in the position to ask questions.

He did, however, wonder why Bass cared so much about Grimaldi's whereabouts. Having worked exclusively with the elder Bass for as many years as he had before the intimidating businessman's tragic passing, Andrew knew his tasks always had an element of business to them. That had been Bart Bass – ever focused on his business and making more money. Money and control had been true hallmark of Bart Bass.

Chuck, however, was a stark contrast to the employer Andrew had been used to. Chuck Bass had become a fearsome businessman in his own right, he knew. He had good instincts and understood how business was done, but he lacked the calculating coldness that Bart had used to build Bass Industries from absolutely nothing. In a word, Chuck Bass was soft. Andrew knew that his following of Louis Grimaldi had absolutely nothing to do with Bass Industries and everything to do with Blair Waldorf.

Chuck was absolutely soft.

And Andrew Tyler was bored. It had been three hours since he had laid eyes on the Prince, who had left in the morning to grab breakfast from a bakery down the street. Hardly newsworthy. Letting out an exasperated sigh of boredom, Andrew leaned back against the wall in the alley where he was hiding himself. Today was going to be another boring day.

And then, finally, there was Louis Grimaldi, headed towards the street, his arm out in front of him, hailing a cab.

"Finally, you bastard," Andrew muttered, making his own movement to his car, preparing to tail the Prince. It was an easy trail, Andrew noted with some disappointment. This could not be the most exciting part of his day. In twenty minutes, Louis' cab came to a halt, and Louis exited the cab gracefully, turning on a heel and turning towards his destination.

Andrew tracked him from across the street, and as he took in the building before him, a smirk slowly building on his face.

Now, that was interesting. Interesting enough to make a call, at least.

Andrew watched as the doorman opened the door for Louis and beckoned him to come inside. "Bass, I have something interesting for you," he spoke into the phone as soon as Chuck answered, his usual brusque greeting.

"Yeah, just watched your Prince Charming going into the Waldorfs' building."

Xoxo.

"So, how are things, B?" Serena asked, as she artfully stabbed a piece of lettuce with her fork. "It's been awhile since I last saw you."

Blair winced at the reminder of her and Serena's last attempted outing. Today, at Chuck's urging, Blair was having lunch with Serena at the blonde girl's apartment.

"You have to get out of this house, Waldorf," he had said, straightening his bow tie in the mirror.

She had scoffed. "Yeah, because that went so well the last time I tried. Both times I tried."

Chuck had turned around, passing a hand across his face, nodding. "Still. You can't be here 24/7. You'll go crazy, Waldorf."

So here she was, in Serena van der Woodsen's apartment, eating Caesar salad out of a Styrofoam container. Because Chuck had asked her to.

Damn him.

"Things are fine, S," Blair responded coolly.

"You and Chuck?" Serena asked absently, crunching on a crouton.

"Out with it, Serena," Blair replied with a roll of her eyes.

"Have you guys…You know, yet?" Serena asked, her blue eyes gleaming conspiratorially.

"Seriously, S?" Another eye roll.

"Well, the last time I saw you, you were unsure! Forgive me for being curious!" Serena replied. "So I take that as a no, then?" Her voice softened.

"Since when have you wanted to hear about my sex life, S?" Blair asked, stabbing her own piece of lettuce, popping into her mouth delicately.

"Since you became a shut-in, apparently," Serena grumbled back.

Blair paused, swallowing her bite of food, before laying the fork down on the table and crossing her arms around herself. "You don't get it, S," she said quietly.

"You're right. I don't, Blair. What happened to you? I mean, I know what happened with Louis was bad, but you can't just cut yourself off from the world," Serena said heatedly.

"That's not what I'm doing, Serena!" Blair shouted back.

"Well, what are you doing? You're always with Chuck, I never see you, I barely hear from you. So, what? You're just with Chuck now and that's all your life is? Because that is pretty sad, B," Serena said mockingly, leaning back in her chair, her own arms crossed.

Blair blinked. Swallowed sharply. In a second she was out of her chair. "I wouldn't have come here if I had known I was going to be attacked, thank you very much for lunch, Serena, but I must be going," Blair said quietly.

"B, wait—" Serena started, her voice slightly softer.

"No," Blair interrupted, her hand raised between them. "You've said quite enough for today, Serena.

Blair grabbed her coat and handbag from where Serena had artlessly thrown them over the back of her couch, and swiftly stepped out of Serena's apartment with a solid click of the door. Alone in the hallway, Blair felt herself deflate.

The nerve.

Blair slammed her hand against button of the elevator in pure anger. The absolute nerve of Serena van der Woodsen!

While Serena wasn't entirely incorrect about Blair's sudden housebound status, she was absolutely incorrect about Blair's reasoning – well, mostly incorrect. She didn't know about Estee, the flowers, seeing Louis, the panic attacks. In fact, Serena hadn't even tried to understand her reasons, as was typical of any line of Serena's thinking: Do now, think later, then make excuses and avoid all responsibility, look stunning while doing it.

Blair rode the elevator in silence. She felt defeated, alone, misunderstood. The only person who understood was Chuck. He was the only one who had even tried. Why did everything have to be a fight? Blair fought for everything she had ever had, clawed viciously to get where she was, only for to all be snatched away in seconds. Serena van der Woodsen had never had to fight, of course. Everything was handed to her on a silver platter. Blair wanted – needed – to stop fighting. Something had to be easy, just one thing.

The door of the elevator swung open, and she wiped the tears that had gathered in the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffling slightly. She pulled her phone out of the pocket of her coat and typed out a text to Chuck: Lunch didn't go well. Headed home. Am I pathetic?

