AN: Hugs, kisses, and L'Occitane shampoo to wash your Riedel glasses with, to all the wonderful reviewers and alerters. This next chapter is longer than the prologue, but I will say, this story is more of a collection of interconnected one-shots that culminate in one event (Victrola, anyone?), and lead to Blair's realization that her two loves are not two, but one. Therefore, the chapters don't really flow, per se, but do focus specifically on an event in Blair's life where she has sought 'comfort' from Chuck.

Thanks to the fabulous bethaboo for betaing. Chapter title is also from Shakespeare's Sonnet 144

Fall 2006

"Serena!" Blair called into the penthouse, her eyes sparkling with laughter and her voice carrying a hint of annoyance. "I've been texting you all day. It's five o'clock in the evening, you aren't still be hungover?"

Blair paused at the foot of the steps, looking around with a frown as silence greeted her words. Serena had been avoiding her the past few days, with nary a text message, and short, one-worded answers that concluded brief phone conversations.

"S?" she called out tentatively, and continued up the steps, the sound of her heels clicking against the floor.

Pausing slightly at Serena's door, Blair caught sight of her bracelet, a delicate band of silver, punctuated with two intertwined hearts.

A giddy, almost excited, smile lit up her face, and she rushed into her best friend's room without a knock.

An empty room greeted her, and the lack of clutter that defined Serena's room told her something was wrong.

"S?" Blair said quietly, spinning in a slow circle as she took in the already made bed, and the open door of the closet, of which a bare space could be seen.

Something was wrong.

Blair reached for her cell phone, dialed the familiar number with ease, fingers shaking slightly as she collapsed onto her best friend's perfectly made bed.

"The number you have called could not be reached at this time. Please hang up and try…"

The message replayed itself in her head, the same message she had heard all day. The woman's nasal intonation could be recalled with perfect clarity in her mind.

The elevator dinged, and an almost abstract fear gripped her, a fear she couldn't quite understand as she flew back down the stairs, her previous excitement returning slowly. Nate had come to the Waldorf penthouse that morning, bearing croissants and gifts, a slight smile on his face as Blair threw her arms around him.

He had been oddly quiet, but she had been more than happy to fill the empty spaces with her gushing over the bracelet, her thoughts on the Shepard wedding that had occurred the past weekend, and her father's increasingly distant behavior.

Now that she thought about it, Nate had been abnormally distant as well. Blair was used to Nate's PMS moods, as Chuck used to dub them, but this was something new. Nate's brooding silences didn't usually carry on for such a long time, and he had been more prone to mood swings as of late.

She pushed the thoughts out of her head as she bounded down the last few steps, only to be greeted by a slightly disheveled Lily van der Woodsen.

"Blair?" Lily said in surprise, taking in the young girl. "Why—"

"Where's Serena?" Blair asked, a note of panic creeping into her voice. "I've been calling her all afternoon."

"She didn't tell you?" Lily asked, incredulous.

A thousand situations ran through Blair's head. Her best friend was hurt. Her best friend was in the hospital. She was—

"Serena's gone," Lily said quietly. Gently, as if she knew the pain her words could cause.

"Gone?" Blair echoed, her self-control slipping through her fingers. "What do you mean gone?"

"She's decided to spend sophomore year at a boarding school in Connecticut," Lily explained with slight confusion, "Blair didn't you—"

"No." Blair said tonelessly.

"Serena never said a thing," Blair continued, willing herself to blink back the tears that had begun to pool in her eyes. "She's supposed to be my best friend."

…

Her fingers were wet with her tears, slipping and sliding on the metal keypad of her phone.

She had been crying a lot lately, for reasons that were unfamiliar to her.

This recent flood of tears, however, had been brought on by a recent Gossip Girl post, one that ignited fears and insecurities she had attempted to keep buried.

She sent two different texts to two different boys. Both were replies, one text came before the other, and the replies were as different as the boys themselves.

