A/N And we're back in the game!!! I'm guessing I'm not the only one who was in serious withdrawal during the sites "mid-season hiatus" (haha)
Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, favourited and put this on alert. You guys make me smile! Thank you!
and a huge thank you to my amazing beta Abby, who worked her magic on this Frankenstein of a chapter!!! :)
Flashbacks are in italics
I would love to know what you guys think of this one!
(de nouveaux amis et d'anciens amants = new friends and former lovers)
There had been photographers - paparazzi to be exact – outside the police station. Her phone was ringing constantly as she closed the door to her apartment; her answering machine already full. She disconnected the phone and turned her cell phone off before heading for the kitchen. She began emptying out the entire contents of her fridge, only to stick her fingers down her throat ten minutes later when the guilt and the self loathing became overwhelming.
Horrified by her own behaviour, she retreated to the sanctuary of her bedroom with her new best friends: Monsieur Dom Pérignon and Madame Sauvignon Blanc. There is a limit to how low she will allow herself to stoop – even now – and to fall back into old habits is well past that limit.
Some time during the night she decided to change her outfit, rummaging through her entire closet in a drunken haze before settling for a navy, floor length Valentino. In her own drunken opinion, it was a marvellous tribute to Holly Golightly. She tells herself that if she is going to be unemployed, a former mistress, and in trouble with the law, then at least she should do it with style and class like Audrey Hepburn. Happy with her new outfit, she ended up using the last drops of her bottle of wine to swallow two sparkling white sleeping pills.
It was not to end her own misery terminally – no, absolutely not – wouldn't a suicide splashed all over the papers be the icing on the cake of her social destruction? She just needed to sleep; she desperately craved to sink into a deep and dreamless sleep, and she did just that.
Now she is awake, the sunlight seeping through her curtains telling her that it is now morning and a new day. She doesn't care, though, and barely notices because she is busy floating on a cloud of blissful intoxication - stretched out on her bedroom floor, surrounded by disregarded pieces of clothing, completely carefree. Dresses, skirts and tops lay in heaps all over the room, jewellery in piles, sparkling in the rays of sunlight dancing around the room.
Relishing in her numb, disconnected state, she scowls as a sound she can not quite place interrupts her pleasant daze. Slowly working herself into an upright position she fumbles after her glass, and with drunken precision pours herself a glass of champagne.
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
He steps out of the limo and looks up at the old, white building basking in the sunlight. The way he slams the car door shut is the only indication to the battle raging inside of him; it is the only thing contradicting the indifferent, calm mask he is hiding behind.
He has spent the entire night lying wide awake, staring at the ceiling, and trying to convince himself that there is absolutely no need for him to do anything more. He got her out of there, surely that must be enough.
If she would answer her phone, the answer would be yes; unfortunately that is not the case. It was the images of how she could possibly be handling her latest experiences that kept him from sleeping, and instead had him twisting and turning for hours.
He is seething and pacing impatiently around the small compartment as he takes the elevator to her floor. He feels more than a little hesitant and is close to slamming his fist in the wall from pure frustration as his heart rate increases from the mere thought of ringing her door bell.
He tells himself that he is being a fool and shakes his hand, before pressing his thumb against the small, silvery button.
He is waiting, listening attentively to try and pick up on any noise coming from inside the apartment, and pacing impatiently in the hallway when there is no reaction. He then rings her door bell again. Finally there is a thud behind the closed door, a click in the lock, and then the door slowly swings open.
Seeing her is like being sucker punched or getting a bucket of ice cold water emptied over his head. It leaves him completely floored for a second or two, unable to speak or move; all he can do is look at her.
She looks exactly the same.
A rush of memories, long ago stored away in the back of his mind, suddenly come flashing before his eyes in full colour.
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
She stumbles out of the bedroom, slowly making her way to the front door after recognizing the sound as her door bell. Still clutching the champagne flute in her fingers, she is sipping some champagne as she walks. Tripping on the hemline of her dress, she stumbles into the wall next to the door, banging her forehead in the wall, but somehow managing to maintain a grip on her precious drink.
She slowly unlocks the door and opens it. She realizes that she should have probably looked through the peep hole to make sure it is not a journalist or paparazzi, but she is too intoxicated to have remembered.
