A/N: I'm so thrilled to have gained some new readers last chapter! It's incredibly motivating and I'm really grateful to each and every one of you for taking the time to read and review. Merci, merci! I hope you'll enjoy this chapter. I really enjoyed writing it.
I'm still working out how to write the dynamics of different characters as they interact one-on-one and in groups, so please hang with me while I get that down =)
January 12, late evening
i.
They move her home that night, late, after a long day at the hospital with innumerable- and, she guesses, extraneous- tests and checks and reviews of her chart. More blood is drawn, more lights shined in her eyes, more examinations of the swelling and stitches and cuts, and after a fraught exchange wherein Eleanor Waldorf screeches, somehow imperiously, that the medical professionals at Mt. Sinai are incompetent toads, Blair's father is supporting her as she's bundled into a discreet black town car wearing a pair of hospital scrubs that drown her small frame, hidden under a plush new robe from The Palace Hotel. Cinched at the waist.
Harold's overcoat is wrapped around her, reaching her shins. Her own coat was spirited off by the NYPD the day before: "Evidence."
She folds one slippered foot over the other, leaning her head against her father's shoulder, while her mother sits tautly at her side. Her head shakes back and forth, a minute, robotic movement. "Swine. I've never seen such a poorly run hospital."
Harold stifles his sigh, but Blair feels it. "Blair was born there."
"And it's gone decidedly downhill since then," Eleanor returns.
"Going home now," Blair murmurs, faintly. There's nowhere she can think of that she'd rather be less right now than this town car. "That's all that matters."
They're just a few blocks from the Waldorf penthouse. Dorota is at the curb, hands knitted together, face like stone. Eleanor is ushering everyone inside as quickly as possible, arms spread wide like wings as though shielding her daughter, while Blair leans on Dorota.
Their eyes meet. Blair's well with tears.
"Hi," she manages.
The last time Dorota saw her, she was buttoning her dark red coat, adjusting her headband, as she got in the elevator. Storm is coming tonight, Miss Blair.
I'll be home long before then.
"Hello, Miss Blair." Dorota's eyes are large and wet too.
"Inside, inside," Eleanor hisses, throwing a look at the doorman, who scuttles away to call the elevator in time for their arrival.
Blair's belongings, down to her underwear, have indeed been located in the park, the charming wooded picnic area where she was left now roped off with yellow police tape. They're all evidence, of course- Blair's phone, turned back on just before 11 PM, activated but never used, its digital logs now the property of the NYPD- and nothing can be returned to her. The detective who visited Blair's room in the hospital, one of the two who came to take her statement the day before, was apologetic when he said they could not release her phone number.
"I'll get you a new phone today, my love," Harold murmured on the instant. And he's true to his word: a newly activated phone, exactly the same as her old one, is waiting for her on the foyer table, charged and ready to go.
She takes it in her good hand, remembering the way her last one lit up, a beacon, remembering how she threw herself chest-first into the freezing slush, the sinking in her stomach when the square of light disappeared dwarfing the sharp pain of the little bone in her hand that had just been snapped- she'd never find it in the dark, even if she got another chance-
Her jaw begins shaking even as her parents buzz around her, mother at twice the speed as father, Dorota still beside her, tears spilling over as she bites savagely on the side of her lip that isn't cut. "Please just let me go upstairs," she forces out, a sob breaking the sentence in half.
She catches sight of herself for the first time in over two days, when she looks in the mirror above her vanity, and she starts. "I look a mess," she whispers, but her mother, fussily digging out her usual slippers and searching for her own robe, hears and pounces:
"Darling, you look as beautiful as ever – I hadn't realized how thick your hair was, in fact; have you been taking extra vitamins? – just a shower and a night in your own bed, and you'll be feeling more like your old self again."
She's petting again, smoothing hair and patting at the shoulders of the white robe- Blair gave her father back his overcoat in the elevator- and her too-bright smile looks ready to snap. Blair watches them both in the mirror.
"Could you ask Dorota to assist me in the bathroom," she murmurs.
A muffled splutter. "I'd be happy to…"
"Please ask Dorota," she repeats. Dorota won't pet and lie.
When the steam billows up from the shower- how she wants a bath, but she can't with stitches- and Blair gasps a little as she jars her ribs shrugging out of the robe, Dorota wordlessly tugs it off her arms and tosses it behind them. Blair raises her arms, letting the loose blue scrub top be peeled off, tired of undressing but grateful it's in front of someone she knows this time, and unties the string of the pants. She's wearing nothing underneath, and she's forgotten about her injuries in her exhaustion, and only realizes later that Dorota doesn't squeal and exclaim, just hands her into the shower and closes the door behind her.