The first text was the right question-asked by the wrong boy. It came a whole two minutes after the Gossip Girl blast, and twenty-six minutes earlier than the second text.

It was simple, almost careless in its aloofness. But Blair knew that was not the case, knew that those few words carried more emotion than any other text.

R u okay? -C

The first text sat unanswered until the second text arrived. This one was longer, and one might say that more thought and care had been put into the words—but she knew that this too wasn't the case.

Saw GG blast. Wher is she? R u still coming to dinner tonite? Mom will understand if u want to cancel. Luv u -N

She sent two replies to two different boys. You would never have guessed they were from the same person.

The first reply was laconic, short and to the point. The second was longer, but it was a lie.

No-B

I don't know where S is. I'll c u at 8 tonight. Love you-B

The first boy's reply was immediate once again, although she had waited twenty-nine minutes before replying. The second boy took a little longer once more.

I'm here if you need me. –C

8 R Tea Room then. C u. Luv u -N

…

He wasn't surprised. It was just like Serena to run, after all that had transpired between her and her best friend's boyfriend.

It made him sick.

And he didn't understand why. His young, still unassuming mind couldn't understand why he felt that way. Why he felt the insatiable need to tell Blair, to prove to her that her white Prince of a boyfriend wasn't as devoted as one might think. Or why the urge to protect her seemed far stronger, almost instinctual in its nature.

The text he had sent her had been sent of its own volition, three words that reeked of worry he liked to claim he did not possess.

He and Blair had always had an understanding, to say in the least.

Chuck knew that Blair turned to him to fulfill a role Nathaniel never could—her partner in crime.

His rise to that position had been slow, so gradual that neither of them noticed it till it was too late.

If Blair was a Queen, and Nate her King, Chuck was the advisor behind Nate, being the true ruling power of Constance & St. Jude's hierarchy. Nate was nothing but a figurehead. A puppet with which Chuck controlled from his hidden seat of power. Nothing went on without his knowledge, and he and Blair held their peers in the palm of their hands.

There were schemes, orchestrated by the both of them then divulged to Nate and Serena, who only served as pawns in their complex game of chess. A game so convoluted it no longer represented chess, but a battlefield.

They changed sides as often as they gave proclamations to the masses—nearly every other day.

Sometimes it was the age-old boys versus girls, where they would pull Nate and Serena into their game. Sometimes it was the two more responsible, less carefree individuals against the wilder, blithe characters of Serena and Chuck.

But for the most part, it was Chuck and Blair against the world. Chuck knew this, though he dared not acknowledge it aloud. Not in a world where Blair, the society darling, was practically betrothed to Nate, the White Knight. Chuck and Serena were meant to drink their cares away, on the sidelines of Nate and Blair's love story. But in an unexplainable sense, Chuck had always found him and Blair united without Nate.

She could think—hat he liked about her. Her mind drew up schemes he himself couldn't think up, or would often fill in a missing gap in his plan.

She would come to him, eyes wickedly bright, a sinisterly sweet smile on her ruby lips as she tilted her brunette curls, blinking innocently while asking for help.

They stayed up until three in the morning, once, all to form a plan to dismiss an unworthy interloper from their ranks.

An off-the-rack plebian, Blair had called her. And Chuck had laughed at her distaste, reveling in the slight blush that crept up her cheeks.

Embroiled in their elaborate scheme—one which included a masquerade, champagne, and some artfully sewn additions to a dress—they hadn't noticed the minutes passing by on the antique clock, nor the incessant buzzing of their respective phones.

Blair had bitten her lip, worried that Dorota wouldn't think too kindly of her coming back so late, and Chuck had invited her to stay over, his smile lascivious.

Once setting out a list of rules and policies—he was not to be anywhere near her, and the wall of pillows she had constructed was to remain intact—Blair had shyly accepted his oversized shirt, slipping into the bathroom to change.

Despite her own rules otherwise, Blair had knocked aside a few of the decorative pillows in her restless sleep, waking up Chuck a mere hour after they had fallen asleep.

