A/N: I'm BEYOND thrilled that my readers are enjoying! It's incredibly inspiring to hear from you. Thank you so, so much for your messages, reviews, follows and favorites. =) I will strive to keep earning your readership!
January 13
i.
Late evening
The machines are already whirring, conveyors spinning black and white ribbon like the spools behind a florist's counter.
A rare week when everything comes off without a hitch.
But a large rectangular bulletin board, laid lengthwise on a frame in the corner of a cubicle-fitted room many stories above, wants to change that. Begs to.
A spread of photos and hastily written copy- peer-reviewed; there was no time to get someone else- covers it like puzzle pieces, pinned in place with thumbtacks in assorted colors. Haste has dispensed of perfect presentation; this looks more like a first-round mock-up than a last call for tweaks.
Smiling, a young brunette and her beautiful blonde friend grace one; the same dark curls brush the shoulder of a dashing young man in a navy school blazer in another.
An index finger taps the edge of the board absently. "Do we have time?"
"We've already had the plates remade."
In case.
The people tending the machines in the deafening room far below have been warned there might be a last-minute change after all.
ii.
Earlier
Nate pulls out a chair from the bar while Chuck pours them each a Scotch.
Watching him pick up his glass, Nate nods at the bloody knuckles. "Shouldn't you clean that or something?"
He glances down as though Nate's just bringing this to his attention. He pauses, then picks up the bottle of Scotch and turns it sideways, hand over the sink, letting the expensive liquor pool over his open wounds. The sting is oddly soothing.
Nate cringes. "Dude."
He shrugs, putting the bottle down and picking up his glass with his other hand. "It's alcohol."
"I saw her today," Nate says after a long silence. "Spent the afternoon with her."
His gaze twists up to the blue eyes. "How is she?"
Nate's quiet again.
People have to stop doing that.
Nate opens his mouth and then hesitates. "Man," he says seriously, "what happened to her?"
"What?" The hand holding his glass twitches at the wrist, a would-be incredulous gesture.
"She told me Blair had gotten hurt and her room number and which hospital. I saw that she has stitches and she said she has two broken ribs. And that she doesn't want to talk about it." His fingertips play on the rim of his glass. "I haven't gotten anything more than that."
They hold each other's gaze.
Chuck's jaw flexes; he sees Nate's do the same.
"I know you know," Nate says, quietly.
He blinks. "You know, too."
Nate breaks the stare first. "Yeah." He drains his glass and holds it out for more. Chuck pours without looking. This is a well-practiced routine; drinking and talking, Chuck playing barkeep while Nate stands in as the philosophical patron. They rarely switch roles. Nate brings the glass back to his mouth, eyes on the bottom of his glass as he tilts it up. "Yeah, I think I do," he murmurs, lower lip on the rim, before drinking.
"So," he tries again after a slow sip, "how is she?"
"I've seen her worse, but different." Nate looks at the cupboards behind him, not at him. "She just wanted to read the paper and do the crossword. She's on bed rest."
A little while later, Nate clears his throat awkwardly. "I know we never talked about you guys…"
He chuckles. "We did, a little."
"It's still pretty new, okay," Nate replies, voice tight. Looks at him then. "How… how long were you…?"
He runs his hand through his hair- the one that isn't bloody- and looks away. "About a month. A little longer."
"A month?" Nate's eyebrows raise. "We were barely broken up for a month."
"You were broken up for almost two, counting the holidays," he retorts.
"Chuck."
He looks over at the sound of his own name.
"When did you stop sleeping with her? When was the last time?"
He considers, in a flash, lying. And decides against it. He meets Nate's eyes, but his voice and expression are apologetic. "The last time was right after your tux fitting for Cotillion."
"Wow." Nate blinks down into his glass. "That whole time- it was you she was texting."
"I don't know." Plausible deniability, though he's pretty sure he has a good idea. "We were talking while she was there, but I'm sure she was texting other people…"
"No." Nate pushes back his chair. "She was completely distracted, giggling and grinning and making all these smirking little faces…"
And damn if that doesn't make his black heart leap.
"She said she was texting Serena."
He shrugs, even as he knows he's being a coward. "Maybe she was."
Nate puts both hands on the counter and draws a breath, clearly trying to keep himself calm. "And you stopped because…?"
His eyes dart up at that. Why else, Nate? "Because she chose you."