And she knows without asking that Dorota won't leave. Dorota never leaves her. Never.
"Dorota," Blair says as she wets her hair under the hot stream.
"Yes, Miss Blair?"
"I want to sleep in long pants and a sweater tonight, please."
Dorota barely misses a beat at the unheard of request for anything other than a nightgown or chemise, or at the very least a silk short set, for sleep attire. "Of course, Miss Blair."
ii.
It's true. He's not sleeping well, as he knows he wouldn't have last night, startling images created by his own mind plaguing his every attempt.
Actually, he's not sleeping at all.
And tonight, the images are not created by his own mind. Not entirely.
He thought, after two quad whiskys – well, two and a quarter, counting the last of Serena's that he polished off – and another two Scotches back in his suite, that he'd be able to fall asleep early after the past few nights and days. But there he is, muscles twitching in fatigue, staring at his ceiling.
For the dozenth time in the last hour, he places his hand palm-down, fingers splayed, on the file folder on his bedside table. Drags it toward him. It's open now. He's not even bothering with the pretense of closing it in between.
The pictures inside dull his heartbeat to a low, burning throb, because they could be her.
They aren't, he reminds himself. They aren't.
A slight, slim brunette, waist a bit deeper of a curve- slightly more curvaceous through the hips- hair as dark, maybe a little longer. Pale skin too, hands slightly larger, fingers slightly more graceful.
They aren't.
"It didn't seem likely that it could have been a first offense," Tyler had said.
No.
Too smooth.
Rohypnol in her drink. And pretty bold- a public place, even during a storm.
A schemer himself, he had to agree. It was likely the guy had done this before.
"And?"
The girl was pretty. Quite pretty. Maybe eighteen or so- one of the details Tyler didn't want to tell him.
Smaller nose, smaller mouth. Those eyelashes and eyebrows could almost be hers.
They aren't, though.
He's rubbed the pad of his index finger over the top left corner of the photo he's holding so many times that it's curled and creased and lost its starch.
This girl's bloody bruise mark is in the middle of her torso, where her ribs meet in front, almost centered on her body.
His eyes had flicked to Tyler.
"Kicked," Tyler had said shortly. "She was on hands and knees. Probably trying to get away."
He'd swallowed down the lump in his throat.
"Close to her diaphragm," he'd managed. "That can kill you."
Tyler had paused. "Unfortunately for her, it did not."
Two broken wrists on this girl, bent at odd angles, but her graceful hands intact. One knee also bent oddly, in another photo, slim calves photographed on their own that could almost be hers-
But they aren't.
Dark hair; hers isn't wet. Waves of it. It's not as glossy, though, not quite as full.
He looks again at her eyelashes, the curve of her jaw, the splotches of fingermarks on her neck, and wonders if anyone was looking for her.
If anyone was bad to her that night. If her friends were calling each other- is she with you?- if you see her, or hear from her…?
If anyone was fucking a stranger when they should have been trying to figure out where she was. If anyone was putting their own temporary pleasure above whether finding out if she was okay.
They aren't the same girl. He shakes himself. They aren't the same girl.
He imagines Blair's ribs being kicked. A crack. Two cracks, actually- ribs seven and eight.
His heart tightens in his chest.
He tells himself to put the photos down and turn off the light.
They aren't the same girl.
But instead he flips through them, again, wondering if the eyes are brown.
They're closed, forever- so he'll probably never know.
"The NYPD will find this?" he'd asked Tyler.
"Sure will. I'll tell them first, but they'd find it on their own. It doesn't take much. All I did was run a search for previous violent offenders that had been paroled in the last ninety days." He'd shrugged, the gesture regretful. "There are less than you might think."
Chuck's jaw had twitched. "Good behavior, was it?" But it's not really a question.
This girl was outside, too, but in an industrial park on the waterfront. In Boston.
He pauses on the photo that shows her lower thighs, the space above her knees. The purpose of the photo is to show the bent knee, a bit puffy, its sac of fluid where a tendon ruptured obvious from the angle of the photo.
She's wearing a skirt, but no stockings. It was autumn then, Tyler tells him. Autumn: the magic of a suddenly cool breeze, the promise of newness after a stifling summer. Sweat cooling. Leaves turning, falling, drifting like snowflakes, settling.
