A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you to all those who have read and reviewed so far! I'm deeply appreciative and hope to keep earning your readership!
i.
"How is she?"
"I… I don't know how to answer that."
His eyes shift upward, not looking at anything. A small shiver touches his spine, but he pushes down the images that keep rising, have been rising, unbidden, all day- beeping monitors and blood trickling from the side of her mouth and dilated pupils- "What do you mean? Is she worse?"
"Not physically, no. Her temperature is where it should be now. She's not shaking anymore, but she's in a lot of pain, which apparently is normal. Her muscles will be sore for a few days from the contractions. And she finally got to shower, which helped, at least temporarily. It seemed to make her feel better."
He breathes out.
He hears Serena breathe in sharply, and almost smiles at the way her golden warmth contrasts with his dark steadiness. The flighty angel and the practical mastermind. Down to their breathing, apparently, the way they handle crisis is entirely complementary.
Her voice is quiet. "Have you ever heard of a rape kit before today?"
"No."
"It's… it's the worst thing I've ever seen." She wavers. "Chuck, she's… I told her I'd stay with her, but I'm about to lose it and cry my eyes out."
He checks his watch. He's back in his room at The Palace, having just showered himself, hair damp and clad in socks, trousers and undershirt, looking for the sweater he wants to wear.
"I'll be back there within the hour. Can you hold it together for that long?" The sweater isn't in its usual spot in his gradient closet line-up. He pivots, surveying the rest of the rack for the gray cashmere.
He shouldn't care what he looks like right now. He knows that.
"Yes." But it doesn't sound like yes. "I want to stay, but I c… she's…"
Ordinarily he would find this irritating, but he understands.
"I know," he tells her.
"She's tired," Serena comments needlessly, and she knows it's needless. "She might go to sleep soon."
Black cashmere, green cashmere, blue alpaca, white wool with red stripes- "Did you get ahold of her parents?"
A sigh. "Yes. I thought her mother was going to have a heart attack. She said she'd call her father, but they're either getting on a redeye from Paris or chartering a plane- she said they'd do whatever was faster. Her father is in the countryside and needs time to get to Paris. I'm not sure if the weather here is going to cause problems." She cuts off her rambling. "They're coming."
"Did you give any reason why no one called them sooner?" He thumbs through the hangers. She likes the gray one. It's tailored cable-knit.
She slips it on once, not bothering to ask, and the v-neckline framing her collarbone as she maneuvers over to share his pillow- him turning on his side to face her, hissing when she inserts, without hesitation, one cold foot between his ankles- is a memory he comes to spend hours trying to forget.
"I gave as little information as possible," Serena admits. "I don't want to be on the receiving end of Waldorf anger right now. I'm about to have a meltdown. I'm pathetic."
He finds it, at last- hung under a navy sport coat. "You're not pathetic," he tells her as he yanks it off its hanger with uncharacteristic carelessness. "You're her friend."
Eyes closing, a smile on her face, after the stillness of looking at one another, blinking in the half-light of a Manhattan without sun. "It's cold."
He smiles back. "Is that a command to warm you back up?"
Serena sighs. "I'm both."
"Does she need anything? Anything I should pick up?"
"No."
"No." A chuckle, still smiling. "Not like that- yet."
She clears her throat. "Her world back."
She brings her other foot against his and nudges herself against him, chest to chest, his own cashmere against his skin, settling her head beneath his chin.
"Like this."
He can't forget. And he doesn't, really, want to. "I'll see you soon."
ii.
Serena meets him in the hall, coming down the corridor the opposite direction. "I just went to find Chapstick and a hairbrush for her," she says by way of greeting. "Thank God they have them at the gift shop."
She twists all of her hair into one fist and pulls it over her shoulder, forehead wrinkling like she's fighting to keep calm.
"You okay?" he asks her.
She wasn't kidding about being close to a meltdown; the question nearly reduces her to tears.
There's a waiting area, uncomfortable green-upholstered chairs and a TV on mute, across the hall. They sit against the wall. It's dimly lit; this is a quiet corner of the hospital.
"Today, I learned how terrible I am in a crisis," Serena murmurs.
"I'm sure you did better than you think."
The words tumble out of her mouth as though a response to what he just said: "She had semen- he- she had traces of semen in her hair." She covers her face in both hands, voice warbling with tears. "Chuck, you have no idea…"
That too-familiar bile is in his throat. He fights for control.
Mechanically, he takes the bundle against his chest- a brand new robe from The Palace, which was all he could think of that might be useful and was procured without delaying his return to her- to the hospital- and places it on the empty chair next to him.
