A/N: I'm so, so sorry for the long delay! I moved in late August; the move was delayed twice, and it's been such a process to get my new home set up! (It's 110 years old and needed a few small projects done, which took WAY longer than anticipated and ate up literally all my free time.)
I want to say thank you, thank you, THANK YOU SO MUCH to each and every one of you who has taken the time to read, review, send PMs, favorite and follow! I've tried to make sure I reach out to each new follower to express my thanks; I'm sorry if I've missed anyone. Please know how absolutely delighted I am to have you as my readers. I very much hope you'll enjoy this chapter, and all the rest, too. Thank you so much for lending me your ear- or eyes, as it were. =)
i.
He's poised over "Ignore," expecting Serena or Nate, but it's the front desk of The Palace. It's Kathryn.
He exhales through his nose as he lifts the phone back to his ear, eyes skyward, elevator picking up speed now that they're approaching the top floor.
"Chuck," she says at a whisper. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Had some trouble with the elevator," he drawls, vaguely injecting a question mark into his statement.
"Serena called."
He grinds his teeth.
"Serena," he murmurs, "tends to get rather fanciful in tense situations."
Kathryn is in no mood. She huffs angrily in his ear: "Get back upstairs and stay there, and I'll make it like this never happened."
"If you were watching, you know nothing did happen," he tries to reason.
"That your father's gun you were pulling out of your pocket a few minutes ago?" she retorts, and doesn't wait for a response. "Just put it away and we'll erase this whole thing."
"Done," he agrees, as the elevator glides noiselessly to a stop at PH.
Serena is waiting for him, alone, hair pulled into a messy ponytail now, deadly serious expression ironic against her sweater and lounge pants that are slung low enough to reveal she's wearing pajama shorts underneath.
He steps off the elevator and regards her crossed arms. "Miss me?"
She surprises him by moving toward him, arms opening like she's going to embrace him. He steps back. There's a loaded revolver in his pocket.
Serena checks, arms lowering to her sides. She clears her throat softly, eyes downcast. "I feel better knowing we were thinking more along the same lines than I realized."
So. Bait time?
He steps around her, shaking his head minutely, the pocket with the gun as far away from her as he can get it.
She catches his elbow. "Kathryn said she'd take care of it. Erik doesn't know."
When he meets her eyes, she's brimming with tears. He waits for what she really wants to say.
Doesn't have to wait long. She blinks, shifting her feet, and her gaze drops floorward. "Blair keeps sending me to voicemail."
He hesitates long enough to shift his hand in his pocket, making sure the revolver is facing the other direction, before raising the arm that's closer to her. Her head lolls against his shoulder, loose ponytail shifting and falling against his chest, as she stifles a sob into his coat.
ii.
Jenny's eyes are puffy, clear liquid dripping from her nose, when she disentangles herself from her brother's arms and chokes out that she's going to take a shower.
When she emerges after an uncharacteristically long time, Dan has a fresh cup of coffee waiting for her, plus toast for both of them. She smiles gratefully, wet hair dripping onto a sweater she stole from his dresser. She reaches for her phone.
He grabs it first and places it out of reach, on an end table in the corner. "I think we've both had enough of that for a while," he says.
She rubs at her swollen eyes and sinks down next to him, reaching for the mug with her other hand. "You're right."
After all, he's moved his laptop out of their way, too.
iii.
Master key card back in its pouch and underneath Bart's passport- check.
Revolver back exactly where and how it was before, missing no bullets, spilling no secrets- check.
He closes the safe's door softly, spins the dial, and turns on his heel to head to the media room.
Buzz.
"Everything okay over there?"
He snorts. "Other than that you were apparently outdone at counterintelligence."
"We got him, didn't we?"
He got himself, more like, Chuck thinks.
"The detective and commissioner will be heading over to the Waldorfs' to deliver the news."
"She knows," he comments boredly, pausing in the corridor so he's far away that no Van Der Woodsens hear him.
"You did a lot," Tyler says abruptly, "kid- a real lot. He might have hurt someone else if you hadn't jumped on this. Not that it's a good situation by any stretch, but you should be proud of how you stepped up here."
His empty pocket is conspicuously light against his leg.
"Thanks," he says.
iv.
Even as they're summoning a doctor, Blair reminds her parents and Dorota that she's not meant to be lying down, and she's propped up with pillows against the hard arm of the sofa. Her phone buzzes incessantly, though she's turned the ringer off for phone calls, and is in the middle of doing so for texts- interrupted constantly by the flood of supporting, stifling, classmates and friends who apparently lack the sense to leave. Her. Alone-
When it chimes. That playful, thrilling, blood-curdling little chime.
"Miss Blair…"
Dorota knows that sound.