Her neck is bent, but not broken. She must have been wearing a jacket, but it's not photographed. One ear is close to her shoulder, like she's listening, waiting, her head tilted downward because she's looking at someone in the dark.
He wonders if anyone ever told her that she's a work of art.
If she murmured a laugh, eyes closing, in response.
He looks, again, at the closed eyelashes. He can almost imagine her laugh. Although it's not imagining, really, because he just thinks of Blair's laugh.
But they aren't the same.
He and Tyler had stilled over the last picture in the stack, Tyler withdrawing his hand to rest it on the back of the pushed-in chair between his body and the counter where they'd laid them out and looked them over, one by one.
It was then that he'd needed a drink.
"Drugged?"
Tyler had cleared his throat. "Lethally."
"How long was she awake… do they know?"
"According to what I found, the coroner thought she'd struggled through most of the assault, hence the extent of her injuries. But once she was out… "
Her carriage is graceful; soft-sloping trapezius, graceful neck, birds-wing collarbones. All of it fit to be kissed and touched and appreciated.
There are deep bite marks on her left shoulder. He's not sure how many- can't tell; the biting looks to have been done in a frenzy- but more than one. Stark purple against pale, like scattered buds of tiny flowers, if one unfocused one's gaze.
Blair's flawless slant of a collarbone in his grey cashmere sweater – what he's still wearing when he's looking at the photos – burns into him, and he hates himself, hates himself then, fire engulfing his heart, because he doesn't think he's ever kissed her collarbone.
And they aren't the same, they aren't the same, but staring at that last, terrible picture in the stack, he sees how very close to being the same they were.
"Left her like that?"
A pause. "Yes." He'd heard Tyler swallow next to him. "But she was already out when he did it. They know that for sure."
As if that helps.
They aren't the same.
From hip to hip, below the soft curve of her waist, the lowermost depths of the letters grazing her pelvic region, where her skirt has been tugged down to make room.
WHORE.
The last thing he'd done before he left this girl to die.
They aren't the same, no.
But they almost were. And, he'd realized when his blood calcified into a physical desire to kill, truer than any longing, or lust, or loathing that he'd ever felt, looking at that last picture when Tyler turned over the one on top of it, that the older man was right to refuse to tell him the guy's name.
Because they aren't.
But it had been his intention that they would be.
Iii.
The Upper East Side is the world's runaway capital for luxurious Sundays – long brunches with mimosas on mimosas, naps in one's polished mahogany windowseat, lazy afternoon tea with cucumber sandwiches and clotted cream and honey on every hot bite of scone.
And as people true to their roots, Manhattan's elite soldier on whether or not a blizzard has shut down their schools and businesses and wiped out power for half of their neighbors in the boroughs, including parts of southern Westchester and the Bronx, most of Brooklyn, all of Staten Island, Jersey City and northeast Queens.
After all, people on the Upper East Side would never be so careless as to live without generators.
Those who are brave venture out; the Plaza, the Four Seasons, are packed houses. Hot cider spiked with bourbon, brandy and rum; smoked salmon omelettes; shrimp scampi with pickled ginger alongside steak tartare to start; Earl Grey cocktails served in decadent teapots, eight cups to a round, with fresh mint infusion and lemon zest on top to finish, produced in real time on gold graters by murmuring white-gloved waitresses.
Those who are not brave stay in, ordering their brunches direct to their beds or formal dining room tables, lounging the hours away reading The Sunday Times, beginning the crossword with strict diligence and drifting, after an hour and a few cups of something hot, instead toward the fashion page, the arts page, the society page, families splitting up the sections, salt-and-pepper fathers snatching up the business section and handing their immaculate wives the rest of the stack, while spaniels and retrievers loll on the carpet along with small children, stir crazy and eager to run about screaming, tired of being restricted to playing indoors and badgering their parents to let them go sledding in the park.
And those who are neither brave nor not brave; those who feel they have lost their way, and those who aren't sure they know what way is up anymore, wake late from a long night of sleeping in short, shallow spurts, stomach acidic with nerves; lock themselves in their room, avoiding the mirror; and slowly, unwillingly, open their laptops.
And refresh Gossip Girl.
Digging fingernails that Annemarie clipped into tissue paper for the rape kit- short, unfiled, awkwardly square- into her palm, begging anyone who might listen to her prayers that this hasn't leaked.
iv.
"Blair! Blair, darling!"
Her mother's voice is too high, too loud, too delighted.
She closes her eyes.
Eases herself off her bed.
