Author's note: Thanks so much for the reviews, guys! Please keep them coming, they make me happy. :)

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Chapter Twenty-Two: The Tempest

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I am not yours, not lost in you,

Not lost, although I long to be

Lost as a candle lit at noon,

Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

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You love me, and I find you still

A spirit beautiful and bright,

Yet I am I, who long to be

Lost as a light is lost in light.

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Oh plunge me deep in love, put out

My senses, leave me deaf and blind,

Swept by the tempest of your love,

A taper in a rushing wind.

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Sara Teasdale, I Am Not Yours

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Blair had sat very still on the stone bench for an hour, her cheek resting on Chuck's shoulder, concentrating with all her might on the sound of his heartbeat through his wool coat—the slight rise and fall, the sound of his steady breathing. She had a strange notion the world might come to an end if she disturbed the rhythm of his heart beating against her skin. So she stayed perfectly still, though the position was becoming very uncomfortable and her neck muscles were straining.

Any second now, she feared, he'll get bored—or restless—and he'll move. And she silently prayed that he wouldn't, and thanked god every minute that ticked by that he remained by her side.

She held the damaged blue flowers quietly in her lap and smiled down at them; and Chuck watched her do so for a while and then remarked,

"You're ruining your gloves."

Her gloves were of expensive suede, and the hyacinths were dripping street water onto them. She didn't really mind.

"Aren't they your mother's gloves?" he asked in an unusually gentle voice.

It was just like Chuck to notice a thing like that.

"They're from her collection," replied Blair.

And without another word Chuck unfastened the buttons at her wrists, removed the gloves from her hands and drew out a pair of his own gloves from his pocket. Blair allowed him to pull the new gloves onto her hands for her, and then he placed her mother's gloves safely in her purse and sat back with his arm around her once more.

She thought giddily that she could happily stay there for all eternity, with his arm wrapped around her and her head resting on his shoulder.

This is happiness, she thought. It has nothing to do with Yale, or with being Queen Bee, or with outshining Serena, or with impressing my mother, or anything else that I thought happiness consisted of.

Blair Waldorf, the most needy, insecure, high maintenance socialite the Upper East Side had ever seen, only needed a boy named Chuck to buy her flowers and sit next to her on a park bench in order to be happy. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

Maybe that's all that happiness is, she thought hazily. A few brief moments during which everything seems hopeful and it all falls into place the way it was meant to—and I only feel it so intensely because I know it's going to end any second.

Suddenly the bell rang, signaling that the first period was over; students of AP French began to spill out into the courtyard from the door of Blair's classroom.

Blair and Chuck sat there still, but it was beginning to rain; a thick fog had gathered around the courtyard and the drizzle had begun to seep through Blair's coat and make her shiver. Her hair was dripping—her perfect curls were now lank and damp, and dead, slimy wet leaves clung to her dress and her shoes. She huddled closer to Chuck for warmth and cursed the weather and the ringing of the bell.

"Let's get out of here," said Blair; the jarring clang of the bell had ruined her perfect moment.

"Where would you like to go?" asked Chuck.

"Anywhere," she replied. "Somewhere dry."

"Alright," he stood up. "I have an idea."

"What?" she asked, rubbing her sore neck.

"You'll see," he said as he buttoned his beige raincoat.

She followed him out the school courtyard to the street, glancing surreptitiously up at his profile every few steps. His eyes were dark and brooding, as they almost always were, but a small, sardonic smile had twisted the corners of his mouth; it was the wry smile, she knew, he always wore when he was truly pleased or amused by something—enough so for his own reaction to surprise him.

He placed his hand carefully on her elbow to guide her; she had hoped he would take her hand instead but she appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

She felt the warmth from his hand spreading through her arm, radiating up and down her body.

They had reached Chuck's limo. He opened the door for her; she shot him a questioning glance that went unanswered, and then waited inside while he whispered directions to the driver.

She waited for him to return and sit down next to her, and finally he did. She wished she could lean across the leather seating that separated her from him but he had gone suddenly stiff, and was staring out the window—and it did not seem right.

"What is it?" she asked timidly.

He seemed to hesitate for a moment and then turned back to her. "Judging from his reaction yesterday," he said, and his jaw was set stubbornly, "I'd say Nate really has feelings for you. Again."

Blair sighed. "I didn't think he ever did. Not really."

"No," Chuck disagreed in a surly tone, "I'm sure he did, towards the end, before he found out about…us."

"That was so long ago," protested Blair weakly. "It's in the past. It's ancient history."