Her posture slackens, shoulders slumping in defeat- why can't this be over - as she clicks open the blast.
v.
Erik is not stupid. He's actually very, very bright.
Watchful, quiet; yes. Subtle. He's intuitive. And he's spent so long in his sister's shadow that he's learnt the benefits of being the less effervescent Van Der Woodsen.
And so it is that when Chuck swaggers into the media room, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over a chair, Erik's brown eyes take in last night's outfit, mussed hair (and not in the good way), and skittish eyes.
"Everything okay?"
Chuck cocks his head affected nonchalance, eyes sliding away.
"Had some trouble with the elevator." He drops into an armchair at one end of the sofa.
Serena, nose two shades darker of pink than it should be, glares at the television.
Erik scratches behind one ear. Like he didn't hear Serena before she came, shaky, back into the media room twenty minutes ago- Chuck? CHUCK!
He turns back to the screen himself.
"Glad you got it sorted out."
All three phones chime, one on top of the next, so that it's impossible to know who got the blast first.
vi.
"Miss Blair." Dorota is reaching for her phone; her mother looks ready to snatch it from her hands.
"Leave me alone," she murmurs.
Buzz.
Serena.
Silence.
Buzz-buzz.
Nate, and a text from Penelope.
Ignore. Ignore.
Buzz.
Serena: Please answer. I need to hear your voice.
vii.
"Leave her alone," Chuck says, low, eyes sideways under half-closed lids.
"I can't leave her alone," Serena shoots back, strangled. "She needs someone. She can't shut us out."
She dials again.
"Maybe she just needs to breathe," Erik tries, his own gaze flickering back and forth from Serena's right hand, thumb insistent over the keys, to her left hand- tugging mercilessly at a piece of hair that's fallen across her cheekbone- to his future stepbrother's stillness that's too still to be peaceful. "She's been through a lot."
"We've all been through a lot," Serena says, sending the text and clicking back to Blair's name. "We need each other."
Chuck squeezes his phone and looks back at the news coverage of the blockade, fifty five floors below. I'm coming.
viii.
Buzz again.
Serena.
Blair exhales like she's just finished sprinting stairs, hot stress building in her stomach. "I need…"
Her head turns up to look at Dorota, but on the way she spies something on the mantel.
"Daddy. Is that yours?"
Harold looks over his shoulder. "Yes."
"Are you finished with it?"
ix.
Serena tries twice more, vehement in her punches at the phone's keyboard, sticking her finger in her opposite ear each time it begins to ring, like the boys are crowding her and making too much noise.
At last, she pulls it away slowly.
"Straight to voicemail," she says softly. "No ring this time."
Chuck turns his head at this.
She's silent for a full ten seconds.
"Can you try?"
He shakes his head. "She must have turned it off. Or it's dead."
"Or she blocked me."
"I'm sure she didn't block you," Erik reasons, pivoting. "She probably just needs to breathe."
The implication seems to twist at Serena; she pulls her knees to her chest and, never letting go of her phone, wraps her arms around her legs. "But we could breathe better together," she insists through her tears.
Erik blinks at Chuck, who, after studying her for several silent seconds, relinquishes responsibility by turning his head back toward the screen.
x.
"Miss Blair, I get you fresh cup, with extra foam…"
"I take it sweeter than you do, my love."
"Blair, what are you- "
The blast is the last thing on her screen as she places it in the deep mug, fine bone china, careful not to splash the coffee out onto the floor or the sofa. She blinks at it, at the words, as it goes in.
Coffee, she'd once been told, is the best way to fry an electronic. Corrosive. Far more damaging than water, and much less messy than a hammer.
Her phone is a little too long for the depth of the coffee left in the cup; light foam, half-sipped already by her father before they rushed in here to put on the news, before Dorota scrambled up the stairs to get Blair.
So she gets to see the buttons at the bottom of the device- she pitched it in headfirst- illuminate, flicker, and fade to black. The black that says the phone is dead. Deader than if someone put a bullet in it.
Her parents and Dorota are quiet when they see what she's done.
She looks up, at last, and hands the mug back to her father.
"Probably too sweet," she agrees. To Dorota: "I'll have a cappuccino."
Dorota's blue eyes are wide; she looks back and forth between father and daughter. Holds out one hand. Gaze holding Blair, Harold hands over the ruined coffee and ruined phone.
"Thank you, Dorota," Blair adds.
The screen is alive behind the Waldorfs; Blair nods over their shoulders, and both her parents turn, Eleanor as if on a physical delay, lips moving constantly, minutely, though no sound emerges.
There, on the screen, are Bart and Lily. Bart, eyes flicking to and fro; Lily, jaw set, nostrils flaring.
She can see them, but they can't see her. Can't reach her. Can't find her.
No one can.
