AN: Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews:) Waking up to review e-mails is akin to Christmas morning - thanks everyone! I won't be able to do individual review replies, unfortunately, because I'm quite pressed for time at the moment - writing this was a bit of a challenge in itself! It's quite long, longer than I intended, but the story grew on its own.
The Holly and The Ivy was written for the incredible SaturnineSunshine, who lets me beta her fantabulous work, is my co-collaborator in our fic Vindication, and undoubtedly the Queen of oneshots (they're amazing). We've discussed Gossip Girl, Mad Men, and Desperate Housewives for hours on end - and stayed up till three (six for her) in the morning just writing. I'm sure you can tell I love the girl to death.
My prompts were jealous!Chuck and illicit drugs. Knowing C's love of proposals, sex tapes, and drunk!Chuck, The Holly and The Ivy was born (the 'true' meaning of the song is also quite CB-like, if you care to look it up). Merry Christmas, C!
And thanks to my beta, bethaboo, who got this back to me in record time, and to Bforqueen, my fab pre-reader.
"The holly bears a berry,
As red as any blood"
-The Holly and The Ivy
It was half past eight when Chuck Bass staggered in, drunk, disorderly, and dapper in a black suit and red bowtie. 'Tis the season, he thought wryly, as he took in the holly and garlands that decorated the penthouse Blair shared with—
A wry chuckle escaped him as he thought of the other man, the one she was supposed to marry in mere months.
A few guests turned as he staggered from the elevator, titters and whispers failing to drown out the staccato of four-inch Louboutins against the limestone floor.
"What are you doing here?" Blair Waldorf-soon-to-be-Laches hissed, attempting to steer him away from the curious gazes of her guests.
"To celebrate yours and Devon's engagement, of course," Chuck sneered, but the insult fell flat as he stumbled forward, barely catching himself on the opposite wall.
"You weren't invited," Blair growled, still attempting to shield his drunken form.
"Your best friend left her invitation behind," Chuck explained, and Blair rolled her eyes, pulling Chuck into an alcove as Kerry and Jason Macdonald passed by.
The alcove was but a mere nook, and Chuck found Blair pressed up against him, glancing around warily for any other intruders. His hands found their way around her waist, and Blair frowned, as if she had just become conscious of the fact that she was close enough to—
"Are you high?" Blair asked incredulously, reeling back just as Chuck attempted to draw her closer. Her nose was wrinkled at the sweet scent that clung to his suit, combined with the heady scent of scotch that lingered on his breath.
Chuck didn't answer, only smirked as Blair fumed, trailing his hand down the side of her bare arm.
Slapping his arm away, Blair pushed against his chest, towards the elevator as the room swirled around Chuck.
The force of her shove sent him reeling, and Chuck stumbled once more, his vision clouded as he attempted to right himself.
Instead, he ended up on the floor, back pressed up against a stone column, the glass vase perched precariously atop beginning to worry Blair.
Sighing, Blair took one last look at her guests, mentally calculating the time it would take her to get Chuck back to the Empire.
"How did you get here?" Blair said with a sigh, proffering a perfectly manicured hand at the fallen Chuck.
Her fingernails were bitten to tiny nubs, he noticed. Blair Waldorf, he knew, would never have picked up such a habit—it simply didn't suit her prim and proper nature.
"What happened to your nails?" he mumbled, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. With a great effort, he managed to put his left foot in front of his right—an accomplishment, he decided.
"What?" Blair replied absentmindedly, half-hauling Chuck towards the elevator and hoping that her guests would stay where they were supposed to be and not venture into the lobby.
"Your nails," Chuck enunciated slowly, dragging out each word. "They're bitten."
Blair took a quick glance at her polished nails, surprised that Chuck had noticed the change in length when no one but her manicurist had previously.
By now, she shouldn't have been surprised—he was Chuck Bass.
"Stress," Blair said quickly, turning her head as she jabbed the button for the elevator.
Footsteps echoed across the foyer, and Blair cringed, as she turned, face-to-face with one angry—if confused—Devon Laches.
"Blair?" he inquired, glancing warily at a smirking Chuck behind her, "What's going on?"