There's a silence, and he thinks they're done with this, and then Nate's voice cuts into his spliced thoughts of those rushed trysts- usually rushed- those indulgent, delicious memories- almost unwillingly: "When was the first time?"
His eyes close briefly. Reliving?
I'm yours. - I just want to make sure you're sure. - He's never done this to you? - Do you think he doesn't think I'm beautiful or something? - Blair. Blair. Blair. Blair. Blair-
No, just a long blink.
He has to get the words out, get it over with. He's leaning forward, too, bracing his palms on the counter on the opposite side of the bar, a few feet between them diagonally.
"The opening night of Victrola."
Nate's eyes darken. "The night my father got arrested and she took our limo alone to you?"
"Not to me."
"To you," Nate says. "Your club. Your party." Teeth clenched: "Your bed."
Full disclosure isn't necessary, he decides. The limo part can be a conversation for another day.
"I knew she wasn't mine," he offers.
Though he'd allowed himself to believe otherwise.
Nate just stares at him.
"I'm genuinely sorry," he says slowly, quietly, "for hurting you and going behind your back and damaging our friendship. But I respect you enough to be honest. And I wouldn't take it back."
He expects Nate will hit him then, and he's ready for it.
Instead, he pushes his glass, empty again, back across the bar.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I'm not sure," he says honestly, pouring the Scotch. "I think at first, it seemed like it would end quickly and you two would get back together. But then it was going on for a week or two, and you were dealing with your dad- and it felt so… temporary- and then it seemed like you weren't getting back together…" He shakes his head. "I really don't know. It felt like you'd be angry, and then even when it didn't…"
The truth is that as the days ticked on and the kisses and touches got firmer and deeper and surer, it was more than just Nate's reaction, or anyone's reaction, that lurked behind the possibility of it getting out. There's no real way to put it into words. It was too delicate. Too good. Too delicious to risk.
Nate scoffs neutrally. "The two of you and your secrets." He rolls his eyes.
"Fair enough." He pours himself a little more too.
Silence again. Then: "So you found her?"
Found her, yes, he did. Found Blair the unbelievably passionate; Blair the hot-blooded; Blair who enjoyed pushing against walls and being pushed against walls; Blair who laced her fingers through his and pinned her hair up before she saw him so he could take it down; Blair who wouldn't stop kissing him while he came, somehow knowing how to draw out his orgasms, leaving him unable to catch his breath until she decided otherwise-
Nate's asking about the park, he realizes.
"Yes." He takes a sip. "After. Much later."
"Where was she?"
"She was in the park. That's where it happened. During the storm."
Blue eyes narrow. "What were you doing in the park?"
"I wasn't. I was near the edge- she was on the footpath by 76th. I was waiting for a car to pick me up and go home."
"From…?"
The twist of guilt is palpable between his ribs. Seven and eight. "Someone's apartment."
Nate smiles, exhaling lightly. A good-natured smirk. "A girl." He looks away. He doesn't have to say it: how very Chuck Bass of you.
He looks away, too. Deserves it, no question. More than Nate knows.
Later, Nate's shrugging into his coat, heading for the door, when he turns. Tugs on his lapels to snap the shoulders into place. Unconscious, long-limbed, athletic grace written in every gesture.
Clears his throat, briefly, needlessly.
"I wish it hadn't gone like this, man."
There's no diminutive one-shoulder shrug; no minimizing tilt of the head.
His synapses spark with her, shards of memories piecing themselves back into a windowpane, as he draws a breath to reply.
Breathless, pale in the morning light, hair in loose waves that she's done an admirable job fluffing, but that are really just remnants of yesterday's curls.
Serena had showed up, voice singing up from the foyer followed by the clacking of high-heeled boots on the stairs, and wanted to go out for eggs and shoe shopping.
He'd ducked into her bathroom, behind the casually half-open door- definitely nothing to see here- listening for the elevator to ding, after which he'd wait several silent minutes before slipping out after them.
Ding.
But then he'd heard her voice, the lilt bright and excited. Happy. And the rainfall of ballet flats – Repettos that she got in Paris – up the stairs.
She didn't bother to shut her bedroom door – royal blue swing coat on over a gray sweater dress; the first two things she'd found in her closet – and, glancing around, made for him.
Eased around the corner headfirst. He'd waited for a scold for almost giving her away (planned his eyeroll, as he'd done no such thing), waited for her to say she forgot her lipstick or couldn't find her wallet.
