Disclaimer: I do not own Gossip Girl or "Happy Endings" or The Bell Jar; all characters and initial concepts/structures belong to their respective owners.

A/N: Sorry that this took a million years to post. I don't know why, but I was unsatisfied with anything I was writing for the longest time. Plus, I'm sick, so I've been in a weird mood. To resolve this issue, I read my favorite book, The Bell Jar (at least I can admit that it's my favorite... unlike Blair - read below), again to see if I could get inspired. And voilà, another chapter. Of course, this is way heavier than my other chapters because, well, it's inspired by Sylvia Plath. And in case you were wondering, I do see a lot of myself in Blair and a lot of Blair in myself.

Also, thank you for all your lovely reviews and for all of the people who've put this story in their various lists/alerts. It means a lot, especially since this is the first one I've posted. I should start replying individually to your reviews, but I'm kind of lazy. I'll work on it.

And, finally, I'm going away for a month on the 22. Hopefully, I'll crank out a few more updates before then. At least one. But I swear I'll be back!

F.

Chuck never envisioned himself bringing flowers for a girl. He was Chuck motherfucking Bass, playboy extraordinaire; he didn't do flowers. He did smarmy comments, surprise gropings, and sex. But flowers? No.

"Oh, Mr. Chuck, you bring flowers!" Dorota beamed at him, taking the hydrangeas out of his hands. "So beautiful, I go get vase for them. You wait here one minute."

"Ah, Dorota, is Blair in the dining room?"

Blair's nanny looked furtively around the foyer. "Ms. Eleanor upset Ms. Blair so Ms. Blair go into kitchen and tell everyone to get out. Now she is having 'Ms. Blair Time' in room."

"Well then," Chuck said and brought her hand to his lips, "I'll be heading up there. Thank you for the valued info-"

"No!" Dorota, heavily blushing, snatched her hand out of his. "Ms. Blair say she want to be alone. I think she take bath."

"Dorota, my love," Chuck drawled and she reddened even more, "you know that Blair doesn't really want to be alone. And the bath only makes it more… enticing."

She gasped as he dashed up the stairs, calling after him, "Mr. Chuck, God always watch!"

The door to Blair's room closed behind him.

Chuck had barged in on many of Blair's baths, although he never actually entered the bathroom pre-fateful limo ride, just conversed with her through the door. Like everything Blair did, bubble baths were an event that had to be choreographed perfectly. He'd memorized the routine well. The curtains would be shut, her old clothes would be folded neatly on one side of her bed, new ones laid out on the other, and a curling iron would be heating up on her vanity.

Chuck was used to unplugging that. It was dangerous, he always insisted, but Blair would just laugh snidely and call him paranoid.

He didn't like the fact that her old clothes were in a heap on the floor with a fresh set nowhere in sight. He didn't like the curtains drawn open or the lack of hair curler. Most of all, he didn't like the completely eaten box of macaroons strewn all over her bed.

Deep breaths. There was no need to barge in there and yell at her for being a complete idiot. Chuck Bass would play it cool… play himself. Or the person he thought he was. Lately, he'd been feeling warm, like there was something fuzzy in his stomach. Sometimes he even felt nice. It was the apocalypse. Or a severe case of the flu. Either way, the authorities and/or a doctor needed to be alerted pronto.

"Not now, Dorota," Blair snapped as soon as she heard the door open, sinking further into the bath. Her eyes were closed. "I told you I needed to be alone."

Chuck didn't search the bubbles for a peek of a nipple or thigh. He moved to the toilet, closing the lid shut and taking a seat.

"It's me."

She opened her eyes, looked at him, and closed them again. "I'm not in the mood."

He frowned. "I'm not here for sex."

"Fine, I'm not in the mood for your company." Blair paused, mulling something over, lips half-open. "Unless you brought me a present, that is," she said finally.

"You're predictable." He smirked. "I brought you flowers, but Dorota snatched them away from me downstairs."

"Roses?"

Chuck's eyes narrowed. He didn't like how she always tested him, waiting for that tiny mistake that would give her the perfect reason to kick him out of her life forever. It was obvious that Blair hadn't quite come to terms with the fact that she was actually in some sort of relationship with the biggest manwhore on the Upper East Side. He wondered when she'd start to see him for what he really was (when it came to her, at least).

"Hydrangeas. I know what your favorite flowers are, B."

"Orchids are my favorite, act-"

"-But you don't like receiving them in bouquets because you're very picky about them. And they're not bouquet-y flowers. So hydrangeas are the default."

"Do you stalk me or something?" She pulled some bubbles towards her face, letting them tickle her nose.

"We've been friends since we were five. I know everything about you."

"Not, everything," and she sunk further down into the water.

"Yes. Everything." Chuck stared at her intently.

She flustered. "Everything?"

"I know, Blair."

If you asked her what it felt like to live with all of her insecurities and secrets and conditions, she'd compare it to being trapped in a bell jar.

(That was a conversation she'd once had with Serena, who had been stunned by the eloquence of her comparison. Of course, Serena was too uncultured to realize that she'd taken it right out of Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar, the novel Blair always read when she was at her most miserable. But it wasn't really plagiarism if it was true, right?)

She hadn't felt any less trapped when her parents found out. Nor when Dorota and Serena did. Her stints with therapists, the Ostroff Center and the two-hour possibility of full on rehab were complete busts as well. It didn't matter who she told because Blair never stopped feeling suffocated, although the word was barely even adequate.

Suffocate. It seemed so trite. It felt more like all of the air around her was pushing in, trying to compress her until she was completely flat. But her body wouldn't budge no matter how much the pressure increased. So she compensated for it.

And then she had to stop. Because she was going to die. She had no choice but to live with the pressure, even when her entire world fell to pieces around her.

Then, one day, Blair felt a flood of fresh air for the first time in years. Surprised, Blair stopped to take a good look around her and found that the bell jar had lifted a few inches off the ground. Strengthened by the stream of oxygen, she got into the limo and sped away to Victrola.

The bell jar sealed itself the next morning. The morning after that, it had lifted again. At least two feet.

And it only took a few snide words from her mother to make it crash around her again. Blair couldn't deal with the pressure this time.

But there sat Chuck, the only person who had figured it out on his own. The only person who bothered to look close enough to see that something was wrong. The only person who could coax the bell jar to release its death grip on her, whether he knew that he could or not.

She'd never felt more cared for in her entire life.

A tear slipped down her cheek. She dunked under the water.

He was by the bathtub when she emerged, holding out a towel, eyes respectfully diverted from her.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Chuck asked.

Blair climbed out of the bath, wrapping the towel around herself.

"Yes."

The bell jar shattered around her.

Everything continues as in A.