Glancing tiredly at the clock, Chuck had attempted to fall back asleep, only to find that his mind was too full of thoughts, spinning dreams and wishes, for him to sleep.

Instead, he reached out to remove a pillow from in front of him, one of the last that remained between them.

She was pale in the moonlight; her long lashes throwing half circle shadows on her porcelain cheeks.

Chuck had frowned to himself then, because the only word that came to mind was beautiful, and his fourteen year old self didn't believe in such things.

Scolding himself mentally for thinking such things about his best friend's girl, Chuck had turned on his side, squeezed his eyes shut, and attempted sleep once more.

The memory of that night came to him as he looked at his phone contemplatively, wondering if he was willing it to ring simply because of curiosity, or if he felt concern—an utterly foreign concept to him—for Blair.

…

He knew he should have felt guilty.

But the problem was, Nate couldn't regret what had come to pass. He knew he was doing something wrong; knew he was supposed to play the part of adoring boyfriend, not cheating bastard.

There was just something about Serena that rendered her completely different from Blair. The way she allowed herself to traverse effortlessly through life, as if responsibilities were nothing but a buzzing fly in her ear.

That quality, the carefree nature that was quintessentially Serena, was what drew him towards her, like a moth to a willing flame.

That day at the bar, Serena's navy blue eyes had filled with tears, telling him they had made a mistake.

"I didn't think it was a mistake," Nate had said shyly, but Serena only continued to fix her dress, her hair, and her shoes.

It didn't matter how many times she smoothed her hands over her wrinkled skirt. What they had done was clear.

"This can't happen again," Serena said apologetically. "Blair's my best friend. You're her boyfriend."

"I—"

But she had turned from him then, never looking over her shoulder once as she walked away, her shoulders trembling from repressed tears.

And Nate had been forced to return to the party, to avoid Blair's questions and sit there dumbly, only nodding when required.

Serena had ignored him for the past few days, until he was forced to face what he had done. The bracelet was meant to be an apologetic gift to Blair, though she only took it as a token of his supposed love.

"Nate?" He heard his mother's lilting voice, the hint of irritation that it carried. "Are you ready? The car's waiting."

Nate took one last look at the Gossip Girl blast, the one that featured a bright red question mark over Serena's yearbook picture, her navy blue eyes twinkling mischievously at him. The headline read: MISSING, THE UES' IT GIRL.

"I don't think I'm feeling well," he coughed for effect, and then heard Anne's grumble of disapproval.

"Nate," Anne seethed quietly, "you know how important this dinner is to your father."

"We had practice in the rain yesterday," Nate grappled for a reason as he shed his blazer and tie, "I think I must have caught something."

He heard another sigh, this one from just outside his bedroom door, and Nate knew that Anne would never enter the room. She avoided Nate's bedroom at all costs, the stench of pot and lacrosse gear too overwhelming for her delicate tastes.

"I'll tell your father," Anne said grudgingly. "Make sure you call Blair and let her know you're not attending."

He waited until he heard the click of heels against polished hardwood, then the resounding slam of the front door.

Sending a quick text to Blair, Nate shrugged on a navy blue coat, the one that Serena had laughing joked matched his eyes.

Throwing a few necessities into his lacrosse bag, he hurried out into the late summer rain, determination in his steps.

…

The dinner left her feeling hollow and empty.

It was not entirely due to the fact that Nate had sent her a short text that merely said, Sick, can't make it-N.

It was not entirely due to the fact that her father had also bailed, leaving her to sit awkwardly with the Captain, Anne, and a seething Eleanor.

It was most likely due to the fact that she had slid from the red leather banquettes with a polite excuse twice during the course of their meal.

Each time she had stood in front of the gilded mirror after doing…that, and eaten five altoids, she had promised herself she would stop.

Eleanor had cited work issues, running off to her atelier at ten o'clock at night, telling Blair to take the car home.