The sight awaiting her outside her door is as effective at sobering her up as a freezing cold shower. As she spots him, standing outside her door, dressed in a dark suit and a purple shirt, all she can think is that he looks exactly the same.
She doesn't like to admit it to herself, but she has been thinking about what it would be like to meet him again more than once over the years. Wondering when it would happen, knowing it was bound to sooner or later. Wondering how it would feel, what she would say.
What exactly do you say to the person you hate more than anything now, because you loved him more than anyone before - and he fucked you over?
She has thought about it, but nothing could have prepared her for the wave of emotion that rushes through her system as the memories she has locked away come rushing back.
They haven't seen each other in six years, and the irony of the situation is overpowering. Just when she thought that things couldn't get any worse, he shows up on her doorstep. She doesn't want him there, and she certainly doesn't want him to see her like this. Never, ever did she imagine their reunion taking place under circumstances like this.
It cannot be happening.
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
She is a mess.
That is the first thought that crosses his mind once he regains some kind of control over his own thoughts. She is wearing a floor length dress with a plunging neckline, her makeup is smudged and the lipstick she is wearing is smeared. She is standing - leaning heavily against the doorpost, clutching a champagne flute.
Her eyes are blank and empty, and she is looking at him dumbfounded, staring at him for what seems like an eternity. Then she starts laughing.
It is a hollow, manic laugh that sends chills down his spine. The uncontrolled, high-pitched sound echoes in the stairwell, causing her to bend over and gasp for air from its intensity.
"You might want to lay off the drinks" He points out harshly, as he moves past her and steps into her apartment.
Her laughter dies out, and as she straightens up unsteadily, her detached and glassy eyes have a hint of contempt in them.
"What are you doing here?"
"Serena wanted me to see how you were doing."
"Aw, the unconditional sibling-love" She spits, poison in her voice and in her eyes "I am perfectly fine, thank you," Her last words come out in a sneer.
"I can tell…" He retorts expressionlessly before continuing with the same venom lacing his words. "…The trashy call girl-look doesn't look that great on you."
"Go to hell."
"I did, they wouldn't let me in." His answer is clipped and without the humorous tone and suggestive smirk that would normally be accompanying it.
The quick reply causes her lips to curl in distaste.
"Funny….the Devil rejecting his own spawn…" She drawls, her voice reeking with disdain, and her eyes shooting daggers as she knocks her glass back and empties it "…now why does that sound so very familiar?"
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
He had been drinking for hours, desperately downing glass after glass because without her there with him, drinking was his only way to escape that hellish day. It had been a year, one year to the day, since his world was altered and all the air got sucked out of his lungs with one, simple sentence:
'I am sorry…we did everything we could…'
One year ago. And the pain it brought caught him by surprise. He hadn't expected it - he hadn't been prepared for the overwhelming emotion - and didn't know how to handle it. So he drank himself senseless, doing everything in his power to become numb as he waited for the day to be over.
It was late in the afternoon and he was slumped down on his couch. He kept his eyes open even though the room was spinning around him, simply because every time he closed his eyes the darkness became overbearing, and allowed thoughts and memories he couldn't bear to deal with to sneak up on him and take over his mind.
Swirling the liquid around in his tumbler with unsteady hands, the amber liquid spilled over the rim of the glass from time to time and stained his shirt. The room was spinning more and more with every drop he consumed and his head had begun to pound - but still he wasn't done; he was determined not to stop until he passed out.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door and the sound echoed through his intoxicated brain. Ignoring whoever was standing outside, he knocked the glass back and poured the last drops of scotch down his throat, savouring the burning sensation as it momentarily washed away the pain. When the person at the door knocked again he scowled drunkenly, as he struggled to move himself in an upright position.
"Fuck off" He growled with a waving motion of his hand and lost his grip of the tumbler, sending it down to shatter against the wooden floor.
When there was no response - and the knocking continued - he got to his feet slowly, pausing for a brief moment when the spinning walls picked up speed.
Leaning heavily against the doorpost he tried to open the door, when the unmistakable sound of a key being inserted into the lock– unlocking the door - was heard and broke the silence of the room.