The blast echoes through her, still; she even braces herself for more, her hand waiting to feel the familiar buzz of the last lifeline to her past existence, the one she just destroyed.
Chuck told her. About the coffee. God knows who told him.
She smiles. A Blair Waldorf smile.
xi.
My mother taught me not to speak ill of the dead, but in this case I think I'll make an exception.
Burn in Hell.
XOXO.
xii.
The news cameras kick back to life once the anchor is on the ground, making an impromptu landing on one of the scrapers of Midtown- thank God for emergency helipads- and relocating to the area around the NYPD barricade.
Within minutes, The Palace's monarch and his consort are floating at the front of the crowd, having tried unsuccessfully to gain entry to the Bass property.
"This is not your hotel right now, sir." The NYPD sergeant actually looks apologetic as he says this; pulls off his sunglasses, puts them in the breast pocket of his overcoat. He tugs down his stocking cap over his ears.
It doesn't take long for the anchor to find her way to Bart, and begin chirping excitedly about security measures in his hotel and whether he was involved in the investigation; did he personally tip off the NYPD; was he even aware he's been harboring a dangerous criminal in one of his suites?
Bart's poker face is remarkable.
Lily nudges in, imperious, and looks down her elegant nose at the anchor, who stands a half-head shorter than she, even in platform heels.
"Mr. Bass has no comment," she informs the anchor with the finality of a physician announcing time of death.
Bart glances sidewise at her.
The anchor, dark side bangs sweeping against her jaw in a Hepburn-esque fashion, turns her whole body toward Lily. "And do you have any comment, Ms. Van Der Woodsen? About The Palace becoming the scene of a standoff with a dangerous criminal?"
Lily's eyes brighten, anticipating a challenge. "No more than were it any other location in the city."
"Any other comment about what's happened here today?" The microphone bobs back and forth between the anchor's face and Lily's as the woman persists. "You're well-acquainted with the Waldorf family, are you not? Do you care to send them any message over the air?"
Bart opens his mouth, then closes it as Lily draws a breath.
But the anchor prattles on: "Do you have any comment about the manner in which the investigation was handled by the NYPD? Any comment about Blair Waldorf? Any comment about future security measures at The Palace?" The microphone floats back toward Bart and Lily, as though waiting to see which of them she can provoke into a statement first. No one from the Waldorf family has spoken publicly; a Van Der Woodsen or, even better, the island's reigning king would be a close second.
Lily's cheeks flush. It's cold enough that she could pass it off as windburn.
As if to reinforce the image, Bart adjusts his black scarf and offers her his arm.
"Do you have children?" The words are knife-sharp and cut into the breathless chatter of the anchor. Lily's voice is warm, inviting, a hot cup of cocoa waiting next to an open fire.
"I don't, ma'am, no."
Microphone bounces back to Lily.
"I," Lily almost emphasizes, "do."
Bart's arm lowers a little, unsure if she's going to take it. She doesn't seem aware of his presence.
"Yes, it's my understanding that your daughter, Serena, is a lifelong friend- "
Lily cuts her off, so that the first syllable is lip-reading, rather than audio: "And at this moment, my three beautiful children are waiting in our family's suite upstairs, and my only comment is to them: that I will be up as soon as the NYPD have declared it safe for me to cross the perimeter."
Her gloved hand finds Bart's elbow, near the bottom of the camera frame. She looks directly into the lens.
"We'll be home soon, darlings."
Bart nods, slight, jerky, at the anchor, and turns to follow her as they disappear back into the crowd.
xiii.
Serena rests her head on her forearms and tilts it first to look at Erik, then at Chuck.
After a long pause, he looks over at the two of them on the sofa.
"Well," Erik says quietly, warmly, a tone of voice not unlike his mother's.
Serena manages a wan smile.
In spite of himself, one corner of Chuck's mouth ticks up as he turns back toward the screen. "Indeed."
xiv.
It's another hour and a half before Lily and Bart step off the elevator- no chime- their arrival heralded by the still-live coverage on the screen in the media room.
Serena throws herself into her mother's arms like a little girl. "Mom," she murmurs, fingers curling like a toddler who wants to be held but isn't sure how.
Erik follows suit, hugging them both from the side, one Van Der Woodsen woman in each arm.
Bart shuffles awkwardly to the side; Chuck steps around the gaggle of blondes. Extends a hand.
Their palms touch, and Bart moves forward, and then they're embracing. It's brief and stiff, but Bart's eyes are focused on him when they step back. "You're all right?"
Both hands rest on his son's shoulders.
Chuck's mouth actually goes dry.
"Yes, sir."
Bart blinks. He looks like he's going to say something else, but then-
"Has anyone talked to Blair?"
"No," Serena laments, a muted wail.
His father steps back. "I can only imagine what she's going through."