"The past isn't dead and buried. In fact, it isn't even past," Chuck declaimed as he loosened his tie, and uncomfortable though he seemed, his sardonic smile flashed in the dark limo—he was seemingly amused by his own wittiness.

"Don't quote Barack Obama at me," Blair said angrily.

"I'm quoting Faulkner, actually," replied Chuck in a smug tone. "Obama rephrased the same line in a speech once, but it was originally Faulkner's."

"Who cares?" Blair threw her hands up in the air.

Chuck reached into his pocket and drew out a cigar and a box of matches. "I hate it when people misattribute," he said as he lit up.

"What's your point?" she asked, annoyed.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You're asking me to explain the quote?" he asked. "I'd expect little Miss Waldorf the valedictorian to have brains enough to—"

"I got it," she said sharply. "I just don't get why we're having an unpleasant conversation about Nate. Again."

"Don't you need to figure out what you're going to do with him?" Chuck asked.

"It's not a problem right now."

"He assaulted me yesterday," said Chuck. "I call that a problem."

Blair merely folded her arms across her chest and said nothing.

"Or, you know, we could wait until he kills me," Chuck went on blithely. "That seems like the most reasonable course of action. A quick, sudden death sounds like just about what the doctor ordered right now. You'd help arrange the funeral, right Blair? I want it to be as long and boring as possible—get a priest who is willing to read an unbelievably long-winded sermon, and I want some tearful speeches from my friends—"

"What friends?" Blair interrupted acidly.

"And then I want some creepy organ music in the background," Chuck continued, "and it has to take place in a particularly bleak-looking cemetery on a rainy day. You'll help put this together, right Blair?"

"Anything I can do, Chuck," Blair replied in a falsely sweet voice. "I can't pass up the opportunity to wear black, it looks really good on me."

"Excellent," Chuck said, "and if it turns out as dreadful as I would like it to be, by the end of it all the people there who hated me while I was alive will feel deeply uncomfortable and guilty."

"Well, that's certainly something to aspire for," snorted Blair.

"It is," Chuck asserted as he blew out a puff of smoke from his cigar. "Not that many people get the opportunity to reach out beyond the grave to mess with their enemies."

Blair rolled her eyes. "He's not going to kill you," she said. "There's no need to be so melodramatic."

"He's not going to stand quietly by," he said in a suddenly serious tone, "while he thinks he's losing you."

Blair turned back to him and her eyes flashed. "Then I'll tell him that it's over," she said harshly. "Is that what you want?"

Chuck said nothing.

"What do you want me to tell him?"

Chuck looked out the window. "I don't know," he said.

"I think you only brought this up," began Blair slowly, "because you wanted to ruin it."

He turned back to look at her, an oddly vulnerable look in his eyes.

"We were having a moment," Blair stated, "and you just had to ruin it."

Chuck opened his mouth to speak. "Nate—"

"Stop talking about Nate," Blair said furiously. "Don't we have more important things to talk about? Why do you keep bringing him up?"

"I think I'm—" Chuck hesitated. "I think I'm stalling."

His hand that was holding the cigar was shaking a bit and he looked nervous; Blair's eyes softened. She reached forward to brush his hair out of his eyes, and he held very still until she was finished.

"We'll have plenty of time to figure out the Nate situation," she said. "For now, let's just enjoy the day—alright?"

Chuck nodded.

The limo rolled to a stop.

"We're here," he said, a small smile twisting up the corners of his mouth once more.

Blair stepped out of the limo, her heels tapping a light staccato against the concrete. They were in an alley in Greenwich Village, and in front of her was a musty, old-fashioned little movie theater.

"They play old movies," said Chuck from behind her, "classic, black-and-white, '40s and '50s era mostly—the kind you like best."

Blair squealed in delight and threw her arms around Chuck; he chuckled a bit at her reaction.

"And," he added, "I'm pretty sure they show Breakfast At Tiffany's at least once a week." He smiled down at her, almost shyly.

She suddenly felt she couldn't resist the urge, and she bent forward to kiss him; he was startled, but he didn't pull away.

She rested her fingers against the pulse in his neck while he kissed her; it was beating erratically, and that gave her a special thrill, to know that she affected him.

When the kiss ended she had to stand very still for a moment because it felt as though the world was spinning dizzily around her.

He cupped her cheek lightly with his hand and pushed up her chin so she would look directly into his eyes.

He smiled again, this time fully.

"Let's go inside," he said, and she followed him through the front door, slipping her hand into his.