"Bye," she'd whispered, reaching for his hair with one hand, bicep with another, tugging him in for a kiss that lingered. Her lips on his, all his mind's eye could see was the delight written on her face. The moment she'd peered around the door, seeking him.
Not lipstick or wallet or hat- him.
Dimples and a warm secret in her eyes. Pulled back, another smile, kissed him quickly once more.
Before she'd ducked back out: "See you later?"
As if it was already settled.
And it was.
"What I wouldn't give," he agrees, holding out his hand. Nate shakes without hesitation.
Because Nate's a far better man than he is.
iii.
The index finger has stopped tapping; it's in the air now, with the other four fingers, hailing a cab. It's too late for the subway, and tomorrow will be a big day.
Bleary eyes and ink-stained palms. The smell of the machines, pulp and hot metal and what smells faintly of leather a faint memory behind.
In the room where the ribbons are spun.
Newspapers never sleep.
Approved. Copy and photos.
iv.
He's getting out of the shower when he hears his phone buzzing, and he sees her name from across the bed and dives for it.
Gets it before it goes to voicemail.
"Hi, 'Blair's new number,' Chuck Bass's phone – how may I direct your call?"
He hoped right earlier – he hears a faint chuckle. "Please tell Mr. Bass that his new personal assistant sounds like an incompetent ape."
He smirks. "How are Eleanor and Harold today?"
"Miserable," she whimpers dramatically. "I realize they're concerned, but I'm not a porcelain doll, for God's sake. I swear my mother wants me to come sleep in bed with her."
He raises his eyes incredulously at the very thought, still half-sprawled on his bed in a towel. "I'm trying to imagine how I'd feel if Bart invited me to bunk up."
"Let me save you the trouble. It's heinous." She lowers her voice. "She invited Nate over on my behalf. He came over for a while, which was fine, but I wish she'd have a little self-control."
"Well," he says tentatively, not really wanting to ask at all, "to be fair, have you mentioned you're not dating dear Nathaniel these days?"
She snorts. "Believe me- I want to. I hadn't seen her much, and haven't talked to her about anything personal in ages, but I'd love nothing more right now than to make that clear to her." She lowers her voice again; he can almost hear her looking around. "But she's on the verge of having a stroke as it is. I don't think she needs to hear the story of how her only child is a whore on the same weekend she sees it carved into her leg."
He's been pushing his hand through his wet hair, trying to smooth it so it doesn't dry in obnoxious cowlicks. His hand stops at this. "You're not a whore," he tells her firmly.
She sighs, and now he can almost hear her rolling her eyes.
"I'm wondering," she continues, voice louder and more authoritative now, "if we should figure out some tip to send to Gossip Girl to throw focus off me for the time being." She pauses. "I can't go back to school any time soon."
For many reasons, she does not add.
Bed rest for one; stitched-up face for another; not being able to sleep for more than 30 minutes at a time for a third.
She sniffs. "And people will talk." They'd talk at the best of times.
"Who cares?" The world of Gossip Girl suddenly seems, to him, so childishly insignificant that he wants to hire someone to hack and destroy it.
"I agree, but the more I'm not seen at school… people will start digging, and then…"
Someone will find out.
"I don't want people to know," she murmurs.
He hauls himself up, damp towel cooling, and puts on a robe. "There's no reason that you wouldn't go back to school if you're still in Manhattan," he points out. "Do you think you should go away for a while?"
"I don't think I should run. People would think I was a coward." She pauses. "They'd wonder why I'd do something so extreme. The curiosity creates more of a risk than if I stay here and everyone assumes they know the whole story."
He tosses the towel over the drying rack and turns off the lights, pausing with his hand on the duvet.
"Would you rather people think you were a coward, or wonder what else might have happened?"
There's a small, sweet hmm. "They'll think I'm a coward either way, won't they."
It's not a question. They both know the answer.
He pauses as he sinks to his pillows, straining to hear what she murmurs next, almost to herself: "And I'd rather be a whore than a victim."
"You're neither," he corrects her with a sideways glance at the closed file folder on his nightstand. "You're Blair Waldorf."
She hesitates, looking for a way to divert. "I didn't sleep well last night again. I thought I'd sleep better at home."
"You will."
"I keep waking up. It's like… when it's dark and quiet and I'm…" Alone. "Even if I'm asleep, I know… he's out there."
It's the first time she's said he.
