A/N: Bold type is memories/past events. It's also in the past tense, which should make it easier to follow too.
Apologies if you get confused though, it should become clearer soon enough.
Also, once again, one slight SPOILER (same one as before) I suppose, if you haven't read the Gossip Girl Blog entry for Bart & Lily's wedding. I've marked it (+) if it helps ;) It is NOT a Season 2 spoiler.
Chapter Three
"You can close your eyes to the things you do not want to see, but you cannot close your heart to the things you do not want to feel."
- Anonymous
"He smashed every mirror he could find," her voice is small, her vulnerability exposed, and in the fading light he can see the tracks of her tears on her pale skin.
"Every glass, every reflective surface," she tells him.
"You know what scares him most of all?" she asks.
His eyes are open; and she shares in his helplessness, hoping to provide comfort.
She turns to look at the young man who has come to care about the other in the room they're waiting vigil next to, almost as much as she herself does, and says, "It's that he doesn't know who his father is anymore, and all he has left now to provide the answers is himself."
X
She heard the muffled voices, their words gaining more clarity as two bodies appeared before them.
"Charles Bass?"
He looked up, raised his head slowly, disdain dripping from his very being at the intrusion.
His eyes narrowed: she watched the woman flinch slightly and the man's actions still, and realized that even in grief; a Bass is still a Bass.
They spoke of where they were from: Child Services, and why they were there: he's still a minor. +And, failing to phrase it lightly, they told him: he is effectively an orphan; father – dead, mother – unknown. He needed to come with them, they told him.
+She could tell he was tempted to growl out, "My mother's dead too, you half-wits," but he didn't, he wouldn't; it's one of the best-kept Upper East Side secrets, how Misty Bass died; and he's never betray that, or her memory.
"I don't need to do anything," his voice was hoarse, but the venom it ensued cut through the room like the parting of the Red Sea. "Least of all, listen to the likes of you."
"I'm afraid, without being able to speak to Mrs. van der Woodson – "
"He's my brother," a voice suddenly spoke up from behind them. "And it's Bass."
Long, flowing blonde hair came into view and if she didn't know any better she'd say they'd been graced by the presence of an angel.
His eyes seemed to clear for a second, before fog encompassed them once more.
And just then, he was back to the Chuck Bass she'd known practically her whole life: arrogant, smarmy, and the son of the living Bart Bass.
The smirk slid along his lips with a careful ease, a practice only seen through years of perfecting art, and his head cocked to the side: his eyes dancing for that single moment.
"As always, your timing is impeccable, sis," he directed at the blonde.
She rolled her eyes at him and, for a minute longer, it was like they were back to the uncomplicated and comfortable sibling bickering that they'd become so accustomed to in such a short time.
The two stiffs looked skeptical, and the blonde spoke again, "You can check Constance Billard school if you don't believe us. There's a library being constructed in our name."
"And I'll be happy to supply any records of marriage or any other documents you might need, but right now, I think you ought to leave my brother alone."
"Yes, kindly leave," her own voice cut through the room commandingly as she sent them a hard look.
Then she gave them both a once-over; let's them know she didn't approve of what they'd done in the slightest, and added hotly; "We were having a moment."
His head was dipped once more, and her fingers curled themselves around a wayward strand of hair by his ear; as she leaned forward, rested her forehead against his temple and breathed onto his skin, "I'm here for you, Chuck. I'm always here for you."
She felt the salt of his tears against her lips and kissed them away with all she had to give.
"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief… and unspeakable love."
- Washington Irving
TBC…
Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you though – means a lot!
Steph
xxx
