Author's note: Happy New Year everybody!!

Here is the long-awaited Chuck POV. Enjoy. And pretty please, please review. ;

Chapter Nine: That Greenhouse

**

Meditations in an Emergency

How I am to become a

legend, my dear? I've tried love, but that holds you in the

bosom of another and I'm always springing forth from it like

the lotus--the ecstasy of always bursting forth! (but one must

not be distracted by it!) or like a hyacinth, "to keep the

filth of life away," yes, even in the heart, where the filth is

pumped in and slanders and pollutes and determines. I will my

will, though I may become famous for a mysterious vacancy in

that department, that greenhouse.

--Frank O'Hara

**

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Bass?" crooned a scantily clad blonde stewardess, leaning forward unnecessarily as she placed Chuck's scotch in front of him, so that he could hardly avoid looking down her shirt. He didn't try to avoid looking, but the sight brought him little pleasure.

"Yes, thank you—" he paused forgetfully.

"Amy," she supplied.

"Thank you, Amy."

Her lips stretched into what he supposed was meant to be a seductive smile.

"Why don't you sit down. No, not on me, next to me."

She pouted and shifted a few inches away from him.

"Amy," he said, "what do you do when you're trying to forget something that happened to you, but you can't?"

She seemed surprised, and she bit her lip as she considered the question. "Well," she said finally, "I would probably get drunk."

"No," Chuck shook his head, "that doesn't help much. I've been trying it for months."

"Well," she said, and placed her hand on his knee suggestively, "there's something else you could do to distract yourself."

"No," said Chuck, pushing her hand onto her own lap. "I don't think that'll work either." He stared distractedly out the window of his private jet at the clouds, until they parted and he had to look away from the bright flash of sunlight. He glanced over at Amy, who was looking very cross indeed. "Amy," he said, "you don't need to sleep with the boss to get a good paycheck. Be a good girl and go ask the pilot how many more hours this flight will be."

She got to her feet, annoyed, and left.

He downed his scotch in one gulp, hoping it would help him fall asleep, and stretched himself comfortably along the warm leather seating.

"Five hours left, Mr. Bass," he heard Amy say. He groaned.

He was developing a headache; he frowned and closed his eyes, willed it to go away.

--------------------

"Chuck? What are you doing here?" She was wearing a starchy white couture dress with lace edgings and a high, stiff collar; it looked uncomfortable, and it was an odd dress to be worn by such a young girl. Her tiny feet were adorned with white ballet slippers and she wore dainty white gloves. It was an Eleanor Waldorf ensemble.

"Where's Nate?" Her eyes were wide and innocent.

He looked down the aisles of fragrant blossoms, avoiding her gaze. "He couldn't make it. He…asked me to come instead."

"What?" Blair stomped her little foot angrily, and her face fell. "I'm throwing a party for his mother, honestly! The least he could do is help me pick out the flowers like I asked…"

"I'm sorry, Blair," he said, and it was a rare expression of sympathy from him—though of course, she did not notice.

"God, sometimes he's such a—" she waved her arms expressively. "Well, I don't swear, but if I did, I would."

"Why don't you?" he asked, slightly amused.

"It's not ladylike." She crossed her arms and lifted her chin disdainfully while he sniggered.

"Are you going to help me pick out flowers for Nate's mom's birthday, or not?"

"You don't really need help." He rolled his eyes. He scanned the surrounding flowers and his gaze landed on a cluster of brilliant blue blossoms. He pointed at them.

"Those are nice."

"Hmmm."

"Here," said Chuck, and lifted an armful, handing it to Blair. She held the flowers against her white dress and looked down at them, apparently deep in thought. The star-like blue flowers mingled with her waving chestnut hair against the snowy whiteness of her dress; her cheeks were pink and her rosy, pouty mouth was turned downward into a frown.

Somehow, the sight of Blair cradling his flowers in her arms touched him oddly.

"Blair," began Chuck, feeling incredibly brave—"you look really pr—"

"Oh, I know what these are," interrupted Blair, still looking at the flowers. "Hyacinths." She shook her head and scrunched up her nose. "Much too common. Maybe we should stick with roses, or orchids…"

------------------------------

Chuck woke up suddenly; his eyes jerked open, he sat up, he realized he was breathing heavily.

"God, where the fuck did that come from?" He asked out loud. He was seriously shaken. He sat still for a while, waiting to calm down. The sky was darkening outside his window.

That really happened, he thought to himself incredulously. I remember now. Jesus Christ, how long ago was that? Middle school, he decided. Must have been. He stayed where he was for some minutes, rigidly immobile, frowning sternly into the distance. The jet flew through a large, heavy cloud that blocked the weakening sunlight—inside it was gloomier, not just darker, not just grey.

"Amy," he called, after a while.

"Yes?" The blonde poked her head around the door.

"I've reconsidered your offer."

She smiled and sauntered into the room, unfastening a barrette from her hair and beginning to unbutton her shirt, and he pulled her onto his lap.