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
She had had an important lecture that just couldn't be ignored, but headed for Harvard as soon as they were done. When she knocked at his door and only got a drunken 'fuck off' and the sound of glass breaking in response, she got more than a little worried. Quickly rummaging through her bag, she then unlocked his door with the spare key.
She thought he might think that he wanted to be left alone, but believed she knew better.
As she pushed the door open he was the first thing that she saw, standing right beside the door and leaning against the frame: shirt wrinkled, hair dishevelled and legs unsteady. The look in his eyes sent chills down her spine.
It had been a little less than a year since she had seen him that drunk, and she hadn't seen that bottomless, aching, grief during that time either. Hadn't seen it since that day when she and Serena knocked on the door of 1812 and found him drunk out of his mind.
It took a second or two before he registered who she was.
"Blair?" His voice was hoarse and laced with pain as he looked at her disbelievingly.
Stepping inside his room she simply pulled him into her arms, holding on to him tightly, and enabling him to bury his face in the crock of her neck. She felt the tension of his shoulders and could smell the alcohol on his breath.
"I am sorry I took so long." She whispered softly as he put his arms around her waist to pull her closer and let out a deep, tired sigh. His breath hot against her skin.
"I didn't want to think…" He whispered, explaining his current state, then pleaded to her "…make it go away."
She then slammed the door shut with her foot and pressed her lips against his, unbuttoning her coat as he stumbled backwards, pulling her with him. With her coat in a heap on the floor she began working on his shirt, their kiss deepening as he sat down on the bed and reached out for her, his hands disappearing underneath her skirt.
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
He hadn't seen her in weeks, not since that day when she had showed up and made sure to keep his mind off anything and everything besides the feel of her skin against his. She had spent Christmas and New Years in France with her father and Roman, excited to get to spend Christmas with her father, without risking disappointment and cancelled flights.
He had been busy too. After spending Christmas with the van der Woodsens in the Hamptons, he and Nate had spent New Years in the city. He had contemplated taking the jet and heading off to France just to get to see her for New Years, but an important business meeting that required his presence shortly afterwards had made his plans impossible.
Normally being back in school after the holidays would have been tedious to say the least, but with missing her and not being able to get a hold of her, being back at Harvard was a plague. They had barely spoken all week, he had been occupied with his half hearted attempts to catch up on school work after being away on business, and she had been strangely distant.
Dialing her number for the third time that day he cursed through clenched teeth as his call went straight to voicemail.
"Blair, listen, I don't know what is going on..." He sighed, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in his gut "…but I am going to New York on business and I am coming to see you on my way there. Call me back."
A few hours later he knocked at the door of her dorm room, shoving his hands in his pockets and resisting the urge to tap his foot impatiently before she finally opened her door.
"Chuck?" The lack of happiness and excitement in her voice didn't do anything to ease his worries. "What are you doing here?"
Stepping inside, he leaned in and kissed her, fear rushing through his system as she barely kissed him back. The distant look in her eyes is told him he had been right in worrying and he just wanted to shake some emotion back into her.
"I tried calling you…" He explained "…but you wouldn't answer your phone or call me back," The worry and confusion evident in his voice. "What is wrong, Blair? Did I do something?"
"No, you have done nothing…wrong." She trailed off and diverted her gaze, fidgeting with the cuff of her blouse.
"Blair?"
"I have got to finish some things here…" She said, looking back up at him, and then offered him a frail smile "Could you meet me at Starbucks in a little while?"
"Sure" He replied, the look on her face ruled out any objections or comments about waiting for her right there in her room.
He swallowed hard to rid himself of the tightening feeling in his throat, before he spoke again. "I am on my way to New York, but I have an hour or two."
There was no joke about how much 'quality time' they could squeeze in during that limited amount of time, no attempt on his side to move this discussion to her bed, because the distance in her eyes left the words stuck in his throat.
"Okay," She nodded, visibly relieved. "Good."
And before he knew it, he was standing in an empty hallway staring at her closed door.
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
He sat in an old armchair in the busy café, drinking coffee and wishing it was 'irished', when she walked through the door. He eyed her thoughtfully as she ordered a coffee, paid, and waited for her order without really looking at him. The butterflies fluttered as much as always, but then it just felt as if their wings were made out of shattered glass.