"I need to take Chuck home," Blair said with a placid smile, one that was all sweetness and forced fondness. "I'm just going to call Arthur to—"
"I gave Arthur the day off," Chuck interjected, and Blair turned, her sweet expression vanishing in a second, replaced with a venomous glare.
"And how did you get here?" Blair sneered back, momentarily forgetting that her fiancé was in the same room.
It had always been like that. Chuck had the power to draw her in, to make her forget about everything around her, everything but him.
"Walked," Chuck explained simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Blair snorted delicately, a look of derision in her eyes.
"Chuck Bass doesn't walk."
He shrugged, "I was thinking."
"About?" Blair challenged, though as soon as the words left, she knew his answer would be unacceptable for Devon's ears. Turning back towards the confused man, Blair put on her sweetest smile.
"Darling," she placated, and she just knew that Chuck was rolling his eyes behind her, "could you please attend to the guests? I'm just going to get a cab for Chuck—"
"Chuck Bass doesn't take cabs," Blair heard, and she wheeled around once more, fury evident.
"Unless you want to walk back to the Empire, I suggest you—"
Devon, sensing that something was wrong—he had never seen Blair get this way, after all—stepped forward, wrapping a protective arm around Blair's waist.
And Chuck, who had been barely keeping himself in check at the sight of another man's diamond on her right hand, clenched his fists, his demeanor darkening instantly.
"I'm sure Chuck," Devon said his name with obvious scorn, "is able to exit the building himself."
Blair rolled her eyes, but stopped short before Devon caught a glance at her expression.
"He's clearly intoxicated," Blair retorted, softening her words with a false smile.
Chuck nearly lost it at the sight of Devon and Blair talking about him, in front of him, as if he were but a mere teenager, in need of a caretaker.
"I'll take him," suggested Devon tightly, and Chuck saw Blair tense at the proposal, or rather, demand. "You attend to our guests."
"I don't need a babysitter," Chuck interrupted snidely, throwing a glare at the other man. "I'm perfectly capable of removing myself from the premises. That is, if I choose to."
"Shut up, Bass," Blair snapped. "I'm taking you downstairs. "
Her glare told both men that her words were not to be contested, and Devon let go of her waist with apparent reluctance as Chuck smirked.
Upon spotting Chuck's smirk, a shadow crossed Devon's face, and he pulled Blair back, kissing her fiercely, as if proving something to the now-livid Chuck Bass.
When Blair finally managed to pull away, the elevator had finally arrived, and she stepped in, pulling Chuck along with her.
His eyes were dark, his countenance furious as he stood, glaring at the doors from which they had just entered,
Blair bit her lip, determined to avoid his gaze for the remainder of the elevator ride. Chuck, however, had other ideas.
Reaching over, until she was enveloped with the cloyingly sweet smell of Chuck's favored vices and something obstinately Chuck Bass, he pressed the emergency button with deliberate slowness.
Blair, who had found herself unaware, snapped out of her reverie just as the elevator stopped.
"What are you doing now, Bass?" she asked, exasperation coloring her tone.
"Making you forget about that moronic simpleton," Chuck growled, and suddenly she was pressed up against the cool glass of the elevator, her skin prickling with heat as Chuck's eager hands trailed over her shoulders and between her exposed shoulder blades.
Her gasp was wild, feral, almost, and within moments, her dress had been hiked up over her hips, exposing creamy thighs and the palest pink La Perlas.
"Chuck," she gasped, as he trailed kisses down her collarbone, and a more rational part of her brain told her to stop, told her she was engaged, her own engagement party was happening a few floors above, and there were guests in attendance who craved both gossip and a scandal.
But then Chuck looked at her, his eyes dark and foreboding as her lips parted under the onslaught of his kiss.
Her hands found his belt buckle, and almost expertly, she divested him of his pants as he found similar liberties with her La Perlas.
Devon Laches was the last person on her mind as Chuck slid inside, and his hands gripped her hips tightly, until the pain of a metal railing digging into her back gave way to waves of insurmountable pleasure.
…
And when a nasal voice crackled through the speakers, asking if everything was alright, Blair sighed with relief that there were no cameras in the elevator—at the very least, none that she knew of.
Shuddering with the thought of someone else watching them, Blair looked around wildly, hoping she wouldn't see a blinking light.