He reaches for Serena's shoulder, and she turns willingly toward him, dropping her head onto his own shoulder. The little bag from the gift shop shifts on her lap as she unexpectedly puts her arms around his torso, clasping them together against his back, under his coat. She holds onto him like he's the antidote for some black poison and draws a shaky breath.
His voice sounds foreign. "Did you see her leg?"
"I…" Her forehead rests on his coat. "I can't even talk about it. Her ribs- her side is turning this horrible purple color, like if you pricked her she'd just bleed everywhere."
"No one's going to prick her," he says firmly, and does not elaborate.
She rears back, slumped and pink-faced, hair a forgotten mess; she could use a brush herself.
"I was bad to her last night," she whispers again. "She… she doesn't seem angry at me, but it's my fault she was alone."
"It's not." Even firmer.
"You don't understand…"
"I do," he insists. "And it's not. This is not your fault. And it's not helping her to think that way."
She nods, but tears spill over again.
"What are we going to do?" she murmurs brokenly.
He takes a deep breath.
Mark Bar.
"I need the address of the bartender who was on duty last night."
He looks at Serena, golden Serena, good-girl-gone-bad-gone-good-again, beloved Serena, carefree and sensitive and beyond loving- full of love, overflowing with love, and an overwhelming sense of that most exquisite, cruel, taunting aspiration: hope.
"I don't know about you," he says, smooth as if he were offering her a drink, "but I plan on killing the guy."
She shuts her eyes, exasperated. Her mouth curls petulantly. "Chuck…"
"We can't exactly give that out."
"I understand it's unorthodox. I only want to speak to him. Just a few minutes of his time. I can make it worth his while."
A ghost of a smile settles on his face. Like he's teasing her. Flirting. "It's an eye for an eye."
She rolls her eyes. "She's not dead. Stop it."
"What for, exactly?"
"In probably a few hours, the NYPD will be knocking with the same questions. A friend of mine was assaulted last night, and it seems she might have met the guy here. I simply want to see what the bartender might remember."
"You said it yourself- her old world back. That can no longer exist while the guy is living." And as much as he wanted, last night, to find a way to undo what he did to her, his desire to avenge what it's led to is tenfold.
"You're not serious." The tears have stilled, stragglers tracking down her cheeks until they're spent. Her arms are still clasped around him, her face level with his, close enough to look- really look- in his eyes. She searches him, looking for proof that he's being sarcastic.
He has the manager's attention. "Why not leave it to them?"
"I don't intend to interfere. I want to speed up the search in any way I can. There's no time to lose. The assault happened nearly twelve hours ago already." Pause. With a hard swallow and a momentary lapse of composure: "If you could see the state she's in, you'd understand."
"I'd have to give him a call first and see if he's willing to speak to you."
"Tell him I'll meet him anywhere. And again- well worth his while."
He regards her for a long moment, and the smile turns into a smirk. "Of course not."
"Don't be so dramatic," she pleads. "That scares me."
"That's my nature," he says, with an apologetic tilt of the head to smooth her over. The sardonic expression she knows.
"I hate him." Her head finds its way back to his shoulder; vacantly he thinks of Humphrey, on whose wool-blend-bedecked shoulder this head belongs.
His hand comes up and pats her hair, somewhat awkwardly. Lingers on the back of her head, like it did to Blair earlier. It seemed to comfort her.
"Sure, I remember her. Two glasses of red."s"
"Do you remember anything about her leaving with someone? A man?"
"She left with someone she was talking to. It seemed like they knew each other."
"That's what you're going to do, then. You're going to hate him."
Pause.
"You might be surprised at how fulfilling you find it."
She's silent.
The sun dipped low in the sky on his way here; early days, January, when it's dark mid-to-late afternoon.
"He was tall. Dark hair. Expensive suit. They talked for a while at a table for two before they left."
"Did she seem okay?"
"When she left, yeah."
"Not before that?"
"When she first came in, she was crying."
"Dan's been calling me all day," Serena says, as though also realizing her head is on the wrong shoulder. She doesn't move.
His hand moves a little on her hair, absently, while her words echo in his mind. She really does need a brush.
His hand stops. "You can't tell him."
She lifts her head up at that. "I know."
He sees that it's a lie.
"Serena…" His voice is lethal. "You can't go telling people."
"Dan isn't people," she protests, not bothering to argue that she was not bluffing a moment ago. "He's Dan."
He rolls his eyes, not bothering to stifle it. "Would you want her telling someone if this happened to you?"
She scoffs. "Like she'd even have a chance to. Gossip Girl would blast it all over the place."
"Someone would have to tip her off. You know, and I know. That's it. I'm not going to tell." Nothing. Ever again. "And if you don't either, then we're safe. Once you start telling Humphrey, he tells his sister…"
"He would never." An indignant hiss.
