AN: Apologies for the short break, a slightly longer chapter as a thank-you for all your lovely reviews, alerts, favorites, and patience. Thank you to bethaboo as well, my incredibly amazing beta.
It was something he thought he'd never have to experience.
Blair stumbled backwards, and the plate in her hands flew across the marble tiles, effortlessly breaking into a thousand pieces. The heavy, once incredibly strong ceramic plate lay in pieces at his feet as his hands reached out, only to be a moment too late.
Blair fell backwards, her shoulder striking the marble with a crack, her head falling onto the tiles with a thud.
Limping over as quickly as his leg allowed, Chuck collapsed next to Blair, his mind reeling as he checked her pulse, her breathing, just wanting to feel that she was still there.
Time stopped, if only for a moment, the weak, barely there pulse at his fingertips ringing through his head.
If you had asked Chuck Bass how many times Blair Waldorf's heart had beat in the span of a minute, he would be able to tell you.
Seventy-three.
For sixty seconds, time slowed down, the calm before the impending storm.
…
Nate wasn't sure what to think.
Jenny. Had she ever been more than a little sister to him? Their passing relationship had been short-lived and relatively painless to end.
Once her transformation from naïve, innocent little J into a ruthless version of the young girl he had once loved was complete, Nate hadn't been able to fall for her anymore.
But a few weeks before it had all fallen apart, the Jenny he had known—perhaps loved—had begun to appear once more. Though she had endeavored to demolish his and Serena's relationship, had schemed in a way he only believed Chuck and Blair capable of, Nate had begun to find himself falling for her again.
Nate continued to toy with his phone in front of him, a drafted text on the lighted screen, two charmingly simple words.
His and Serena's relationship was bound to fall apart at the seams, a realization he had come to while sitting in that hospital room.
It hadn't been Jenny's fault, and it wasn't her fault now.
And when he had been wallowing in his own pity, Nate let his mind wander.
He let himself wonder what it would be like if he'd let Jenny back in.
As it was, he'd never know now.
There really was no use dwelling on the past.
He pressed send.
….
Everything had happened quickly, leaving him standing there, grappling with the pain in his leg and attempting to process.
Dorota had been the first to burst through the doors, worry written on her face. There had been no harsh words exchanged; only a mere "Call ambulance" that was deadly calm.
Dorota had gathered her young charge in her arms, checking Blair's heartbeat, Blair's breathing, just as Chuck had.
There were loud voices and the rattling sound of a gurney on marble tiles; incomprehensible words and loud orders; flashing lights and wailing sirens.
He only felt Dorota's comforting arm on his, and the gut-wrenching pain that had nothing to do with bullets and missing rings.
…
He had been in this hospital a total of three other times in his life.
Despite the fact that he had needed a doctor on numerous occasions, they had always attended to him in the comfort of his own suite.
Bart had been here, cold on a white bed, his face uncharacteristically soft in his death, as Lily told him there was nothing more they could do.
Serena had been here, and as a result, he'd collapsed in a hospital hallway, elbows on knees, breathing heavily, chest clenched.
The first time, he had run.
The second, he had stayed.
You carry people. You carry me.
And she had pulled him up, both literally and metaphorically, pulled him to his feet and assured him he was becoming a man in a way his father had never been.
His last visit had been short-lived, a livid Dan Humphrey assaulting him before he had spent even ten minutes in the hospital.
Perhaps it had been Dan's anger that had eclipsed all other emotions, obscuring the tugging in his chest and the clenching in his stomach that now encompassed him.
The acrid smell of bleach tore at his senses and wormed its way into his stomach.
Overwhelmed with the desire to vomit, Chuck clenched his fists against the material of his pants, his breaths coming out in rapid bursts, his brain clamoring for the oxygen it craved.
The room spun, his vision focusing in on a double set of doors. Moments before, she had been rushed through, lying flat and still on a gurney, not unlike Bart, nor Jenny.
But they had been beyond hope. There was nothing else the doctors could do.
Blair still had a shred of hope left.
Thank you, he'd breathed into her hair, clutching her to him as they strode down that hallway.
Chuck leaned back, his eyes falling closed as memories of that night assailed his mind.
…
"We know not," Dorota was saying for what seemed like the hundredth time, and Chuck's poisonous thoughts turned to venom as his frustration peaked. His knee bounced incessantly against the linoleum, earning him rather irritated looks. "Doctor's no talk."