One of his hands lingers on Chuck's shoulder, and Chuck wants to bring up his own hand and anchor it there.
"We've all been through something this last week," Lily agrees, stroking her daughter's hair- perhaps trying to detangle it subtly at the same time- and unearthing one arm to caress her son's shoulders. "My loves." She kisses both their heads.
When they peel themselves apart, Serena glances at her outfit. "Sorry I'm in pajamas," she mutters.
"Don't apologize for anything today, Serena," Lily soothes, not even looking for Chuck as she reaches for him. Like he's her son, one of her loves. As she draws him in: "Catering is sending up a full lunch spread. We all need to spend some time together as a family. Erik, put on some water for tea, please?"
When no one is looking, she squeezes Chuck against her, still in her coat, the cheek and cashmere cool. "Are you all right?" she says low in his ear.
He squeezes back, just briefly, feeling a rush of affection for the woman who is gluing these broken fragments of two families together. Who just called him one of her children for all the world to hear.
"I'm better now," he says honestly.
"Hot water with lemon?" she teases, releasing him and untying the belt on her coat. "We do have bathroom mock-ups to go over." Chuck smiles, but Lily is already moving away, gushing to his father that his son has exquisite taste in interior design- did he know that?-
xv.
The NYPD arrive first, before the doctor, and their visit is swift and painless.
He's dead.
They haven't confirmed how long he's been a guest at The Palace.
They found a copy of Blair's Page Six spread in his hotel room.
Blair is suddenly aware of the black on her thigh, on her face; her skin crawls, imagining the stitches are tickling her. She wills herself not to squirm.
They don't need her to ID him.
The detective looks her in the eye when he tells her this.
Then there's silence.
Her lips are dry and chapped and they stick together when she opens her mouth. She has to lick them before she can speak.
"Thank you," is all she says.
xvi.
The day stretches by; the blockade is eventually removed in the early afternoon, though parts of the sidewalk are still roped off with yellow police tape.
Nate is salty and he smells like sweat. He's still wearing his hoodie from this morning; he never changed after he read the 8 AM blast. He paced his kitchen for several minutes, trying to figure out what to do, tried getting ahold of Chuck, and eventually managed to get out of his townhouse without being accosted by paparazzi.
Now he's at a diner a few blocks from The Palace, where he's been killing time on a corner stool at the bar for hours, waiting.
Waiting.
He's texted himself twice to make sure his phone is working properly; he flips it open every five minutes, at least, just in case for some reason the notification doesn't light up the screen while it's closed.
Checked their log.
We don't need him.
It's the last he heard from her, over five hours ago.
When it was all over- after he jumped almost out of his skin, nearly spilling his coffee in the process, barrel of a pistol pressed to temple and with artful symmetry, a spray spilling from the opposite side of the face- he thought maybe he should go to see Blair. Put one foot on the ground, half-sliding off the barstool, gesturing for the waitress so he could pay his bill.
But by the time she came over to him, he'd put his foot back up on the stool's footrest.
"Another coffee, please," he said. "And what kinds of pie do you have?"
Brown Waldorf eyes blinking, not unkindly, at him.
As he waited for the elevator, Blair upstairs in her bed with her stuffed bulldog, tears dried and eyes as puffy as his.
Thanks for coming over. To check on her.
I'm happy to do it, he'd replied.
Waldorf eyes glancing at the elevator door; no noise from within; they had several seconds at least.
Nate the Great. Light tone. Teasing. He'd looked up then.
Not at all.
Harold seemed to agree. How's Serena?
The question hung in the air between them as Nate blinked, shifted his weight, wiped his still-dripping nose- I-
The elevator dinged, and the door slid open.
Goodnight, Harold said, and stood watching Nate until the doors closed.
So instead, he's eaten two slices of pie. Pecan first, then apple a la mode. Cinnamon ice cream.
And waited for his phone to buzz.
It didn't; it chimed with the smug blast and lit up with classmates texting him, but not with her.
xvii.
In typical Upper East Side fashion, lunch stretches long into the afternoon, into coffee around the fireplace with soothing classical flowing from the concealed speakers and the loving murmur of post-traumatic familial conversation.
He makes it almost three hours before he's twitching to get the hell out of there.
Serena continuously loops back to Blair, how she misses her and needs her and knows she has to be patient, but she wants Blair to know she's there for her right now-
And he thinks Lily is strikingly smart, because she betrays none of how much Blair and Chuck have been interacting all week. She just listens, with her mother's steady reassurance, and never so much as eyes Chuck when Serena isn't looking.
Bart begins to get antsy himself, and Lily turns her focus on him, keeping him engaged, asking him how the staff is holding up and whether he needs to do anything further with the police.