The lock, a delicate deadbolt with a curved brass handle, resists a little, and she suddenly hopes it will stick and she won't be able to come out. No such luck.
She cracks the door and calls back down the hallway. Her mother sounds to be in the foyer or maybe on the stairs.
"Yes, mother?"
"Come here, please, darling!"
She sighs. She's not meant to be going up and down stairs. She's actually supposed to be on bed rest.
But her mother seems close to a nervous breakdown, and has already knocked twice on her locked door, eyes frantic each time Blair opened it, so it seems best to not ruffle her.
She reaches the top of the stairs before the familiar male murmur reaches her ears. She heard it moments before, but didn't pay enough attention to realize it was not her father.
She has to lean on the railing, pressing her palm in, to shift her weight and carefully descend each step, and he hears her and turns.
She stills. "Nate."
The polite smile on his face falls away; he sees her awkward posture and the grimace she's too startled to hide. "Blair, I…"
"What are you doing here?" She strains to keep her voice even.
Eleanor gestures proudly to him. "Nate called to check in and see how you were doing, and I thought it might cheer you up to see him. Your father and I will go out for a cup of coffee. You two should spend some time together."
Blair's heart sinks.
Nate is already stepping up the stairs, pausing on the landing, while her parents- Eleanor with a satisfied, if too-tightly-wound, smile and Harold with a searching sideways look at his daughter- get into the elevator, Dorota pushing their coats at them and then disappearing through the kitchen.
And they're alone.
Nate watches her carefully. "I'm sorry," he says, "when I called, I was just wanting to see if you were okay, and home, and your mother started talking a mile a minute about how you wanted some company, and asked if I could come over." He breaks off. Pauses. "I thought she meant you were asking for me, or… sitting there nodding or something."
She smiles a little at that. "No. She was just being herself."
He backs up a step, almost against the wall. "Do you want to come down, or… should I go home?"
"Best not to foil her plans." The words are a little clipped, but she supposes she should remember that he's sought her out not once, but twice. And she is in no position to refuse kindness. "I'm supposed to be on bed rest."
His eyes widen a little in alarm. "Bed rest? I thought you were going to be fine…"
"I am."
They stare at each other, a decade or more of history flying between them, not just the last year and Serena and the tension and pressure but all the ones before that, first hand holding and first kiss, first days of school and summer breaks and Christmas gifts and more Sundays together than either can remember, coordinating outfits and straightening his tie before dinners, compliments and terms of endearment, and them.
His eyes rake over her, not an inch of exposed skin other than hands and face, in an oversized turtleneck and long slim lounge pants, all blue, with blue socks on her feet.
"Come on up." And she turns and leans on the railing, finding it much harder to go up than down.
He watches, taking in her stiff, short movements, as she gets back into bed, pushing her closed laptop across her bed. "Can I help?"
"I'm fine."
She pulls the comforter back over her lap.
After a pause, he pulls over the chair from her vanity and settles himself on it. He's never sat there before; never, not in his probably hundreds of times in this room. He's always settled on the edge of her bed, or in it, but never there. That's where she sits to preen and plot. To scheme. To raise her sparkling eyes in the mirror at the reflection of the person pacing behind her, hands behind back, working his way through whatever obstacle sits in his or her way. Or to be the one pacing, toying with a curl, fingers of one hand tucked thoughtfully into the opposite elbow, and meet the eyes glittering back at her from that very chair.
She's seen Chuck there- many times, but never Nate.
Nate swallows, very slowly, looking her over, and she remembers the stitches on her lip and cheek that have become such a part of her in the last two days that she's almost forgotten about them.
"What happened to you?" he asks, low, above a whisper.
It hits her then that he doesn't really know.
"What did Serena tell you?"
"That you were at the hospital. And you'd been hurt. And your room number."
So. Serena hadn't completely lost her sense of intelligence, then.
"I…"
It dies on her lips.
"I was hurt. That's true."
His eyes rake over her again, a darkness in them that she isn't familiar with.
His nostrils flare. "Who hurt you?"
"Leave it alone." He misses the way her voice wavers, the raw edge that lurks just under the paper-thin flatness of the words.
Confusion wrinkles his brow. "'Leave it alone'? You're on bed rest with stitches on your face, and you want me to leave it alone? Who did this to you?"
She doesn't want the concern, the protectiveness, written all over his face. It doesn't take much for her to lose control right now; she's grasping onto threads of it with her fingertips as it is. "Nate, the time for you to be my hero is long gone. You and I both threw it away, me when I forced us to be something we weren't long after it was clear it would never be that, and you when…" She stops herself and clears her throat, averting her eyes. "It doesn't matter. So please, leave it alone now."