He got to his feet as she walked up to him, and managed to steal another quick kiss before they sat down but the uneasy feeling inside of him wouldn't budge. Once they were seated she sipped her drink without saying anything, he gave her a moment and then interrupted her silence.
"So, are you going to tell me what is wrong?"
The question came out in a much harsher tone than planned and he cringed within as she stiffened noticeably before his eyes. She didn't look back at him as he spoke but sat in silence for a while, twisting her ruby ring around her finger.
"I am late." She spoke so quietly he could barely register what she was saying over the buzz in the busy café. Locking her fingers around her mug, she took another sip.
The first thought that ran through his head was that they didn't set a specific time, and he opened his mouth to point that out to her when it dawned on him. Looking over to her, he urged her to continue without words.
"I haven't…" She trailed off, still fidgeting with her ring "…taken a test yet…" Finally she looked up at him, the worry and hesitation visible in her eyes "But I am late…really late."
He sat up straighter, not saying a word as her words raced through his mind, sending shock waves through his brain and echoing in his chest.
Shock and surprise petered out to disbelief. Disbelief petered out to an ounce of strange pride and a tiny shrill of joy. Then it all got washed away as a tidal wave of fear and blinding panic came flowing through his mind, taking over.
He couldn't understand where it came from, and as he spoke again there was a part of him that couldn't believe the words that were coming out of his mouth;
"Is it mine?"
She was clearly startled by his words, and looked back at him - eyes wide with surprise and disbelief – as the fingers still fidgeting with the ruby ring on her finger came to an immediate halt.
"What?" Her voice was a hollow, barely there whisper as she looked at him with a slight crease on her forehead.
"I said, is it mine?" He repeated - and the part of him that was horrified at his words screamed at him to shut up, not to say another word. But the flowing panic deafened everything. "We haven't exactly been around each other much lately."
He could tell the exact moment when she put her walls up. The surprise and disbelief in her eyes disappeared, only to be replaced with the cool stare belonging to her ice queen mask. Picking up her bag, she got to her feet without another word.
Then – still not saying anything– she turned around and walked away.
He didn't run after her. The sound of the door closing behind her dried up the remains of panic, and left him empty and frozen to the spot, staring blankly into thin air.
When his driver called half an hour later he still sat in the same position as when she left. The coffee in the mug on the table in front of him just as cold and dark as he felt on the inside.
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
"Watch it" He growls, some of the old feelings seeping through his mask and into his voice as she reminds him of that day when it all began to spiral out of control. His comment earns him nothing more than a haughtily raised eyebrow.
"Go to hell. I don't want you here," she repeats with a scowl, slurring a little on her words.
"I guess that makes us even, because I don't want to be here."
"Get the fuck out!" She hisses, motioning him to leave with her hand.
She turns around to walk away, but stumbles and nearly falls flat on her face, only saved from plummeting to the floor by a quick move on his part as he leaps forward and manages to get a hold of her. One arm firmly around her waist, the other one catches a hold of her hand - the one close to dropping the champagne flute.
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
The room is spinning and she is close to ending up in a pile on the floor, but then she feels his arm around her waist and his strong hand around her trembling one.
"Careful, Waldorf." His voice doesn't sound nearly as venomous as earlier. The words are coming out in a low, concerned - to her extreme unnerving - tone. "Are you okay?"
Is she okay? Her world has fallen apart, and now he is here. His concerned tone combined with the all too familiar feeling of his arm around her waist, his chest pressing against her back, is too much.
She is the furthest from okay she has ever been.
"Let go of me," she whispers, desperately trying to regain control over her feelings and the situation.
"Are you okay?" He repeats, as if she didn't hear him asking her earlier.
Steadying herself in his arms, she turns around, shrugging away from his touch without saying anything in response or even looking at him.
She finds herself tensing up as he doesn't loosen his grip around her wrist when she tries to turn and walk away. Suddenly panicking, she needs him to go away and allow her to sink back into her peaceful, unfeeling state of mind.
"Let go of me!" She repeats, trying to ease her wrist out of his grip.
Looking him straight in the eyes with the intention of giving him a taste of her death stare, she immediately realizes that it was a mistake – a big mistake. His brown eyes are looking straight down at her in concern, a small frown on his face as he is obviously trying to decide whether or not to let her go.