He gives her a hard look. "I'm not saying he'd do it to hurt her. But Humphrey doesn't care about protecting her. They're not friends."
"He wouldn't tell," she insists. "He wouldn't hurt me. And it's the wrong thing to do. And Dan doesn't do the wrong thing."
"You have to respect her privacy," he grinds out, frustration eating at him. "This isn't yours to tell."
When she came in, she was crying.
Crying. In public. At Mark Bar- one block from Pleiades.
He pauses. "We've all done enough to cause her harm in the last few days."
She blinks back at him.
"Okay."
As they get to their feet, he asks: "Has anyone called Dorota?"
Serena's eyes are downcast. "She said Dorota should be the last to know. She said she'd be beside herself with worry. I texted her and told her Blair's phone got lost and she's staying with me to ride out the storm." She wipes a hand over her face.
He goes to step toward the corridor, and Serena puts a hand on his arm.
"She's in pretty bad shape," she tells him softly. "I just want you to be prepared. She's not crying much, but she's just really quiet and… scattered."
"How so?"
"Do you think it's better to be raped by someone with money than not?" She speaks softly, suddenly, hair soaked from her shower, which took ages as Annemarie guided her through the necessary procedures to avoid the fresh stitches on her leg and face, dressed in a fresh gown and with a new blanket wrapped around, having just taken off the humidified oxygen for the last time, if all goes according to plan.
Startled blue eyes and a straightened spine. "What? Blair-"
"Do you know," she continues on, pensively, "that I left that bar with him, someone I didn't know at all, after leaving my drink with him while I went to the restroom, because he was wearing an expensive suit? Can you see me doing any of that, leaving, even letting myself be engaged in conversation, with someone in Men's Wearhouse?"
Blue eyes meet brown.
Serena's mouth opens.
"What does that say about me and what I value?" Blair holds her gaze.
"It doesn't say anything," Serena tells her softly. "Not about you."
"Hm." A thoughtful syllable, as if to say, 'I'll take it under consideration.'
Then silence again.
Serena swallows. "I can't really describe it. I think she's just trying to make sense of what happened."
He nods. "I can handle it."
He'll have to.
"Of course you can," she agrees, withdrawing her hand after a quick pat. "I envy your ability to not let things affect you." And though she means it as a compliment, it hits him like a blow to the diaphragm.
iii.
Blair is sleepy, sitting up, and recognition, if not a light, flicks in her eyes when they come in.
"We come bearing gifts," Serena says, presenting the Chapstick and the brush. Blair sits up carefully, favoring her left side, as Serena unwraps the brush, and then she goes to work on Blair's damp hair.
"For you," Chuck says, placing the folded robe on her knees, taking the excuse to look her over. Physically, she looks the same, though less flushed. It's softened to a blushy pink from an irritated red.
She tries a smile. "Thank you."
"I need to go home before my mother sends a detective after me," Serena apologizes when she finishes with Blair's hair. "I didn't tell her anything, and she's suspicious I'm going to try to find my way to Brooklyn in this weather."
"Ah, the joys of having an absentee parent," Chuck comments idly.
Blair stretches up to the extent she can, IV back in her arm, when Serena wraps her arms around her.
"I love you," Serena says into her ear; he senses it more than hears it. "Your parents should be here in the morning, but if they aren't, or if you want me to come back at any time…" she's stroking Blair's hair now, with a tender, familiar warmth that only she can achieve. "You know how to get me." She nods at Chuck with a rueful smile. "And if you don't, he sure does."
"Ah, but can he pick out Chapstick?" Blair shudders as she leans back too quickly, frowning at some jab of pain, before she reaches the half-reclined support of the top of her bed.
He tilts his head roguishly, tugging his scarf off. "I'm Chuck Bass."
Serena shrugs her coat on with an eyeroll. "Oh, God."
But Blair almost chuckles, eyes flitting, sleepily, closed – and it's worth it, again, fleetingly, to be Chuck Bass. He makes a mental note to be funny.
After Serena's gone and the robe is spread over her – she can't put it on because of the IV, but drapes it underneath her blanket – a soft silence settles over them. He thinks Blair is asleep, having last seen her eyes closed, and is startled when she speaks.
"How are the roads?"
"A mess."
"Did I miss anything exciting?"
"There aren't cameras in the bar, and the ones in the hotel lobby wouldn't have caught them the way they left."
"There must be a way I can get a look at him."
He shakes his head slowly at her, as though thinking it over.
"No."