His stomach calmed, his head cleared, his unruffled demeanor returning in an instant.
"Give me the phone," he growled, and Dorota glared at him in return, but surrendered the phone.
"Eleanor," he said curtly. "Your daughter just fainted and you might not have a mother before, but she needs you. Whatever's more important isn't."
With a few, carefully chosen, final words— "The Bass jet is at your disposal. Harold is on his way as well."—Chuck hung up.
Handing the phone back to Dorota, Chuck stalked over to the nurse's desk, determined to get some information.
"I'm Chuck Bass," he said authoritatively. "What do I have to donate to get some information around here?"
…
"Hi," Serena said tentatively, sitting down beside him. "I got your text."
"How'd you know where to find me?" Nate asked with a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.
Serena shrugged, "I was on my way here anyways."
"Memories?"
Serena nodded, looking at the familiar bar stools and even more familiar boy in front of her.
"We used to sneak off here when we were fourteen," Serena recalled with a smile. "Blair and Chuck were busy…"
"Plotting," Nate filled in, only a twinge of bitterness in his voice.
"Yes," Serena said with a wistful smile, recalling the days when her small hand fit in Nate's, and Blair and Chuck had been nothing more than a pair to be feared.
"Apple martini?" Nate asked playfully, and Serena found herself falling for the twinkle in his blue eyes once more. Shaking her head, Serena motioned towards the bartender. "Gin and tonic, please."
"Trying something new?"
Serena shook her head, "Something old."
…
They had always said black was slimming.
Chuck thought they were full of bullshit.
Because at this moment, hospital white seemed to be the most slimming, framing her protruding collarbones and sharp cheekbones.
Dorota bustled in beside him, fussing over Blair as machines beeped around her. Just as Chuck had always turned to alcohol and women to ease the pain, Dorota had an insatiable need to clean and fuss.
"Miss Blair be okay," Dorota was saying quietly, more to herself than to Chuck. "Miss Blair alright."
"Yes," Chuck agreed quietly, seating himself beside her bed and taking her small, dainty hand in his.
…
"So," Nate said, spinning the coaster in front of him. "How is Dan?"
Serena frowned, toying with the lime wedge on the edge of her glass. "He's been better."
"And Lily? Rufus?"
"Coping," Serena said sadly, recalling Rufus' tired, sad, eyes and her mother's red ones.
"And you?"
"I'll be fine," Serena replied with a small smile. "I'm not the one everyone needs to be worried about."
"Even then—" Nate paused, cleared his throat. "I'm here."
"Thanks, Nate," Serena said, and their awkward conversation came to a standstill at his declaration.
"I don't know," Nate began slowly, as if confused, "what's going on with us. But I do know that I don't think any of us can get through this alone."
Serena smiled then, and her fingers twitched, the space between their palms impossibly close. Nate glanced at her, tentative, and Serena bit her lip, knowing that what she wanted now would never be what she wanted in the future.
Serena Van der Woodsen lived in the present, after all.
And at the present, her phone was ringing, the obnoxiously loud ringtone garnering more than a few annoyed glances from the patrons of the quiet bar.
"It's Chuck."
…
She was in a hospital.
That was her first thought when she had awoken to beeping machinery, the acidic smell of bleach wafting under her nose, the sight of the cold, white room from barely open eyelids. Her second thought, the belated one, was that her hand was
warm. Almost unbearably so, as it contradicted with the icy chill seeping through her veins.
She had been so fucking good. Had amassed enough self-restraint to defy the beckoning of the one haven she had become too dependent on.
Then again, it was easy to keep your food down when there wasn't any food consumed to begin with.
Perhaps she wasn't so strong after all.
The Blair Waldorf everyone knew—everyone feared—was simply a front that veiled the turmoil inside. Little by little, that front had hardened over the years, until it became almost impenetrable. Almost.
Chuck Bass had been the first to pass through, the first to truly understand what it meant to be Blair Waldorf.
Being Blair Waldorf didn't mean silk scarves and exclusive Parisian shoes; no, being Blair Waldorf meant being strong enough to conceal your emotions, but weak enough to succumb to them.
And Chuck Bass had been able to find this hidden side of her, this twisted creature she dared not show to anyone.
Because only a masochist could ever love such a narcissist.
