Chapter Three
After watching Serena being loaded into an ambulance last year, Nate swore to himself that he'd never want to be in the same position again. But here he was … only this time the situation was twice as dire as the one before.
One of the paramedics – his name was Matthew, he vaguely recalled – was taking Chuck's blood pressure. And frowning at the results. It certainly did Nate's blood pressure no favours.
The ambulance rocked as it took a quick turn; Nate grabbed his seat for support, but his eyes were still on the activity around Chuck. The harsh fluorescent light made everything in the ambulance too bright, too clear and too difficult to downplay … like how Chuck was sick, really sick, and possibly dying. He shook his head violently at the thought, and ran a nervous hand through his dishevelled hair.
Chuck looked even ghostlier than he did in the apartment. His oxygen mask misted with the tempo of his too-quick breaths, and he did not react when Matthew inserted an IV needle into a vein in the back of his left hand. Nate turned away and tightened the grip he had on Chuck's other hand.
"Do you know what's wrong with him?" he asked hesitantly.
Matthew exchanged a cautious look with his partner. His name was Peter – so said his name tag.
"It's not up to us to speculate, but I'm pretty sure we're dealing with late secondary infection here," said Matthew.
He threw a puzzled glance at Peter.
"It's rare, but this being New York, we've seen enough gunshot wounds to see it happening often enough to recognise the signs," Peter said, frowning darkly.
"But … But he was shot months ago."
Matthew nodded as if he sympathised with his disbelief. "A lot of things can go wrong after a gunshot wound. Abscesses could form, shrapnel could've been left behind in his body and these things often bring in foreign matter ..." Matthew trailed off when he saw the panic clouding his eyes. "Look, your friend is in good hands now. We're almost at Mercy's," he said.
Nate nodded stiffly and returned his gaze to the still, pale face of his best friend. He still had a hard time digesting the fact that Chuck had suffered a gunshot wound. Shot? Months ago? Which meant … it must have happened while he was in Prague.
It explained Chuck's long communication silence – nobody heard from him for a month after he left New York. Not an e-mail, or a text message, let alone a call. Nate was worried enough to watch Gossip Girl like a hawk, hoping that some socialite had snapped a picture of him in Europe. But no such luck.
Lily had gotten worried enough to do something, but just as she was about to hire a private investigator, Chuck sent a brief, terse message about Bass Industries, and Lily calmed down again. And Nate had been mad about Chuck's indifferent attitude, and more than a little fed up about how he would just go missing whenever he had some emotional crisis, not caring if he left behind people who were worried sick about him.
Now, Nate wondered if he had sent that message from a hospital bed.
He probably did.
He closed his eyes, and the image of Chuck lying helpless in a bed in some strange hospital came unbidden to his mind.
What the hell was he thinking keeping this away from all of them?
Just then, he felt Chuck's hand stir feebly in his grip.
And saw Chuck watching him with glazed eyes.
"Chuck?" he whispered hopefully.
His eyes, while still unfocused and bright with fever, seemed to hold some recognition.
"Nath..." it was barely a whisper. The oxygen mask muffled his voice even further, making it more difficult to hear him.
"Hey, don't talk, okay? You've got to rest."
Chuck looked blearily around him.
"Where am I?"
"You're in an ambulance."
Chuck frowned, removed his hand from his grip and reached for the oxygen mask.
"Hey, don't. You need this," Nate quickly stopped him – it was far too easy to do – and placed his hand on his chest.
Suddenly, Chuck's eyes widened. "Blair. Blair! Did they take her?" He tried to rise, but could only lift his head a fraction.
"No, no … Blair's fine. She's going to meet us at the hospital," Nate said and squeezed his hand in reassurance.
He looked relieved for a moment, but the worry quickly returned. "They took her ring. I couldn't find it," he said anxiously.
More delirious ramblings.
"She has plenty of rings where that came from, Chuck. You can buy her a thousand more."
"No ... no," Chuck insisted breathlessly. "I was supposed … to give it to her." He drew a laboured breath.
Was Chuck saying what he thinks he's saying?
"You were going to propose to her," Nate said quietly.
And Nate realised, to his dismay that Chuck's eyes were wet with tears. Peter saw it too; he shook his head and gave Nate a disapproving look: Don't upset him, it said.
"Hey. Come on, man. You're gonna be okay..." he didn't know what else to say.
What happened between Blair and Chuck was so fucked up he had no words for it. When he first found out about the Indecent Proposal deal, he had been enraged. Chuck had ruined the best thing that had ever happened to him in his life, and worse, he had nearly damaged Blair beyond repair. What the hell was he thinking?
But after returning from Paris, Chuck carried a haunted look in his eyes that Nate couldn't understand. But now, knowing what he knew, he realised that it was the look a man wore when he saw death face to face. The kind of look you get when you realised that life was more precious than you think, and that you desperately wanted to live, but the problem was that you've screwed it up so badly you have no idea how live it.
"Nathaniel," Chuck whispered again, this time looking at him with eyes so full of determination that it surprised Nate into silence for a while.
"What is it, buddy?" he said softly.
Chuck dragged another laboured breath.
"Please … take care of her," he said weakly, curling his fingers around his. There was no doubt who "her" was. Another strained breath.
But Nate shook his head vehemently. "Don't talk like that. You're going to be fine," he said firmly.
Chuck shook his head weakly and made several attempts to say something, but all that came out was a strangled gasp. The effort seemed to tire him out; his eyes slid close as he took another laboured breath.
It shook him to the core to see Chuck struggling like that … there was something final, something desperate about the way he fought so hard.
No! Chuck is going to be fine! He thought frantically.
"Chuck, don't talk. Please," Nate said in a trembling voice.
This time, Chuck actually listened to his plea. He opened his eyes to rest his gaze on Nate. There was something in his eyes that Nate didn't like. Something that made his heart race in panic and fear … he watched in rising panic as Chuck's breaths became shallower and slower. Then, his eyelids fell, then flickered open again, and fell …
Several things happened at once right after that. Chuck's hand went limp in his grip. And the monitors started shrieking.
Stunned, Nate could only stare at Chuck's pale face, wondering what had gone wrong. Matthew shone a light in one eye, shouting, "Can you hear me?"
This can't be happening.
He watched the paramedics work on him through a veil of tears.
He was not going to watch his best friend die in this white, boxy vehicle. Because it just didn't happen to people like him. Or people like Chuck.
It shouldn't, but yet it was.
"He's going into shock!" he heard one paramedic say.
This can't be happening.
GG – GG – GG
A while later, he stumbled out of the ambulance, watching in disbelief as the paramedics were greeted by a gaggle of nurses and doctors at the emergency room. They made it clear that he was in the way, and that he should wait outside, and like a good little shell-shocked robot, he did go outside. His legs refused to support him, so he slid down the wall and sat, slumped, on the floor.