The bartender, a simple older gentleman from Astoria who had agreed to meet with him in Grand Central, thought. "There are several galleries on the block- and an embassy a few doors down on the opposite side. I'd be shocked if they didn't all have cameras, probably with night vision. If I were you, I'd start knocking on doors."
She seems satisfied with that.
"They're searching for my phone now, in the park. And my shoes."
And other things.
"Hopefully they find my headband, too."
"The snow slowed down a lot," he tells her, looking for comforting things to say and coming up at a loss. "They'll probably have found them by now. Maybe just waiting for tomorrow before they come- to give you a break."
"And my…" her voice cracks, but doesn't waver further. No tears spring to her eyes. "My stockings. They'll be there too."
His upper teeth find his lower lip and test it, rolling front to back.
"And… underwear." Her face is glum now. She could even be talking to herself.
They'd probably be arriving at Mark Bar now, looking for Sam, the bartender who was on duty last night, since his shift started around four. Hours after he'd met with Chuck and been paid handsomely for doing so.
Due process is one thing; cash is another.
She trips on, still, like he's not there: "My… dignity; my self-respect. I wonder if they'll find those. They might have gotten washed away in the rain."
He bites down on his lip now, sucking in a deep breath through his nose.
"My old self. Blair."
Her own name sounds foreign on her tongue.
She's in his arms, the back of his limo, their second round, and she's proving as insatiable as he could have ever fantasized she'd be: he groans her name as she brings their hips together, desperate to have her close in a way that goes beyond lust. No one, he feels sure, has ever wanted her as much as he does right now. From the way she's gripping him, responding to him, it would seem she agrees.
And that's a disgrace. He's driven to show her just how desirable she is- to erase the effects of months of doubt that he now sees Nate has caused.
"Chuck," she corrects him, teasing, kissing his lips.
He shakes his head, smiling back, and insists: "Blair."
"Chuck," with a giggle.
As she begins to rock down against him at a faster pace… "Say it: Blair."
She complies, laughing, and minutes later when she draws close, she gasps his name again and he swiftly corrects her: "Say your own name."
"Blair."
"Tell me again." And again, and again, until she's gasping it unbidden, and so is he, and it's lost its playfulness and she's clinging against him, repeating it – and afterward, she sighs, and he asks for it one more time- "Again." She gives it to him, and he repeats it, with a deep, satisfied kiss:
"Blair."
He chances it and reaches for her hand. The good one is near his chair. He covers it with his.
"Blair."
She looks over.
"Is there anything I can do for you? Is there anything you need?"
Her bloodshot eyes move over his. Images file through his mind in organized, condensed segments: years of plotting and secrets and dry humor; months of bonding over parental betrayal; weeks of stolen kisses and indulgent trysts; hours of phone calls; long, lingering minutes of silent gazes, almost all of them in dimly lit rooms, hair disheveled, skin damp. Seconds, just seconds of-
"I need to die," she says finally, eyes steady on his. "Can you help me with that?" There's the slightest wryness in her tone, but not enough to make him comfortable.
He shakes his head.
"Next time you find me like that," she continues, "do me a favor and just leave me there."
Not for the first time today, his heart skips a beat – a burning, dangerous feeling.
Subtly, he releases her hand and goes to slide his away.
But she looks down and frowns, and with what looks like effort, moves her thumb over his hand and clasps it.
He stills.
She looks down for a long moment, then up slowly, and then at him for another long moment.
Silence stretches. Like in those dark rooms.
"You changed your sweater," she remarks finally.
"Yes."
She sighs. "That's good. Pink isn't really your color."
He smiles.
"I feel tired," she says. "I haven't slept today."
"Sleep. I'll stay here and make sure no one bothers you."
"Are you tired?"
"No," he lies.
And he tries not to be.
But they're left alone, and it's dark, and he knows the snow is fluttering behind him – he can turn to see it without letting go of her hand – and she's safe now: she has Serena to love her and her parents to protect her, and the NYPD to uphold the law, and him- well, she has him to, hopefully, be the one to get to the guy first. Hopefully by his reckoning, anyway.
And he puts his forehead down on her bed next to their clasped hands, like Serena's head found his shoulder, just to breathe, and the next thing he knows he's dozing, off and on, waking up what he expects is every fifteen minutes or so. Visions of twisted stockings, and headbands, and bare ankles crossed in the snow with the blushing pads of feet catching the fluttering flakes spin through his dreams, which are curiously shot in grainy black and white, like a Golden Age film or security camera footage, and when he wakes up, it's to Blair gasping her own name.
Immediately following that- breathy, satisfied, Blair- he's aware of a presence in the room.
She's still asleep beside him, but he knows there's someone else there, and he raises his head. The room isn't entirely dark – he supposes it's hospital policy to keep some auxiliary lighting on at all times.
