The Park

by ChloeCharles

"You held a certain fascination..." Set mid-1x13. AU. When Blair leaves the bar that night, she doesn't go home.

29. Chapter 29

A/N: I can't believe how long it's been. So much has changed – good, bad, life. =)

I hope all of my readers are well, and here's hoping some of you are still out there. For those who are, please enjoy this chapter – which has been an absolute labor of love – with my deepest gratitude for coming back to this story. 3

As promised, a special soundtrack moment: As you read the opening section of this chapter, I highly recommend listening to the piano instrumental of 'I'm in Here' – the same track that was used during the 4x02 train station scene.

XOXO

i.

He waits until the curtains are fully open, the distant whirring of the pulley barely noticeable until it stops and the Met steps, still laid with their slim-fitted red carpet, stretch open and empty before him.

The cabs are still idling across Fifth; otherwise, the entrance to the Met is abandoned, the street quiet.

The pale oval hovers.

He takes a gulp of the crisp air, and steps forward, over the threshold, under the velvet.

It's a remarkably still night, a night when the stars are just about visible in the Manhattan sky, when the heavy presence of the Park fades into oblivion at his back.

He moves to the top of the steps, eyes never leaving the oval. A tiny doubt flutters through him, but he tamps it down.

At the edge of the top step, he stops and waits.

And time slides – what can't possibly be more than half a minute, but feels like forever – while he stands at the top of the steps, the warm light from the lobby spilling out and over and down around him, and he watches the oval that he knows is her.

Vaguely, he hears the pulley begin to machinate behind him, and he knows the curtain is about to come down, but he doesn't move: not an inch.

As the velvet whispers behind him, the oval shifts at last, fading, pulling away, and then all at once the cab's yellow door is opening.

Two impressive platform heels meet the pavement, one at a time.

Then, a rush of fabric – he doesn't look at it, because suddenly she's standing, the pale orb of her face just visible above the door and her ankles and shoes just beneath, like a woman behind an old-fashioned dressing screen, and one hand comes up to grasp the border of the window.

She pauses, and he sees her shoulders rise and fall, silhouetted white against the dark backdrop of wet cinder and stone, and her breath clouds in the air.

She steps to the side and shuts the door of the cab, but the vehicle doesn't move.

For a long moment, nothing does.

Her hands find the folds of her dress – full-length, nearly touching the ground – and gather her skirt without looking down.

His heart hammers in his chest as she takes a step forward, across the silent avenue.

The curtain settles with a whisper behind him as he steps down, once, twice, barely registering the sound.

She's crossed the avenue and is picking up her skirt to negotiate the step up onto the curb.

He checks, suddenly self-conscious, and pats his lapels, checks his bowtie; he's taking in her gown, the way she looks as she gathers it into her hands. It's pink, pale-petal pink – he recognizes it from her closet last night – with a tightly fitted bodice, straight-cut, and a princess waistline. The entire skirt, full and layered, is textured, with what appear to be very delicate ruffles.

She steps up and meets his eyes.

She's not smiling; he registers it for the first time. Her eyes are wide and she's not smiling.

Still, she moves forward, crossing the broad sidewalk, approaching the red carpet.

He starts down the steps, not breaking eye contact. He's hot under his collar and his breath comes out white when he exhales.

She falters again, foot on the bottom step, and then begins to climb. After the first few steps, her face relaxes, like she can feel through her shoes that she knows this place.

He stops halfway down: red carpet beneath him, red curtain behind. He stands still and watches her come, shoulders pale in the dim, blonde hair shining.

With one step left between them, she drops her skirt, which settles like a cloud. He glances down and realizes the ruffles are not ruffles at all: they're hundreds – thousands – of individual pink silk ovals, sewn in dense clusters.

They're peonies. The skirt is pink silk peonies.

He blinks at them for a moment, then looks up at Blair's face.

Her eyes are warm; hands a bit skittish, like she doesn't know what to do with herself on a red carpet anymore; and a hint of a smile plays on the sides of her mouth. She licks her lips and inhales, pausing at the height of the breath. On the exhale, mouth curving at last, voice warm and low in the cool air:

"You've had a solid two minutes to prepare. Your opener had better be good."

He snorts out loud, head tilting back, not bothering to choke down his laughter.

He wants to say: you have no idea how long I've been trying to prepare.

Blair laughs, too – almost shyly – and he catches her quick glance around them.

Still smiling, he manages to narrow his eyes at her. "I talked to Dorota. She indicated you were being stubborn tonight?"

Blair's smile deepens. A smirk: full-blown.

His stomach twists at the sight, one he hasn't seen in ages.

She gives a little one-shoulder shrug. "That doesn't sound like me," she dismisses.

He laughs again, not taking his eyes off her this time. She twists her fingers together in front of her torso and casts a glance around them but, pointedly, does not look over his shoulder at the curtain.

He thinks fast.

"So." He levels a more casual gaze on her, tilting his head, and flattens his tone. He blinks once, and waits a beat. "What's new with you?"

Now she laughs, a Blairlike spurt, the kind where she leans forward, shoulders rounding, and breaks into a grin. "Well," she says primly. "I happen to have a big personal project underway."

He grins back. "Oh? What's that?"

"Annotating Wharton's The Custom of the Country."

He chuckles, gaze flicking to the ground. Something about her willingness to joke about this – the disappearing pen; the lie that she knows he knows was a lie – lifts a weight from his soul. Makes him feel like, somehow, things are going to come right again. And makes him realize how much he's been doubting that until now.

"Sounds fascinating," he tells her.

"And you? How's your day been?" She smiles up at him, like Blair. Blair Who Loves to Play.

"Well—I had a marathon conference call with the Chairman of the Fed earlier, so that was exhausting."

Blair frowns commiseratively. "He want another loan?"

Chuck scoffs. "I can't get a moment of peace with that guy."

Her brow twists. "And didn't I hear there was some sort of event going on tonight…?"

He squints thoughtfully into the distance. "Mmm – let me think." He snaps his fingers. "Oh, I'm mediating a negotiation for peace in the Middle East—"

"That's tomorrow," she cuts him off, expression all business, but her eyes are dancing.

He's about to quip something else, but he catches her gaze, that dazzling-Blair look, and falters at how familiar it is. Then he steps down one more, so they're closer to eye level. (Any further and he'll be standing on the peonies.)

He wants to think it through, but he just lets it out, not wanting to resist it, like Waldorf, have mercy and falling back against the door frame: "You look beautiful."

She blinks in surprise, and presses her lips together, absorbing the compliment in a way he's not used to seeing on her.

"Thank you," she whispers back. For the first time, she nods over his shoulder. "How is it in there?"

He pauses. "It's nice," he says carefully. "It's very well done."

She's nodding, a tiny motion, and he sees her swallow. She pushes her mouth into a smile and brings her gaze back to him, a note of irony creeping back in. "It's a… Gala, right?"

He laughs again, warmly. "I think so. It's for a good cause."

She arches an eyebrow. "What cause?"

He shrugs one shoulder. "Got me."

Several moments slide by, her eyes shifting slowly, like she's thinking something through. She glances up. "A lot of people?" she asks quietly.

He pauses. She knows the answer to that.

"Yes," he says. "Full swing still. No one's left yet."

She nods and goes quiet again, blowing out a long breath that mists transparently between them.

He remembers her, that night in the Park, not so very far from here, with her dark hair frozen, barefoot—

He pushes the thought away, and summons the opposite: Blair's triumph. Sweeping into the Met; floating through the crowd, above the thousands of candles; standing beside Lily with a flute in her hand, eyes warm in the flamelight. Safe, comfortable. Protected.

It's fuzzy at the edges, though, just like the thought of The Four of Them toasting pre-limo in her foyer. Even as he imagines it, it somehow doesn't quite work.

She's nodding, slowly, like she can hear his thoughts. "I don't think I can," she murmurs, after a prolonged moment.

He nods back because it's the only response he can think of.

She continues, explaining in a low voice that "everyone will be looking, and… talking…"

He averts his gaze as she trails off – like she's explaining it to him and he needs to hear it to understand – and waits.

After a long moment, she whispers, "I'm not ready," and she glances down, one pale curl slipping forward from where the top of her hair is pinned softly back and falling over her shoulder – then another, then another.

He waits a beat. "It's lame in there anyway," he drawls. "Everyone's wearing blue."

Head still bowed, her lips curve into a smile as she snickers to herself. "Must not have gotten the memo," she says, weakly.

They stand still, facing each other, for what feels like a long time. He listens to her breathing, watches out of the corner of his eye as she twists her hands slowly, then clasps them at her waist.

Finally, she looks up, her expression clear. He holds her gaze.

Her lips part slowly.

"I almost made it," she says, and it doesn't sound mournful at all.

He remembers her fingers squeezing his hand on the exam table, the way she cried into his shirt after Carolina Herrera; holding the peony; sliding his tie through her fingers. Looking up at him like this.

I could, she said that day, in the red dress, before Carolina Herrera.

She wouldn't go. But I could.

I almost made it.

She nods a tiny nod. "And that's enough." And she looks into his eyes.

He smiles, his throat tightening.

She turns away without another word, a movement that seems to happen in the blink of an eye, and collects her skirt in one hand. Nestled in the simple twist of blonde waves pinned back from her face is a single pink peony.

Something warm floods his heart.

Blair Who Can Waltz.

She's only descended one step when she reaches back: left hand, palm up, without looking.

He grasps her fingers, thinking she needs to steady her footing.

She turns her head when he doesn't move, and their eyes meet over her shoulder.

She's amused.

"Are you coming?"

ii.

On an island as densely packed as Manhattan, it's a wonder that one can ever have a truly private moment.

And sometimes, the moments when we think we're completely alone?