Unable to find one, Blair turned back to Chuck instead, whose expression was unreadable as he replied to the voice, pulling his pants up with a free hand.
Blair herself arranged her dress, until her reflection in the elevator mirrors was deemed passable. Glancing around for her La Perlas, she found them not on the ground, where she had expected them, but in the pocket of Chuck's suit.
Following her gaze, Chuck smirked, looping an arm around her waist and leaning close.
"A souvenir," he murmured against the shell of her ear, and Blair placed her palms squarely on his chest, pushing him away.
"Don't think you can just leave me, to return back to that pathetic excuse for a—"
"You and I are done, Chuck," Blair said fiercely, eyes trained on the numbers above the doors. "We've been done for four years now. You have to let me go."
"Me?" Chuck said scornfully. "Was that not you, moaning my name as If fucked you in this very elevator?"
Blair whipped around, her expression wild, mahogany curls shaking with the force of her barely repressed anger.
"That was a mistake. Like everything else," she spat.
Chuck recoiled at her words, which also had the side-effect of sobering him up slightly.
But mostly, they just hurt.
"You'll pretend we never happened," Chuck told her forebodingly. "But we both know it's just a matter of time till you come crawling—"
His sentence was cut off by a resounding slap, and the skin of his left cheek turned red, as did her right palm.
The invisible current that passed through them, the aftermath of a single movement, was all that it took.
Neither knew who had made the first move, who had initiated the almost violent, bruising kiss, only that when the elevator doors opened moments after, only the doorman had been witness to their indecency.
…
"What took you so long?"
Blair glanced at the clock, which stated that she had been gone not twenty minutes. In the world of the Upper East Side, a missing hostess was akin to social suicide—but when Blair turned to face her fiancé, frozen smile in place, she found that she didn't care.
"Chuck needed an escort into a cab," Blair replied simply, knowing that Devon would not have had the intelligence to watch them from the bedroom window. "I have to go make my roun—"
As she slipped past Devon, his arm shot out, capturing her elbow in a tight, bruising grasp.
"Don't lie to me, Blair," he said darkly, eyes more foreboding than Blair had ever been witness too. "I can smell him on you."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Blair replied primly, yanking her arm away. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have guests to attend to."
"Guests you just ignored to consort with your inebriated ex-boyfriend," Devon remarked coolly.
"I was simply helping an old friend," Blair defended, lifting her chin imperiously. "What are you insinuating exactly?"
A flash of fear crossed Devon's features; fear that their impending marriage—one that would benefit him greatly—was to be canceled for a boozing, womanizing, lecherous man who seemed to have some sort of hold over Blair.
"Don't make a fool out of me, Blair," Devon warned.
"That was never my intention," Blair replied frostily, turning on her heel.
…
"Chuck."
"Serena."
"Chuck," Serena repeated, shaking her head. "What did you do last night?"
A smirk crossed his tired features, "Blair."
Serena, thrown for a moment, only wrinkled her nose. "She's engaged, Chuck."
Another smirk, "To that dimwit Wall Street clone? Not for long."
"Chuck," Serena reprimanded. "That was her engagement party last night. You don't mean to say—"
"You shouldn't have left the invitation out," Chuck countered, drawing the silk sheets up to shield the sunshine streaming through the windows.
"You have to let her go," Serena said, her tone almost pitying. "She's getting married in a few months, Chuck."
"It wouldn't matter in the least," was the only reply Serena heard before she sighed, having found the folder she had come to pick up.
"It would, Chuck. This isn't healthy."
Closing the drawer she had been rummaging through, Serena caught a glimpse of a familiar substance, encased in a box of amber glass.
No, she thought sadly, closing the drawer. None of this was healthy.
But this was Chuck and Blair after all.
…
"Excuse me?" Chuck looked at the boy incredulously as he stole one last glance in the mirror, ensuring that he looked the part of the ever-impeccable Chuck Bass, CEO of Bass Industries.
"Five thousand," the boy said, and Chuck's eyes ran over the boy's tattered runners and frayed jeans. His jacket, well worn and looking as though it had some sort of important significance with its security logo, tipped off Chuck to the fact that this boy probably was the night-shift worker in the surveillance room of Blair's building.