His eyes adjust, and he sees who it is. He bites his jaws together, silently cursing Serena.
He gets to his feet, and her hand slides out of his.
She stirs at the loss of contact- I don't want to be alone- and looks up at him, taking a deep breath as she emerges to consciousness. "What-?"
She follows his gaze and physically jolts. Then winces.
The figure steps forward. "Blair…"
She releases the breath she's holding when she realizes it's Nate.
He, Chuck, puts his hands in his pockets.
"Blair- Serena told me you were here…" he trails off, looking from one to another. He doesn't look surprised to see Chuck, of course, but his eyes tick back and forth like the second pendulum on a clock. "I…" he takes another step forward, his blue coat black in the dark. "I'm so sorry- are you…" He runs a hand through his hair, looking miserably at her in the bed- undone hair, stitches, small inside her blanket. "Can I…" he looks at Chuck, eyes hard, like he's about to suggest Chuck step out so he can have time alone with her.
Blair's voice stuns them both. "Leave, please," she says to Nate.
"What?" His hair falls in his face.
"I'm not able to see you right now," she says, low and firm. "Please go home."
Another step forward, a hand coming up like he's going to reach for her. "Wait, can I just… I'm sorry…"
"Nate." Her voice stops him in his tracks. "I appreciate you visiting – I really do. But I'm not able to see you right now. I'll call you when I'm home and receiving visitors."
Nate's blue eyes slide to Chuck. Receiving visitors? they seem to say, eyeing the chair he's just risen from.
He says nothing and manages with effort to keep his face blank as Nate's cold stare holds him.
"Please go, Nate," Blair tries again.
Nate steps back now, nodding, and turns and goes without another word.
The door clicks closed behind him, and his footsteps are gone almost immediately. Blair watches the door, but addresses him: "Can you make sure he doesn't come back?"
He won't, he thinks, as he tells her he'll make sure.
She clears her throat a few moments later. "Should we find some food? Maybe we can order something. I've refused to eat hospital food all day."
He reaches for his phone. Four texts from Serena. He presses Ignore; no need to guess at their content. "I'll call Arthur."
"Let's ask the nurses find an extra bed for you- if you're… staying." Her voice tumbles awkwardly.
His thumb hovers over Send on Arthur's name as he looks up at her. "I'm staying, but I'm fine."
She gives him an I'm Blair Waldorf look.
"You… what?" she muses, like she's waiting for him to answer. "Picked me up off the ground this morning? Brought me here? Made sure I didn't go through the worst day of my life alone?"
Please go, Nate.
He blinks rapidly, in time with his heartbeat.
Face still a caricature of thoughtfulness: "I think you've earned the privilege of not sleeping in a chair." A sad, fleeting smirk, which he mirrors without thinking. "For tonight, anyway."
iv.
She wakes throughout the night, flinching restlessly, gasping like someone's grabbing at her neck. Once or twice, a sharp murmur escapes from her stitched mouth.
He surfaces into consciousness every time. The bed they brought for him – she actually said "please" when she made the request – is drawn up a foot or two away from hers.
Hours before dawn, he's shaky with fatigue as the second night of next to no sleep sets into him.
"You should go home," she says beside him, and he turns in surprise. He thought he woke up on his own this time.
He clears his throat. Someone squeaks past in the hall; he sees her gaze dart up, un-blanketed right arm tense, and relax when the footsteps recede. She's playing brave now; he knows it on the instant. She'll retreat into her hard shell whenever she has the option.
That's fine. He can play braver.
"I'll stay until your parents come." He props himself on his elbow. She can only sleep on an incline, and really, the nurses keep saying, should be sleeping nearly sitting upright with two recent rib fractures. She looks down at him in the half-dimness.
"You don't have to. You'd sleep better at home."
In another moment- any other moment, really- he knows just what he'd say. It's on his tongue, a quip, a smirk, something about how anyplace next to her is more interesting, although he can think of things he'd rather they be doing that would help them both sleep. A wink, even, if she was in the right mood.
Instead, dry and flat: "The beds at The Palace are overrated. I actually prefer this mattress."
He flops onto his back, the picture of contentment. He doesn't have to look up to know she smiles a little.
"Used sheets do offer a certain alternative to thousand-thread-count combed cotton filled with down," she rejoins after a moment.
"Hay." He flicks the hand that's closest to her dismissively. She settles her head back against the top of her head rest, looking at the ceiling too.
This earns him an actual chuckle, one-syllable though it is: "Hmm." She takes a deep breath and lets it go slowly, apparently testing how far she can fill her lungs without pain. "So I expect you'll be looking well-rested in the morning."