"Xavier is handling it," Bart says. "Kathryn handled everything this morning, but I've given her the next week off to recover. I told her to go to some island somewhere and forget all this."
"How was she? Should we send a note?"
Bart blinks at her, confusedly. Chuck watches the exchange, amused. His father is probably thinking: Did you not hear me? I gave her a week off. Why would we send a note? And Lily is probably thinking: How can we add a human touch in the wake of such an unfortunate series of events?
"She was actually very upset. The surveillance system malfunctioned somehow during the lockdown, and none of the cameras worked after the building went to generator power. We just renewed our contract with the vendor and they'd assured her it would run on any power source, so she wants someone's head. I had to convince her to let Xavier handle it." Bart takes a sip. "Her dedication to her job is admirable, but it's not as though she could have fixed it, especially given the circumstances."
"I can't blame her," Lily croons. "What unfortunate timing for such a glitch."
Chuck and Serena, over the brims of their respective coffee cups, glance at each other, and then away.
Erik clears his throat. "So this was for the whole building?"
"Yes. Everything runs off one mainframe, which short-circuited or something. It's above my pay grade." Bart shrugs and takes a sip.
"I see." Erik sets his saucer on the table.
Lily follows suit and clasps her hands, looking at the already-dying Manhattan afternoon. "Hopefully this can be the start of a period of real healing, firstly for Blair, but for all of us that care about her, too."
Serena, morosely: "If she'll let us help, that is."
"In times like these," Lily murmurs without turning away from the windows, "we have to be pliant and meet the needs of the person that's been harmed."
"Bend ourselves." It's punctuated with a loud sip before Serena, too, plates her mug.
"And do our best to carry on in any way we can find," her mother agrees.
Chuck realizes he's tapping his finger impatiently, silently, on his phone. He hasn't heard from Blair in hours, since they spoke on the phone; maybe hers is still turned off.
"I quite agree," Bart nods. "The best- the only- way through grief or trauma is simply 'forward.'" His hand stretched along the armrest of his chair, his fingers flutter upward, like he's going to reach for Lily, who's seated at the end of the sofa across from him. She doesn't see. His fingers sink back down.
Erik similarly reaches, then hesitates, then reaches for his coffee. "It's not necessarily easy, though. These things can change you. Make you see things- yourself- in a different way."
"Definitely. And other people." Serena's gaze is vacant as she draws her knees to her chest; it swivels to Chuck a few seconds belated.
Lily's face tightens into a smile, but no charming sparkle rises in her eyes. "And everything," she says softly, brushing her fingertips on Bart's knuckles, as she reaches for her own coffee.
xviii.
His phone buzzes, and he grabs it before he even has time to read the name that's illuminated on the screen.
Dan Humphrey.
He sighs noiselessly, pressing the green button.
"Hey, man."
"Hi, Nate," Dan says, then pauses. "Are- are you with Serena, by any… chance?" The "s" sound at the end of "chance" lingers in an affected casualty that even Nate hears.
"No. No- just grabbing a bite, you know…" He lowers his voice, in case a well-disguised paparazzi is at the diner's bar with him. "Avoiding going home. Stifling."
Pause. Humphrey sounds like he starts speaking mid-swallow: "Totally. I'm, uh, I'm just trying to get ahold of her, I haven't heard from her all day and I want to make sure- "
"She was sequestered in the penthouse of The Palace with Chuck and Erik," Nate cuts in. "So she's probably still up there. There are photographers everywhere, so she might not want to go anywhere until after dark at least."
"Do they… do they not have phone reception up there, or-?"
Nate can't help but smile at the tightness in Dan's voice. Oh, how well he can relate to the dizzying, desperate-for-answers siege that is loving Serena Van Der Woodsen.
"I'm not sure how well you know her mom, but she's the type to confiscate phones and enforce a full day of family bonding after something like this. A little all-over-the-place with that stuff."
Dan's tense silence stretches a little too long.
"I'm sure it's nothing to worry about," Nate tries again.
A slow inhalation on the other end, and on the exhale: "Yeah, yeah. I'm sure you're right."
"Oh, hey- did you see the Gossip Girl blast? Crazy stuff, huh?"
"Yeah, my sister showed it to me this morning. But the, uh- well, none of the readership turned him in. I mean, obviously no one really turned him in, except whatever employee at The Palace, so. I guess no live stream."
"Guess not." Nate's coffee is lukewarm, but he doesn't mind. This place is half-full and he revels in the buzz of non-nosy strangers. "Shame. Not like she's ever done anything good for any of us, Blair included. Must not be great to be dating the #1 target of her blog, either, eh?"
"Mmm… it's, I mean, you know, it's worth it. Dating someone with that level of notoriety. It's worth it. For Serena." He clears his throat. "And yeah, Gossip Girl definitely hasn't done anything- good- but obviously it's not like she wanted any of this to happen, either."