"Five thousand?" Chuck stifled a laugh. To him, it was a new suit, or a Cartier watch. To Blair, a few pairs of Louboutins or a necklace from van Cleef. To this blue-collar worker, it was the world.
"This is the only copy?" Chuck asked, nodding towards the small black flash drive.
"The only one," the boy affirmed.
Chuck sighed, trudging back to his bedroom and opening the safe, the neat stacks of cash greeted him, but as he removed a stack, his fingers brushed over something different.
He closed the safe quickly, before unwelcome thoughts could invade his mind.
"Five thousand," Chuck said, tossing the pile at the boy, who scrambled to catch it. The flash drive was left on the table as the boy exited, his expression gleeful.
For a moment, Chuck considered watching the video—the boy had only shown him a short, five-second clip before blushing and turning it off—but he recalled the velvet box his fingers had brushed over in the safe.
And a new idea was born.
…
"Blair," Eleanor cautioned, her tone forcibly light as Blair reached for another pistachio tart. "I understand your stress over the wedding, but overeating will not do you any favors in your wedding dress."
Tensing slightly, Blair only returned the pistachio tart to the plate, forcing a placid smile at her mother.
"Now," Eleanor turned yet another page, and Blair scanned the floral arrangements depicted, wrinkling her nose, "we must choose an arrangement by the end of the week. I'm partial to the lilies and orchids for the centerpieces, but the carnations and roses are also…"
Blair allowed her mother's voice to trail into the background as she nodded mindlessly, cringing at the thought of floral arrangements. Planning had always been her forte, but as idea after idea was added to her mother's list, Blair found herself growing weary of not only the wedding planning, but also the wedding itself.
Blair heard the telltale sound of the elevator doors opening and, grateful for a respite from Eleanor's waxing poetic about stargazer lilies.
"Excuse me," she said easily, the propriety so heavily ingrained that it had become second nature to her.
Curious, as she had not expected anyone today, Blair made her way to the foyer with a polite smile.
For a moment, she wondered—hoped—that it would be Chuck. Devon had left earlier that week for a conference in Chicago. To say that it wasn't a welcome relief would label her a liar. For two excruciatingly slow, painful days after their holiday engagement party, Blair had avoided Devon at all costs, even going as far to go shopping with her assistant, whose likeness to Little J was uncanny.
But when she rounded the corner, she found not a smirking devil in a wool peacoat, but her doorman, his expression formal.
"A package arrived for you, Ms. Waldorf," he said somberly, handing over the small, nondescript gift bag.
"Thank you, Percy," Blair said with a forced smile, for the gift bag was black, its handles tied together with a red bow, one that bore a small cream envelope.
The handwriting on the front of the envelope was familiar enough to her as she tore it off quickly, her eyes scanning the short missive.
This time, it's not jewellery.
-C
Something told her the words had meaning, had significance, but as Blair reached inside the bag, stomach twisting and knotting in both fear and anticipation, she could not grasp the memory.
The small box sat in the palm of her hand, the perfect size for a pair of earrings, or even a—no, Blair told herself, pushing all thoughts of rings out of her head as she glanced at her own. Besides, Chuck had said it wasn't jewellery.
This time, she recalled, and her brow furrowed for a moment, searching through the recesses of her mind in hopes of unearthing the memory.
What's that, our sex tape?
Blair gasped as the memory came to the forefront of her mind, and the velvet box fell from her fingertips, landing with a soft thump on the limestone floors.
Scrambling to pick up the box, Blair assured herself that there was no way. No possible way that such awful circumstances could have found their way into her impending marriage.
A sex tape would be damaging, not only to her reputation and Devon's, but also to her company as a whole.
Taking a deep breath, Blair cracked open the box, heart beating erratically, her stomach knotted so tightly she could barely breathe.
Inside, a black flash drive lay innocently, nestled amongst the black silk.
She was sure her expression was one of utter dread when she returned back to her mother.
"Blair?" Eleanor inquired, upon seeing her daughter's expression. "What's wrong?"
There were times when Eleanor's icy exterior dropped. When she understood that her daughter was not simply a flawless society princess to present to the masses, or to use as she pleased.
Blair didn't answer, only toyed with her ring, spinning it around her finger, around and around, until Eleanor placed her hand over her daughter's and said, in a cautious voice,
"You aren't thinking about breaking this engagement?" Eleanor said forebodingly, and Blair looked up, smiling frigidly.