Instead, she gave a different address to the driver.

Serena had disappeared, and Nate was acting strange, and there was really only one person she could turn to.

"The Palace," she told the driver, pulling out her phone to send a quick text.

…

"Blair?"

She peeked around him timidly, ready to shield her eyes at the sight of—

"There's no one else here," Chuck told her, amusement clear in his voice. His coat was on, and he looked as if he were—

"Are you leaving?" Blair asked, attempting to keep her crestfallen expression at bay.

"I was," Chuck said, his eyes roving over her unreadable expression. "Blair, why are you here?"

"I sent you a text," Blair explained briefly, turning to leave.

"That isn't a reason," Chuck observed, reaching out to grab her elbow. "B, why are you here?"

As Chuck regarded her with quiet curiosity, Blair found all her grievances with her life tumble out of her in one sentence that hardly made sense, but was apparently understood by Chuck.

"Serena left, and she didn't tell anyone, not even me or Nate, who's acting weird, and has mood swings worse than my mother, who's even more distant than usual, no surprise there, but Daddy's been coming home late, he won't even sit with us for dinner anymore, and I know something's going on, but no one will tell me, not even Dorota, who made me eat waffles for breakfast, and you know how much I hate waff—"

"Alright," Chuck cut in, his voice calm as he ushered Blair into his suite, "your life isn't a storybook, that's news."

Blair shot him a cutting, venomous look, and then proceeded to make her way over to the bar, where an empty shot glass and an open bottle of vodka stood waiting.

"Whoa, B," Chuck said, taken aback as Blair grabbed the bottle and took a lengthy swig, only wincing slightly.

"You said you were there for me," Blair reminded him, and Chuck looked slightly ashamed at his words being brought up, "well, I say tonight we forget."

She held the bottle out to him, an expectant, challenging look in the set of her features.

And Chuck Bass was never one to turn down a challenge.

So he smirked shrugged out of his coat, and took the barstool next to her.

"What was that about Nate's mood swings?"

…

An hour later, it was safe to say that Blair Waldorf and Chuck Bass had passed tipsy long ago, and were currently sitting on the floor of the suite, backs to the couch as they passed a near empty bottle between the two of them.

Blair had long since shed her shoes and coat, and the strap of her dress kept falling down a pale shoulder, until she finally gave up on it, allowing it to stay where it was.

"So what really happened with Nathaniel?"

Chuck knew the conversation, much less the question, would be but a shadowy memory in the morning, simply washed away with black coffee and scalding showers.

It's why he had the bravery to ask the question.

The liquor helped some, he supposed.

"He didn't show up," Blair lamented, the liquor apparently having no effect on her quiet words.

"He hasn't shown up before," Chuck pointed out. It was true, that Nate had never been the most reliable, nor the most punctual.

"This is different," Blair sighed. "Serena's disappeared too."

"I saw the Gossip Girl blast," Chuck said, and they both heard the underlying subtext in his words.

"I know," is Blair's quiet, almost timid, acknowledgement.

"You don't know where she is?" Chuck furrowed his brow, his mind struggling to grasp onto a specific memory, a specific tryst he was not to have seen.

"I do," Blair said with a short, barking laugh. "She's in Connecticut. Boarding school. Lily told me."

"She didn't say anything to you?" He was surprised, in the least. Serena had been Blair's best friend—though he was sure she wasn't to hold the title for long once her and Nate's transgressions are discovered.

Another wry laugh.

"No. She was avoiding me, too. She and Nate were both so…distant."

Chuck knew the reason why, but he held his tongue. He knew the information would destroy Blair, more so than being played a fool by her not-so-Charming Prince.

"I'm sorry," he offered, and heard Blair's reply of an unladylike snort.

"You're not. Nate was probably stoned this entire week, and that's your fault."

"My fault?"

"Every bad habit anyone of us has can be traced back to you, Chuck."

"Really," he murmured, turning to rest his chin in the palm of his hand, a comically look of rapt attention playing across his features, "and what's your bad habit?"