It took only a few moments for her to receive a response, which made her smile slightly: You're amazing, Waldorf. You know that.

I'm just tired, I guess.

After another few moments: Go home. Curl up in bed, I have something I have to take care of and then I'll be there. I love you, Waldorf.

Love you, too, Bass.

Blair pocketed her phone, feeling slightly better that, at the very least, Chuck Bass loved and understood her.

Even if her best friend didn't.'

Xoxo.

Chuck Bass was seated in his limo, right leg propped up over the left as he typed out his replies to Blair's texts.

He was sure that "Lunch didn't go well" meant that lunch had, in fact, gone quite terribly.

Dammit, Serena. You had one job. ONE.

Chuck sighed, looking out the window of his limo and up at Blair's old apartment building. He had been stunned when Andrew Tyler had called him with the location, and frankly, Chuck was not entirely sure he believed the man. But if there was the slightest possibility that Chuck could intervene Louis' twisted plan – whatever it was – he'd have to take that chance.

Blair was coming apart at the seams, he knew. And this time, he couldn't wait until she had completely fallen apart to protect her. With this in mind, Chuck opened the door of the limo and made his way inside the all-too-familiar building, the doorman greeting him a polite "Welcome, Mr. Bass." Chuck nodded curtly and made his way to the elevators, the key card he had swiped from Blair years ago lodged so firmly in the palm of his hand that he was sure it would leave a permanent indentation.

The ride to the penthouse seemed to take longer than he remembered. Chuck was acutely aware of the sound of his own breathing, and the nervous trembling he felt in the pit of his stomach. You are fucking successful businessman. A fucking billionaire. Why the fuck are you nervous right now?

You know why.

The elevator stopped and Chuck was momentarily unsteady on his feet. Don't think, just do. He regained his balance and inserted the keycard, sticky with the sweat on his hands, into the slot. The doors swung open and Chuck took in the view of the familiar foyer of the Waldorf penthouse, the sound of Eleanor's laughter.

A maid – not Dorota – scurried to greet him, clearly confused by the sudden visitor. "Sir?" she questioned.

"I'm here to see Eleanor," he stated lowly, barely looking her in the eye as he pushed past her.

"Sir!" she shouted after him.

Chuck ignored her, moving briskly into the formal dining room, where he found Eleanor and Louis chatting over a china tea set, set primly between them. "Just most beautiful French Chantilly lace, really, Louis—"

"Whatever this is—" Chuck motioned wildly between Louis and Eleanor, interrupting the latter – "Stops now," he demanded.

Eleanor's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Charles. What are you doing here? I simply don't remember inviting."

"I'm not here to play games, Eleanor," he growled, before turning to Louis. "Stop. The flowers, Estee, whatever else you have up your sleeve, STOP. You lost her, and that's on you. You had one fucking job, Louis – just love her. That's all you had to do. You fucked it up gloriously and now it's over. She's with me and you both need to get over it and move on."

Chuck turned to Eleanor: "I know he doesn't care that he's hurting her, I know that. But you're her mother, and he's hurting her. He's torturing her. And you're just having a chat with him over tea? It's disgusting. Your daughter is falling apart and you don't even care, Eleanor. I'm taking care of the best I can but you're her mother. Jesus Christ."

Back to Louis: "Your game is over, Louis. Whatever you think you're doing, it won't work. You won't break us up, you won't win her back. You lost. So just move on and leave her alone."

Chuck was breathing hard by the time he finished. He hadn't meant to say so much, but once he started it had been impossible to stop the passage of the words he felt so deeply in his bones on his lips. "That's all I have to say," he finished with a curt tilt of his head, spinning on his heel and passing the maid, all color drained from her face.

It was a blur how he got back to the limo, but as soon as he did, he slumped into the buttery leather of the seats, suddenly exhausted. He just wanted to go home. He just wanted to be with her. "The Empire," he told Arthur, and he could hear the exhaustion in his voice.

Upon arrival, Chuck dragged himself out of the limo and up to the penthouse, which was silent and apparently Blairless. Momentarily, he panicked, before remembering he had told her to curl up in bed. God, that sounds heavenly.

The French doors were open and he quickly spotted her small frame, wearing the Columbia sweatshirt she had effectively stolen from him and buried under the covers. He allowed himself a small smile as he silently removed his shoes, his trousers and his dress shirt before sliding under the covers next to her, wrapping himself around her. The scent of her hair filled his nostrils, and he felt the tension knotted tightly into his shoulders dissipate.

She sighed and brought a hand back to gently touch his cheek, her fingers brushing across his jaw. "Do you take care of what you had to do, Bass?" she asked softly, not turning around.

"I hope so," he murmured, before he could even think better of it.

"What does that mean?" she asked, shifting slightly in his arms.

"What happened with Serena?" he replied, hoping to change the subject.

"I don't really want to talk about it right now," she said quietly.

"Neither do I," he mumbled back, pressing a kiss into her hair.

"I'm just tired," she started, sadly, he noted. "I'm so tired, Chuck." Her voice a near whisper.

"Then rest, Baby. I'm right here," he said, squeezing her gently.

"You're the only one who understands, Chuck," she continued, defeated.

"It'll get better, I promise." Blair didn't respond, but he felt her nod before she curled legs up underneath herself and wrapping her delicate fingers around his forearm which was thrown across her midsection. "Rest," he ordered lightly. He could see from the flutter of her eyelashes that she had indeed closed her eyes, and he allowed himself to do the same. Chuck knew there to be two truths about Blair Waldorf: Blair Waldorf was a force of nature. But also, Blair Waldorf was falling apart, and he'd do anything to keep her together.