Nate shrugs. "Not that branding Blair publicly as a slut helped anything." He won't go into his own reaction to it, his own reaction that left her alone and vulnerable last Thursday night.
"Yeah, of course. That's true. Of course."
"Jenny doing okay? She seemed pretty upset on Monday."
"She's, uh- she's mature for her age, but I mean, this has really shown how much. She's a strong kid. I feel like she's taking it better than I am."
A fond smile tugs at the side of Nate's mouth. "Maybe we should grab coffee sometime, after- this whole mess calms down."
"Yeah, yeah. Definitely. That sounds great, thanks. Uh- if you, uh, hear from Serena…"
"Don't worry about it, man. You'll definitely hear from her before I do."
He signals for the check when he hangs up.
"No more coffee, love?" The waitress- arms of a linebacker, face of an angel- simpers at him. "Don't need a third piece of pie?"
Nate smiles his most winning smile. "Time for me to be heading home." And stop hovering a few blocks away from her, breathless for a word, for her to need him, want him, think about him even- like he's thinking about her. Just like Dan Humphrey, but with no right to be.
xix.
The sun is slipping down over the horizon when Dorota carefully fits the black sweater over her head, watching as she gingerly adjusts the waistband on her lounge pants, trying not to shift too much inside the tight casing enveloping her torso.
Her mother having just retired to her bed after spending the day fretting and pacing and finally taking an Ambien, her father to his study at the other end of the wall, where Dorota would bet he went to cry rather than "catch up on some paperwork"- it's now just the two of them, the princess and her Dorota.
Blair calmed herself down, just an hour or so before, enough to be convinced to have some chicken noodle soup, appetite barely existent in the adrenaline of the trauma and shock of being face-to-face with the guy again, in pixelated high definition, and watching as he held the pistol barrel-toward-the-lens in both hands with what appeared to be cold, steady hatred, and then- then- the rapid switch; frenetic movements, suddenly the gun at his head, one finger curling around the trigger. And squeezing.
She took the tray in her room, and then carefully showered, new trappings of her rib injury peeled off first and replaced freshly when she was finished.
"No one's rung up from the lobby?" she asked quietly, for the first time all day, like she hasn't been thinking about it at all.
"No visitors- your father tell them."
But not him. She'd whispered to her father, safe from her mother's ears, that that didn't include Chuck. Please?
Of course, mon ami. Anything.
"Okay," Blair sighs, shuddering a little at the stabs of pain between her bound ribs. "How long do I have to wear this?"
"At least until checkup next week," Dorota apologizes, holding out her own forearms for Blair to brace against so she can lower herself to her bed. Dorota kneels and slips the silk-wool socks onto her feet. "Need to make sure ribs knit." She gives Blair the hardest look she can manage, a silent rebuke for not taking her broken bones seriously.
"Could I puncture a lung?" Blair asks seriously, digging her fists into the bed and straightening her spine as she feels another pinch. "If I twisted hard enough?"
"I doubt."
Dorota stands and finds Blair's brush, circling to the foot of the bed to detangle her wet hair.
"Are you tired, Miss Blair?"
"No." It's a lie; they both know it. She's struggling to keep her eyes open; her ribs are throbbing; and she's oddly satiated by the chicken soup. Who would have thought the sensation of a full stomach could be so comforting, rather than ringing an alarm bell in her head? "Not yet."
"Maybe could lie down," Dorota says quietly, "rest until he gets here."
Blair blinks, licks her lips, watching Dorota put the brush back in its drawer, her hair heavy and cold and dampening her sweater. "No, I'll wait."
"But lots of police, lots of investigating, and more photographers and reporters to avoid- may be difficult…"
She unfists her hands and holds them up as Dorota turns back toward her. "He'll come. I'll wait. Now help me up so I can get downstairs."
xx.
Bart clasps Lily's hand between both of his own, finally an intimate moment, just a moment, by the penthouse elevator door. "I've known I loved you, Lily, known I admired you- but until today I didn't realize quite how much I respect you. You're an inspiration. I don't deserve you." He kisses her knuckles gallantly.
Her eyes well, glittering in the soft lighting. "That's correct. You deserve much better." She kisses him on the cheek.
"Feel free to stay if you want," he says when the door opens behind him.
"Thank you." She squeezes his hand and lets him go.
In the media room, Erik presses Send. I'm thinking of you, always. ILY. -Erik
Serena said her phone was off, but she'll see it, he thinks, when she turns it back on.
xxi.
Chuck waits a torturous fourteen minutes after his father departs, pounding two more cups of coffee that do nothing to help his anxious stomach and picking at the Mediterranean olives strewn about the ruins of the charcuterie.