He moves over to sit on the edge of the bed, reaches for the hand that's resting on the far side of her body, on top of the comforter- and snatches his fingers back when he glances at it and sees how swollen and purple it is. He looks back up at her, eyes narrowed.
Without a word, she places it back down and unearths her good hand from underneath the comforter.
He cradles it in both of his, bringing her knuckles to his lips.
The way she's always loved.
"I know I'm not your hero," he whispers. "I know I've screwed up. I know we both have, but it was mostly me, and me that started it, and I know that. But I still care about you. It feels terrible to see you like this. Please, just… let me care?"
A long silence.
She curls one side of her mouth upward, chagrinned: "I suppose I can allow you the honor of caring."
He breaks into a handsome grin- there's the Blair he knows, at least a glimmer of her- and kisses her knuckles one more time.
"But I really can't…" she shakes her head. "I can't talk about that. Truth be told, I don't remember everything, but I can't talk about it."
He pauses and nods. "Can you at least tell me why you're on bed rest?"
She looks into his blue eyes. Honorable- well, not perfectly honorable- Nate, the white knight. Her eyes well up when she thinks of what he'd say if he saw her leg.
"Blair, what?" He squeezes her hand when he sees the tears. "Does something hurt?"
"No- no." She blinks the fullness from her eyes and, mercifully, it doesn't spill out. "I'm on bed rest because I have two broken ribs," she offers.
His mouth tightens again. "How did you…" He cuts off, angry. Breathes out.
Pats her hand.
"Okay. I'll stop asking. What do you want to do? Do you want some company? I'm free all day."
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees her laptop. Gossip Girl was clean- no mention of her, this. No new posts at all, actually, since Thursday.
Not that Thursday had been a great day for Blair Waldorf on Gossip Girl.
But she'd been intending to continue searching, making sure no breath of her had made it anywhere onto the internet, God forbid, anywhere else- maybe even think about sending in a fabricated tip of some kind herself, even something good-natured, to divert attention- though she'd probably need Chuck's help in creating the perfect lie, the combination of plausible and juicy-
"Want to watch a movie?" Nate asks, seeing the way she's eyeing the machine. He brightens, alighting on something he's sure she'll love: "Tiffany's?"
She actually lets out a snort of laughter, followed by a wince and a frown at the pinch in her side, at his delighted expression. "Good God, Archibald, it's not my last day on earth. I don't need you to pretend to want to watch Audrey movies with me."
He smiles back, easing into the sound of her laughter, though he glances at the way she presses her hand on her ribs.
"Oh, go get the paper," she flaps a hand. "You can have the sports section. I'll take society."
He'll think it's so she can catch up on the latest, she knows; he won't realize she's looking for any drop of anything related to herself.
"Crossword?" He raises his eyebrows as he gets to his feet.
The crossword takes forever.
"Why not."
She'd rather be with Nate than her mother.
v.
At some point, between phone calls with Tyler and checking his phone almost pathologically- she texted him late last night with her new number-
"Blair's new number."
"Chuck's old number."
(And he'd hoped it her made her smile.)
-and Serena had been batting messages back and forth with him all day-
"Have you eaten?"
"Scotch count?"
"Come have brunch with us."
"I have cocktail olives here, thanks."
"Come on. Shouldn't be alone right now."
"Miss my last text? Not alone. Olives."
-and in the end she succeeded in dragging him downstairs, knocking at his door like a machine gun firing, yelling his name like a mother searching for a lost toddler in Times Square, and what choice did he really have, given she knew he was in there?
And that was a pleasant brunch; his father working, catching up from having missed his usual rounds on Friday due to the storm; Erik aware, and Lily less aware but vacantly conscious, that Chuck and Serena had some secret topic on their minds. Bart Bass was a loyal fiancé, but he was a stalwart secret keeper, and had dutifully not let a word of it slip. So unless Serena blew it- again- they were in the clear, but their constant fidgeting and phone-checking aroused Lily's teasing, then a little suspicion; with Erik, it was all dark curiosity, eyeing his sister, her dark circles and bloodshot eyes and the absence of her usual grace. Chuck sees it too, and their eyes connect briefly in acknowledgement, and he knows that Erik will keep his mouth shut.
"Stop texting so much."
"You stop texting."
"You're on your phone every other second."
"Who's texting whom right now? I'm working on something."
"Can't it wait?"