The self-inflicted damage had scarred her beyond any hurt Serena, Nate, or even Chuck had exacted upon her. Because this, this was beyond her control, beyond her understanding and beyond her jurisdiction.
She could organize and plan, map out her future to the tiniest detail. But she couldn't write in the ending to her struggle with—oh what an ugly word it was—bulimia.
Was that it, then?
This cycle would continue on, no matter her efforts to break it. Was it that, then? She would eventually yield to the rigors she put her body through and meet the same end Jenny Humphrey had?
The reminder of the blonde had her spinning, away from the warm hand and the frigid room. Spinning into the depths of guilt that she had crafted from flimsy accusations and the image of a matted head of blonde hair and a scarred, battered face.
She was in a hospital.
The hospital where Jenny Humphrey had taken her last breath.
…
Dan had never been one for alcohol. There had been a few drinks here and there. There had been one night spent in the company of Chuck Bass that left him sans shoes and high as a kite.
But now, he understood Chuck's penchant for scotch. He could understand Chuck's incessant need to drown himself in alcohol and misery.
He wanted to corral the blame that he had thrown about with careless ease, but he couldn't help himself.
He couldn't help that he had lost his only sister, and his last words hadn't been the kindest.
"I don't know who you are anymore, but hopefully you'll find Jenny Humphrey in Hudson."
He couldn't help but blame Blair for exiling Jenny from New York, and he couldn't help but blame Chuck for being the catalyst that sent the Upper East Side spinning on its head.
The thing was, even underneath all the blame, a shred of good was left. And that part of him knew that they weren't to blame.
Not really.
….
The moment she was awake, he knew.
"Blair— " he said, his voice conveying a thousand emotions he couldn't quite place.
Because this was Blair Waldorf, and she was currently lying in a hospital bed, white sheets pulled up to her chest, clad in a polka-dotted hospital gown, and looking tinier than he had ever seen her.
But her refusal to meet his eyes, the way her hand stayed limp in his, only intensified the slight ache in his chest.
Chuck couldn't place that either.
It was worse than a gunshot, because a bullet was quick to tear through your flesh, sharp and biting, rendering you unconscious.
This pain was different. It was dull, it was growing, and it could not be alleviated, despite the tiny white pills and the bottles upon bottles of scotch.
The main disparity between the two pains was that one could be cured. The other could not.
Hesitantly, Chuck clenched his fingers tighter around hers. And the part of him that hoped she would respond knew she wouldn't.
Blair Waldorf was just too damn good; too good at avoiding her emotions, at avoiding him.
"I'll get the doctor," he said into empty air.
…
"How is she?" Serena's voice was timid, breaking through the haze that surrounded his mind. Having been in the hospital for the past night, his shirt wrinkled and his hair uncombed, Chuck Bass had never been less like himself before.
"She's fucking fine," Chuck answered drily. "She's fine after fainting because of exhaustion and lack of food. She's fucking fan-tastic, Serena."
Recoiling slightly at her stepbrother's words, Serena pulled her sweater closer to her, as if to ward off the chill of the hospital. She and Nate had returned to the Van der Woodsen penthouse briefly, picking up a change of clothes and giving Lily and Eric short, nearly incoherent, updates. Chuck, however, had maintained his vigil by Blair's bedside, despite the fact that the doctor's had said she would be asleep for the next fifteen or so hours.
She could still recall the last time she'd been here, the hopelessly broken girl lying comatose and brain dead in a hospital bed.
Only now it was her best friend occupying the bed, her body frail and rail-thin.
Sighing slightly and leaning her head against the back of the chair, Serena watched Chuck pace, running his hand through his hair.
And she knew that she couldn't take his words to heart.
"She'll get better," Serena said, almost as if she were attempting to convince herself instead of Chuck.
Her statement garnered no response, though Serena could tell from the tense set of Chuck's jaw that he had heard her.
"She'll get better," Serena said, even quieter as watched his even, measured steps.
"She'll get better." Nate echoed, his hand wrapping around Serena's.
…
"Miss Waldorf?"
The small warmth she had felt had been lost the moment Chuck's fingers released hers, the cold air rushing in to take his place.
"Miss Waldorf," the doctor said again, his glasses propped against graying hair. "Do you know why you're here?"
"I fainted," Blair said, her voice sounding stronger than she'd expected.