She can feel tears starting to burn at the corners of her eyes, horrified as one escapes and slides down her cheek. There is nothing she wants less than being vulnerable in front of him. The realization that she is about to lose control sends her into panic mode.
"I said, let go of me!" She yells, slamming her fist in his chest, gasping as he pulls her closer to prevent both of them to fall over and end up on the floor.
"Calm down," he commands, furrowing his brows further.
"No! I said let go!" She spits back. "You don't get to do this!" She continues on, close to sobbing now, frantically trying to prevent the tears filling up her eyes from falling. "You don't get to show up like this!"
As she speaks, she is slamming her fist into his chest repeatedly, marking each of her words with a punch.
"You do not get to try and be the hero after everything you have done to me! I don't need your help, you asshole!" She cries out, trying to wriggle herself free, irresolute as he just stands there - not reacting to her abuse - and simply holds onto her wrist to keep her from falling. She is struggling with keeping her balance.
"You can't do this…" Her voice breaks and she chokes on a sob, her free hand coming to a stop, resting with its palm open on his chest. "I can't…"
Losing her battle against the tears, she breaks out sobbing, gripping at the cotton of his shirt.
Burying her face against his chest, no longer caring about whom he is or what he has done, as her tears starts pouring down her cheeks, needing something - someone - to hold on to.
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
I should have let her go when she asked me to, he thinks as he stands there wanting nothing more than to move away from her touch, away from her.
A waft of her perfume invades his senses, leaving him light headed and with a tightness in his chest that makes it difficult to breathe. It is a scent that is so firmly related to everything her - and them – in his mind that he can no longer stand it. He once left a date standing on her doorstep because she used the same perfume and it completely floored him. He got completely wasted at that benefit and ended up passing out on Al's couch.
Even though he is feeling as if he is gasping for air, he forces his arm to move and position itself around her trembling frame, pulling her closer to his chest.
He doesn't know how long it takes, but after a while her sobs dies out and she starts to relax in his arms. Realizing she is close to passing out, exhausted from crying as well as from the alcohol, he takes her in his arms and carries her in the direction of what he assumes to be her bedroom. He curses fierily on the inside as she slides her arm around his neck habitually and buries her face in the crock of his neck.
She is passed out as he steps into her bedroom, shaken by the sight awaiting him there. It looks as if a fashion tornado has struck the small bedroom, with its cream coloured walls and big, old-fashioned bed. Clothes and accessories lay all over the tiny space, forcing him to tread carefully between the piles on the floor.
Putting her down on the bed, he pulls a blanket over her sleeping frame before getting to work.
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
It is not until he steps back out on the street that he notices his absolute exhaustion. His chest is aching both from her unkind treatment and from the tightness caused by simply being around her.
Adding these last hours to his list of regrets, he gets into the waiting limo and the vehicle starts heading for the airport. He is leaning his head back against the head rest and letting out a tired sigh as his phone starts ringing in his breast pocket.
"Hello?"
"I just heard about Blair, are you still in Paris?" Serena's worried voice comes on the other end of the line.
"Well, it's good to hear your voice too, sis," he snorts tiredly, pressing at the inside corners of his eyes with his thumb and index finger.
"Cut it out Chuck. I am worried about her." Serena retorts and he can picture the frown on her forehead easily.
"Could you go and check on her for me? Please?" She pleads and normally he would do whatever she asks of him in a heartbeat, but this time he wants nothing more than to forget that the last hours of his life ever happened.
"Don't worry about it," he tells her, "I took care of it."
"I didn't ask you to 'take care of it' by calling your pompous attorneys or your stupid PI!" Serena exclaims, obviously upset with his reply. "I am asking you to go and see if she is alright; be her friend."
"She doesn't want me as her friend," he snaps, not bothering with telling her the truth and doing his best to ignore the tight feeling returning to his chest. He can tell that Serena is about to object, so he interrupts her before she gets the chance.
"Look, I took care of it, okay? I have got to go, I am boarding the jet." He lies effortlessly, pushes the red button quickly, and puts his phone back in his pocket without waiting for Serena's reply.
He pours himself a drink, downing it in one go, in a futile attempt to ease the still present tightness in his chest. Then he refills his glass and leans back against the seat once again as the car moves through the busy Parisian traffic.
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*