"Not really. Distract your mother. Talk about decorating the marital penthouse."
She kicked him under the table then, but a minute later, when a sparkling Lily is waist-deep in bubbling about how she's always dreamed of a celadon-and-ecru color scheme for her master bathroom, including a giant copper clawfoot tub, and imagine her delight when her future husband surprised her by saying he thought the idea was flawless one, the text vibrates in his inner pocket- he deliberately put on a jacket with a low interior pocket, so he can make less of a show of pulling out his phone every time-
And Tyler has come through for him again.
"I have the surveillance photos. Gallery was useless, low-res, but embassy came through for us. Waiting on the other gallery."
He feels, actually feels, heat rise from his chest up his neck and settle in hot, dark splotches high on his cheeks. He fights to cool himself down and reaches for his ice water.
"And?"
Thank God he can type without looking.
He's crunching on ice, trying to breathe normally and listening to a detailed explanation about how rain-head showers are really only appropriate for people who style their own hair, although they do offer a certain immersive shower-time experience, and that's nothing to turn one's nose up at; it may make sense, though, to install three different shower heads: one rain-head; one handheld; and one traditional spray, because really, it all depends on one's plans that day, and with the busy lives we all lead-
When his phone, still open to the same conversation, buzzes softly against the top of his leg where it's perched.
He glances down, mid-crunch.
"Looks like our guy."
Everything else blurs to white. He's alone in a white vacuum, and Blair's broken, lifeless body is there, like so many other visions he's had, but this one achingly, desperately real, because he's seen all of it. Bruised ribs, bruised juncture of ribs. Broken wrists, broken hands. Broken knee. Torn lip, torn cheek, bite marks across her flawless shoulder and the collarbone he never got to kiss. And on her thigh, and on her hips, and there- carved down her spine, across her iliac crest, into the flesh of both calves, the soles of her soft bare feet, her forehead, the expanse of flawless skin above the swell of her breasts, deep into the veins of her arms, the depth of the cut opening her veins, so that even as she bleeds she affirms it-
WHORE. WHORE. WHORE. WHORE. WHORE. WHORE. WHORE. WHORE. WHORE. WHORE-
"Charles?"
He glances up, realizing only then that his forehead is perspiring. He's sweating all over, actually, but he can feel actual droplets on his forehead.
Lily looks at him in concern. "What on earth- are you ill, dear?"
He finds his voice, raggedly: "No. I'm sorry, will you excuse me?"
"Stay for a few minutes." Serena flips his unused teacup upright and tosses in a lemon wedge that garnishes her fruit plate. "Drink this."
He throws her a dark look, safe in the knowledge that Lily is glancing around for a waiter to refill his water. Her poor feverish future stepson might be coming down with something.
The wait staff generally buzz around him like he's a prince- which in this hotel, he is- so she has no trouble flagging someone down.
Serena matches the grave look he gives her. "So we know you're okay," she finishes coolly, finishing pouring the hot water with a flourish.
Erik watches this whole display with flat eyes.
"I'm sorry, I'm not sure what's come over me," he lies, trying a smile at Lily. Lily is not stupid. He needs to not act like a Neanderthal. "Now, have you thought about the color tile you'd want? Ecru may not age well, depending on the material you use."
She taps a finger on nothing, pointing at him as though to say he has a point. "I've thought about that. Some people do a double or triple coat of sealant if the tile is more porous, but to me that just defeats the purpose; on the other hand, though, there is something to be said for utilizing a rougher, less perfectly finished material- it gives sort of an unfinished, less curated look, which…"
And he's back in business.
"How quickly can you get here?"
It's already 2 PM. Brunch is an all-day affair at The Palace; they'll still be here in two hours starting cocktails and mulling the charcuterie offerings if he doesn't make some excuse as to why he needs to get away.
"What's going on?" Serena again. He glances at her; apparently she can text without looking too.
"I'm working on something."
"Blair-related?"
That's enough of that conversation. He swipes her text away.
"Going to NYPD now. I can be there around 4."
"Done."
"What about," he says to Lily, "a celadon-and-copper checkered tile pattern? Vintage-style checkering, so a nod to the clawfoot's historical origin; copper as an accent won't overwhelm or distract from the tub. You could do the shower-heads and other fixtures in copper against ecru for the vanity, with celadon walls."
The whole table is staring at him.
Lily's delight is apparent in every fiber of her being. "Why, Charles! I had no idea you had such exquisite taste."
Serena narrows at her eyes at him. "Do you even know what color celadon is?"
