A/N: Halfway point! I've been posting so quickly lately (unlikely of me usually har har) because of the coolness that is everyone who reads and reviews this story. And I just love your feedback and what not ... if i do say so myself (: Please review if you can, and enjoy the chapter!
This is what love is for
to be out of place
gorgeous and alone
face to face
Oh I know,
You're not listening
I know you're listening
-- Wilco
Chapter Fifteen:
The room was dark, carved into the lights of early morning, quiet like dust, floating through the air. The heart-shaped face and warm brown eyes, twinges of a youthful blush branching towards her cheeks. This woman was a Blair untouched by time, braiding her hair in front of the vanity, head tilted to the side. A gasp fell to the ground in billows from the oval curve of rouge lips. His hand burned into her shoulder blade, pushing her shirt aside, his lips pressed to her skin. She ignored it, looping an elastic around the ends of her waist-length hair. It had been years since she'd had hair that length.
His hands continued their slow exploration over her ribcage, down her spine. Blair's movements were effortless, filled with a grace she had embodied only in naive youth. It ran through her blood. The measure of perfection she had since learned to let fall away from her ideals and grow into the imperfections it needed to be. The astounding intricacy of passing time.
"You're beautiful," Chuck purred, his breath stuck to the shell of her ear, hot. "I love you."
She turned, opening her mouth to say something, anything, but it was dry and heavy with the steel of lost words. She blinked and he was gone.
Cables of milky white flittered across the hallway as Blair trailed towards the window, her fingers flowing over the printed wallpaper. Blue. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet, cold air tickling goose bumps on her arms. The stupid heat worked in this apartment, no matter how many times she pestered the landlord. She stopped in front of the glass, the lights of London pasted across her irises. Home.
"Mummy!" Tula cried, flying down the hallway. She clasped her tiny fingers around her mother's thigh and Blair, confused, brushed her hands to her daughter's tuft of hair, scooping the toddler into her arms.
"Uutsite!" Tula pressed her finger to the windowpane, nestling her head into the curve of her mother's neck.
"Bedtime sweetheart," Chuck appeared at the foot of the stairs, a dozing Henry already cradled in one arm. Her babies.
Blair watched as he approached, memorizing his face, the soft city lights illuminating his flesh. He looked fatherly.
"Daddee!" Tula squeaked, reaching towards him with eager hands.
Chuck pressed his lips, soft and smooth, to Blair's forehead with a quiet sigh. Their daughter winding her fingers around the lapels of his jacket, tugging on her sleeping brother, trying with all her strength to bring the three of them closer together.
He looked into her eyes, sparks falling through her veins at the feeling of his affection thick in the air around them. Tula always detested bedtime.
"Dadee go nigh nigh?" Tula asked, her parents attention drawn on her. She yawned, puncturing the silence, bashful.
A smirk spread across his face, warmth in his gaze. "No," He said gently, "Mommy and Daddy tuck Tula and Henry into bed."
"Nigh nigh?" She repeated, eyebrows creased. At two and a half she hardly understood the syllables that dropped from the mouths of the adults around her. And yet the two of them had the entire world at their feet and two parents madly in love with them. She clung to her mother's shoulders, pressing her cheek to the diamond necklace fastened around Blair's neck.
"We'll just stay down here for a bit," Blair pushed the hair out of Tula's face. She was swaying from side to side, the hum of a lullaby on her lips. "I shouldn't be long," She mouthed to Chuck.
He leaned in, close enough for her heart to respond, kissing the top of Tula's head.
"What time is it?" She managed between peppering Henry's cherub cheeks in kisses, "It must be, god what, past midnight by now?"
"Just after seven," He let out a low chuckle.
"Oh," It seemed later somehow. They broke apart and he started up the stairs, Blair turned towards the window, singing quietly, albeit terribly, to her baby daughter.
A gust of wind passed through the house and when she looked over her shoulder, the flat she had known so well was replaced by a sea of wheat stems. Her hands were empty, the palms turned towards the golden husks that brushed against her thighs, her feet in the mud.
The English countryside spread across the blue sky like a beautiful fan, peals of laughter ringing through the nearby trees. The shadow of a man, wind mussing his hair, interrupted the deep blue of the sky. He was chasing two toddlers around a picnic blanket, falling dramatically to the ground, the children climbing over him, across him, yelping in excited nonsense to each other.