"Of course not, mother," she placated. "I know how important this is to you. It's your company."
"Pearson Laches has promised to help me buy Janelle West's stocks. We need this, Blair. Her control of the company came as a surprise. None of the board members ever hinted that she was preparing to buy them out, to gain power of enough shares to overpower me."
"I know, mother," Blair said, unable to help the bored tone from seeping into her voice.
Eleanor smiled tightly, "I want you to be happy, darling."
"I am happy," Blair said, her smile frozen, like cherries trapped in an early morning frost.
…
"What the hell is this?"
Chuck looked up just in time to catch a small black object whizzing towards him, thrown by a furious Blair Waldorf, who has just emerged from the elevator.
Chuck smirked, fingers toying with the flash drive, "I warned you that it wasn't jewellery. Unless you were expecting something else in the ring box?"
"The ring—" Blair caught herself, replacing her icy expression in an instant. The word ring had thrown her off guard, but not for long.
"Never mind," Blair said quickly, cutting off whatever Chuck was about to say, "I want to know where you got that, Chuck."
"Have you watched it?" Chuck asked instead, smirking wickedly as he uncapped the flash drive. "My favorite part is 2:19, you can hear—"
"Where. Did. You. Get. That." Blair demanded, her tone brooking no further teasing.
"From the night-shift surveillance worker of your building," Chuck taunted, his smirk growing wider as Blair visibly paled.
"How—When—But I—" Blair stumbled over her words, grasping for some sort of explanation, some sort of clarity in her muddled mind.
"He came to me," Chuck said with a shrug. "He recognized me, I suppose, form the papers. The poor boy only asked for five thousand—I would have happily given triple that."
"And this is the only copy?" Blair asked, her tone clipped and businesslike.
Chuck nodded. "Except for the one I saved to my laptop. Of course."
Blair walked forward, fingertips reaching for the flash drive in his hands. In hindsight, it had probably not been the wisest of ideas to throw it at him.
"The memory of your heels digging into my back was too delicious to not want to immortalize in film forever," Chuck taunted, his voice deepening into a low purr.
Well, erase the tape.
"Delete it," Blair said firmly, palm still outstretched for the flash drive, but refusing to step any closer.
"And why would I do that?" Chuck asked, his expression one of faux incredulity. "It's even better than the girl-on-girl one Nate sent me last—"
"Delete. It." Blair seethed; finally stepping forward and plucking the flash drive from his hands.
"And if I don't?" Chuck asked, catching her wrist and stilling her movements.
"I will destroy you," Blair promised.
"That," Chuck nodded towards the flash drive, "could easily destroy you."
"I'm burning it," Blair decided.
Chuck laughed, and Blair suddenly realized that she had stepped closer, that they were suddenly far too close than was proper.
"And how do you expect to do that?" Chuck asked, his expression humorous.
"A match, a bowl, and it'll fade into oblivion," Blair said triumphantly, after a moment's thought. "Which is what we should be. Nothing."
"But we aren't nothing," Chuck reminded her, his grasp becoming almost painful. "Even if you attempt to fool yourself otherwise."
"I'm getting married in a few months," Blair said, and Chuck wondered if it was just his imagination that he heard a note of discord in her statement.
"Don't marry him," Chuck suggested.
"I have to," Blair admitted, shaking her head. "You don't understand."
"I understand perfectly," Chuck said flatly. "It's you who doesn't understand."
"Devon won't hurt me," Blair said, lifting her chin haughtily. "He won't hurt me, and better yet, my marrying him will cement the partnership between his father and Eleanor."
"Everyone on the Upper East Side knows it's a marriage of convenience," Chuck said snidely, ignoring Blair's flinch, "and you know you don't love him."
Blair did nothing but offer a small, sad smile, neither accepting or denying the statement.
She was halfway to the elevator doors before he stopped her, removing the ring from the pocket of his pants, where he had been carrying it since removing it from its box, which had been its home for the past six years.
"No, Chuck," Blair warned, stepping towards the elevator.
"You know it's always been yours," Chuck said, ignoring her words and walking slowly towards her, a lion stalking its prey.
