Author's note: I don't know if any of you are fans of Mad Men—in my opinion the best show on television—but if you are, you'll recognize the poem. :)

Sorry it took a long time to update. Midterms are coming up.

-

-

-

Chapter 18: Meditations in an Emergency

-

Now I am quietly waiting for

the catastrophe of my personality

to seem beautiful again,

and interesting, and modern.

-

The country is grey and

brown and white in trees,

snows and skies of laughter

always diminishing, less funny

not just darker, not just grey.

-

It may be the coldest day of

the year, what does he think of

that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,

perhaps I am myself again.

-

--Frank O'Hara, Mayakovsky

-

-

From time to time she whimpered and moaned in her sleep, and more than once cried out words like "get away from me!" and "don't touch me!" and "somebody help me!" and then once, she whispered, "please, please don't hurt me; please," and this he couldn't bear. But though she spoke, and tossed restlessly, and even wept, she did not wake; and he did not sleep, but kept up his vigil.

And in the morning she woke to find her body pressed against his, and warm fingers running through her hair, and despite all her nightmares she felt safe.

"You're awake?" he murmured.

She leaned back, out of his embrace, so she could look at him. He was still dressed in his street clothes; his eyes were dark and shadowed. He even still had his shoes on, and he looked exhausted.

"Did you sleep at all?" she asked. "You look terrible."

He smiled wryly. "Thanks."

"Well, did you?"

He ignored the question. "Do you want breakfast? Or do you want to take a shower or anything?"

His questions were practical and matter-of-fact; he wouldn't force her to lie or to put on an act by asking her about the attack and how she felt about it. This was one of the things she loved about him.

"Coffee," she replied.

He smiled again, a little. "Cappuccino?"

"Of course. And, actually, I think I will take a shower."

She looked down at her torn blue dress and stared at it, her eyes darkening, as if she were surprised to see it.

"I'll send someone to pick up some clothes for you," he said quickly, catching her expression. "Meanwhile you can wear a bathrobe."

"Ok," she said. She got up from the bed; she wondered if she should make some kind of physical gesture, like kiss his cheek or pat his arm as she left, but it seemed that now she was awake there would be no more touching.

"I'll just be in the shower," she said sheepishly.

"Take your time," he said. He knew she would want a long shower.

And she did. She knew she couldn't physically scourge all the marks off her body that had been made then night before, and that most of the damage had been psychological anyway; but rubbing herself vigorously with soap and watching the soap suds swirl down the drain made her feel better.

Anyway, what had happened hadn't really been so terrible, she reasoned. No one had raped her or physically hurt her (apart from some bruises and a mild concussion). More importantly, Chuck had rescued her in time. She still didn't know how he had done it. She supposed he must have been nearby and heard her screaming; she was near his apartment at the time. Perhaps some day she would ask. For now she didn't feel prepared to relive the experience.

She shivered a bit under the hot water, trying not to remember the man's face under the hood—his cold, gleaming eyes, the rough stubble that rubbed abrasively against her skin. His hands, shoving her against the wall. She closed her eyes tightly and shook her head.

"It's over, it's over, it's over, it's over," she repeated, mantra-like, under her breath as she let the water stream over her head and down her body.

Finally she felt clean, so she turned the water off and shrugged on a white terrycloth robe. She let her hair hang in wet tendrils around her face; for once she didn't care if it air-dried and became frizzy.

She walked back into the bedroom; there was Chuck, sitting in bed with a tray. On the tray was her cappuccino, along with orange juice and toast and scrambled eggs.

"You're eating the whole thing," he said warningly. He knew about her sparse eating habits.

Normally she would have fretted about the calories; today she didn't mind.

She shoved the egg into her mouth ravenously with a spoon, grateful for the protein. He chuckled a bit, despite himself; he had never seen her eat like this. Finally she seemed satisfied; she put down the fork and took a long sip of coffee before setting it carefully on the tray; her movements were purposeful and decisive, and Chuck had a foreboding that she was about to say something important.

"Last night," she began, "I was on my way here, to talk to you."

He nodded, waiting for what she might say next.

"I wanted to talk to you," she continued, "because I figured something out."