They aren't quite as intimate as they may seem.

Two low voices on a set of abandoned steps; two sets of lungs inhaling the cold air on the stillest of Upper East Side nights; two hearts pounding, while the greatest of New York society comebacks hangs in the balance…

…watched by one pair of blue eyes, peering through a negligible slit in the red velvet backdrop.

iii.

(Miss? Would you like the curtains raised?- this as she rounded the lobby centerpiece, candlelight flickering, after the curtain came down behind Chuck.)

(Voice hushed as she stepped, chest tight, up to the precipice: No. Thank you. Please keep them closed.)

Not sure why she came out here, officially, other than that she watched him head for the lobby, both their flutes in her hand, and knew even then what she was about to do.

(Tracing the dark line of Chuck's shoulders, the peripheral pink froth; listening to the occasional peaks of their voices, the burbles of laughter. She doesn't bother straining to hear the rest.)

Pausing to peer around the corner from the entranceway; spotting, just past the menagerie of impaled roses, a strangled phone conversation against a backdrop of paned glass; registering the tone change that meant something, as did the gentleman in a navy blazer who sat a few feet away, eyes dutifully fixed on a novel.

(A slight pause – judgmental, probably, and rightfully so – before the gentleman goes back to his book, shifting in his chair.)

And missing, in accordance with the required fixation of any eavesdropper, a lightfooted exit from the Great Hall, and into an adjacent corridor, behind her: classic black tuxedo, dark flush high on cheekbones, embossed business card in one damp palm.

Through the velvet keyhole, a flurry of pink movement.

She strains forward, almost giving herself away, not caring anymore what the gentleman in the corner thinks.

A small pale flash – a hand, a bare arm – and then all at once Blair emerges just into view: a glowing ghost in the moonlight, with loose blonde hair falling over a bare shoulder.

She starts to recoil as if she'll be caught, but Blair is looking at Chuck.

She's smiling. Her mouth moves.

Chuck steps down and offers her his arm. They evaporate down the Met steps. In just moments, it's like they never were.

She watches for a few more moments before releasing the curtain and stepping back. Suddenly self-conscious, she says quietly, "excuse me," in the gentleman's direction, and smoothes the velvet back into place.

iv.

In a side hallway, a sudden sight: Serena walking, with measured steps, across the lobby floor. He opens his mouth on the urge to say her name; to brandish the card with one hand, beckon her over with the other. To tell her—

The urge dies there. He has no urge to tell her. Or anyone.

He's not sure he would even know how to say it out loud.

He watches her vanish between the rows of candles, then hears her footsteps on the center staircase, instead of back into the Gala. He waits until they fade into silence, and then makes a game plan for when he gets back in there: he'll go to join Lily –

That urge dies, too, though a slower and more confusing death. The back of his neck flushes, uncomfortably damp. He touches his fingers to his cheek; they come away hot.

How could he possibly respond to another inquiry of 'how is she?'

He takes one long breath in, all the way to the bottom of his lungs, the way the Captain taught him when he was little and learning to swim.

He tucks the card carefully into his inside pocket, straightens his lapels and exits the darkness.

The lobby is quiet; nonetheless, he finds himself crossing cautiously, shoulders tense, mentally bracing for a pounce. Melodious, moneyed sounds float out of the Great Hall: false, hollow. Hungry.

A gentleman in a dark blazer speaks from a dim corner, between window and curtain. "Can I help you with anything, sir?"

Nate flinches. He thought he was alone.

He swallows, gaze darting, feeling a bead of sweat slip between his shoulder blades. "Um—"

The man has his finger stuck in a book, balanced on his lap, one leg crossed over the other. He tips his head toward the red wall of velvet.

"Perhaps you'd like the curtains drawn?"

He blinks, looking back and forth: man to velvet, velvet, man.

The man extends his free hand and indicates a lever on the wall next to him.

For a long moment, Nate thinks of Chuck, and Lily, and Serena, and leaving without saying goodbye.

And then, for a very short moment, he thinks of the card in his pocket.

"Yes," he says, without meaning to, then realizes his feet are already moving. "Yes, please."

v.

He steps outside, the coolness chilling his damp hairline, still tense in wait of a flashbulb or a betuxedoed interloper. But the Met steps are empty; the sidewalk is bare. There are no passers-by. The only proof that this is not some fever dream where he's living in a surreal painting are a few yellow taxis idling at the opposite curb.

He thinks, for a moment, about taking one. But there are two problems with that: first, he has no money; second, he doesn't know where he'd ask the driver to take him.

His feet are moving again, down the red carpet, reversing the path he took with Lily on his arm only a few hours ago, when he was only a fool for having walked to the Met.

On the step above the sidewalk, he looks up to see the traffic light at the end of the block changing to green; a black limousine, exhaust snaking in a trembling wisp from the tailpipe, pulls forward, into the intersection.

vi.

Eyes on Blair, he asks Arthur to take them to The Palace.

She doesn't even flinch; doesn't ask him why. He tells her anyway: "I have an idea. Roll with it?" (That it comes out as a question is a vulnerable accident.)

Her face breaks into an unbridled grin, tension draining from her entirely. She leans back against the seat and closes her eyes. "I can roll," she says coolly.

He looks out the window as the limo pulls away from the curb. Blair doesn't watch their departure from The Met.

"I hope I wasn't pulling you away from anything," she says, suddenly, as they slow for a yellow light at the end of the block. He looks at her, and she's turned her head, eyes open, hands folded on the mound of pink skirt piled on her lap.

He smirks. "You were saving me, actually. Doutzen Kroes has been on my heels all night. That girl just does not take 'no' for an answer."

Blair closes her eyes again and sighs. "Supermodels are always stage-five clingers."

"I keep telling her I just want to be friends."

"Go easy on her," Blair says, and they fall quiet.

He fires off an email to Kathryn and receives an immediate response: Done. Fernando will meet you. Need anything else?

That's perfect, thank you. You're the best.

The roads are quiet, and Blair is so still and peaceful he wonders if she's fallen asleep. He glances at her profile, takes her in, the softness of the pale pink and blonde. He pictures what TMZ would have written, the arrows the rags would have drawn in cyan and magenta, pointing out the sharpness of her shoulders, the hollows of her face, comparing them to her glowing photos from Night Out With, just two months ago.

She opens her eyes without warning and they hold each other's gaze. She doesn't tease him for looking or ask what he was thinking.

She says, "It was the right thing."

"Yes."

"Thank you," she continues, dropping to a whisper even though the partition is up, and swallows: "for standing up there."

The limo turns off Fifth, and the beam of a corner lamppost sweeps through the back of the limo as they pivot around it, highlighting her in sharp white.

"Thank you for getting out of the cab," he replies, just as low.

And they stay like that, heads tilted back and looking at one another—like another night, a night that feels like it happened a lifetime ago, if it ever did—until they reach The Palace, until the limo descends into the darkness of the garage, until it's only darkness and two pairs of eyes shining.

vii.

The orchestra, after a brief lull following the crescendo of one lively dancing song after another, finishes the evening with Clair de Lune. Those first, tentative, inviting notes are an unmistakable signal that the gala is winding down, and the pleasure at a successful evening produces a collective murmur from the floor of the Great Hall, floating up past the levels of mezzanine to the steepled, paned-glass ceiling.

The cream of New York society hover in place as the orchestra plays what feels like an especially thoughtful rendition, with soft, pensive pauses and notes that linger with promise.

The reduced Bass Der Woodsen family unit clusters together, spending a moment looking around for their two elder children but quickly giving up. As the piece enters its final sequence, Erik, standing beside his mother, catches sight of Serena, in the shadows of the uppermost mezzanine – standing away from the railing, close to the outer wall. Clearly uninterested in drawing attention. Her eyes find his, and she smiles and holds up one finger to her lips. He grins back, the warmth of the evening, of feeling seen, of suddenly being reminded of the breadth and possibility of the world, pulsing in his cheeks.

His mother, one arm wrapped around Bart inside his blazer – Erik blinks at the unabashed display – reaches across his shoulders and squeezes him. He laces his fingers through hers and squeezes back.

Steady, civilized applause – like a wealthy babbling brook – follows the last pirouette of Debussy.

viii.

As Arthur comes around to open the limousine door, Chuck tells Blair to wait; he gets out and circles, checking to be sure they're alone, and summons the elevator. When it arrives, he holds it while Arthur hands her out of the backseat, full skirt bundled carefully in her other arm. She says, thank you, Arthur, and Chuck flanks her into the elevator. At the last moment, he turns, remembering he should let Arthur go for the night, but his driver makes meaningful eye contact and shakes his head.

Chuck dips his head in thanks and reaches around Blair for the gilded panel as the elevator door closes.

"The roof?" she asks, a half-smile forming.

"In February, where else," he teases back, feeling her relief that they're going to an upper floor.

As promised, Fernando is waiting, and badges them through. "Lights are here," he tells Chuck. "Phone down if you need anything."

Blair smiles nervously, watching as Fernando retreats, arms wrapped around her waist.

He follows her gaze. "Don't worry," he says, when he realizes. "Discretion guaranteed."

She nods, but doesn't look convinced.

"Scout's honor."

She rolls her eyes at him. "You were never in the Scouts."

"I went with Nate once," he defends, turning to the lighting panel. "I have also helped my fair share of ladies across the street."

"And by 'street' you mean 'bedroom'?"

"Ouch, Waldorf," he snorts, glancing over his shoulder.

Arms still wrapped, she laughs, and her shoulders loosen. Progress.

"Lights on?" he asks.

She looks around. They're on the top floor of The Palace, the all-glass ballroom, which is in its between-event state of empty, open space broken only by thick stone pillars. It's half-lit from the city lights below, and their reflection off the clouds above.