"I'm engaged," Blair said weakly, but the sight of the diamond, the one she had only seen once before yet was forever ingrained in her memory, made her forget about the one she was currently wearing.
"You're still mine," Chuck said, and Blair found no words to refute the statement as his lips crashed down on hers.
…
"I hate you."
Chuck looked at her, chocolate curls on alabaster skin, the silk of his sheets drawn up to shield her from his probing gaze.
"I hate you too, lover," he said darkly, his eyes dark as he leaned forward, lips brushing against hers.
Two hours later, as Chuck slumbered soundly, Blair sat in a chair opposite the bed. With the smallest of sobs, she looked at the ring that had always looked out of place on the fourth finger of her left hand.
It had been an afternoon of delicious escape, one meant to be folded between darker memories and remembered on rainy days.
Because Blair was still destined to become Blair Laches, and the ring on her hand proved that.
…
Before, when she would leave him to wake up alone in the middle of a cold bed, Chuck would proceed to drown his sorrows in scotch and illicit drugs. This time, he became all the more determined to figure out exactly why Blair was marrying Devon Laches.
The engagement had come mere months after they started dating—and perhaps dating would be the wrong word. It had been for public appearances more than anything—Pearson Laches had needed his son to look more reliable, after the scandal, and Chuck had hears whispers that Waldorf Designs was in dire need of aid.
The plan was but half-formed when he exited the Empire, the brisk winter air a frigid shock to his senses. And as he slid easily into the limo, a call was placed, and help requested.
…
It was simple. So simple that Chuck had wondered how The Post had not picked up on what was undoubtedly the biggest story of the year.
Then again, this was Eleanor Waldorf—and Chuck knew that to her, image was everything.
Image was why Blair was marrying Devon Laches.
As he pored over reports and earnings, Chuck noticed a steady decline in revenue—that had not surprised him.
What had surprised him was the shares bought by one Janelle West, who now owned nearly forty-five percent of the shares. He saw signs of an imminent takeover, and the underhanded way in which she had purchased the shares had been alarming.
And Chuck understood why Eleanor and Pearson Laches had forged a partnership—though why Eleanor had chosen Laches, he couldn't understand. There was no previous business relationship between them of any kind, and he was not someone Eleanor would seek help from.
Then, Chuck concluded, it must have been Pearson who had approached Eleanor. The realization made sense, but did nothing to appease the growing worry in his mind. Eleanor may have run a successful business for a little over a decade, but Chuck knew that the inner workings of the business world were a mystery to the fashion designer.
And Chuck, who had survived the cutthroat world of business by the skin of his teeth, knew exactly how cruel it could be.
So for Pearson Laches to offer Eleanor Waldorf help, Chuck knew something was wrong.
He just had to figure out what it was.
…
"Every penny will be returned in full," came a voice, a deep voice that Chuck recognized all too well.
"And I can be assured that the company will be mine by July?"
The last sentence caught Chuck by surprise. The voice was unfamiliar to him, but the words were clear. And as Chuck pressed himself against the wall, deeper into the shadows, the conversation continued.
"My son is marrying the Waldorf girl," the man was saying, and Chuck knew without a doubt that it was Pearson Laches, "we have Eleanor's trust."
"And what will happen once we gain control of the company?"
"Which is why we are pushing for the wedding in April. It will solidify Eleanor's trust in me, and we should be able to make the transition smoothly."
"I daresay Thanksgiving dinners will be rather uncomfortable," the female voice was unfamiliar to Chuck, but as he caught a glimpse of her face, he knew her instantly.
Janelle West.
He had studied the file his PI had sent over, understood that Janelle West was simply a name on the documents.
Janelle West was really none other than Laurel Westmore, Eleanor's ex-assistant who had left the company bitterly a few years ago.
And when Chuck, who had taken to tailing Pearson Laches, found him meeting Laurel in a dingy Brooklyn bar, it had become all too clear.
"My son understands it's just business," Pearson was saying uncomfortably. "He knows what he has to do."
And Chuck nearly gave himself away as he gripped his tumbler of scotch so tightly he feared it would break.
Forcing himself to loosen his grip, Chuck exited his hiding spot with a covert glance over his shoulder.
…
They had been easy to track down. The holidays meant for Christmas shopping, and if Chuck knew Blair, he knew that the fourth floor of Bergdorf's was her favorite haunt.