"Where are you going?" Serena asks from her spot by the fire when she sees him stand, keeping her voice low so Erik doesn't hear.
"To my suite."
She looks him up and down. "Not out?"
He snorts. Derision will throw her off. "Oh, you're right- I forgot I made plans to go on a bender this weekend."
She doesn't even register the sarcasm. "Have you heard from her?"
"No." And it's not really a lie. She didn't specify the time frame.
She hauls herself out of the deep armchair she's in. "I'm coming with you, then."
"To my suite?"
"Yeah. I don't want to be stuck here all night with my mom explaining how this is a 'character-building experience.' Got any more lemons?"
He fights a smile, because that's exactly what Lily will spend the evening doing. "I'd rather be alone with my thoughts, sis. And you should be with your family right now."
"Awwww," she intones, dulcet, and moves toward him. "I thought you were my family, Chuck."
It's uncanny how like her mother she is right now: lower face arranged into a perfect smile that doesn't reach above her cheekbones.
"We'll spend the whole day doing sibling bonding tomorrow," he insists, stepping back. Surely he can smarm his way out of whatever she's trying at. "You know, sharing intimate secrets and…" he gestures vaguely. "Cuddling and watching movies."
Finally. An eyeroll. "You're swine. But…" she trails off, smoothing her hair behind one ear. "Will you promise to tell me if you hear from her?"
"Of course I will," he soothes, voice low and firm and authoritative. "Breakfast tomorrow? You, me and Erik? Eggs and siblinghood?"
Her eyes close, mouth curves, nostrils flare with a chuckle. "Deal. No earlier than ten."
xxii.
The elevator doors close and she trots up the stairs. "Mom," she says, "I'm going downstairs for a bit."
Her mother pulls the phone in Bart's office away from her ear. "Where, darling?"
"Out with Chuck. Just to grab a drink downstairs or something, I don't know." She gives her patented one-shoulder shrug: I'm just an affable teenager.
"That's a wonderful idea, but don't take Erik if there's going to be alcohol, please. I'm fine with you having a glass of wine with Charles. I'm thrilled to see you bonding."
"Yeah," Serena agrees with a smile, shifting backwards through the door, "he's the best."
xxiii.
He stops off at 1812 long enough to shuck his outfit- still yesterday's, as it were- and takes a two-minute shower, ruffling his hair with a towel, finding gray trousers and a black sweater. He thinks of Kathryn when he sees his landline phone not in its usual spot; housekeeping obviously didn't come today.
He owes her.
He puts on a black wool coat- best to be as nondescript as he can- and takes the elevator down to the lobby. Street is surprisingly empty, Arthur had said, when Chuck asked if they should meet in the underground garage.
He shakes Xavier's hand on the way out. Arthur pulls forward to the revolving door; Chuck looks both ways, turning up his lapels, and slips into the backseat in one quick motion.
Serena, also in a fresh change of clothes from her own suite, watches him go from the elevator she stepped out of just a few moments after he did. She eases herself against the same pillar she's hidden behind on more than one occasion, peering around carefully until the limo pulls away. Then she follows his path, hand in the air before she's even through the revolving door, and a cab stops within seconds.
"Hello," she says, craning her neck up the block. He's the only stretch on the road, and there- yes- he turns right. Uptown.
She shakes her head, a nasty smirk as she scoffs at her own gullibility.
The cab driver glances at her in the rearview mirror. "Hello, miss. Where to tonight?"
xxiv.
"Well," Arthur says, partition open so they can talk freely, "I guess we found them."
"Looks that way," Chuck agrees, eyeing the tangle of reporters and photographers that starts two blocks from the Waldorfs'.
Arthur hesitates; they're at a red light anyway. "Want me to circle? We can try the service bay, or…"
"Limo attracts too much attention." Chuck eyes the clean glasses and untouched Scotch he's neglected for the whole trip. "Do you have any paper?"
"Paper?"
Green light.
"Pull over," Chuck says.
Arthur glances at the seat next to him, and then opens the glove compartment. "Owner's manual, New York Times, dry-cleaning receipt…"
"Manual and Times, please. Do you have a pen?"
"Sure."
Chuck maneuvers up the side seat and takes them. "I'll take a cab back," he says to Arthur as he fumbles behind him for the handle.
xxv.
Relief blooms like a thousand flowers bursting into fragrant springtime bliss when he hears her voice.
"Serena- thank God…"
"I need to see you."
"I'd- yes- anywhere. Just tell me where to come to and I'll be there."
She pauses, and he hears the rush of street noise behind her. "Come outside."
xxvi.