"I think off is safer," she says after a few moments.

He drops his hand, then pauses, realizing he doesn't have much of a plan from here. (Perhaps, he reflects, his instincts in moments of uncertainty need some further development beyond "seek high altitudes.")

Blair's profile is lit, her head turned to look out through the glass wall opposite. The side of her face closest to him is fully in shadow.

"Are you hungry?" he tries.

She glances at him, eyes slanting in a specific smile, the one that tells him he's off the hook. Relax, Bass.

"I'm good," she says, and turns and wanders toward the outer walls.

He drifts after.

"You talked to Dorota?" she asks suddenly, without turning. "Did she seem worried?"

"More irritated."

A scrap of laughter, a single chuckle on an exhale.

"About the coat," he clarifies.

"I was about to say 'she worries too much,' but." She does turn now, and gives an expression so vulnerable that it pangs him. She looks down, sharp shoulders shrugging.

She has a point.

She swallows.

So does he.

He takes off his coat.

Blair chuckles, trying and failing to disguise a wet sniffle. "That's okay—"

"For Dorota," he cuts her off, dropping it around her shoulders, the sinking sensation hitting him before the memory does: Blair in the Park, and him putting his jacket over her shoulders.

She watches him, very still.

He has a sudden urge to put his arms around her, because it still periodically dawns on him, with ice-cold clarity, how very, very close they were to…

"Thank you."

He blinks.

"For everything," she says, just above a whisper, holding his gaze in a way that sears him.

And before he can stop himself, he does put his arms around her. Arms free under the cloak of his jacket, she hugs back, forehead dipping to his shoulder.

They stand still for a long moment, while he tries to dissolve a confusing pit in his stomach whose origins he's not even interested in trying to identify.

Eventually Blair steps back, hands gathering the blazer close in front of her bodice, hair mussing where it's trapped under the collar. She says, "so – how was it? What did I miss?"

Chuck shifts his lower jaw in a not-quite-smile, eyes crinkling. "The usual: a lot of people, pretending they're concerned for someone's best interest other than their own."

Blair chuckles, draws the lapels tighter. "Any questions about…?"

"Less targeted questions," he shrugs, "more… leading condolences."

She snorts outright. "'It's just so worrying to think of how she must be doing,'" she mimics, rolling her eyes.

"'Speaking of which…'" Chuck finishes for her, "…'how, exactly, is she doing?'"

Blair bows her head, shoulders shaking with laughter. "It's sort of funny to think," she says after a long moment, "that I come from that very… world."

"Machine," Chuck suggests.

"Machine," she agrees. "And now it's just swallowed me up."

Her expression is clear; she's not upset at this thought.

"I wouldn't say 'swallowed up,' exactly." He speaks slowly: each word a deliberate choice. "But you're… good fuel."

Her eyebrows flick in agreement, gaze sliding sideways.

He steps back, hands in his pockets, suspenders straining over his chest, while she looks over his shoulder at some indeterminate point through the glass.

After a while, she says, low: "I wonder what it will be like, after…"

He watches her face.

After what? they're both thinking.

She shrugs, appearing to sink into the thought: a hint of… disgust?... curls at both sides of her mouth.

What comes after this?

She sucks in a breath.

"When it's time for me to be part of the machine again," she finishes, voice deflating across the length of the sentence: the thought visibly disappointing her.

He blinks, hoping to God she's not expecting him to answer that in any substantive way.

"I'm not even sure… after I, when – I can't quite…" she clears her throat.

…picture it.

"Can't quite picture bossing around an Astor anymore?" he supplies, tentatively.

Gaze still fixed, she shows the beginnings of a smirk; he goes for it.

"…because, if it helps, I can still completely picture that."

She smiles, breaking her stare, and visibly shakes herself from her musings. "It certainly doesn't hurt," she tells him when their eyes meet, and releases her grip on the jacket's lapels. "One thing at a time."

He restrains a grin, but barely. "You did already conquer the dress, the cab ride and the Met steps."

"That's enough for one night," she agrees, and then, as if they weren't just talking about the enormity of the reclamation of her entire identity against a backdrop of whether she, shaped by this machine, can ever fit back into it, tilts her head and says: "I'm a little cold. Could we ask for some tea?"

ix.

As the gala winds down, a process as gradual as the breaking up of a glacier, Bart wonders where their children are.

"I think they're in the lobby," Erik says between group farewells.

"And missed the finale?" Lily sounds genuinely sorry.

"I'm not sure that means as much to young people," Bart says good-naturedly.

Sure enough, Serena meets them at the entrance to the Hall, and offers without being asked that Chuck left already.

"Maybe that's where Nathaniel is," Lily muses, looking around.

Serena and Erik exchange a glance. Erik, behind Bart, lifts his shoulders imperceptibly.

"Probably," Serena agrees.

"Well, shall we?" Bart suggests. "Or are there other…" he trails off, possibly looking for a tactful way to say 'nonsensical ceremonial goodbyes we have to do?'

Lily shakes her head. "I think we've had a wonderful event. I'm so pleased." A chorus of consent and congratulations follows. "And…" she raises an open palm, indicating the ceiling: black roses, slightly drooping. "Never again."

Wolfgang is outside. Serena, passing through the open curtains last of all, turns to the man in the blazer, lips pressed together, and nods goodnight.

The corners of his mouth shift, and he dips his head, in a way that only an old person can smile at a young person.

Erik hangs back and offers her his arm. They wait a moment while Lily and Bart start down the Met steps, Lily fussing about how her train catches as she descends. When they're a safe distance, Erik looks up at her. "People were wondering where Nate went – wondering if he couldn't handle it, with Blair and everything."

She drops the smile, deciding on the instant that she won't tell him, or anyone, that Blair was standing right here an hour ago. "More like they were disappointed they couldn't pry."

Erik scoffs in agreement, and they start down, in step, right foot first. After a moment, he says, "do you really think they're together?"

She shrugs her shoulders up and down, very slowly, like she's truly weighing the odds. "I certainly hope so."

Erik nods, looking straight ahead, watching as Wolfgang opens the limousine door.

x.

Fernando brings their tea: it's not his job, but Kathryn knows better than to widen the circle.

It's a standing tray with three silver pots and a half-dozen cups. "All caffeine-free," he remarks, painstakingly yet almost inaudibly, before retreating.

"Thank you," says Blair, lingering near the windows; as if she hopes he won't remember she's there, but she's too well-bred to be impolite.

Her high heels click as she floats across the floor, one finger twisting into the blazer's buttonhole.

"What kind?"

"Ginger," Chuck says, lifting one lid and inhaling the steam. "Mint." He blinks at the last teapot. "Some kind of flower."

"Mint-flower it is."

"I'll do it." He reaches for a cup. "Honey?"

"Surprise me."

She floats in the background, idling near the windows, while he mixologist-s, smiling to himself at how familiar the role is. How he would still have been doing this tonight, in a different life.

Perhaps she's thinking it, too, because when he comes to where she's drifted to a stop near a pillar, a saucer in each hand, and offers hers, and holds out his cup to cheers in response to her whispered thank-you, a moment of eye contact enveloping the clink, she ventures:

"How are Nate and Serena?"

"Not wonderful."

She nods. "I saw the red carpet. Nate." She blinks and blows on her tea. "It seems unfair. So much at once. A few months ago he had his family – his whole life – and now he's getting chased by a mob."

He keeps his voice non-judgmental as he remarks that Nate isn't exactly void of responsibility for all of the media interest.

"Of course, that's true," she agrees, taking a tentative sip. She hesitates; other than those few words after the board meeting the other night, she hasn't talked about this with anyone. "I still can't… I just never…"

He waits.

At a low decibel, like they're in the middle of a crowd and she doesn't want anyone to overhear: "I never knew he had such a temper. I mean, I've seen him mad. But to hit someone- even push someone…"

She turns her head and looks at him.

"Did you ever see him like that?"

She wasn't there for you son of a bitch, I oughta kill you – though she must have heard about it. But neither of them wants to talk about that.

"Not quite like that," he says, "no."

(Nate crying, head in his hands, in the back of the limo, the blood from his knuckles soaking through the white tea towel.)

Blair nods, mostly to herself. "It's just out of character."

He blows on his tea, remembering Serena the morning after the basketball game with her copy of Page Six, saying, he's the gentlest guy I've ever known.

And then: You're not surprised. He's done this before.

You were there. You saw it.

He'd like to tell Blair; he'd like to tell her the whole story, the whole thing.

(I only meant to hit him once.)

All the stories, in fact, he realizes. Standing here with her, the first person he'd have told about any of this, he realizes how much he wants to tell her, how much he's kept to himself; how much unburdening he wants to do, about things he's seen, and said, and –

Done…

And no sooner does he think it than the thought transforms into something else.

And no sooner does it transform than, lips grazing the rim of her teacup, Blair murmurs, "… and Serena, did she make it through the gala okay?"

His heart deflates.

"As far as I saw," he says. "She… apparently she and Brooklyn are no more."

Blair sets her cup in its saucer. "Wow. Do you know what happened?"

He pauses, looking into her dark eyes, hair glowing pale in the dim.

"She said it was 'time.'"

Blair absorbs that, and shrugs lightly. "Whatever that means." She pauses, eyes shifting, then says, tentatively: "He cried, the last time—that day when everyone showed up?—he cried, while he was up in my room."

Chuck blinks, remembering Humphrey's wet eyes when he came back downstairs.

"He was saying how angry and sorry he was, and that he'd do anything I needed, if I ever needed help." Another pause. "It was, honestly, very gentlemanly. Dignified."

He almost snarks that, of course, as soon as Humphrey starts to level up, Serena loses interest.

"To be honest," he says, "I don't know exactly what happened there. But I'm sure she did the breaking up."