Now he does smirk. "As much as you will, Waldorf."
He gives Arthur the rest of the day off in exchange for an early-morning, much earlier than a usual Chuck Bass errand, delivery of scrambled eggs. She insists she's not hungry, but inhales the plateful.
Medical professionals drift in and out; Annemarie comes back on duty late in the morning and, though she works downstairs, stops in to check Blair over, special attention in her question and gaze as Blair rubs at her eyes.
"Can I have something to help me sleep?"
"Just extra-strength Tylenol to reduce the swelling, I'm afraid," Annemarie apologizes. "We can't prescribe anything stronger."
"Maybe I'll sleep better at home," Blair tries. He's out of her line of sight, but he nods along, knowing she'll catch the movement. Lying, lying again.
Annemarie smiles reassuringly. The expression has become a familiar comfort in the last day or so. "Getting home is always the best thing." She pauses, noticing a bruise on Blair's left arm that's deepened – oblong, upper wrist. She turns her kind eyes back on Blair and tells her she'll be back later to check in, but to have the nurse on duty page her if there's anything she can do.
He's moved to the chair at Blair's left – the side with the forming bruise – during the nurse's visit, and Blair closes her eyes after Annemarie turns of the overhead light. The blizzard has stopped outside, at last, but clouds that look heavy and wet hang darkly over the city, a quiet danger, lurking, enticing.
"I slept better before he came," Blair says quietly.
He pauses. Certainly Nate's visit was unnecessary, even infuriating in its violation of privacy- he'd have words with Serena later- but that's not what's causing her trouble sleeping.
"He's not coming back," he offers, not sure what else to say.
She half-rolls her eyes, flicking them open momentarily. "Not that." Her left hand, a little away from her hip on the mattress, rolls away from her body, fingers opening from palm, palm facing heavenward.
A dozen more teases come to mind, but he fights them down- along with the urge to climb into the bed next to her and fall asleep, which he knows without doubt is the last thing he can do- and covers her flexed hand with both of his, pillowing three hands together.
"Just for a few minutes," she murmurs, half-timid. The same shyness he would feel at asking someone to do something inconvenient for him. "I can't stay awake."
"Don't."
She blinks. "Will you be able to sleep?"
Mouth corners turn up. "Even better than on the hospital bed."
Other than two intrusions by the on-duty nurse to check Blair's vital signs, they're both dozing, his head half-resting on their stacked hands, when Eleanor Waldorf's voice rings out in the corridor.
v.
He misses Arthur, he thinks glumly as he gets out of yet another cab. Cabs don't smell like expensive sandalwood sticks and shampooed leather. Cabs don't have temperature-controlled seats.
"Cabs don't have mini bars" would be his usual complaint, but his insides have stilled, oddly absent of thirst of any kind. Though he suspects Blair could use a drink right now, given the way her mother was caressing her like she was a toy poodle from the moment she swirled into the room. He almost didn't want to leave her with her parents – Harold barely able to speak, eyes wet and red-rimmed; Eleanor disheveled, voice louder than usual and crisp, completely at odds with her long, stroking touches on Blair's hair, her shoulders, palm constantly against her daughter's forehead, tucking and re-tucking her blankets – but two missed calls and a text from Andrew Tyler stating simply: Call me tugged him away.
And not a moment too soon. Another text buzzes against his fingers as he steps up on the curb outside The Palace.
His father. See me when you're free. My office.
He's in the process of typing back that he'll be there shortly, gait slow in favor of multitasking, when he glances up and freezes.
Dan Humphrey is fifty feet away, also drifting to a stop. He's watching him.
And he knows.
Chuck slides his phone shut and pockets it, squeezing it too hard in his frustration.
For fuck's sake.
He continues toward Humphrey, fury at Serena's unreliability crackling at the edges of his vision. Dan lumbers forward, too, and they face each other at a few feet away. Dan's hands are in his pockets, shoulders slumped, eyes half-lidded as he takes in Chuck.
They look at each other for several long, long seconds, the sky heavy and foreboding above them. Dan shivers. He's blinking rapidly, which is not unusual, but his agitation is less… exuberant than normal.
Finally, Dan's throat shifts as he swallows a lump, and he shakes his head, mouth opening: "I…"
It whispers out of his mouth, a thin white wisp, and evaporates into the air, gone. The image is exactly what he's imagined Blair's last breath would have looked like if no one had found her. He watched that twist of translucent white furl into the air and then peel away to nothing several times last night.
Exactly why, location aside, her hand in his or not, he wouldn't have slept soundly either.