He stretches his free arm out, then rests it behind his head, the picture of relaxed confidence. Except his hand is clenched into a tight fist.
"He won't be," he tells her. The first assurance he's made to her since the cab ride to the hospital that he knows will come true. Because he'll make it come true, one way or the other. "Not for long."
"Serena's coming to stay over tonight."
He wants to make a signature joke about the two of them having pillow fights.
"She'll protect me." Her tone is light, humorous, but there's a hard edge there.
"Like anyone could get past Dorota."
Then they're both quiet, because he can hear her unspoken response. You did.
"I think she's here," she says a minute later when she hears the ding of the elevator followed by uneven punches of footfall. Only Serena has such character in every stride. "Keep me updated on how things go tomorrow."
"Évidemment," he says- obviously - wondering if she remembers allouette, allouette. Or un, deux, trois. "Bonne nuit."
"Avance, monsieur," she murmurs, just like every other French phrase she's ever dropped into a sentence- no recognition in her voice- and the line goes dead a split second later.
Onward.
He drops his phone on top of the folder and switches off the light, hearing her we over and over – I'm wondering if we should figure out some tip…
He wants to smile that she's asking for his help, but can't quite do it.
Even if she's trying to forgive him, just a little; even if she's considering moving past what he said; even if she's one iota inclined to put her trust in him.
He can't even begin to entertain any of that. Not until the guy is dead and she can breathe again.
v.
Far away from the whir of the black-and-white ribbon, an impassive face reads the message with an abbreviated sigh. Relief? Shock?
This set of fingers picks, agitated, at already-ragged cuticles. A subtle tipoff of anxiety, were anyone looking.
Hand in the air- no ink, no cab- pausing, hovering, above a laptop screen.
Approved. It's gone to press.
And closing the lid with a soft click.
vi.
Serena, unsurprisingly, doesn't think the right move is to figure out a tip to throw everyone off.
But when she sees that Blair is serious about considering the idea, at least to debate it, her eyes flash with something unrecognizable. "Let's make up something about me," she says at once.
"No. Not you."
"Come on, something believable. Something about how I'm slipping back to the dark side. 'Old Serena is back.' 'Risen angel falls again.'" She rolls her eyes. "She'd have a field day."
Blair touches at her stitched lip, self-conscious. "And Dan?"
"He'll understand. I'll warn him ahead of time."
"But what reason could you give?" Blair realizes, and when Serena freezes, letting her hair down from its bun- already in pajamas with her Prada loafers- Blair stops breathing. "You told him," she says, below a whisper. Serena reads it on her lips rather than hearing it.
"Blair, I…"
But Blair's eyes are already flicking back and forth, frantic, a runaway train. "He's going to tell Jenny, and she's going to tell Penelope- oh, my God, Serena…" She looks up, eyes brimming, tears spilling over immediately. "How could you?"
"He's not going to tell anyone."
"Serena." She's not listening. She buries her eyes against her good palm. "Serena."
"Blair, please… listen- he's not going to tell anyone. He didn't tell Jenny anything last time. She was eavesdropping. That was my fault. He's not going to tell anyone. I swear. I promise." She pauses, searching for something to supplement her argument. "He was really upset. He feels terrible. He's asked about you like fifty times. And even if he wanted to tell anyone, Chuck told him he'd murder him if he did…" she pauses with a smirk. "And I think he meant it."
Blair lifts her head, eyes flashing. "Chuck was there?" Chuck had let her do that?
"N- no." Serena stumbles as she climbs onto the bed. "Dan was leaving The Palace and Chuck was coming home. They saw each other, and Chuck just… knew somehow."
Blair wipes her nose on one sleeve. "I don't take Humphrey for being a fantastic actor," she mutters.
"No, he's not."
She fixes a red-rimmed look on the blonde. "Is there anything else I should know?" She manages, somehow, to be both withering and vulnerable at once.
"Nothing at all. Erik thinks there's something going on because of how…" she hesitates. "Preoccupied I've been. But Chuck got him to drop it."
Better Chuck manage these situations than Serena.
Dorota's brought extra pillows, since Blair needs every single one she has to prop her upright. Serena builds her side of the bed to equal height. "You can sleep like a normal person," Blair sighs when she sees what she's doing. "It's really uncomfortable."
"I'll be uncomfortable with you," Serena says, leaning over Blair to turn off her bedside light.
Blair grabs at her hand in the dark. "Please, make sure he doesn't tell," she whispers.