"Obviously," she replies, with a refreshing almost-snort.

He smiles.

Then, with no warning: "I guess she's not doing so well, then."

"No," he agrees, "I'd say she isn't. A bit… up and down."

Blair nods slowly, and then, almost in spite of herself, "are she and Nate… getting along?"

She'll have seen, of course, the blur of unmistakable gold in the most recent Page Six.

He clears his throat. "I think they're trying to sort that out," he says, carefully. He thinks of Serena's head on Nate's shoulder on the dance floor tonight, two pairs of closed eyes, after days of discord. He's not sure Blair actually wants to know about any of that.

"Just wondering if they've… found solace," she says in a tone that conveys italics. "If she's not doing well, and she and Humphrey were on the way out, you know how that could go."

He nods, taking a long sip of tea and willing the cup not to clatter in its saucer. "I know," he says.

"Though, all things considered, I guess that would be the least of our problems. In the vice hierarchy."

"True," he agrees. "But I don't think that's what's going on."

He knows telling her about the other night, in 1812, right after their waltz, is not the right thing to do in this moment, but it's beating its wings inside him – along with the missing oxies, and the runway at the afterparty, and God knows what else.

But right now, it's not about Serena. It's about Blair.

He continues: "Granted, I haven't interviewed either of them about it – I think it, like, just happened – but I think Brooklyn just has limited scope, and recently her range has been broader, so to speak."

Now she does snort. "You mean, he had an existential crisis when he realized he was wrong about money equaling a perfect life?"

His eyes meet hers, both crinkled. "He basically has to rebuild his whole personality."

She rolls her eyes and her free hand comes to rest on her rib cage. "Could we sit down? I'm getting tired."

He looks toward the wall-panel phone. "I can call and ask for some chairs—"

She nods sideways, indicating a nearby pillar. "I don't want company."

xi.

The footpath encircling the Met is darker than he imagined, and Dan finds himself holding his invitation close to his chest, as if to avoid mussing it on a passing branch. He contemplates turning back, returning to the frontage of Fifth Avenue – but he needs the lap, he tells himself. He'll be ready to go in right after.

The subway ride rattled his nerves. He's just walking it off.

It occurs to him, with a dull flicker of doubt, that he's not even sure where exactly the event is, within the building. The Met is huge; is it the whole place? Can't be. Will there be a sign at the door?

What if I can't find her?, he thinks, as he steps over a piece of fallen hedgery: It's late. Is it almost… he blinks. Over?

He presses the invitation almost imperceptibly closer to his heart.

A late entrance is more romantic. It would have been pedestrian to go earlier.

He smiles to himself, slowing as he passes a tree, picking over the root structure. He wills a vision, strong enough to blur his doubt, of her: the way her eyes would widen when she saw him.

When he clears the tree and rounds the corner, he stops mid-step. A faintly glowing glass wall rises before him. The shaded footpath intersects, he sees now, a service lane, which curves before him into a small lot, dotted with hibernating delivery trucks and property-of-the-museum vehicles.

At the end of the lot is a multi-story paned-glass wall, lit from within in soft gold.

On the other side of the wall, of course, is the gala.

He steps forward, one foot in front of the other, invitation drifting to his side. His eyes trace the panes. It's in the sculpture garden, he realizes. That makes sense. He glances up to confirm – looking for the mezzanines that line that room – and his heart flips when he sees her, even more unmistakable at a distance. Top mezzanine. All alone.

He resists a momentary impulse to hide. It's dark on the ground and the gala is lit from within; he can see in, but they can't see out.

The sides of his mouth curve up, just a little.

He steps closer.

She's leaning sidelong against a column of some sort, facing the party. Her graceful long red lines pang at him – so fragile, somehow. Alone.

He sighs, heart thudding, and his breath comes out white. He remembers her on the staircase of The Palace, leaning on the railing, when he came to pick her up for their first date. Golden and glittering – and, he did not know then, vulnerable.

Of course she's alone. This is what she does when she hurts. He understands that now, now that he truly knows her.

The image of her on the street in Brooklyn, on the other end of a phone call, comes to him again, and he hears her voice in his mind, saying she made a mistake.

On the mezzanine, she moves a bit, maybe crossing or uncrossing her arms, and he watches her shoulders rise and fall.

And she loves him.

Almost unconsciously, he touches the embossing on the invitation with his fingertips.

It occurs to him, in a different format than doubt, that he's no longer sure this is the right move: the romance, the entrance, the wide eyes.

She's clearly in pain. Just like he is. Otherwise, she'd be off enjoying herself, not huddled alone in a corner. It's obvious that she's not all right. Maybe all she needs is some time – to process what's happened, and to come to terms with her vulnerability and understand that, with him, there's nothing to be afraid of. Deep down, she knows that; but, he realizes, she needs time now, to come to terms with everything. And he can totally respect that. It's more than reasonable, actually.

So maybe, then, all he needs to do is be there: waiting for her, when she's ready, again, to be truly seen and known. To be there, no matter how long it takes.

To persevere.

The word is warm in his mind.

There's movement inside the glass; maybe someone was giving a speech and they've finished. She moves, too, and straightens slowly, and starts to make her way along the mezzanine. Her profile is splendid, red passing between panes like medieval art.

He thinks that this is all most people see when they look at her. What a shame.

He squares his shoulders, impervious to the jacketless chill.

I'll be here, he tells her silently, just before she passes out of view.

He turns on his heel and walks between the delivery trucks and back up the footpath, the way he came.

xii.

"I swear you to secrecy about what you've just seen, Chuck Bass," she huffs, quietly, when he releases her hands after helping her slide awkwardly down against the pillar, all white knuckles and pink flutters and swallowed winces.

He smirks. "Mutually assured destruction."

She smiles absently, plucking up his blazer where he dropped it, and pulling it back over her shoulders. Her discarded high heels are lined up neatly at the base of the pillar a few feet away. He had to hold back a smile at how much shorter she got when she took off her shoes.

"Probably."

She waits while he settles beside her, then passes him his teacup. Her dress rustles and she looks down at it for a moment.

"I wonder what would have happened," she muses, "if I came in. I know it's pointless to think about."

"Articles," he deadpans, "are what would have happened."

She mmm-s assent. "It was one of the scariest things, coming downstairs at home. Then coming off the elevator. Then getting into the cab. It was like, every time I got through one door, there was another. I thought I was going to be sick walking across Fifth Avenue." She shivers. "It was the last door, but I couldn't."

He's not sure if she wants him to reassure her, or praise her bravery for all the doors she did make it through. While he's debating, she reaches for her teacup and settles back against the pillar gingerly, shoulders softening. He waits a moment, then leans back too.

Silence settles over them, light as a layer of fluffy down.

Looking through the glass at the murky glow of midtown, for some reason, he thinks suddenly of Andrew Tyler – of those first, acid-filled days. He remembers the tense text messages, the folder of photos. The girl in Boston. Blair, crying in her coat and headband, grainy on the laptop screen. He remembers his father's face when he told him what happened, and Bart saying, I've known Blair since she was a baby. Then, Blair, with a yellow hair ribbon in ninth grade, smiling to herself as Nate and Serena fought over her attention. The way she looked when she smiled tonight, the first time, bare-shouldered, on the steps. And then, faster: Serena's head on Nate's shoulder; the parting of the red curtains; Blair pulling the phone jack out of the wall when it wouldn't stop ringing; the blankness on her therapists's face when he introduced himself; Nate wincing as he poured Scotch over his knuckles. Blair sleeping on the pillow next to him when he woke up on the day of the Bass Board of Directors meeting. Dorota handing him his coat when he went down the back staircase.

He almost doesn't register when she says, "What's the worst thing anyone's ever done to you?"

The question is something he absorbs rather than hears. He turns and looks at her, brow crinkling a bit. "What?"

She turns, too; one eye is in shadow, the other lit along the side of her face.

"The worst thing anyone's done to you," she repeats, "another person. Anyone."

He stares at her for a long moment. "What a question."

They relapse into silence.

"Well?"

He swallows, and forces a chagrinned smile. "The worst thing I've ever done to someone would be an easier ask," he tries.

She doesn't flinch. The silence tightens from ironic to expectant.

"It's," his voice is surprisingly low and gravelly, and he clears his throat, but that doesn't fix it: "it's nothing like…"

It's nothing like yours.

They hold each other's gaze for another long moment, and then she looks away. Wordlessly, she turns to face the windows.

He tilts his head back against the pillar, gaze lifted so she's not in his field of vision. He closes his eyes.

She is placid, silent at his side.

He begins to speak, quietly, explaining at the start that he probably deserved it – and then hears his own words and stops short. A dense, heart-pounding pause passes between them.

He focuses on the twinkling of the city on the other side of the glass, a million blurred stars, as he tells her.

She sits, without moving, and looks through the glass, too, listening without comment to a story she's never heard.

In the middle, her nose tingles and she manages, with great effort, to avoid sniffing or swiping at her tears, to avoid moving even a muscle: like he did in the hospital, not touching her until she reached for his hand, not looking at her during her examination, just waiting.

When he pauses, voice trailing from the middle of a sentence; when he clears his throat thickly, and says um for no reason – so terribly, terribly not-Chuck-like – she waits.

The story is not long; the tale of the worst thing that's ever been done to Chuck takes only a few minutes' agony to tell in its entirety. He offers no commentary: it's more a list of events than a story.

When he trails off, without drawing any conclusion, they lapse into mutual quiet for a few breaths. Blair does wipe her cheeks, now, and folds her wet fingers in her lap.

"So," she whispers after a long pause, "that was why…"

"Yes, that was why."

"I didn't realize."

He exhales: she can feel him deflating beside her. "No one did."

Her heart twists a little. No one ever asked, she thinks.