Blair captured her bottom lip between her teeth, and Chuck smirked in response, because knowing that her uneasiness stemmed from him gave him an odd sort of satisfaction.

"I don't know," Blair lifted a shoulder, the one with the black silk strap that kept sliding down, "I suppose you're my bad habit."

"Me?" his voice has lowered to a sensuous rasp, and Blair shivers slightly, though refusing to be drawn in by his charms.

Blair sighed once more, and then closed one eye, squinting to the bottom of the bottle she held.

"All out!" she declared, then, deciding their conversation quite banal without the mask of alcohol, stood up to make her way to the bar.

Only the alcohol seemed to have more of an effect on her tiny, ninety-five pound figure than before, and Blair somehow managed to stumble gracefully onto the couch.

Chuck laughed at her antics, but found her face suddenly uncomfortable close to his, as Blair raised her head wearily and declared the trek to the bar too troublesome.

"Nate doesn't deserve you," he whispered.

Because she was close enough that he could see the tiny flecks of hazel in her dark brown eyes, and the long lashes that framed them fluttered closed in response.

He knew she wouldn't remember a thing.

"And I suppose you do?" Blair mumbled back, her words half incomprehensible, due to the curtain of chocolate curls that now fell over her face.

Chuck sighed, before standing up slowly, knowing that Blair would not remember the conversation, but would certainly murder him in his sleep if he allowed her to sleep on the couch.

"Come on, B." He tugged an unwilling Blair from her comfortable position, mentally attempting to calculate the effort it would take to get her from the living room to the bedroom.

"I don't want to sleep in your bed, Chuck," Blair half-whined, "it's probably host to more than a few diseases."

Chuck smirked. Even while inebriated, Blair Waldorf knew how to disperse proper insults.

"We drank from the same bottle," Chuck reminded her, "anything I've got, you've got too."

"Ew."

The response was so unlike Blair Waldorf that in spite of himself, he smiled.

…

Blair woke up with the taste of stale vodka in her mouth, and an arm thrown around her waist.

Refraining from retching into the plush carpet, Blair rushed into the adjoining bathroom, making it barely in time to spew the contents of her stomach into the toilet.

Dragging the back of her hand across her mouth, Blair wrinkled her nose in distaste, quickly rinsing her mouth and washing her hands.

Once she had turned off the tap, her hangover finally hit her fully, and she leaned her forehead against the doorframe, refusing to give in to her pounding headache.

Flashes of the previous night ran through her mind like butterflies emerging from a chrysalis. New, and fluttering glimpses, gone before she could grasp them properly.

She just hoped she hadn't divulged too much while in Chuck's company. Revealing a secret to Chuck Bass was akin to dancing with the devil himself.

…

Thirty minutes later, Blair found herself cogent enough to leave, her headache reduced to a dull pounding, though the state of her hair could not be remedied, despite her numerous attempts.

She paused at the door uncertainly, eyes roving over an almost equally weary Chuck Bass.

"Thank you," she said, her lips forming the words as if they were utterly foreign. "For last night," she clarified.

"Anytime, Waldorf," Chuck replied easily, "it was my pleasure."

Blair rolled her eyes at his words, knowing that Chuck would never have tried anything with her while she was inebriated. She knew, that in some odd way, Chuck had a certain respect for her; one no other girl they knew had received.

Blair turned on her phone as she waited for the elevator, wondering, hoping, that there would be a text, perhaps a missed call—nothing. Not from Nate, at least.

Blair shut her phone with a snap, uninterested in Dorota's texts. She would deal with them later.

It shouldn't have surprised her that Nate would disappear himself, and then leave her to her own devices. She wouldn't have been surprised if Nate hadn't even noticed her foray into suite 1812.

But as she stepped into the elevator, grateful that it was empty, Blair allowed herself a small smile.

If she didn't have Nate, at the very least, she would have Chuck.

tbc