Serena laces their fingers together and squeezes.
vii.
He's awakened by his phone buzzing. He grabs at it, sure it's her, or Tyler, so desperate that he pushes the file folder off his bedside table.
It's Arthur.
He falls back against his pillows.
"Good morning," he breathes, eyes closed, half-deranged, half-asleep. "Is the limo on fire?"
"No, sir."
And the dry threat that it had better be an emergency to wake him so early dies on his lips. "What's going on?"
"I don't suppose you've seen Page Six."
"I haven't seen anything other than the backs of my own eyelids. What time is it?"
"It's about five-fifteen, sir. I'm sorry to disturb you. I just got the paper."
He has a sinking feeling in his stomach. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "What is it?"
Arthur pauses. "Yours is probably at your door."
He sighs. "All right. I'll see you at our normal time."
Sure enough, it's there, a copy waiting patiently in front of 1812 along with a few others in his hallway.
Flicking on the light, squinting at the sharpness against his sleep-sensitive eyes, he spreads the Post on the bar and flips to the gossip section.
He exhales softly in dismay as he turns the page. Then the next. Photo after photo. Wide brown eyes, perfectly styled hair, in her school uniform, at Cotillion, with headbands and high heels.
His first thought is that this is ridiculous. Ridiculous. Her parents are going to sue and they're going to become multimillionaires many more times over than they already are. This is unsubstantiated nonsense.
But his mouth is dry because that doesn't solve it.
His second thought is that this is Page Six; it's a gossip column. The world's most famous gossip column, actually. Publishing salacious, unsubstantiated rumors is their business. The daughter and darling of the already precarious Waldorf family – plot twist: gay patriarch; late bloomer; sampling male models from his wife's fashion business until he finds the boy toy he wants to buy!- yes, they all remember those blurbs from last year – is more than fair game. Though, maybe because she's seventeen and a minor-
His third thought takes over then, the only one that matters: lawsuits and settlements and legislative punishment are all for tomorrow. And what's today is that this paper is, at this very moment, in the process of being distributed all over Manhattan. Everyone is going to know. Everyone.
Suddenly he wishes it was just Gossip Girl sending it out, that it was the buzzing of his phone, the harbinger of the blast, that woke him up. He wishes Humphrey had just told his sister and the people at school heard and that was the whole of it.
This is a level of exposure that hasn't even occurred to him.
Fumbling, he dials the number for the Waldorf penthouse, but gets no answer. And what's he planning to do, anyway? Warn them?
Their phone will be ringing off the hook soon enough.
He stares at her text. Blair's new number.
He can't be the one to tell her. He can't call her and wake her up with this.
Sleep, he tells her name in his phone silently. Sleep as long as you can.
He starts in his own hallway and works his way through the three corridors that make up the U-shape of his floor, at a fast clip, picking up every copy of the Post that's lying in front of a doorway. He drops them down chutes at the corner of each hall.
One floor down; 54 to go.
viii.
Serena is up and getting dressed for school, Blair groggy under the comforter. "Breakfast?" Blair asks.
"Sure, I have time for a bite. Should I ask Dorota to bring something up?" Blair nods with a yawn.
Going downstairs is like wading into a pond filled with quicksand. Eleanor, in nightgown and robe, is on the verge of hyperventilating. Harold doesn't look much better, gripping the sides of a newspaper with such fury that the whole thing crinkles under his fingers.
Dorota, the innocent messenger, seems to be the clay pigeon Eleanor is using for target practice.
"This is an outrage," Eleanor hisses. "An outrage."
"Control yourself," Harold says coolly, his lawyer's mind humming. Serena steps forward, hesitantly. No one has seen her yet. She's just decided on slipping back upstairs – she left the door open to Blair's bedroom and she's not sure Blair should hear whatever they're saying – when Eleanor whirls on Harold, seeing Serena but disregarding her.
"Harold, it's an invasion of privacy! It's disgusting! She's legally a child! Do something!"
Serena cringes, glancing up toward the open bedroom door. She's sure Blair heard that.
Much too late. Harold is dutifully ignoring Eleanor, working his way through whatever is in the paper, and suddenly Blair is on the landing. "What's going on?"
Everyone freezes and turns. Dorota closes her eyes briefly.