After what feels like an eternity, she turns her head, still resting on the pillar, and finds his eyes.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers.

He muffles a scoff in his throat, looking away. "Please," he murmurs back, dismissive.

Silence again, for several minutes. Chuck sips at the remnants in his teacup, and then asks if she'd like a refill. She hands over her saucer with a smile of thanks.

When he settles back beside her, she pulls the lapels of his jacket close and curls her palms around the cup.

Staring back out the glass, she says: "How long did it take for you to get past it? I don't mean… forgetting about it, obviously. But before you stopped- reliving it all the time?"

He snorts, blowing over the steaming surface of his teacup. "Any day now."

Blair smiles too. She sets her cup to the side and, with painstaking slowness, draws her knees toward her chest. Out of the corner of his eye, Chuck watches her do it, bracing one palm at a time against the floor. He looks away before she catches him watching.

She settles back against the pillar. Eyes on the ground, she bites her lip for a moment and murmurs, "I… the night of…" she swallows. "In the Park."

"Yes," he says simply.

She closes her eyes. "I…"

He waits.

She mouths more than says: "I kissed him back."

He doesn't respond.

After a few torturous moments, she glances at him. He's looking at her with no expression.

She falters. "You heard me, right?" she says under her breath, afraid she'll have to repeat what she's said.

He nods.

She nods too.

He opens his mouth, and hesitates.

With a touch of panic: "I, I mean, it was, I was half…"

"Blair," he starts, closing his eyes briefly.

"I can't remember everything," she offers.

He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter." He leans closer, and his voice gets both quieter and deeper in the dark. "It does not matter."

She nods, reluctantly.

"It doesn't matter," he says slowly, "what happened before. You didn't deserve that."

She swallows.

"No matter what," he finishes, gravel in his throat.

She looks like she's about to say more, but he looks out at the night sky, tension evident in the lines of his face. She recognizes that look.

Silence drops over them.

After a minute, Blair says, quietly, "neither did you."

He doesn't look back at her, or pretend he doesn't know what she means, or that he hasn't hoped they moved permanently away from that topic.

She puts her hand over his, and doesn't hesitate when a moment passes without reaction. She waits.

Finally, without looking at her, he turns his hand palm-up and closes his fingers around hers. He closes his eyes and breathes out.

xiii.

He spots her, at last. It's actually her brother who gives her away: a roving gaze that stops suddenly and stays in one place. He follows it, just in time to see her put one finger to her lips, and then retreat further into the shadows.

There's no way to get closer, beyond exiting the Hall and quite literally pursuing her up the stairs, on the mezzanine. Which, unfortunately, is out of the question.

Nonetheless, he drops back, shuffling lightly at the fringe of the crowd, and lingers in the corner, nursing his drink and pretending to be absorbed by the distraction of checking his email while the evening winds down.

When the rest of the family unit make their way toward the lobby, he drifts, coincidentally, after. He watches over the rim of his glass, taking a long sip, as she joins them. He doesn't miss the glance exchanged between her and her brother, or the way the latter lingers back and turns to say something when they're alone.

He leaves his drink and follows them out, noting a bevy of cabs waiting on Fifth Avenue, and takes his time descending the red-lined stairs. They're all getting into the limousine: parents first, with the chauffeur lingering a respectful few feet away. The man's eyes meet his, and he checks his email again.

She's smiling at her brother, saying something to him; he sees it as he holds up his phone to his ear, glancing around as he answers a fake call. Her brother smiles back.

In his hand, his phone vibrates with an actual call. He drifts to a stop, gaze swinging past her as he says hello, and then her brother is folding himself into the limousine after her, and the chauffeur is closing the door crisply behind them.

The man looks up and catches him.

He looks away.

"Just leaving," he says into the phone. "I'll be there shortly."

xiv.

Downtown, in a different world, and far away from the Upper East Side, the ribbons are humming again – a succulent, excited hum.

And in a corner office, with ribbon views, ink-stained fingers drift over a mock-up pinned to its board.

A watch is checked, a lip bitten. It's getting late. They'll already have to assemble manually.

"Should we…"

Right then, an assistant scuttles in.

"He's on his way." Then, looking at the board: "There was a better version of the bottom left. Came in late. Did you see it?"

They end up switching it out.

"A shame," the assistant says when they stand back for a last review.

With a shrug: "It's not what we wanted, but it's what we got."

The assistant falters, and it dawns that that's not what she meant.

xv.

I probably deserved…

It started because I embarrassed him.

I was thirteen. It was one of my first times drinking Scotch and I didn't know my limits. I was with Nate and we had a little too much and he had better tolerance than I did. So when I went home, I'd lost track of time – among other things.

I was with one of the girls from Divine, I think she was a hostess. We'd partied together a little before, which at that point was just drinking champagne for me. She was more advanced. It went too far, and we ended up in the coat-check room.

I had no idea my father was in the restaurant. He was having dinner with new investors who had just put some money into Bass Industries, and they were talking about this huge joint venture he'd been working on forever.

Eventually one of the servers came looking for her. The whole restaurant saw. I don't remember the entire thing, but it was a scene.

The way he looked at me – he must have gotten up to see what the commotion was, and we saw each other from all the way across the place. He just looked at me. I started to walk over to apologize, and he just… He just turned away, like he didn't know who I was. I apologized to the tables close to me and went up to the penthouse – I was still living with him then.

So I drank a ton of water to sober up and waited for him to come home. I thought he'd finish dinner and come up and I could apologize then.

Hours went by. It was past midnight. I called the front desk; they said he went upstairs a while ago and they hadn't seen him since.

I figured he was in his office. So I went downstairs.

His assistant was gone, but his office light was on.

I went up to knock.

He was on the phone. I don't know who with. Maybe his partner in the JV, maybe someone from the bank. He was saying the deal was dead – that he was sure it was. The investors left after what happened and told him reputation and integrity mattered more than anything on public investments, and they couldn't trust their investments to someone who couldn't even manage their own house.

The way he was talking was strange. He didn't sound angry. He was like a robot.

Then he was quiet for a while, I guess the other person was talking. I don't know.

Then he said…

"I understand that. But there's only so much I can do. Charles is a waste. He's a completely useless person."

…just like that: "A waste. A completely useless person."

Then he was quiet again. I, um… I went back upstairs and waited to see if he'd come talk to me. I left my bedroom door open. He came in late and went straight to his room, and left without saying anything in the morning.

I got dressed – put on a suit and tie and everything – and went to his office again before school to try to talk to him, but he said he was busy and had no time for the rest of the week. That Friday he left for a trip, and sent an email from the plane to the hotel manager, with me copied, to please update him when my suite was ready for me to move into, and to please confirm when the move was complete.

I didn't see him for another week, so we never spent another night living together after that.

And he was right – the deal was dead. It never happened. That fund withdrew their backing across Bass Industries and they haven't invested with him since.

xvi.

Before she even came, she knew he wouldn't be here – and now, standing here in front of 1812, she knows he's not. She doesn't bother knocking.

She looks at the numbers on the door; she can almost see the four of them inside the suite, can almost hear Blair laughing, the tinkle of Chuck's ice, the clinking of their four glasses. Shoes kicked off, top buttons undone, they'd have finished the night together, toasting the girls' first society event as debs, the boys staying in 1812 and the girls going upstairs to bed.

The sound comes back to her, then, of Chuck laughing on the Met steps; Blair's voice, flowing underneath his; like it was the easiest thing in the world.

When was the last time she heard Blair laugh like that?, she wonders. And has she ever heard Chuck laugh that way?

She remembers needing Chuck to come back to Mt. Sinai, because she couldn't do it herself; she couldn't do it at all. She has wondered more than once what it would have been like if she was the one to find Blair, the one who had to get her to the hospital, who had to take care of her. Who sat with her those first hours, while she came back from darkness. Who waited at her bedside for the moment when she'd realize.

Nate told her, that weekend, that Chuck was still there when he went to Blair's room that night.

Oh, she said then, not sure how to take the comment, not sure how to deal with the unresolved schism they were all tightroping above.

Sleeping in a chair beside her bed, Nate added, toneless, and then said he had to go.

All this time, she's wanted it to be her: the discreet towncars, the empty Midtown bed, the backdoor entrances at the Waldorfs'.

The no-comment. The provider of security, infuriatingly tight-mouthed, conspicuously lacking questions about how she's doing. The Two of Them, Blair and Serena: The Easiest Thing in the World.

But it's not.

The numbers glow back at her in the soft ambient middle-of-night lighting. This used to be a place they came for fun, for irresponsibility, for sharing secrets. Now she comes to this door looking for comfort; now secrets are not shared, are not even acknowledged to exist; now the tapping of one champagne flute against another drowns out the unrelenting misery of what happened last time she came to this door.

It's he who maintains a poker face, who receives the phone calls. It's he who has to find grace for her shame.

(Sleeping in a chair beside her bed.)

She touches the corner of the brass numbers. She remembers Blair's pale hand in the dark, how she didn't even need to look to reach for him. She turns and goes upstairs alone.

xvii.

By the time Chuck texts Arthur to meet them in the underground garage, Blair has grown soft at the edges. He helps her up carefully from the pillar, bare feet disappearing under pale pink, and tries to think of something profound to say.

She nudges back into her shoes and sighs, looking around into the dim. She looks up at him, eyes slanting, and smiles in a way that almost hurts him.

On the drive uptown, she drowses, looking out the window in a silence warmer than an embrace.

Her doorman comes to hold the door; Arthur hands her out of the limo; and Blair, blonde hair tucked under the dark jacket collar, emerges nervously onto open sidewalk.

"You're fine," Chuck assures her at a murmur. Arthur nods in assent. The doorman glances up and down the block.