"Yes," the doctor cleared his throat. "And do you know why that is?"
Blair eyed the doctor scornfully, knowing full well why she had woken up in a hospital bed, her shoulder aching, and her head pounding.
"You're severely dehydrated," the doctor began, filling her silence with his own words. "Not to mention, you're anemic and you have developed an electrolyte deficiency."
The words were nothing new to her, having heard endless lectures from men and women in white coats and demeaning airs.
As the doctor rambled on, Blair focused on the door, and what she knew lay outside. She would have to face them-him -eventually, and Blair knew that she would never be prepared for what was to come.
Eleanor, she could deal with. Serena was a little tougher, but the blonde could be convinced by earnest nods and empty promises. Chuck, however, posed more of a problem.
But as the doctor leveled her with a stern glare, another warning, and the promise (threat) of a forthcoming visit from Doctor Sherman, Blair found herself unable to do anything but nod and lean back on her pillows resolutely.
Even with her back turned to him, Blair could hear the doctor's sigh, his disappointment palpable as he left the room.
Blair scoffed slightly. She didn't need the doctor's pity, and his disappointment was for naught.
This was the last time. Blair would make sure of that.
…
"I just don't understand why," Serena was saying, her hand still clutching Nate's as she voiced her concerns into the empty hallway.
"Well, err—" Nate stole a look at Chuck, who was sitting across from them, staring into empty space. "Blair hasn't exactly had the easiest time lately."
"But she was fine before," Serena reasoned. "She hasn't done this in a long time."
"How can you be so sure?" Chuck cut in, his eyes onyx as he stared down Serena. "The doctor told me she hasn't been healthy in a while. There's been damage to her heart. This has been going on for a long time."
"No," Serena said adamantly, shaking her head. "Not right under our noses. We would've noticed."
"It never really goes away," came a quiet voice, and the three turned to see Eleanor Waldorf, clad in a Chanel suit and wearing Manolo pumps, her face drawn and her hands shaking. "She never got over it."
Chuck was gripped with a slight anger, an anger born from her careless words, as if Blair's 'sickness' was a small matter, a blip on her radar. But Eleanor's next words chilled him to the bone.
"I'll never get over it," Eleanor said, looking past them and at the door. "I brought this upon her. And I'll never get over the fact that it was probably my fault."
Serena was quick to offer her assurances, Nate backing her up half-heartedly, though everyone present knew one thing.
Eleanor's words couldn't be closer to the truth.
"Harold's on his way here," Eleanor said, turning slightly towards Chuck. "Thank you for your generous offer, but it may be noted that the Waldorfs own a jet as well."
With her nose slightly in the air, Eleanor turned away, reaching for the doorknob.
"Thank you," she breathed, so quietly Chuck wasn't sure if he were imagining things.
And then she opened the door and was gone with a whiff of Chanel no.19 and a lingering air of gratitude.
…
Georgina groaned as she pulled herself up from the couch, her distended stomach awkward and too heavy for her petite frame. It had been easier when Lily was around sometimes, but lately, the loft had been empty, devoid of any presence but hers.
And their child.
Georgina had never had a true childhood. She was six when she first witnessed the full extent of her father's hatred of her mother.
She could still remember the slope of her mother's back as she cowered behind the plush red velvet couch. She could still hear her mother's cries mixed with her father's grunts of exertion.
They were not the loving, doting parents they pretended to be-none of the UES parents were. They both had their respective vices, Gloria Sparks had her pool boys, Percocet, and Prada-while Adam Sparks had secretaries, Smirnoffs, and spousal abuse.
And so, young Georgina Sparks, with her honey blonde curls-that later turned a dark chocolate-and bright blue eyes, learned to take care of herself.
Georgina Sparks never had stability, never had a devoted father who would cuddle her and buy her gifts, and never had a mother who would hold her when she cried.
She couldn't keep this child, that much she knew. But she also knew that no matter what inane situations she managed to get herself into, this child would have a home. With loving parents, preferably ones who could afford Lulu Guinness and baby Dior, but she wasn't picky.
Because as far as she was concerned, enameled Tiffany piggybanks and cashmere onesies weren't any competition for the attention and love she had craved.
Georgina knew that the nine months would be for naught, as she would never hold her baby in her arms, no matter how ridiculously sentimental and nauseous that made her.
She had never been selfless, but as Georgina made her way over to the fridge, she knew that she could be selfless.