He smirks at her. "It's like seafoam, but more muted," he says, as though she just asked him whether SoHo is south or north of Houston. Turns his smile back on Lily, indulgently narrowing his eyes. "And far more chic."
Lily clasps her hands together. "My thoughts exactly."
Erik rakes a hand through his hair. "Dear God," he says under his breath. "Now there are two of them."
Serena hears and stifles a guffaw in her throat.
When her mother excuses herself to use the ladies' room, Serena cocks her head. "Since when are you interested in interior design?"
"'Interested' is a strong word," he replies blithely. "I live in a hotel. How many times do you think it's been redone since I've been here?"
She chuckles good-naturedly. "And what, you helped?"
"'Helped' is also a strong word. I was bored a lot as a child…"
Buzz.
Nate.
He clicks it too eagerly.
"We need to talk."
"Okay," Erik says hotly, and he looks up to see he's glancing between the two of them. "Who's going to tell me what's going on?"
"Nothing," Serena says, at the same time that Chuck replies, "Neither of us."
Serena glares at him.
He rolls his eyes. "He's not an idiot. He's not going to believe nothing's going on."
"Thank you," Erik replies, looking pointedly at his sister.
"But it's not for you to know yet," Chuck continues, meaning: not ever.
"Is everything okay?"
He glances at the gilded clock on the opposite wall: less than 90 minutes until Tyler arrives.
"It will be."
Erik doesn't seem convinced. Serena's eyes are downcast, her shoulders slumped. Erik looks back and forth.
"I promise," he insists, smiling at Lily as she nears, fitting the words through his pleasant expression: "Trust me."
Like good Upper East Siders, they stay at the table until they finish every drop of everything they have, with Lily, the perfect queen of society (fitting, really, for the future wife of the King of Manhattan), knowing exactly when to delicately shake her head at the wait staff to indicate they don't need refills any longer. Every bit of orange juice is drained from the carafe; the jug of ice water left at Lily's request, gone, with Lily commenting in genuine relief that Charles looks much better- "Just a passing sensation; maybe I bit down on a peppercorn," he assures her- and Serena has eaten at least three chocolate croissants by the time they rise from the table.
They near his floor, and Lily muses: "I think you're quite right about the tile, Charles. I'm going to have my designer put together a mock-up. I'd love to get your opinion on it."
"I'd be honored," he tells her, seeing the round buttons of the elevator illuminate in rapid succession: 14, 15, 16-
"And a word of advice." 17. "It might be best to make sure the clawfoot has a center drain and faucet, rather than the usual position on one end. Especially if you're planning on taking two-person baths."
18. The elevator slows.
Lily blushes, but her laugh is genuine. It fills the small space of the elevator, leaving room for nothing else but joy.
Serena shuts her eyes, face twisting into a cringe.
The doors open with a ding.
"Good God," Erik murmurs again, but he's shaking with laughter too.
"Just being considerate," Chuck points out, concealing his own smile with effort. It feels good to be Chuck Bass in these moments. He gives a nod as he steps out. "Van der Woodsens."
"Charles." Lily nods back as the doors shut, still blushing beautifully, with Serena's eyes closed beside her, shaking her head and forcing the laugh down- he can see it, knows it- all dark thoughts gone, just for a moment.
vi.
And it's a good thing, because Tyler's visit brings them all back up. Tenfold.
The camera footage from the other gallery is fine, but doesn't offer anything new. It's really the embassy that seals it.
They can see the guy's face- it's not a perfect photo by any means, but it's clear who they're looking at; could easily match him by sight to another photo- tall, handsome, strong brow and nose; softer around the jaw and cheekbones. Good-looking in an obvious sort of way. And there, on the other side of him, is Blair. Headband in place, lips full and unstitched, profile aglow in its paleness against the nondescript grayness of night vision footage.
Expression blank, but not miserable, not twisted, not aware. Not aware of what's about to happen to her. Not aware of who she's standing next to.
He looks into Tyler's face. "Tell me his name now, please."
"I've told the NYPD," Tyler says by way of refusal.
"I'm asking you," Chuck grinds out evenly, "to tell me."
"I can't do that. The deal was we work to help the NYPD nail this guy…"
"What difference does it make?"
Tyler sighs a little. "I see how affected you are by this. We need to let justice take its course. And it will. I don't want you to do anything rash."
"I'm not rash," Chuck lies, even though he's considering strangling Tyler if he continues to withhold it.
The older man just blinks back at him, eyes tracking his clenched jaw, his taut shoulders.