As Chuck turns away to follow her into the lobby, Arthur catches his eye and gestures sideways, indicating he'll wait around the block and not directly at the entrance.

The elevator is waiting, and the doorman doffs his cap and says goodnight to Blair.

She smiles. "Thank you for all your help," she says quietly. In the elevator, she gives back the jacket, and the soft yellow lighting turns her golden.

xviii.

Climbing the staircase in her shoes is harder than she anticipated. He almost suggests they stop, but the look on her face, left hand gripping the railing and right holding her skirts out of the way, stops him.

"Do you need anything before bed?" he tries instead.

She pauses and drops her skirt, one corner of her mouth twisting as she rests her palm on her ribcage and draws an even breath. She glances up, face wry. "Just my dignity."

His eyes crinkle. "Weren't you barefoot for most of the night?"

"Shut up," she hisses, squaring her shoulders, and picks up her skirt again.

Without speaking about it, he knows he won't stay with her tonight. Something about the evening, and her having taken her first steps back into the world, feels already finished. She needs to climb the staircase and go into her bedroom and close the door, like it's any other night and like she's any other Blair Waldorf.

So when she reaches the landing, he stays one step below, facing her, and says goodnight.

"Goodnight," she says, and looks at him for a long moment, in a way that makes his throat feel dry.

"Should I get Dorota?"

She shakes her head. "It's late. I'll manage."

She wants to be able to manage.

Again, he's searching; he wants to say something, feels the spark of the thought in his mind. It's more than proud of you, much more than how terrifyingly good it felt to see her walk up the Met steps.

He reaches for humor instead: gesturing for her hand, he bows over it, eyes closed. He hears her snort.

"Call me if you need anything," he says, straightening.

"I will."

As soon as his back is turned, she says his name, a monosyllabic tremor.

Thinking he's stepped on her skirt, he freezes; looks down; and finally pivots. She's looking at him.

"What?"

She swallows, and then: "You're not useless."

He rears back, almost imperceptibly, and stares at her.

After a few moments, she licks her lips. "Did you hear me?"

He nods.

She pauses, and he, in his confusion, opens his mouth and shuts it.

"You're not," she repeats.

A dull nausea squeezes his stomach. "You don't have to-"

Then, before he has a chance to register it, she's touching him: fingers on his lapel, skimming over his shoulder, like she's trying to find the right place to land. Finally, with warm finality, she clasps the edge of his jaw and says, without faltering, "You're not useless, Chuck. You're not a waste."

His absolute traitor of a body shivers under his tuxedo. He dips his head, closes his eyes as they grow hot, swallowing down tightness.

"Thank you," he whispers, bewildered.

"Say it."

He wants to brush her off with sarcasm, to roll his eyes, but he's afraid to open them. He attempts a light scoff, but it sounds more like a gasp. Heat burns his cheeks. "Blair."

She hovers one step above him. "Say you're not useless." He clenches his jaw, realizing too late that she'll feel it. "Then I'll let you go home," she teases, but it comes out steady and unplayful.

He forces himself to meet her eyes, heart searing with indignity. The light is nowhere near dim enough for this sort of talk, he thinks, shading into panic. He can see her too clearly; can see that her eyes are wet. God knows what she can see.

"I'm not useless," he whispers, shoulders slumping in total defeat.

For just a moment, her thumb traces along his jaw, as if to seal the vow. She releases him, and his face feels cold in her absence.

They stand swallowing and blinking at one another for a long moment, and finally Blair says, wet eyes and thick voice not matching her smirk: "Call me if you need anything."

He tilts his head back and laughs, and then swipes, bravely, at his eyes. "I will," he says. "Goodnight."

He turns and goes down the staircase, body in full crisis mode, and crosses the foyer. There is no sound from above; he knows she's standing there, pink froth and high heels and one hand on the gilded railing, watching him go.

The elevator is waiting for him, but he lingers one last moment, not looking up at her – not having to – before he gets in.

xix.

There have been innumerable drives when he's kept the partition lowered and been quiet, lost in thought, or on his phone, or staring out the window. There have been many more when he's kept the partition lowered and slid up on the seats, murmuring to Arthur, leaning over the divide and watching through the windshield as the city slides past.

Normally, if he's quiet, the trip is silent.

Tonight, Arthur glances at him in the rearview mirror a few times before clearing his throat, hesitant, and saying quietly, "Miss Waldorf looks well."

Tucked into the rear seat, Chuck barely moves. His gaze lifts, and meets Arthur's, the next time the man looks up into the reflection.

Chuck blinks, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "She does," he agrees. "She's doing well, I think."

Another pause. Arthur never likes to intrude. "It's good to see her out." His eyes slide back to the road, with finality.

He goes with Arthur into the basement of The Palace and takes the elevator up, every step somehow dreamlike, somehow rarefied. He steps out onto 18, still feeling the warmth of her hand.

Miss Waldorf looks well.

He turns the corner, heart thudding, and checks at the sight that greets him.

Slumped to the floor in front of 1812, leaning against the wall just to the right of the door, is Nate: tuxedo slightly rumpled, collar loose, bowtie undone.

An overnight bag is leaning against his bent leg with equal exhaustion.

Chuck slows; Nate turns his head, and their eyes meet, and Nate looks down at his lap, temples rippling. Neither says anything.

When he reaches Nate, Chuck puts his hands in his pockets and stands facing him.

"Hey," he says, lightly, not sure whether to be amused.

The blonde swallows, looks up at him. The slightly-upturned corners of Chuck's mouth settle.

"Hey." Nate pauses.

His lapel corsage is perfectly intact.

"If you don't have other plans, do you think I could maybe stay here tonight?" Nate asks, in a low voice.

For a sad moment, Chuck thinks of all the things he would normally quip in response, about how that depends whether Nate's brought earplugs, or that he just needed five minutes to round everyone up (with a wink).

He puts out a hand; Nate clasps it, and Chuck helps him to his feet and badges them in.

Chuck is on his way to his closet, sliding his jacket off his shoulders, and he calls back to Nate to ask if he wants the first shower.

Nate drifts after him, overnight bag thumping softly to the floor, and stands outside the closet door for a moment, like he's thinking about it.

Then he says, "The Page Six article."

Chuck goes on untying his bowtie, pulls it from his collar, and hangs it on its hook.

"My…" Nate breaks off, shoulders slumping. Like he can't force the word out: the way he stops when he can't remember something he's trying to memorize.

Chuck turns toward him and steps forward to lean on the door frame, folding his arms. He looks at the ground, too.

"Your mother," Chuck offers.

Nate doesn't even glance up in shock. "Did you know?" he asks, after a brief silence.

Chuck one-shoulder shrugs. "I had a hunch."

Nate bites his lip for a moment, then releases; it's reddened when he looks back up at Chuck, lounging in the doorway half-undressed like they're just waiting for their nightcaps and cigars to arrive.

"I can't go back there," Nate says, almost too low to hear.

Shifting his weight, Chuck turns back into his closet, eyes averted, and says, "we'll figure it out."

Then he goes back to unfastening his buttons.

"You want the first shower, or not?" he asks, and Nate says thank you, voice heavy with shame, and shuffles into the bathroom and turns on the water.

Chuck makes up the loveseat for Nate, bringing the extra comforter and pillows from his closet, and sees, on top of the overnight bag, an early copy of tomorrow's Page Six Special Edition: Nate, dashing in his tuxedo, broad-shouldered and strong-jawed on the red carpet, head tilted down, caught in a moment between bursts of laughter, before Lily came gliding down the steps calling his name. Eyes downcast, hands in pockets, not a soul within arm's reach.

The headline doesn't need to bother identifying him.

TALE MOST TRAGIC, it says.

xx.

Serena hisses, dragging saliva through her teeth, just like she always does: it hurts, the first few seconds.

Then, a pleasant rush, and she blows the same breath out, slow, riding the wave that feels almost as good as the warm flooding sensation after inhaling a line.

Her breath clouds the mirror, and she leans against the wall until the initial rush subsides, and then, slowly, straightens, and turns on the tap. She washes the nail scissors and dries them until they gleam. Then she puts them back in their tin and drops the tin back in her vanity drawer and slides it shut with her foot.

She cleans her arm with equal care and bandages it, satisfaction throbbing through her, temples to toes. Her cheeks feel hot and dry to the touch, like she's won an award or received some kind of profound compliment.

Confident. In control.

As she's hanging up her gown—blood-red, long-sleeved satin—she feels a trickle under the thick black cotton of her pajama top.

She frowns. She was careful. She knows to be meticulous when it comes to this.

It's just that it seems to take a little more every time, which she didn't expect at the beginning.

She stood here, that first night, after coming home from the Fashion Week farewell reception at The Plaza, in her black ruffled dress, trying to get through to Blair, shouting into the phone, is Chuck there? Because he's not here, and he's not at home.

And Blair told her to stop yelling, and through Serena's tears and whisky-thick tongue, she told Blair she loved her, and Blair didn't say it back. She hung up.

And Serena, mascara smudges under her eyes when she glared at her own reflection, tried to call her back, tried and tried, but the phone line was dead.

And she leaned on the bathroom counter, crying, gripping the edge, and called Nate—Nate who tried to make her feel better, who just didn't understand.

She was clenching her fists so hard that her fingernails dug in and the middle of one of the half-moon-shaped dents turned dark, angry red, and it hurt in a way that felt good.

She pressed again, then harder, and then stopped, and it throbbed. Again, even harder. It stung.

It was pain she could control.

She reached into her vanity drawer, and found the tiny, needle-sharp fingernail scissors she barely ever used. She spread the blades and looked at them in the mirror. Her reflection shivered.

