I am sick - literally, the kind of sick which confines you to bed and an endless parade of Patrick Dempsey movies so you can pretend he's your doctor and is going to make you better solely with his McDreaminess. Even typing fast is making me dizzy...but anyhoo, the great and good SaturnineSunshine wrote a tragedy that I felt I needed to respond to (sorry C, but you're the wind beneath my wings, and that's just the way it is). Besides, Gossip Girl is on tonight, and I had to mark the return of our favourite devilish duo...and I was at a wedding this weekend, and I've always wanted to say 'I object!' even if I actually don't.
Title is from Paramore's 'That's What You Get' (no surprises there).
Enjoy.

That's What You Get When You Let Your Heart Win

The light falls just so on the slope of her clavicle, her shoulders; she's a strange sight and a strange sort of bride, escorted up the aisle by two on each side, her maid of honour bringing up the rear with an odd smile shining on her lovely face. Sunlight streams in through the high windows.

Today is a perfect day.

She reaches her groom, whose lacrosse team good looks are a glossy foil for her own dark mystery. His face looks like it's about to split apart with glee (with satisfaction, or self-satisfaction), but hers is obscured by the veil. Her heartbeat is ticking, thundering, ringing in her ears as the officiant begins, welcoming them all 'on this joyous occasion' for 'the joining of two hearts and two families'. He asks, almost jokingly, if anyone knows 'of any lawful impediment why they two may not be legally married'. There is a cough from the back of the room.

A very deliberate cough.

She sucks in her breath.

"No."

Their eyes meet, and she telegraphs her edict: you wouldn't.

He smirks: I would.

The maid of honour winks at an usher.

The usher winks back.

There is another deliberate cough, and then the crowd ruffles like waves on the sea as one of their number stands, smoothing down his flawless suit – and all whispers of is it him? Is it him? cease immediately, because who else but Chuck Bass would wear a suit in that particular shade? – and shuffling the sheaf of papers in his hands. The bride is still frozen, though her right hand is twisting her engagement ring very fast, so fast that the diamond refracts the light of day in a thousand glittering shards.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he says grandly. "I know of an impediment."

The lacrosse player clenches his fists. The speaker smiles.

"It appears, according to these documents, that a property transaction was made, notarised and legalised only yesterday afternoon. It seems that some extremely philanthropic person has bequeathed Ms Blair Cornelia Waldorf –" His tongue hovers over her name. "A fifty percent stake in the Empire Hotel, address 44 West 63rd Street, New York. However –" She looks so beautiful, standing there in her wedding dress, but he can't help but think she'd look far better in the rags of one. "This stake is registered to Ms Waldorf for only as long as she keeps that name. There is only one exception."

"Really?"

It's the first time she's spoken, and she doesn't sound like a blushing bride. She sounds like she could cut the wedding cake with just one flick of that sharp tongue. She flings back her veil (and elicits a gasp) to stare him down properly, hands planted on her chiffon swathed hips.

"And what exception would that be?"

"You know perfectly well."

"I'm afraid not."

"You really want everyone to know?"

A challenge.

She eyes him coolly, arches an eyebrow. "Of course."

Accepted.

This elicits a dramatic sigh, and the lacrosse player slowly begins to flush.

"Let me be a little more transparent: there are in fact several exceptions, only a few of which I will list here. The stake in the hotel is registered only to Blair Waldorf or one of the following: Blair Bass, Blair Waldorf-Bass, Blair Waldorf Bass without a hyphen, Blair Waldorf under the legal name Bass, etc."

"Babe." The lacrosse player grips the white satin of her gloved arm. "What is this? Who the hell is this guy?"

She shoots a glare down the room at him, and he winks.

"Hey, Jack?"

"It's John. Only she calls me Jack."

"Ah, yes." He unnecessarily dusts down one lapel. "Well, as much as I'd like to continue to indulge your fantasy about that cute nickname, let me be frank: she calls you Jack because when she's screwing you, she likes to imagine that it's me, and she sometimes forgets to the extent that she almost says my name instead. So, in order for our beloved Waldorf to cover her tracks –" He receives another glare. "She calls you something that's halfway between my name and yours, and pretends it's because she loves you. Blair?"

"Blair?" John/Jack repeats.

Blair – who feels like she has her name back, Blair instead of 'babe' or 'sweetie' or 'doll' – looks around her. First of all she observes Serena's smile, and sends her a look that says: I'm going to kill you for being even a tiny part of this later. She looks at her parents, at the mother who is shaking her head with something between embarrassment and mirth, at the three slightly confused and still smiling fathers. Then she looks down the aisle at Chuck, who looks taller somehow, the light hitting one elegant angle of his face just the same way it's hitting hers.

He doesn't need any more invitation than that.

So the groom watches as the strange, smirking man in the purple and black tuxedo walks calmly up the aisle, picks up his bride, and walks calmly back down the aisle again. Halfway down, he turns.

"You'll get over her," he says. "Talk to Archibald."

"Serena!"

The maid of honour raises her eyes from careful contemplation of the floor as her currently captured friend raises one arm.

"Catch."

Serena suddenly finds her arms full of bouquet, overwhelmed by a burst of almost purple blushing peonies. Her eyes find the usher's once again.

Nate smiles.

The sunlight is warm on this outlandish couple as they exit onto the street, her very much on her dignity even though she's just walked (or been carried) out of her wedding by a former (for the purposes of the couples' counsellor she and John/Jack enlisted, anyway) flame who has just discovered that the best fatwa is one where millions of dollars are at stake. It's horrible that she cares enough to want to keep the whole damn thing in his name, to understand the point he's making: it's not his 'beloved Empire' – as she once put it – without being her home too.

They reach the pavement and the waiting, purring black car, and Blair finds her voice.

"If you even think about having sex with me, Bass, I'll burn every piece of Oscar de la Renta in your closet."

Chuck laughs. "You underestimate me, Waldorf."

"How?"

"When have I ever had to think about it?"

Fin.