Eleanor stretches her mouth into a smile. "Nothing, darling. Just go ahead back to bed. Dorota will bring up some breakfast- what about pancakes?- "
"Mother, just tell me what you're screeching about, please," Blair says steadily. She looks at Harold. "Daddy?"
Eleanor throws Harold a warning look, but he looks at Blair for a few seconds, and then turns the paper over and holds it up for her. Serena sees a flash of it, and her mouth falls open.
"You're all over Page Six," he says quietly.
Blair's lips open, half-lidded, sleepy eyes blinking slowly. She leans on the railing and comes down two steps. "What does it say?"
"What happened." He clears his throat. "All with the obligatory qualifiers: 'a source close to the family,' 'allegedly,' 'reportedly,' and so forth. But- the assault, when it happened, that you recovered in a hospital in Manhattan, where you were treated for multiple injuries, including broken bones, and are now resting at home." He regards the paper again. "The captions of these photos identify Nate Archibald, 'son of Anne and the recently indicted Howard Archibald,'" he grimaces at the Post's tactlessness, which seems a waste of energy to Serena, "as your boyfriend."
Blair stares at Serena, her teeth clenched. When Serena sees, she shakes her head quickly. "He didn't do this."
"Who else?" Blair hisses.
"Who?" Eleanor demands. "Nate?"
"Never," Serena shakes her head dismissively. Back to Blair: "I promise, he didn't. I'd stake my life on it."
"The circle was closed," Blair grinds out, eyes hot and wet. "You promised me."
"Who are you talking about?" Harold asks sternly.
Blair exhales, angry, through her nose. "She told her boyfriend."
"Dan?" Eleanor splutters. Blair suppresses an eyeroll. Leave it to her to remember Serena's knockoff boyfriend's name.
"He didn't tell," Serena insists hotly.
"Probably just told his sister," Blair fires back. "Go, Serena. I'm getting back in bed and sleeping until I wake up from this nightmare. No one speak to me."
She struggles up the stairs and drops Serena's overnight bag outside her bedroom door.
ix.
"Did you do this?" she asks as soon as Dan answers.
"Do what? Good morning."
She bites back tears. "Did you leak the story?"
"What?"
"About Blair," she murmurs, desperate. "Did you leak it to Page Six?"
He pauses. "What? No. Of course not. Wait, it's on Page Six?"
"Pages and pages of photos of her, and the story, the whole thing." She covers her eyes with one hand, lowering it from where it was poised to hail a cab.
"God- no, of course not."
She bites her lip. "You didn't tell anyone, did you?" Not Jenny, did you?
"No." He's firm. "Absolutely no one. I haven't breathed a word, not texted a word, not emailed a word. Nothing. Only talked about it in person to you. And that one sentence with Chuck."
"Okay. I'll see you at school."
x.
In the end, he enlists backup from the concierge desk- Kathryn, the night manager, ever reliable- and all employees on the graveyard shift are dispatched to help him. He figures they got most of them; few guests would have been up early enough to get their papers by 6:30 AM.
Great. One hotel down; that just leaves the rest of Manhattan.
He's sweating, from adrenaline as much as the exertion of barreling down corridors, picking up papers without breaking stride and shoving piles of them down chutes, and showers again before ducking into his limo, wet hair dampening his collar.
Serena's calling as Arthur pulls away from the curb.
"See it?" he answers.
"She thinks it was Dan."
"Can't say I find her illogical there."
"It wasn't. She's mad at me for telling him."
He sighs inwardly at her lack of focus. "Whoever it was, the damage is nigh. Someone let it slip."
"She went back to sleep." He hears a muffled car horn on her end, followed by another, closer. "I hate that there's nothing we can do."
"Who said there was nothing we could do? There's always something. I'll call you back." He hangs up. Navigates to her name.
She'll see it when she wakes up.
He struggles with what to say, typing and deleting: "I didn't do this." No. "I saw. I'm sorry." No.
"Ideas for how to kill the person who talked?" No.
He looks out the window helplessly. Newspaper vendor boxes on the curb; newsstands; corner convenience stores. She's not on the cover, but no one will have to flip far before they find her.
He glances back down at his phone.
"I'm on it."
xi.
His father answers on the first ring. "I got three complaints that guests requested the Post and didn't have it when they woke up this morning," he says by way of greeting. "But I've opened my copy, and I suppose you're responsible for that."
"Yes."
"This is just… most unfortunate."
He swallows. "I agree."
"I hope they'll take legal action. Harold is well connected. He'll get it sorted."