If her current state of accommodations were anything to go by, Georgina could be selfless.
The Humphrey loft was mediocre at best, but Georgina had always adapted well. Whether it was the latest designer drug, or a dirty warehouse in which refuge had been found, Georgina Sparks had adapted.
So adapt she had, and now Georgina found herself with a bloated stomach and swollen ankles, constant backaches and incontrollable mood swings.
The only person that could've alleviated the distress and impatience was the one person who wanted nothing to do with her.
…
"Mother."
"Blair," Eleanor said, making her way over to her daughter and enveloping her in an awkward hug.
Settling herself in the hard chair beside Blair's bed, Eleanor looked around the room, on anything that wasn't Blair in a hospital gown, looking frailer than she'd ever seen her.
"Have you seen Dr. Sherman yet?" Eleanor asked, and Blair shook her head no, her brown curls tumbling in front of her face.
And this time, Eleanor looked. Really looked, her eyes tracing over her daughter's delicate features and the hardened resolution in her eyes.
"You are so beautiful," she told Blair. And it pained her to know that she had hardly said these words to her daughter.
Eleanor wondered what held her tongue before, what had turned her into a cold, distant mother with words of steel used to criticize her own daughter. She could still remember the thirteen year old girl in her black mary janes and Constance uniform, sitting primly in the therapist's office.
"Why do you choose to do this to yourself, Blair?" she had asked kindly, her eyes trained on the scowl on Blair's face, rather than the look of impassive indifference on Eleanor's.
Blair had mumbled a lie, and when prompted to speak up, only repeated the lie once more.
Eleanor had chosen to ignore it then, but she wouldn't now. Not anymore.
Blair's reaction to her words was carefully measured, "Thank you," she said evenly, not bothering to disguise the slight sarcasm in her voice.
"If you won't talk to me," Eleanor started slowly, her eyes still trained on Blair's, "at least talk to Serena. Dr. Sherman. You can't do this to yourself, Blair."
Hearing the sharp breath, Eleanor knew her words had not had their desired intention, and she frowned slightly, furrowing her brow.
"I know," Blair replied simply, still not meeting her mother's eye.
"Then why?" Eleanor asked, unable to keep the question from the tip of her tongue. "Blair, this isn't healthy. You know that. You can't continue on like this, lest you end up like…"
Jenny was the name on the tip of her mother's tongue, and Blair heard it in the silence, cursed silently under her breath, and turned to her mother's gaze with a steely one of her own.
"I won't," she said simply.
"You'll stop?" Eleanor asked warily, because Blair is her daughter, despite their obvious differences, and Eleanor knew her well enough to tell a lie from truth.
"I'll stop," Blair replied.
And the silence that encompassed them, fabrication filling the spaces between her words, nearly drove Eleanor to tears, foreign and incomprehensible to her.
"What happened?" she asked, and Eleanor's voice was so unlike her it surprises both occupants of the hospital room.
The earnest in her mother's voice confuses her, and for a moment, if only for a single second, Blair lets her guard down.
And in that single second, a single tear escaped, and Eleanor, though unsure of what to do with herself, reached forward, clasping her daughter's hand in her own.
…
"Where is she?" Harold Waldorf's frantic voice cut through the tension between Chuck, Serena, and Nate, and they turned to him with wary expressions, noting the disheveled state of the once imposing Harold Waldorf.
"In there," Nate was the first to answer, nodding towards Blair's door. "Eleanor's in with her right now."
Harold nodded, his expression livid as he strode past Chuck, causing Chuck to nearly cower under Harold's harsh glare. No words were needed as he grasped the doorknob and turned, disappearing into the room as quickly as Eleanor had, though with a different air.
"I'm sorry," Roman said in his accented English, sitting next to Chuck, "Harold doesn't really blame you—"
"How does he know?" Chuck asked instead, ignoring the hasty apology.
"Blair and Serena visited us over the summer," Roman said with a small smile. "There are no secrets between Blair and her father."
He didn't doubt it. Out of everyone, Blair loved her father best, and though Chuck would've said he eclipsed that love before, he wasn't so sure anymore. Blair looked up to her father, admired him, and would have done anything to make her father proud of her. Not that Harold hadn't been proud of Blair, save for one incident, and Chuck knew that the man doted on his Blair Bear.
