This Is How It Should Be
Vomit splatters on a dress that must have taken thousands of man hours to complete. The fabric is hand spun, the pattern hand painted, but does she care? Of course not. She's a Waldorf; these things are expendable. All Blair really cares about is getting Chuck off the street where everyone knows his face – and hers – and into the faceless familiarity of The Palace, a haven where dirty clothes are quietly whisked away with no questions asked and no parents informed. It's his sanctuary – and now perhaps it's hers.
She does, however, wish she had someone else here to help her. Serena, Nate – hell, she'd even take Humpty Dumpty or Humpty Senior at this point. As soon as that thought crosses her mind, she regrets it – the only person allowed to see Chuck like this is her, and it's a right hard won by years of enduring friendship and even longer lasting schemes. Recent events only cement her claim.
Chuck's eyes roll in their sockets to see who's carrying him now, who's cleaning up the mess his father never wanted. He's more than surprised to see that it's Blair, but doesn't let on. Instead, he tries to laugh. Only more scotch laced vomit comes out, and Blair's bodice is now certainly ruined. As ever, she doesn't regret the loss – she's a Waldorf, after all – but she'd much rather the concierge thought that she was being taken to his suite for a booty call rather than a cleanup operation. Lifestyles of the rich and famous indeed.
But still, they're here now, rising in the lift. She can't see why hotels are so keen to upholster in neutrals – it only shows the stains far too badly, and Chuck Bass is by no means the first socialite playboy to spew his guts over this hotel's floor. She shudders at the metaphor, but there really is no better way to describe vomit – even the vomit of a friend and lover.
It takes real strength of mind to manoeuvre Chuck into the bathroom and stick his head over the spotless (not for long) toilet bowl. He is sick again and again, and she wipes the sweat from his face and rubs his back and tells him that it'll be alright. For once, Chuck Bass doesn't need a random to make him feel good about himself. What he needs the most is a mother and – failing that – a friend. Blair can provide both and that's why she's there, undignified as anything with her skirt ruined and reeking of bile.
She manages to put them both in a shower, and that Chuck's recovered enough to make her a sleazy offer is more than enough to bring a smile to her lips. They are in a fierce battle of the wits by the time she's rubbed them both dry, arguing over just whose fault it is that Chuck is in the state's he's in. He blames Blair for her captivating powers. She, for once, smiles and says nothing.
They fall asleep in each other's arms, each content with the other's presence. The maid who comes in to remove the soiled clothing that litters the floor can't help smiling nostalgically – Blair's head is pillowed on Chuck's chest and their hands are intertwined. Her nails are dark red. His look bitten. Somehow, each flaw makes them complete. She wears one of his shirts for decency while he wears a practically trademarked pair of silk pyjamas – this is how it should be, the clothes say. This is how it should always be.
Chuck has never known a pair of loving arms. He has always been surrounded by cold people who have used him – true, he's not free of sin, but not one of those girls believed that he truly loved her. They never held him when he was down because he never let them get close enough to see when his high rise lifestyle deposited him on the pavement. Blair is the only warmth he has ever known.
He grasps her in his sleep. He holds her tightly because he wants to. He holds her because he fears she might disappear. What started out as a forgettable mistake has left Chuck staring at the wall most days, wondering about the churning in his stomach. He is mortally afraid that she will leave him and return to the fizzy, fairytale life she's always dreamed of having. What Blair doesn't tell him is that she prefers it this way. That she loves him this way. That she'd rather die several times over than run to Nate right now.
Blair leaves in the hour before dawn. She leaves, and she hopes he won't remember. Chuck has enough to deal with – enough on his plate from trying to sample all that life has to offer at once, and making himself sick with it. What she doesn't know is that her perfume clings to the sheets, to his skin…this chase will run on and on until he is the victor, and they fall into bed once again.
Fin.