And he opens his mouth, too, and the words come without thinking, because someone did find her and someone did make sure she wasn't alone and now someone's going to do whatever is necessary. It's this simple: "If you tell anyone, I'll kill you."
Dan's nostrils flare, pink at the rims, and he rubs them as his nose runs, whether from emotion or cold is not clear. To his credit, he doesn't appear agitated or affronted. Or disbelieving. "I'm not going to tell anyone."
He steps around him, shoulders clearing by no more than an inch. "See that you don't."
Crossing toward the elevator bank, he glances absently into the bar and sees a mane of blond hair, long bare legs that could have only come from a home inside this building.
vi.
"Sir."
He always thinks about saluting when he greets his father this way, but has never tried it.
From the look on Bart's face, today is not the day.
"Charles." His father drops the quarter-inch file he's holding onto his desk with the careless grace of a Bass. Much as Bart might not like to point to their similarities, Chuck notes that Bart is also wearing grey cable knit, though his is a cardigan with elbow patches. A Saturday-afternoon-at-the-office-these-are-my-play-clothes outfit. Not that Chuck's own wardrobe is any less pretentious.
"Would you mind telling me what you're up to?"
He actually looks over one shoulder. "I'm just coming back…"
"It's my understanding you've been out the last two nights, which is hardly unusual, but Andrew Tyler got in touch to let me know you've retained his services."
"I'm sorry. Did you need him for something? I intended to pay him with my own savings. I didn't think to ask…"
His father's brow wrinkles. "Are you in some sort of trouble?" He almost looks amused, but there's a guardedness, a placidness, in his expression, like he's steeling himself for something. "I've never known you to ask Tyler's help with something." Nor, he no doubt is thinking, to not expect Bart to foot the bill for something serious.
"No. I'm not in any trouble."
She knows who's settling onto the tall chair next to her- corner seat, unusual- but they both face forward. He waits until the bartender- it's Stephen today- hands him his usual before he bothers to speak.
It takes effort not to growl the word. "Really?"
He hears her swallow, but she hasn't touched her drink since he sat down. "I can't handle this on my own."
His father blinks, blue eyes- different hue, but other than that the gaze is a mirror image- searching his son's face.
"What do you need Tyler for?"
He closes his eyes and takes a long sip. "You can't? Forgive me. I didn't realize this was about you."
"It's not." Her teeth are clenched.
He sets his glass down, thick glass bottom clicking firmly against the polished mahogany.
He turns and closes Bart's office door behind him, then steps up opposite the broad desk, straightening his jacket.
"You know Blair Waldorf."
"Anyone else?"
She shakes her head and takes a mouthful, then two, of her drink, and for the first time he realizes what it is. He glances at her face in surprise. "Quad whisky? It's the middle of the day."
There are white streaks on her face where she's let tears dry. "I'd rather not know what time it is, okay."
Bart sits back in his chair, seemingly oblivious to his own shifting, as Chuck speaks.
"I've never seen someone in so much agony as she was."
Her fingers toy with the stout glass she's drinking from. This must be her first one; she's too upright on the stool, too coherent, for it to be anything else.
"Just wordless, unspeakable- pain. And I couldn't be strong for her. And I couldn't do a thing about it. Watch," she runs a pinky around the rim, "as she struggled to keep herself together. I've never felt so helpless for someone else. For myself, sure. 'Serena's out of control,' 'Serena's off the rails' – my own mistakes, I can deal with the aftermath. I mean, that's half the point, right? Create messes. So someone has to notice. To see who yanks you back from the edge."
She takes a sip, pacifies a grimace and turns a lopsided smile on him.
In a rare moment, his father is speechless. He clears his throat softly, like he needs to cough during a toast.
"Charles, I'm terribly sorry to hear this." His voice is low; his eyes are low. He's staring into the air above his desk.
"I thought Tyler could try to speed up whatever investigation the NYPD are doing. Help them with tips. We're always hearing how underfunded and understaffed these departments are…"
"He's all yours. He didn't go into detail when I spoke to him earlier, but it sounds like he's got something already."
"He said to call him, but I came here first."
Bart is shaking his head, not listening. "Poor thing. I just saw her over the holidays."
Chuck averts his eyes.
He also very narrowly missed seeing her leave The Palace one bright morning in December. Cheeks flushed, not from the cold. Not that that's relevant.
"But not someone else's. Not hers. I told you, I'm terrible in a crisis." She crosses her legs the other way and tugs her sweater dress over her knees.
He takes another sip. "You were great yesterday. She was far better when you left than when you came."
She pauses, drumming her fingertips on the side of her glass. "You knew all that time. About me and Nate. Why didn't you ever tell her?"
He turns his head in surprise. "What?"