"Blair?" His voice was pliable like honey, a shadow no longer. She pressed a hand to the wide-brimmed hat on her head, her hair, ropes of chocolate curls, reached past her waist and curved around her hips with every gust of the summers' breeze.
Chuck was standing, holding the twins hands in his own. They were waiting for her.
She stepped forward and someone pulled at her arm, propelling her backwards, she fell onto hardwood with a thud. Partially unpacked boxes lining the walls of the master bedroom, the penthouse they had shared. His first real commitment.
"I heard you," Chuck was stumbling towards her, his hands straight in front of him. She giggled, leaping her to her feet and out of his grasp, the silk nightgown slipping from between his fingers.
"You have to catch me first," She teased, situated on the bedspread.
"Don't doubt me," He growled, "I always find you."
"Liar," She smiled, "Never."
"That's what you think," He parried, peeling the fabric from his eyes. He caught her in his arms, lips dangerously close. She pressed her ear to his bare chest, listening to the rythm of his heartbeat.
"We'll always have each other, right?" Her voice was weak, her laughter dry. She touched the curve of her stomach tentatively, cupping her palm around it.
"Forever," He breathed, catching her hair in between his fingers.
"I-" She swallowed, "I have something to tell you."
"What?" His voice was low, unsure.
"I," She stuttered, "You-"
"Did you really think you could run?" He asked, his words were suddenly hard, accusing. "Honestly Blair, I want to know what you were thinking."
"When?" She inhaled, sorting the words on her tongue into comprehendible sentences.
"I want to know everything."
"I don't know what you mean," She lied. Blair looked up and saw Mark, the blues of his eyes, arms locked around her body.
"What are you doing?" He asked, a confused expression spreading across his face.
She exhaled, and the coloured veils of smoke that were holding him together deconstructed. She was alone.
Blair sat up; her heart hammering in her chest, the stiffness of her muscles was almost painful as she shifted into a sitting position. It was just a dream. She slung a housecoat around her shoulders and hurried down the stairs, in desperate need of her husband's presence.
"Morning love," She walked past him, into the kitchen and towards the cabinets, pulling out a mug. Mark had hardly heard her, his attention caught on the newspaper in front of him. She knew this routine well and it brought a smile to her face, after hollow days of chaos, tradition was fitting itself back into place, as though he had never left.
She poured coffee into her cup, the black liquid burning a trail down her throat as she danced towards her husband on the balls of her feet. The jolt of caffeine helped to dilute the dream that she'd had, to leave the images of Chuck where they belonged, in the past.
"Anything interesting?" She wrapped her arm across his shoulder, eyes falling to the plates of half-eaten breakfast that occupied the other side of the table.
"Nothing really," He replied, turning his chin towards her lips. He tasted of bacon and ketchup, nothing of vintage scotch and young money.
"When did the kids get up," She yawned, sipping at her coffee.
"An hour ago," He replied, "They're just getting ready for school." Mark got up and Blair fell into his seat as he cleared the table. She grabbed a piece of toast off one of the kids' plates, nibbling on it absently, trying to combat the pull of Chuck's words that remained in her ears.
There was the clash of porcelain as Mark piled everything into the sink, trailing over to his wife. "I can take them to school today," He offered, "You look tired." His fingernail traced the blueish bruises under her eyes. She focused on the feeling of his touch, the intensity of their love in his movements.
"I didn't sleep much," She admitted.
"Why," He whispered against her cheek, "Bad dreams?"
She swallowed hard, stomach trembling, "I guess. You're not working today right?"
"No," He laughed, "Thank God. I'm all yours for the next couple of weeks before I have to get back to the office."
"Good," She grinned, nodding her head. "They missed you so much," She said, thinking of the kids.
"And you?" He prompted.
She thought about the question. "It felt like forever," She heard herself say, "But I know it wasn't."
"For us it was," He ran his hand up her back. "You know, I don't think I could spend another hour away from you or the kids."
"I lo-"
"Daddy," Tula was standing at the other end of the kitchen, schoolbag in tow. "We're going to be late!" She said with exasperation, a stern look on her face.
Blair stood up, walking over to her daughter, fixing her headband. "You're not going to be late Tula."
"We might be," She countered, pouting, "If stupid Henry doesn't hurry up!" She turned her head towards the ceiling, practically shouting the last words.
"Tula," Mark warned, "What have we said about calling people names, especially your brother?"