Serena spotted him first, and she was in front of him in seconds, blocking his way towards the dressing rooms.
"I thought I told you to stay away from her," Serena whispered, glancing behind to ensure that Blair was still in the dressing room.
"And since when have I ever listened to you?" Chuck said derisively, side-stepping the blonde.
"Chuck," Serena warned. "This isn't right."
He met her cautioning gaze with a grim look of his own.
"No," he agreed. "It isn't."
And against her better judgment, Serena let him go.
…
"Waldorf," came a deep voice, and Blair whirled around, wondering where Serena had gone.
"Soon-to-be Laches," she trilled, her glare doing nothing to soften the blow of her words.
"Not after you hear what I have to say," Chuck smirked, leaning forward conspiratorially.
"Nothing I haven't heard before, I'm sure," Blair said with derision, though she remained where she was.
"Ah, but you haven't heard it before," Chuck taunted.
Blair bit her lip, and knowing that her curiosity would win out over anything else, sighed.
"Spit it out, Bass."
"What do you know about Eleanor's business troubles?"
Blair gasped slightly. Eleanor's financial trouble had been covered up well, and though Blair had not been told the specifics, she had heard enough whispered conversations to put the pieces together.
"Nothing more than you," she replied honestly.
"Well I happen to know that someone named Janelle West is planning a hostile takeover," Chuck said, searching for the recognition in Blair's eyes.
"Common knowledge," Blair said with a wave of her hand, though her eyes betrayed the worry she now felt. "Is that what you came here to tell me?"
"No," Chuck said, and his smirk grew wider. "I'm here to tell you that Janelle West isn't some new stranger from California attempting to buy her way into Waldorf Designs. She has an agenda."
Blair leaned forward, licking her lips as a gleam of curiosity flashed through her eyes.
"You remember Laurel Westmore?" Chuck prompted, and Blair, who wrinkled her nose at the mention of the woman, nodded. "She's masquerading as Janelle West."
He could see the flash of understanding in her eyes, and then, the innate desire to scheme.
"Thank you, Bass," Blair said, "but the situation is being rectified."
"By Pearson Laches?" Chuck challenged. "He's working with Laurel."
Blair laughed, a short, wry laugh that was pitying in its tenor.
"Desperate, are we?" Her tone was hard, the amicability between them lost. "Your information is faulty, Bass. Pearson is helping my mother."
"Not according to the conversation between him and Laurel," Chuck returned.
"The situation is being taken care of," Blair said simply, retrieving her purse. "Don't complicate this, Chuck."
And when she walked away from him, not a tear was shed, not a tremor shook her.
But inside, she was crumbling.
…
The morning of Christmas Eve dawned, cold and bright as a cut diamond, and void of any excitement that had overcome her as a child.
Instead, Blair knew she would be forced to face Devon Laches that night, after nearly a week-and-a-half of respite from her fiancé, and a mere four days after Chuck had claimed his father was about to betray Eleanor.
Blair had pushed the thought aside for days, telling herself that such betrayal wasn't possible—especially between families that were about to be bound by her and Devon's marriage.
A nagging thought told her that was exactly when Pearson had pushed for their engagement—because it would solidify Eleanor's trust in him.
Uneasy, Blair pushed the thoughts to the back of her mind once more, afraid that pondering on them too long would lead to revelations that, quite frankly, scared her.
…
Looking down at her barely touched meal, Blair knew that eating wasn't feasible at this point. Her stomach knotted and twisted, turning and roiling with anxiety—anxiety over what she didn't know.
Excusing herself, Blair made her way through the Laches' brownstone, towards the small courtyard at the back of the house in search of fresh air. Perhaps it would bring clarity to the situation.
Instead, Blair found herself passing the study, with its door ajar and a familiar voice floating through the air.
Pearson, she thought quietly, and though she had half a mind to turn back, she stayed, thankful that the thick carpets absorbed any sound from her heels.
"…having dinner with them tonight, Laurel. I can't deal with—"
Blair was even more thankful for the thick walls, which hid the sound of her gasp—and as she turned and ran back down the hallway, she found herself realizing that disclaiming Chuck had been a bad idea.
…
"Eleanor and my father are in the study," Devon explained, handing another flute of champagne to Blair.