Just a soft little drag, pressing down only slightly, on the vulnerable, secretive flesh on her inner upper arm. That first time, she barely drew blood. She was covered in goosebumps, trembling at the mixed sensations of cold metal and hot discomfort and the thrill of complete control. It throbbed and stung, and she focused on that, the discomfort, as she got into bed that night, her heartbeat slow, her mind—relief of reliefs—utterly quiet, hugging her pillow and feeling, somehow, like it would all be okay.

Tonight, straightening her red gown on the hanger, she thinks of how, if things had been different, she'd have gone with her first choice, the snow-white silk with the beaded bodice.

But it had cap sleeves, and she knew, even then, that Saturday on the phone with Nate in Reem Acra, that she wouldn't be able to wear short sleeves to the Gala. Whatever she told herself about it being a one-time thing: a momentary weakness, definitively resolved through a single hit of control.

Logic said: it's February. Of course she'd need long sleeves.

And then, watching herself in the mirror, the night of Nate's game, after finding Dan waiting for her in front of 1812.

After finally saying it out loud – yes, it should have been me – and realizing that Dan could never, never love a girl like her.

It felt so good, she went a little deeper that night. Just a little.

It felt like freedom. She cried with relief.

The fresh wound smarted the next morning while she looked Bart in the eye and told him she was dealing with things just fine, and did not need his help, and that perhaps he should worry about his son.

Vowing to herself that she was protecting all of them.

She felt him, then. She felt Chuck in that wound. And Blair, and Nate. It was her penance for her part in hurting The Four of Them, and it was to protect all of them and all they'd ever been together, and she was happy to do it. She was proud.

Then, after the other night in 1812, with Chuck… well. She owed more penance then.

Christ, Serena.

Wasn't Nate enough?

She pressed harder that time, hard enough that tears spilled from her eyes, and she whimpered, "Oh, God," muffled through the washcloth she nearly bit through, when that echoed mercilessly in her mind:

Wasn't?

Nate?

Enough?

And glanced at her sleeves the following morning, as her mother laced their fingers together, and promised her that I know it's so hard right now, but with four friends who have so much history, and good intentions, there's always a way, my darling, I promise you.

When her mother said she was the light of her life.

(All you're doing is making everything worse for everyone.)

And at the gala, when she draped her arms over Nate's shoulders, Etta James wrapping them in a cloud of hope that felt beguilingly authentic; when she tipped her head up and found his eyes and murmured that she was sorry for being a coward; and he exhaled sharply, a smileless laugh that she felt in his chest; and touched her hair with a warmth that she had to look away from; and shrugged a little as she adjusted his corsage; and said that he was sorry, too, and it wasn't all her, and she knows that; and she put her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

Looking at 1812 tonight, she promised herself that she was finished trying to control this, finished trying to change any of it.

So she won't need this anymore.

But, she reasoned, it makes sense to do it one last time. Just one last hit.

Her mother was just turning in when she came back upstairs, and she told her she changed her mind about going for a drink. As Lily smiled goodnight, Serena paused, hand on her bedroom door, and said, you look so happy with Bart. And Lily tightened her robe, suddenly vulnerable, face still shaded with her perfect gala makeup, and said, he's a wonderful man. I'm very lucky. And kissed her goodnight.

She took the washcloth housekeeping laid out for her and flung it on the bathroom counter before she even had her heels off.

xxi.

Blair is sitting at her vanity, chin propped on her fist, when Dorota knocks.

"Come in," she says, willing her voice not to wobble.

Dorota cracks the door, eyes dancing. Blair smiles back.

"Thought you might want help with dress." A pause. "You are ready to take off, or want more time?"

Blair looks down at the skirt, which is nearly swallowing her vanity chair. She clears her throat. "I'm ready. Maybe shoes first – I can't really do those myself," she admits.

"Shoes are complicated," Dorota agrees, and sets to strap-unbuckling. "Were you not cold?"

Blair's eyes crinkle. "A little."

Dorota reaches out both hands; Blair laces her fingers through and together, they stand up.

"What color tonight?" Dorota asks, turning to the closet.

"I think" – the slightest pause – "a slip tonight."

She says it like it's nothing; Dorota hears it like it's nothing.

"White? Pink?" Dorota asks.

"White."

Dorota unfastens the back of the gown, reversing their work from a few hours ago, and guides the straps of the slip over Blair's arms, draping it around her while she's still half-clad in her ballgown. She pauses to unpin Blair's hair, removing the peony. Blair pushes the gown past her hips, and it pools on the floor around her, and Dorota helps her step over it.

She sees herself in the mirror; the slip is short enough that the scars on her thigh are visible.

She touches her hair.

"Maybe it's too cold for a slip," she murmurs.

Dorota looks up, gown in her arms, and meets her eyes. "I will turn up heat."

"Okay," Blair nods, eyes lingering a moment longer on the mirror. Dorota taps the thermostat on her way into the closet, like it's nothing.

Blair is quiet, still fiddling with her hair, other arm wrapped around her middle. Dorota hangs the gown and comes back with her robe. As she's sliding it over Blair's shoulders, she says, "I think you scare Mister Chuck, before."

A soft smile. "I'll be sure to apologize to him."

Dorota reaches for her sash. "You had good night?"

"I couldn't go in. I made it to the Met Steps, but– " she breaks off, swallows. "That was it."

Dorota tilts her head to one side, then the other, a Dorota-ism. "Met Steps are good."

"They are." She shakes her head, face crumpling ever so slightly. "I was so close. But I couldn't do it."

"You did do it, Miss Blair." Dorota pauses, hands folded at her waist, and holds Blair's gaze. "Never am I more proud, for anyone in my life, than I am for you tonight."

Blair squeaks a little as a few tears escape. She moves into Dorota's arms, face to shoulder. "Thank you," she whispers.

Dorota pats, ever so gently, knowing exactly what areas to avoid. She waits until Blair quiets.

"But, hair needs brushing."

Blair snorts. "Fine." She straightens and pats at her cheeks.

Dorota hears it first: from somewhere in the depths of the penthouse, a tea kettle whistling.

"I put on water when I hear elevator," she says. "Just in case. I will bring chamomile and madeleines to keep warm, and we work on hair."

Blair nods, and then: "Can you stay and drink it with me?"

Dorota smiles, and says, "of course, Miss Blair," like it's nothing.

xxii.

She's down to the point where she has to look in the popcorn bag to pick the last fluffy pieces, avoiding the hard, un-popped kernels, when she hears Dan's key in the lock.

She swivels on the sofa, pausing The Devil Wears Prada, and waits to see how he looks as he comes through the door.

At first glance, nothing jumps out: still in his tuxedo, no coat – which she told him was a mistake – and no turmoil on his face.

"How was it?" she asks, trying not to sound too hopeful.

He pauses, looking like he's truly thinking about how to answer.

"In the end," he starts, slowly, drifting over to the kitchen bar, "I didn't go in." He pauses, but she doesn't interject. "It was, like, you know – I got there super late and there was no one really coming and going, so I wasn't quite sure what to do."

She keeps her voice as neutral as possible. "Did you just go somewhere nearby for a bit, or…"

He shakes his head, putting down his invitation – still in his hand, exactly as he left – on the counter. "Honestly, just kind of stood around for a few minutes trying to decide what to do." He shrugs. "Then came home."

Okay, she thinks, he doesn't seem upset or anything.

Which is maybe a relief in itself: he was pretty wound up before he left.

"Cool," she tries. "Well, there will be lots of parties. No big loss."

"Totally."

She holds up the popcorn bag. "Do you want some?"

He smiles. "Did you already eat it all?"

"I can pop more," she defends.

"Yeah, actually. What are you watching?" He cranes his neck. "Oh, God. Again?"

"The clothes," she gushes, untangling from her blanket and sticking her feet back in their slippers.

He scoffs good-naturedly. "Okay, you pop and I'll change."

She watches him walk away, trying to work out this sudden calmness. He didn't mention Serena at all; as though she wasn't the entire reason he, they, went through all this to get him there.

She unfolds another popcorn packet and flips the switch on the microwave, looking at the invitation. It's still in perfect condition.

In Dan's bedroom, he shucks his jacket and hangs it up, then changes into pajamas, smiling to himself all the time. "Steady as she goes," he says under his breath as he smooths the shoulders.

Before he puts it in his closet, he reaches into the inside pocket – lined with velvet; Jenny couldn't believe the quality when they found it – and withdraws a business card.

He tucks it inside a pair of wool socks he never wears, and pushes them to the back of the drawer.

Jenny puts out Chex Mix and sparkling apple juice in wine glasses (their dad never lets them have soda in the house anymore), and pauses, remote lifted, just before she hits Play to resume the film.

"So," she ventures, with the most casualness she can, "did you wind up seeing her at all, or not tonight?"

Dan pulls his mouth into a horizontal line, a wry half-smile that doesn't meet his eyes: the way a person smiles when they knew that question was coming, and they both know that the asker already knows the answer.

"No," he says, simply. "But on the bright side, you don't even have to iron my jacket; I took such good care of it."

xxiii.

Earlier in the evening

He hears her footstep, light as a cat, on the floorboard downstairs.

He came in as quietly as he could, easing the front door into its frame, leaning his shoulder against it to silence the deadbolt. A horrible relief coursed through him when she wasn't waiting to greet him.

She's on the stairs now. He hears the creak on the third step.

Before she gets any closer, he glances quickly around the room, gaze passing over a picture of the three of them.

The Archibalds.

Unbidden, a memory of his mother's voice, calm and honey-sweet, floods his ears: telling him they'd thought, when they first got married, that they would have three children. His father wanted two boys and a girl, the youngest; she, herself, didn't care what they were.

He asked her, then, why didn't you?

And she smiled.

Because we got one little boy so perfect that we were sure we could never get so lucky again.