"Can we help control the… damage?" he asks, not sure how else to put it.
Bart pauses. "In what way?"
"Do we know anyone at the Post?"
"Yes, but- it's already in circulation."
He looks out the window again. "Can we get it taken off the internet, at least? Contain it?"
He imagines his father at his desk, fingers drumming, alert and immaculate at 7:30 AM. "I'll see what I can do."
He hangs up and sees he has an unread text. Slides his phone back open.
"Thank you."
xii.
He calls Serena back when he's a few blocks from school.
"Meet me out front," he says.
When she opens the door, Nate slides in after her. Chuck glances up. "Reinforcements?"
Then Dan Humphrey climbs in, too.
He looks at Serena drily. "Really?"
"Good morning to you, too," Dan says, just as dry.
"We all want the same thing," Serena insists, settling across from Chuck on the long side seats while Nate and Dan take the back. "More manpower can't hurt."
His lip curls in disgust. "I don't particularly see what value Humphrey adds to an operation." He spares him a glance. "No special offense."
"None taken."
Nate rolls his eyes. "Look, none of us plays the game like you and Blair. Without her, you're the only one with the instinct, so we're your soldiers." He waves a hand. "Lead, captain."
Chuck sighs.
"Fine. My father is working to get the Post to remove it from their website…"
Serena brightens. "That's great!"
He holds up a hand. "If that works, it will remove the online presence of the story and stop it from potentially going viral. However, we still have issues with the thousands of printed copies already in circulation."
Serena's phone buzzes. "Sorry- Erik, hi," she murmurs.
"This is what you were keeping from me?" His voice, almost at a shout, is clear in the confined space.
Her face falls. "I had to- I'm sorry-"
"Oh, my God. How is she?"
"Give me the phone," Chuck demands, grabbing for it. "Erik. What are you doing right now?"
"Walking to homeroom and then cramming for my Latin test."
"Can you cut?"
Serena protests, wide-eyed.
"I mean- yeah. For what?"
Hand curled around the phone, he looks down at the floor between his feet, remembering his shoes so carefully aligned on the floor of the waiting room at the hospital, the moment when he was sure the nurse was going to tell him that she was dead and that it was his fault. "Operation Kill the Waldorf Story."
"I'm in," Erik says at once. "Where are you?"
"My limo. Follow the sounds of your sister's protestations." He snaps the phone shut and hands it back over.
Serena stammers helplessly, but just then, two gloved hands press against the window of the limo to Dan's right, followed briefly by an abstract oval, the fuzzy darkness that must be a face. One hand disappears, then pounds on the tinted glass.
"It's not a vault door, it's a window," Chuck yells. "Open it."
The door flings open and a crying Jenny Humphrey tumbles in, yanking it closed behind her.
Dan tenses. "Jen…"
"Did you know?" She looks at him, wiping away tears, then takes in Nate, Serena, and finally Chuck.
They all look back silently.
"She was raped," she splutters at them, angry. "Where is she now?" She spins to Serena.
"Home."
"Can I go see her? I want to apologize. For… everything." She's smearing her mascara.
Serena pauses, then shakes her head no.
"I can't believe she…" She trails off and turns to her brother. "What are you doing in here? I saw you get in and thought you'd get right back out. Where are you going?"
"Go to class, Jen."
Nate chimes in: "Go ahead. It'll be fine."
"It's not fine!"
Chuck pinches the bridge of his nose again, groaning under his breath. He glares at Serena: see what happens when you get a Humphrey involved? He needs a drink already. It's not even 8 AM.
Erik slides in next, almost piling on top of Jenny, who's still whimpering, Dan's arm around her awkwardly now; Erik moves to the right to sit beside his sister.
He pulls off his knitted hat. "What's the plan?"
"We're not sure yet." Chuck lowers the partition. "Arthur. Back to The Palace, please."
"No, no." Dan unfolds Jenny from his arms. "You're going back to school."
"I'm going wherever you're going," she tells him, but glances around to everyone. "I'm helping."
She's wearing a bright red headband, classic French-dotted black tights, and black velvet heels to match a black velvet coat- classic Blair Waldorf style, dressed with deliberate attention to detail, ready to supplant the queen she's now intent on saving.
Dan sighs, hugging her close again. He looks down at her pink-nosed face and thinks how he'd want every one of these people on his side if this happened to her.
He nods at Chuck.