i wrote this years and years and years ago and then, like a responsible, well-meaning writer of fic, left it to fend itself against time and dust.

until today. oh ho - today is the day Lazarus rises up from the dead. TODAY IS THE DAY I DECIDE TO GET OFF MY ASS. TODAY! IS THE DAY! I FINALLY POST UP THINGS I'D WRITTEN FOUR YEARS AGO BUT NEVER POSTED IN THE IMPOSSIBLE DREAM THAT I MIGHT FINISH IT FIRST.

HA! I THOUGHT! BITCH, I THOUGHT!

in dj's titillating words, i am the most deadbeat of dads when it comes to fic. but i come back! I COME BACK, I PLEAD, I COME BACK BEARING GIFTS. three years too late, more missed birthdays then i can count, but forgive me? i wanted to post the remainder of this up when i'd finished it in its entirety, but that never came to fruition...and upon going through all of this i thought FUK IT and decided to post it up, brick by little brick. expect short and snappy chapters, if it helps me update more.

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what's the story, morning glory?

part deux

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0950

There's a ratting, a tapping, and then all-out banging at the door, and Serena decides that she better get out of bed before the screeching—

"Serena van der Woodsen, you open this door right now or so help me God I will cancel all your appointments with Marc this week!"

…starts.

She pokes her tussled blonde head out of her Egyption cotton bedspread and shuffles sleepily to the door, pausing only to slip her feet into fluffy white slippers – Blair's in a Volatile Mood and she needs to tread lightly today. She swings the door open to the smell of coffee, fresh croissants and Chanel no. 5.

"Hi, Blair," she greets warmly, gathering breakfast into her arms, pointedly ignoring the deep scowl on her best friend's face. She shuffles away to the kitchen before the scowl decides it needs to talk. "What brings you here at…" She tips it all onto the island counter and taps her manicured fingers on her hip, "…6:52am?"

Blair just huffs and settles down onto one of the stools, ripping into her croissant as if it had done her a personal wrong, chewing on her berries so furiously that her lips become stained with it. Serena tilts her head, admiring the colour while she nurses her coffee. Blair isn't exploding yet, which is good – but also a tad worrying. Usually she'd have about five schemes sorted into the degree of their effectiveness up her sleeves by now.

(Idly she wonders if Blair really had cancelled all of her hair appointments—she could use a deep conditioning after hearing The News. Blair hadn't taken it as well as Nate would have liked, and that was only putting it lightly.)

Blair pushes her hair behind her ear and heaves a dramatic sigh, and Serena takes this as her que to ask, "Is this Nate-marrying-Elena—"

"Suburban dweller," Blair snips, buttering herself a scone, and Serena suppresses an eyeroll.

"Is this thing still bothering you?" When Blair doesn't answer, she sighs. "You've had a week to stew, B."

"And Nate has the rest of his life!" Blair slams down her butter knife. The diamonds of her tennis bracelet glint in the sunlight as she runs a hand through her hair. "Honestly, we leave him alone for one semester…"

0940

After Blair leaves, with extravagant declarations of "this has got to be stopped!" and "at the very least let us do something about her hair", Serena sighs and looks out the window with glassy eyes. Nate had insisted they meet Elena, the girl Blair had deemed Small-town Seductress. She's amazing, Nate had enthused over the phone, voice still rattly. The aftermath of a wild night out. "She has these huge eyes that can just see right through me, and usually that'd pretty much freak me out, but she has this way…" Nate trails off, frustrated. "It's like she has this ability to just know every part of me."

Serena opens her mouth to interrupt, to tell him that four months is too little a time, until Nate finishes with: "And I want her to."

Well, that's that.

She'd be lying if she said this didn't bother her. She had after all been in love with him, a whirlwind of a whipped-cream and strawberry-topped romance, and unapologetic, uncharted island of teenage hormones and angst, and it had all been great, and it had all been good (she knows the difference between the two by now, and realizes that one is definitely not better than the other), but what was it they said about all good things..?

Her phone bleats a tune, and it's Blair, and judging from all the abbreviations she must be click-clacking down the sidewalk, tapping into her phone with a vengeance meant for year-end sales at Neiman Marcus.

This has gt 2 be stopped!

And shortly after that, I hve a Plan. Come 2 the Palace 11!

Serena sighs and pulls her hair into a bun, bracing herself for the inevitable.

0930

"This place looks magnificent."

Chuck lowers his coffee cup, narrows his eyes, but manages to mask it off as flexing his eye-sockets. Of course, that would be the answer given should the man sitting before him bring up his insolence – what would he know of new age face-contouring? Waving aside the fact that, yes, it's all made up, and, no, it would do no good to piss off one of his father's oldest friends.

So no, Chuck Bass wasn't narrowing his eyes out of suspicion of the man in the sharpest suit he's ever seen (he makes a mental note to call Thierry and find out this man's labels). He gives his coffee a sharp sniff and sets down the dainty china. "I know you normally do business with my father. But in light of… recent events…"

"Ah, yes." Elijah Mikaelson straightens the butter knife that had been set before him until it is uniform with the rest. "His passing. My condolences."

Chuck nods. Elijah surveys the room, commenting on the chandeliers.

"Forgive me if this sounds rude, but dodgy and plebian are the words that come to mind when your brother described this place just last year in his review." Chuck smirks. "Far from magnificent."

"That business?" Elijah waves it away like a bad smell. "You must forgive Kol. He's an impulsive being. He does what he wants, when he wants. If anything, it gave the Palace a boost in guests, did it not?"

Chuck scratches at his smooth chin. He supposed it did. He'd have to agree anyway – the Mikaelsons held a large part of his company's shares, plus – it doesn't sound like Elijah was actually apologizing, anyway. "Right. Let's talk business."

Elijah surveys him, his eyes raking over the violet square peeking out of his pocket, the Bass family crest that glints on his cufflinks. He's struck by how old this Elijah character's eyes are, so penetrating is his gaze. Chuck sucks in a slow breath. "How old did you say you were? You look really – I mean, I know you and my father go way back."

And here he is, looking not a day over thirty-five.

"Your father admired our company for our privacy." Elijah smiles, and he looks so amused that Chuck grits his teeth together – he is no child. "As for my youth, well – I eat a lot of muesli."

"What brings you to New York?" Chuck asks brusquely after clearing his throat.

"A favour, actually. For an old friend." Elijah leans forward, eyes finally moving away from Chuck's. Whatever he's found in them, he seems satisfied, and Chuck feels – relief? – flooding through him.

You are no child, he reminds himself again.

Elijah asks, "I've been told you're well-acquainted with an Elena Gilbert?"

Except that coming from Elijah Mikaelson, a question rarely ever sounds like a question.

i've the middle bits all written out (the juicy plump plums of the wedding in) and i can't wait to get there. reviews make me smile! they do! i hope you leave some!