She batted her eyelashes as if she was only just remembering her audience. "But daddy, I said it affectionately."
"We don't --"
"call anyone names," Tula finished her father's sentence. "I know and I guess I'm sorry, but he's just so slow." She rolled her eyes and sighed for effect.
"You guess?" Mark raised his eyebrows.
"I am," She corrected with a smile.
Sluggishly, Henry appeared behind his sister and Blair moved towards him. Tucking in his dress shirt and cleaning smudges of HP sauce off his chin.
"Both of you have your lunches?" She asked, looking at each of them. They nodded.
"What about your ballet things?" Tula grinned, edging towards the front door.
"Martial arts uniform?"
"Dad put it in my backpack earlier," Henry explained. She checked their bags just to be sure, sending them down the front steps of the house with a kiss.
Mark stood in the entryway, pressing his lips to hers briefly. "I'll be back in a few hours."
She leaned against the doorframe, waving as the car pulled away from the curb and wondering what to do with herself until he got back.
Half an hour later, Blair was staring at her reflection in the mirror, sitting in a salon as the hairdresser worked at her hair, cutting away her curls in long strips. She had needed to think of something trivial and this is where she found herself. In a hair salon on the Upper West Side, doing something so uncharacteristic that it almost seemed expected at this point.
Maybe if she looked less of the woman she had been, she wouldn't feel the intensity of Chuck's love on every inch of her. Maybe.
There had never really been a choice, a moment where he could have done anything else. Chuck knew this. He needed to let her go, really set her free; that was the only way she might come back to him.
This was Blair and he had a lengthy and complicated history of hardly understanding the man he was whenever she was around.
For the first time since he could remember, to fight meant to remain silent, still, anywhere she would be able to find him and he hated it, loathed the idea to its core and yet he still obeyed. All business was cancelled, others were sent to different countries in his place, folders were put aside and meetings were postponed. Chuck watched the sun rise from his bedroom window, poaching the clouds.
Nights were spent in the bar of his hotel, washing away his inhibitions. It wasn't much but it was enough.
Henry and Tula Hutlen. His own children who bared another man's last name, the prominence of their parents blood running through their veins. He wondered what his daughter looked like, if she had any of his features, he had little go to on aside from blurred pictures and pieces of his own imagination, what was him in each of them. He wanted to resent Blair for being in her own corner, all the playing cards in her hands. Desperately.
If he did, if he tried to take them away, if he took the right reasons and used them for the wrong things, a custody battle, severed family ties, a world upside down, he would be no better than his own father.
And that was the last thing he wanted.
Hours passed and finally he left his apartment, the sun just beginning to set, locking the door behind him and sliding into the back of his limo. The bar was bustling, the chatter of patrons rising towards the lights as he took up at the empty end of the room. His back hunched, eyes glossed, she sat down beside him, the scent of lilac filling his nose. Her gaze pressed against him and he avoided looking at her.
He knew she would come eventually, he just hadn't known when.
Casually he sipped at his drink, waiting for her words.
"I don't know why I'm here," She explained. It must have been late, the crowds were starting to thin. He didn't care.
"Then why would you come?" He asked, building the courage to look at her, to settle the rousing anger in the pit of his stomach. She was really here.
"I," Her voice was gentle, unguarded. "I want you to know them," She finally said.
He looked at her sharply, drinking in her face. All her hair had been cut off, styled into a wisp of brunette bangs and layered pieces. She looked like Audrey Hepburn. It framed her face, doe eyes and pink lips prominent. She was so beautiful. He couldn't help but love her, even if he didn't want to.
"Do you think you can make up all this time?" He spat, "Because you can't, it's gone."
She was scribbling something down on his napkin and then she was gone. Her phone number, plain and clear, as if he didn't already know it. He picked it up, watching her retreating frame, the ink smudges that fell across the cotton as he finished his drink. Staring at the change in direction, wondering what her new angle was.
I'm not trying to make up for lost time, life is time and if you're ready, then
I want you to be there. You've missed enough.
He had given Mark back to her, a present on her doorstep, the husband she loved. The words were scribbled, messy; the loopy cursive was familiar, torn from pages of her diaries, the lists she had left on the fridge, things he had kept, in his own way, to keep her. But she wasn't his, not anymore.
Why wasn't she in bed with Mark, enjoying the splendours of married life? It spoke enough for itself. She had made the first move; she had come back to him, enough for him to know what he would have to do. Call.