Blair made no reply, only took the champagne, gulping it down in a manner that seemed to worry Devon.
"Darling?" a hand was placed on her shoulder, and Blair flinched away, causing Devon to frown. "Anything the matter?"
"What do you know about Laurel Westmore?" Blair blurted out, then immediately wanted to take back her words. She was usually more subtly underhanded, but ultimately, the champagne—and her nerves—bested her.
"Your mother's lunatic assistant?" Devon furrowed his brow, and Blair, whose ability to read people had not failed her yet, saw the lie immediately. "Didn't Eleanor fire her?"
"She did," Blair agreed icily. "And apparently her and your father are working together."
A flash of confusion swept across Devon's features, and beyond that, a moment of fear.
"Of course not," Devon said easily, his smile strained.
"Then why did I overhear your father talking to Laurel on the phone?" Blair challenged, and another spasm of fear crossed Devon's face.
"You must have heard wrong," he placated, "that was probably Lauren, my father's associate in Europe."
As Devon changed the subject quickly, Blair knew exactly what needed to be done.
…
Blair knew that Christmas day was not the best day to tell her mother. But Christmas morning was met with scones and croissants, tense smiles traded across the breakfast table, and a growing worry in Blair.
But when the note had arrived, the oddest feeling of relief washed over her. The feeling that there was someone else to depend on, someone else she actually trusted overwhelmed her.
Meet me at your mother's atelier.
-C
…
He was sitting in her mother's studio, reading over reports as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"How did you get in here?"
"I'm Chuck Bass," he said, without looking up.
Blair snorted, "Is there a reason you dragged me here on Christmas?"
"Is there a reason you came?" Chuck volleyed back, and Blair, simply frowned.
"Curiosity."
"You know what they say about the cat," Chuck said, and Blair, at her wit's end, nearly knocked the glass of scotch (where had he found scotch anyways? Eleanor had prohibited alcohol in the atelier) from his hand.
"I'm simply going over reports of my newest acquisition," Chuck said simply, and Blair turned stock-still.
"You bought—Janelle West—But how?"
Chuck smirked. "Laurel wanted to destroy Eleanor, yes. I simply gave her a better way to do it and a lot more money than she would have made from the company."
Blair visibly paled, "Chuck, what did you do?"
"Only sent her our sex tape," Chuck said smoothly, "although I did remember to save a copy for myself."
"You didn't!" Blair screeched, and this time, the scotch really was knocked from his hands, spilling across the sheaf of papers.
Chuck raised an eyebrow. "She may have gotten a copy of another video instead of our sex tape," he added belatedly.
He was on the receiving end of a slap, and then a kiss, as Blair sighed in relief, her hands clasping around his neck as his found their way around her hips, lifting her onto her mother's scotch-soaked desk.
"Not here," Blair gasped, and Chuck groaned in return.
"My limo's around the corner," she suggested slyly.
It was the first Christmas she had spent almost entirely in bed - and limo - and Blair couldn't say she regretted it.
…
Six months later
When the dust settles, they come out on top.
The Laches are disgraced, ruined forevermore in the eyes of Manhattan society. Devon Laches is snapped at a Vegas chapel, marrying the flight attendant that had been cause for the scandal two years prior.
Pearson and Kelly Laches bury themselves into European society, but even there, the stain is apparent.
Simply put, they are ruined.
In a surprising twist, Laurel Westmore releases what she claims to be the Blair Waldorf and Chuck Bass Sex Tape. Instead, it is a seven-minute clip of her destroying a quarter of the Waldorf atelier when she is fired.
It is proof enough for Eleanor to sue for damages—though Chuck and Blair both knew that Eleanor's revenge came not in the form of the two hundred dollar settlement, but the sight of Laurel Westmore in handcuffs.
Through it all, they somehow managed to hang onto a thread of a relationship—though Blair has to wonder as to where the ring is. After the whirlwind, she fully expected a proposal. After all, this was the same man who had attempted a proposal when they were nineteen.
And on a rainy afternoon in Venice, when sunshine peeked through the clouds and alighted on two (very naked) lovers entwined on an unmade bed, Blair Waldorf woke up and found a ring on her hand.
Her ring, the one that had been waiting for her all along.
fin