And Chuck also knew that earning Harold's respect was very nearly impossible.
…
Harold Waldorf was usually a calm man, never quick to anger nor quick to judge. But hearing Dorota's anxious words about his daughter, his Blair, in the hospital, Harold knew exactly who to blame.
The unwanted anger had risen in him at the sight of Chuck, sitting outside his daughter's hospital room, shadows under his eyes and a weariness about him. He didn't deserve to be there. Not after what he had done to Blair.
As soon as he stepped through the doors, however, and found his daughter and his ex-wife with tears in their eyes, their hands clasped, his anger dissipated in an instant.
Eleanor looked up at the sound of his entry, and for the first time in years, Harold saw the great Eleanor Waldorf in a state of utter disarray. Her elegant bun had fallen out, her makeup was smudged beyond repair, her eyes red and she held their daughter's hand.
Blair, she was so small, drowning in the sea of hospital white that surrounded her. And the sight of his daughter looking at him with an expression of utter brokenness, very nearly brought him to tears.
"Blair Bear," he said, and though her nickname sounded stale on his tongue, he enveloped her in his arms, ignoring the fact that she felt as frail as she looked. "How are you?"
"Recuperating," came Eleanor's quiet voice, watching the exchange with a faraway look of nostalgic desire in her eyes.
Harold nodded, and an unspoken moment passed between the two, a moment only two parents of a child could share.
"I'll be outside," Eleanor said, kissing Blair's forehead, "I want you to know, Blair, that what you did doesn't make you weak. It makes you stronger than I could ever hope to be."
…
Three pairs or eyes watched curiously as Eleanor Waldorf emerged from Blair's room, her face tired, but content.
"Charles," she said quietly, making the three jump ever so slightly, "May I speak to you?"
Chuck stood uncertainly and followed Eleanor's steps down the hall, his limp at a contrast with her perfectly even steps.
"Blair told me," Eleanor began conversationally, "what happened this spring."
"I—"
Eleanor held up a slim hand, and Chuck now knew where Blair had inherited her talent to command a room. "I won't pretend to understand your relationship with my daughter."
"Truth be told," Chuck said quietly, "I don't understand it myself."
Eleanor nodded, "I won't allow my daughter to be traded. For real estate."
She said the last word as if it was soiled, and in Eleanor Waldorf's mind, it probably was. For real estate was heavily tied to the nouveau riche, of which the Waldorfs were not, and of which the Basses were.
"I didn't mean—"
But Eleanor held up her hand once more, silencing him with a mere glare.
"But Blair's strong. She's not the precious, delicate girl Harold sees her as. And it takes more than a child millionaire with morality issues to break her."
Chuck's head snapped up, and he mulled over the verity of Eleanor's words as the older woman regarded him with the slightest of scorn.
"She's a Waldorf," Eleanor reminded him, "she doesn't need you."
Her words were scathing, but Chuck understood the true meaning behind them.
"Blair may find it in herself to forgive you one day," Eleanor said, her words threatening as she leaned in slightly. "But know that you must earn that forgiveness from me as well."
And she walked away, heels clipping against the green and white speckled linoleum, leaving a haughty air in her wake.
…
By the time he had mustered up the gumption to return to Blair's room, Harold was closing the door behind him, quiet reverence on his tired face. Serena was clearly missing from the small group assembled outside the door, and Chuck knew that Blair's patience could only extend so far.
"Chuck," Harold said, his preferred name sounding stale on Harold's tongue, "the last thing I want to do is thank you, but it seems necessary in the current situation."
Harold's words were sincere, though a slight hostility ran through them, along with undeniable strength.
"Dorota was there as well," Chuck said, deflecting the gratitude as easily as he had once deflected love.
"Blair wouldn't be in this situation if it weren't for you," Harold reminded him. "But you chose to stay."
Harold's words were simplistic in their nature, seemingly effortless to understand.
But it would take a few months, innumerable silences, and countless evenings spent in Blair's company before Chuck could grasp the true meaning of Harold's words.
As of now, he could only nod.
…
"I don't want to talk, Serena."
"We don't have to talk," Serena said, shrugging as she sat beside Blair, her blue eyes sweeping over the intricate setup.
"I'm so tired," came Blair's quiet admission, and Serena looked to her best friend.
'Tired" didn't even begin to describe the state she was in.