Peripherally, without taking his eyes from the family portrait—father-son navy blazers, his mother in a blue sailor dress with one hand clasped on Nate's shoulder—he sees her in his doorway, and realizes she's speaking, asking him about the Gala.

She hums along, her voice like a tuned instrument, the words 'orchestra' and 'auction' and 'worthy cause' and 'wonderful time' materializing in his ears, distinct raindrops in a storm.

Her smile, perfect white teeth, next to his coward of a father, who's grinning emphatically into the lens.

A shiver runs through him, and he shakes it from his shoulders.

Her chatter dies off, ending on an up-note, definitely a question. "Nate?" she asks after a silence. She takes a step into the room, inquisitive, following his gaze to the portrait.

She falters, and looks back at him. "Are you all right, darling?"

Finally, he breaks his gaze from the framed lie and looks at her, absolutely no expression on his face.

"Do you feel all right?" she asks. Another smile, another step. "You're home earlier than I thought you'd be, but I'm glad I got to see you before bed." Another step.

Another.

"Did you have fun?"

Her eyes are so hopeful.

He must flush, because she raises an arm as if to reach to check his forehead, a shadow of concern crossing her face. He swallows.

"Do you—"

"Tell me it wasn't you," he says. And he means it: he honestly, truly wants her to tell him it wasn't.

She stalls, hand stilling in midair. It hovers there for a moment, then drifts, like a breeze-blown petal, down to her side. He stares at her: the blue eyes just like his, the dark blonde hair he got from her.

She doesn't even ask what he means.

Because we got one little boy so perfect…

Her hand on his shoulder in his navy blazer.

"Tell me it wasn't you," he says again, trying to disguise the gravel in his throat.

His mother's gaze drops to the floor. He puts his hands in his pockets, brushing back the front of his tux jacket, and turns to face her fully.

"Tell me," he says, very quietly, "after I came home that night…"

He takes a step toward her. She doesn't move.

"And told you," he breaks off, and takes a long, harsh breath through his nose, "that my childhood love…"

He takes another step, and now he's towering over her, a slip of a person in pajamas and a robe that swallow her; her shoulders drooped, her brow crumpled.

He can barely manage to get the words out, and when he does, they're on the edge of inaudible.

"Had been raped, and left in the snow to die." His voice cracks. "A girl you've known since she was a child."

His fists ball in his pockets. His mother sniffles, head bowed. One hand has come up and is clasped loosely over her heart, grasping at her robe's lapels, as she hunches into herself, starting to tremble.

"Tell me, after I cried on your shoulder like a baby, that you didn't promise me it would be okay—" he breaks off here, and grinds, low: "…and then send me to bed, and pick up the phone, and call the editor at the Post."

In the long silence that follows, she begins to cry. He watches without a word.

"Nate," she manages at last, "please— let me explain."

He knew, of course, but something about her failure to even deny it, even give him a last reprieve, even let their smiling Archibald portrait have one last heartbeat, knocks the air from his lungs.

He stares at her for a long moment, waiting. She makes no effort to actually explain.

And, really, he knows there's no way she can explain what she's done, or put into words why or how she could have possibly done it – how she could have possibly, knowingly, hurt someone she truly cared about, someone she's known since childhood, who trusted her – and so very undeservedly.

He knows it, because it's a familiar sensation.

"You knew what it would do to her," he says, a cold, nasty chill running through him: that it's not only her he's talking to. "You knew what would happen."

His mother shakes her head even as she agrees, at a whisper, "I knew."

"How could you not have thought of her?" he asks, the question for his father, for himself, and now—not without relief, though the realization is shame-filled—

"I did think of her," she says.

—for her, too.

"But not as much," he says, with a sigh, the tension draining from him, "as you thought about yourself."

She looks up, blinking at a rapid clip, cheeks wet. "No," she protests, voice quavering. "I was thinking about you—"

"How much did you get?" he cuts her off, merciless. "How much, for the story, and all those photos?"

Her brow wrinkles like he's said something distasteful.

"Well? Page Six scooped them all," he pounds on. "Everyone knows how exclusives on American royalty sell. A premier deb, a month after her debut, with a disgraced father?"

He snorts.

"I hope you played hardball."

Her expression is twisted in misery, but his mother doesn't even put up a fight. "I did," she murmurs. "After Harold, it wasn't hard."

"Sure," he agrees, in a commiserative tone, and shrugs his shoulders. "There was a premium for round two of public humiliation." His back stiffens as something occurs to him. "Oh, God," he says, eyes hardening, and she looks up at him. "Don't tell me you sold that story, too."

Now his mother looks offended. "Of course not."

Nate lets out a sad breath, almost a chuckle. "Yeah. You didn't need the money then."

She looks away.

"But I bet you would have. The Waldorfs. Old family friends. Vanderbilts and Astors – we go back generations." He speaks slowly, musingly: "A few months ago, you thought Blair would be the mother of your grandchildren."

His mother trembles visibly at that. His spine prickles, too.

He levels her with a look, though she won't meet his eye. "I guess bloodlines run thinner than cash."

His mother's head tips back, eyes brimming, mouth quivering: a physical white flag, a little plea for mercy. The words are spilling from her lips before she seems to realize it.

"I did it to put the money back in your college fund," she bursts, almost a cry, raw with tears. "It wasn't for me, or your father, or the house. I don't know what to do to take care of you. I'm not capable of giving you your future anymore. Everything's gone, and—" she gulps, her shoulders hunching, her fingers twisting in her robe —"your grandfather won't even speak to me."

Her face is the picture of shame. And for one horrible moment, he sees her not as his mother, competent and tasteful in a navy sailor dress, but as the little girl she looks like now: betrayed, abandoned, without any idea what comes next, what even can come next.

But, the next moment, even more horrible: he remembers that she's not a little girl. She's supposed to be the adult. He glances at the portrait. Three beautiful smiles, all in wealthy shades of blue.

"I did it for you, Nate," she implores, at a whisper.

He turns back to his bed, automatically moving to straighten the duvet—his mother likes a tidy bedding presentation—and he catches himself and stops.

"I don't want the money you got by selling Blair out," he tells her, not even dignifying her by looking up. "Do you understand me? I will never touch one penny of it."

As he speaks, he picks up his overcoat from its place on his bed, and drapes it over his arm. Its absence reveals his overnight bag. He zips it and pulls the strap to his shoulder.

Her face braces, then crumples, when she sees what he's doing. One hand comes up to cover her eyes, swiping furiously at tears. He watches her, sadness sinking through him, heart to stomach to intestines, as she struggles to keep herself together.

"You're my mother," he says, as gently as he can, but it comes out hard and cold. "But I don't recognize you."

She wipes at her running nose, eyes low.

He moves around her, leaving her there, digging into the pockets of his overcoat as he crosses the landing and starts down the stairs.

After a brief hesitation, or a moment of courage-gathering, his mother's feet come pattering after him.

"Nate," she says, urgently, "life—it works in ways we don't understand. We can never predict what's coming, or what we're capable of. I'm—"

He descends the stairs at a civilized pace; he doesn't thunder or stomp.

Her voice pitches up, desperation bursting through. "I'm sorry, Nate. I'm sorry. You're my son. My baby. You're all I have left. I would do anything for you. Anything to take care of you." Then, faster, as he reaches the bottom, third step creaking under his foot, and heads for the door: "Everything happens for a reason. Maybe this trauma Blair's been through, this—it's horrible, but—maybe there's a reason for that, Nate, for it happening the way it did, at the time it did—"

She catches him where he's paused in front of their front door. He turns slowly, jaw ticking, as her stammering fades.

"Yes," he says. "There is a reason it happened. It happened because, your perfect little boy…" he trails off, closing his eyes for a moment to steady himself. When he opens them, she's waiting for him to finish, the mere mention of him as her son having flickered some small light back into her face.

He stares her down. "He's a coward."

Relief rushes through him when he admits it to her.

"He's a coward," he repeats, a slow rush, a relieved exhale: "a selfish, short-sighted, hypocrite – who doesn't even think about the people he's supposed to care about."

She's blinking; the light has gone out.

He swallows with difficulty, eyes filling with tears, but he smiles a little. A real smile. He almost laughs as the release of unburdening washes over him.

"Just like Dad," he whispers. "And just like you."

And his tears finally brim over, hot and furious and still he smiles, because it feels good to watch her shoulders slump, and he's not even surprised by that.

"So, yes, there's a reason." He shrugs and swipes at his cheeks with the back of his hand, dampening his cuffs. "Now you can live with it, too."

They stand looking at each other for a minute, both crying, and presently Nate clears his throat politely, and withdraws his other hand from his overcoat pocket, and holds it out between them. His mother raises her palm, and he presses something small and metal and unmistakable into it, and closes her fingers around it, giving them a squeeze.

"I'm going now. Make sure you lock up after me," he says, "so you're safe."

She doesn't manage to conceal her sob, clutching his house key in her small hand, as she mops her face furiously with the sleeve of her robe. The metal is visible through her fingers.

He touches her elbows, lightly, and does an unconscious little Nate-gesture: bending his knees, leaning back slightly, to get his usually-shorter companion to look him in the eye.

The perfect gentleman.

"Okay?"

With great difficulty, and nodding vigorously, she meets his gaze, trying to force a brave smile.

Still grazing her elbows, he leans in and kisses her cheek, like he always does when he says goodbye.

"I love you," he says, automatically. His mother can't form a response; her free palm is covering her cheek, trying to trap her son's goodbye kiss, fresh tears coursing to her jaw.

And he turns and goes and shuts the door behind him and walks away from their brownstone and into the night: Nate the Great, Manhattan's Prince, with tearstains on his cheeks, in his beautiful new tuxedo.

A/N: Many, many thanks to each and every one of you for reading this story.

Onward. 3