She looked so calm, and there was a steadiness and finality about her tone. He felt a sudden stab of fear, and he swallowed, willed himself to ignore it.

"You've made it clear that you don't want to be with me," she said in a steady voice, and then paused.

This is it, Chuck thought, she came here because she wants closure. She wants Nate, and she doesn't want me anymore.

"But I'm not sure why not. Last night you didn't seem indifferent to me—or maybe that's what I wanted to see, and I imagined it. I don't know, but it made me wonder."

She looked up to meet his eyes. It was amazing how clear and calm she felt, how focused. She knew what she had to say—she had planned it very thoroughly—and now it was falling into place.

"I came here because I still love you," she said, "and because I realized that I always will. I thought I could get over it—but I can't, and I don't even want to. I know that sounds dramatic and stupid, and I know everyone would say I'm too young to know these things. But I know that there is no one out there so much like me as you are, no one who understands me like you do—and that's all there is to it. I won't settle for something less than that. So I want you to tell me, once and for all, whether or not you meant what you said a month ago, at that horrible party, before Serena shipped me overseas. I don't want any more drama. I just want the truth."

He was too tired to register shock at her words. He only caressed her cheek lightly with his fingers, feeling himself for a moment to be blindingly happy—and then he got to his feet, and began to pace the room as he processed the full significance of her words. The happiness faded under a sudden onslaught of panic and nausea.

He looked at her, the small white-robed figure sitting on his bed with wet hair and huge eyes, and began to speak involuntarily, almost unaware of what he was saying before it came out of his mouth.

"You want to know if I love you?" he asked, his eyes blank.

She nodded.

"I don't know what love is," he admitted. "And you say you love me," he continued, his tone almost accusatory; "and I suppose I have to take that for what it is—for whatever it is—but I know it isn't unconditional. I know you will forget me someday and love someone else; someone who can give you what you want. It was cruel of you to choose Nate." His eyes were bleak. "But you're like me, after all; you know how to exploit people's weaknesses."

"He means so much to you?" asked Blair. "You must love him, then."

"I don't really…" his eyes were distant, abstracted, as if he were contemplating something.

"He's part of my childhood; my regard for him is made up in equal parts of childhood affection, habit, and jealousy." He paused thoughtfully. "In fact, I think my feelings for him are oddly similar to yours." He turned to look at her and his eyes were once more focused.

"You see," he said. "I am telling you the truth. I have never been this honest with anybody in my entire life; maybe not even with myself."

"That's true," Blair nodded in agreement.

"I know you're not satisfied, but it's all I have to give. I'm not a hero, Blair. I'm not Carey Grant, or Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, or Clark Gable—"

"I don't want you to be," Blair whispered.

"I'm not even just ordinary, Blair. I think I must be something less than human—a sociopath, with no capacity for real love. I don't deserve anyone's compassion, or respect," his voice had turned bitter, "and I should be cast out from society and hated by everyone. And I've almost accomplished that, with one glaring exception."

Blair looked up into his eyes. He had paused, as though it pained him to continue.

"You," he said, "for some reason you won't let me go…though I have done everything in my power—"

"Last night," Blair interrupted loudly, "When we ran into each other outside the palace you didn't seem so eager to push me away."

"A moment of weakness," Chuck sighed. "I only found out about your engagement to my best friend yesterday, you might remember…it was a low blow, Blair."

Blair chose not to reveal to him that it had not even been her idea. She was still feeling remarkably calm.

"Maybe you did this," she said, "because it was easier for you not to try to be with me."

His eyes darkened. He turned away. "It was not easy," he said.

Her heart lightened at his words, and she took note of her body's response to him without shame. She was past all that now.

"You did want me?" Her voice was tremulous.

"More than I've ever wanted anything," he said in a monotone, staring out the window.

She was almost giddy now. "So it's possible…that you do love me? A little?"

The question hung in the air between them; she almost regretted asking it.

"Love and want are two different things," he said finally. His shoulders were hunched and he looked dejected.

They sat silently for a while, listening to the rain.

He turned to her. "Enough." He got to his feet and took her hand to lift her off the bed. "I'm taking you home."

She should have been depressed, but she was not. For the first time she felt a glimmer of hope.