"You knew what Nate and I did. The whole time I was gone. Why didn't you tell?" She meets his eyes, expression slack like she's indifferent, but this sounds like something she's been wondering about for a while. "Almost a whole year you kept it in."
He stares at her, then drains his glass. "Believe it or not, I don't enjoy hurting my friends."
She seems unmoved by this. "You had no problem airing it when it hurt my relationship with Dan."
"You did that to yourself. You and Nate both, to yourselves. And to Blair. If anything, I kept your secret and let Nate carry on with it, with her, rather than devastating Blair and making her hate you both." He gets to his feet. "You're welcome, by the way."
Her posture wobbles in defeat. Imploringly: "I'm sorry. Stay and have another with me."
He nods heavenward. "I'm wanted upstairs." Bart's office is on the third floor; fifteen floors below his suite, eighteen below hers.
Still struggling for words, Bart dismisses him with a vague hand gesture. "Charles- " an afterthought as he turns to go- "I'll pay for Tyler."
"Really, I'm happy to- "
"I insist. I've known the Waldorfs for a long time- twenty years at least- and Blair since she was a baby. But it's gentlemanly of you to offer, and even more so to mean it." Bart gives him a nod, as tender as a stunned Bass can manage to be.
vii.
And Tyler does have something. More than something, in fact.
It's just circumstantial, but it dries his mouth with a thirst that there's only one way to quench.
Serena's still at the bar when he gets off the phone. She turns this time, wiping away a stray tear. "How'd it go?"
He smiles faintly. She doesn't want to know.
"Stephen," he says as the bartender reaches for another glass for him. "Quad whisky, please."
He slides Serena's glass away from its place in front of her and drains the last two mouthfuls in one continuous drink.
"Hot water with lemon for the lady." She opens her mouth to protest. "I need to catch up. And you need to sober up. In case she needs you."
She squeezes the lemon into her hot water, then pops the whole wedge into her mouth, rind and all. She licks the juice from her fingertips, in a way only she can without looking completely ridiculous. She blows at the steam coming from the cup, then puts it down. It's too hot.
"I owe her," Serena says finally. "All those years of friendship, and after what I did- I owe her, I owe it to her to be better than this when she actually needs me. And I couldn't. She forgave me and I keep thinking I'm stronger than I used to be, and when it comes down to it, I don't think I am."
She's definitely edging past tipsy; he wonders if she put a whole quad away while he was upstairs and this is her second. That, or she hasn't eaten.
"I'm just not there when she needs me. I'm not reliable. She deserves better than that."
He sips his whisky, watching his reflection in the mirror opposite the bar, between glasses of top-shelf alcohol.
The way she opened her fingers, baring her palm to him.
Just for a minute.
"I agree," he tells Serena. "She does. And that's why you're drinking water."
The chill of her toes against his shins, gray cashmere slipping over her shoulder.
Not like that- yet.
Serena touches the outside of her teacup, the surface of the water clouded with lemon juice, but it's still too hot. She frowns at it, disappointed. Pouting Serena and Overly Affectionate Serena are two spin-offs of Drunk Serena that he knows well.
As if on cue, she tilts her head and puts it on his shoulder again, hunched over the bar as he is, forearms flat, fingertips grazing the glass lazily. He doesn't so much as flinch. A great number of nights out in ninth grade ended up with her head on his shoulder due to her rather un-charming inability to self-regulate.
Curls loose against his arm, head under his chin.
Like this.
"You're right," she murmurs. Then: "Dan won't tell anyone."
He snorts. "Not his sister?"
She watches their reflection too. "Of course not."
He raises his eyebrows at the mirror. "I'm not sure I trust his judgment on doing what's best for her."
"Well." She smiles at that and sits up, swiveling in her seat, and picks up her hot water. "If you can surprise in that area, maybe he can, too." She holds out the cup, waiting for him to clink his against it.
He rolls his eyes at the prospect of drinking to any similarity he and Humphrey might have, but touches his glass to hers.
He's sure the NYPD haven't made as much progress as Tyler has. He's equally sure that none of them – not Nate, not Serena, definitely not Humphrey – has the burning desire to do what's really best for her.
Now if he can just keep this from getting out any further than it already is. Minimize the damage from all angles.
The opposite of Create messes. So someone has to notice.
"And maybe you can." He pauses, glass in midair. "Maybe you're not the girl you used to be."
There's a pause while she swallows the mouthful she has. She eyes him, smirk on her lips, and he thinks she's about to retort that he's certainly not the guy he used to be, who made messes to enjoy the destruction and kept no secret longer than it took for boredom set in.
She says: "Chasing whisky with hot water; I guess not."