"We don't have to talk," Serena repeated, "sometimes, you just need someone to hold your hand."
And she did just that.
…
The tap on her shoulder shocked her awake, and Serena looked up blearily as she sat up, noting that her back ached and her arm was asleep.
But Blair's dainty hand was still clasped in hers, the blood red fingernails slightly chipped.
Serena made a mental note to get Dorota to collect Chanel Vamp along with Blair's things, knowing that her best friend had prided herself on being impeccably groomed.
"Nate's about to leave," Chuck said hoarsely, his eyes trained on the sleeping girl beside them. "You should go too."
Serena began to protest, but Chuck looked at her knowingly, and she relented with barely an objection, rubbing her sore arm as she left the room.
Serena looked back once, to see Chuck tucking a stray curl behind Blair's ear and leaning down to place the gentlest of kisses on her forehead.
Serena had averted her eyes upon the seemingly uncharacteristic display of affection, the moment altogether too intimate for her to watch.
Instead, she took Nate's outstretched hand and warm, protective embrace.
…
"Blair," And she braced herself, looking away from the coffee he held in his hands and the anxiety in his eyes.
Blair knew him far too well to not predict his next words, and she steeled herself quickly, barely acknowledging his presence.
"I thought you said you stopped."
She turned on her side, away from his piercing glare, his accusatory words punctuated by concern.
But she could never really escape him.
Whether he was present physically or not, Blair could never really escape the ensnarement of one Chuck Bass.
"Blair," he stressed.
She refused to cry. Her self-control was slipping, as easily through her fingers as grains of sand. And Blair could already feel her disloyal body rotating slightly towards his voice, the tears beginning to pool in her eyes.
"It never really went away," she admitted, more to herself than Chuck. "It's always going to be there, in the back of my mind. And I'm always going to want to do it. It's a matter of being strong enough to resist."
"You told me you stopped," Chuck pressed again. "Every time I'd ask, you told me you had stopped."
"I did stop," Blair said, the unwonted words spilling from her lips. "For a time."
The self-loathing in his eyes was clear, and Blair found herself frustrated with this version of Chuck Bass.
"I—"
"It's not about you Chuck," she said, turning on her side once more. "It never was."
If she hadn't been so attuned to his presence, she would've taken his silence to mean that he'd left the room and closed the door so quietly she hadn't noticed.
But as it were, Blair's skin prickled and every nerve ending tingled with his mere presence.
"Why?" he asked, finally breaking the silence that encompassed the room. "Why would you do this to yourself?"
He would never understand. Dr. Sherman, Serena, her mother, her father, none of them could ever truly understand.
But he wasn't her therapist, her best friend, her father, or her mother. He was Chuck. And maybe…
"Because it's easier," she told him. "It's easier to forget to remember than to remember to forget."
She sat up, looking at him with an indescribable expression.
"Blair—"
"Did you stay the night?" she asked, avoiding the subject once more.
He nodded, unable to do anything else.
"You should go home," Blair said, eyes raking over his disheveled appearance.
"I'm not leaving," he retorted stubbornly, his voice as impudent as a child's.
"Then stay," Blair bit out, eyes flashing. "I'm merely requesting you return to the hotel you sold me out for to get a change of clothes and quite possibly, a shower."
"Are you ever going to stop holding that against me?" Chuck said in quiet frustration, running his hand through his hair. "I've apologized a million times, I thought you'd forgiven me when you went to the—"
"Oh yes," Blair said, idly twirling a strand of chocolate round her fingertips. "Let's talk about how I was late because Dorota was in labor and you went off to fuck Jenny Humphrey."
"I apologized for that too," Chuck said, his eyes darkening as he crossed the room towards her. "I told you I was sorry a million times, atoned for my sins—"
"You were shot," Blair reminded him. "You didn't die."
"You would have preferred that, wouldn't you?" Chuck said, the words flying out of his mouth of their own volition.
The words hit her like a bullet of their own, and Blair was unaccustomed to the calm that spreads through her, more so when she realized she had been expecting her anger to rise.
"No," she said simply.
And she appraised him regally, appearing queenly even while clad in a white hospital gown, ensconced in white blankets and surrounded by beeping machines.
"You should go home, Chuck."
He opened his mouth to protest once more, but her jaw was set and her eyes are firm.
And he knew that this was the best he could hope for as he nodded in agreement.
tbc