"I'll tell my father not to pay you," he tries desperately.
"Your father agreed it was in your own best interest not to know his name." Chuck bites his tongue furiously. "This isn't his first time to the races."
"I'll find out on my own," he murmurs.
"Just try and let that part go. It's being handled." Tyler pulls a laptop out of his briefcase. "I have something else to show you. One of the galleries gave me a long run of their surveillance footage, starting much earlier than the time they left the bar, and I reviewed it, thinking we might see him approach the bar, or God forbid, even follow her there, and maybe we could trace where he came from."
He blinks. "And?"
"No dice there," he says as he opens it, and the black screen comes to life, a black-and-white Blair on it, from the knee up. "But."
Tyler glances at him, and presses Play.
She's crying.
When she first came in, she was crying.
He grabs the sides of the laptop, tugging it closer. Tyler flinches back at the movement, probably deciding he was right in not giving Chuck the guy's name.
Whatever.
She pulls off a glove, wiping desperately at her eyes, but she can't stop. This isn't a few tears. She's crying.
He looks behind her, and yes- she's on the corner of Madison, just having walked away from the curb where she'd been standing the last time he saw her.
Before Hi, you.
"Just standing there," Tyler comments. "Maybe deciding what to do- whether to go home."
Probably replaying being told she's not beautiful or wanted, actually, he thinks. He glances at the time stamp.
Sure enough: 9:42:26 PM 10 JAN.
She looks around again, embarrassed suddenly, and puts her glove back on, facing away from the street to minimize the chance of being seen.
Facing, unknowingly, almost directly into the camera.
But her face crumples again.
He pushes the laptop away.
"I get the idea," he says through clenched teeth.
Tyler nods and packs it up. "Things will move rather quickly now. Rather than running DNA samples through literally hundreds of databases- I won't bore you with the lack of technological integration in our penitentiary system- given this tip, they'll hopefully be able to match him with her quickly."
His eyes shift up to meet Tyler's. "And what happens then?"
Pause. "They find him and lock him up forever." Another pause. "At least."
"I see." He looks toward the door, subtly signaling Tyler to go. "Thank you. Please keep me informed."
After Tyler goes, he stands at the door he's just chained shut, those images flicking through his mind again- blinking them away, clenching his hands, trying to think of anything else, celadon and ecru and copper and omelettes and Scotch and Blair's laugh and Serena's laugh and Erik's laugh and Lily's warm words, her loving maternal behavior, and hot water with lemon- anything else- and nothing covers it this time.
He's hitting the wall before he even realizes what he's doing. "Fuck," he growls at it.
Harder. "Fuck." It hurts this time.
He keeps at it. "Fuck- fuck - fuck…" One punch for every word. He feels his knuckle split, one, and then the other, and loves it, because the smarting finally distracts him, but as soon as he realizes he's distracted, he remembers from what, and then-
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"
He smacks his forehead against the wall. "Fuck!"
His blood is on his own wall now, and when he imagines what she's gone through, because he can't stop seeing it, and worse- what it was intended to be- he strikes it over and over again, red splotches turning into a pattern, dappling the area next to his coat closet, until he's sweating, fully now- hair wet, a bead quivering on his neck, his collar damp- and he leans his head against it again, an actual growl- wordless, low, murderous- coming out, as he bites back tears.
"Oh, God." He's close to crying. He sees her face crumpling around the corner from where he saw her last. Unable to hold it in. "Oh, God," he whispers miserably on an exhale.
And it's silent.
He catches his breath, which he didn't realize was bellowing in and out.
When he quiets, there's a tentative two knocks on the door.
He turns his head, forehead still against the wall, knuckles bleeding properly now, and looks at the door; the sliver of light coming in from underneath.
He doesn't bother checking who it is. He doesn't care. There's not a single person he cares to pull himself together for now, except maybe her, and it's not her. She wouldn't knock like that.
He yanks the door open halfway, light from the hallway flooding the dim entry to his suite.
Blue eyes- a hard, impassive face- a navy peacoat.
Nate's glaring, but not at him.
He's obviously been standing there more than ten seconds. Eyes roving slowly, thoughtfully, he takes in the blood-spotted wall; Chuck's ragged appearance, breath hot on his lips; sees the blood on the knuckles that curl around the door's edge, holding it open, once he sees who it is.
Nate swallows. Nods. "Me, too."
Chuck heaves a deep sigh, steps back, and beckons him in with one careless swipe of his bloody hand. Nate chains the door shut after them.