He weaves through the nondescript maze of media laymen on the sidewalk, grasping the folded Times and, on top of it, the owner's manual folded open to the inside cover, which is blank and could easily be mistaken for a notepad. In the other hand, a pen, poised like he's ready to record the slightest bit of information about Blair Waldorf or any of her friends coming to visit.
He buttoned his coat as soon as he got out of the limo. Thank God none of these people are likely to pick out an Armani overcoat and Hermes leather gloves.
"Excuse me," he apologizes when he bumps against someone holding a dangling mic, but they don't even turn at the jostle.
He finds his way to the front of the crowd- SWAT presence disbanded now that the guy is dead- and sees that all three of her doormen are on duty, looking like harangued goldfish inside the lobby.
He turns down his lapel. Two of them recognize him instantly; the third is focused on a monitor showing surveillance of the building's exterior. The first two exchange words, one with a shake of the head that makes his heart sink- they have to know he's allowed up, that he's been invited- they can't turn him away-
And the second replies back with a shrug.
And turns.
And beckons him in with one hand.
"Zoo out there," the doorman says, combed mustache quivering with the words.
"It's a nightmare," he agrees.
"Put your collar back up so they can't get a good photo," the other one says. "Elevator's on its way down."
xxvii.
The air is frigid in Brooklyn. He opens the door and it blasts him in the face; he's rosy from the warmth of the loft and Serena's eyes are so blue and somehow seeing her fixes everything, erases the fact that she's ignored him, makes her perfect once again in his eyes, because she's his-
"I'm sorry," she says without preamble. "I'm sorry, Dan."
"Hey- you don't have to…" He steps out and reaches for her arm; she leans into his touch. "I understand."
"No. You don't." It's a whisper. "And you can't, it's just- I don't- I don't know who I am without her. It's like she makes me who I am. I'm Serena because she's Blair." She breaks off and bites her lip, looking at him with eyes that he didn't realize before look puffy. "Does that make any sense?"
He swallows. "Yes. Yes. Of course."
"It's pathetic to need someone else to define me, I know. I'm not like you. I don't- I'm not strong enough of a person, not yet, to stand on my own. I still need her to know who I am, I guess."
He reaches for her hand. "I understand that, Serena, I really do." They hold each other's eyes for a long moment. "I don't fault you for it."
"Can you forgive me?"
Her breath is white in the air.
"There's nothing to forgive." He leans in to kiss her and she meets his mouth with more fury than he anticipates, tongue and hands with a harsh, hot urgency.
"Inside," she mumbles against his lips, and walks him backward, grabbing for the door and shutting it behind them.
"I need you," she breathes into his mouth, "now."
"S- Serena…" he manages between kisses. "My dad is home, and Jenny- I mean, you can stay over, but I don't think…"
But her hands are already moving from the back of his head down his chest and she's unclasping his belt before he even realizes she's touching him.
"Right here," she says.
No one lives on the first floor; it's just mail and bikes and a dead-end corridor.
"What? That's- that's not a good idea." But he hisses at the contact of her hands below his hips.
"You sure?" she teases, hands slipping down, mouth on his neck. "Right over there- it's dark, there's an alcove… can we be quick?"
It doesn't take much more convincing; they're pressed into the corner of the alcove in seconds, coats off and draped over the bike rack, and Dan is stunned when he reaches for her underwear and there are none.
"I came prepared," she whispers into his silent mouth.
He "mmm"s back at her, and as he presses his hips against hers, he looks her in the eyes.
"I love you."
Her eyes drift closed in pleasure. "I love you too."
It's a great effort to keep silent, but once they're finished, Serena lets out a long, hot breath that washes over Dan's neck.
They right themselves; he hands over her coat and picks his up. "Jenny's dying to see you- "
"Oh- I think I actually should get home sooner rather than later," she murmurs apologetically.
"You… what?"
"I need to get back. I'm sorry. I was just dying to see you, but we have- the whole Van Der Bass family is spending the evening together, so I ducked out quickly, but I won't be able to evade my mom forever."
Dan smiles. "Squeezing you pretty tight?"
She grins back. "Totally."
"Do you want to come over for waffles in the morning?"
"I wish I could. The family bonding continues with group breakfast tomorrow." She winks. "Unless you're dying to eat French toast with Bart Bass?"
"Can't say that I am," he fires back, rueful. "Okay, so…"
She kisses his lips, warmly, and gently rocks her pelvis against his. "I'll call you?"
Smiling from the kiss: "Okay. I love you."
She steps around him, and he feels the loss of her warmth immediately. "Love you, too."
She shuts the door behind her without waiting to see if there's a cab nearby.
xviii.
The elevator dings, and she carefully draws in a breath, hand stilling on the copy of Vogue propped on a pillow that she's not looking at anyway. She chose to sit on the chaise, not one of the strong-backed armchairs, because she's supposed to be practicing maintaining upright posture on her own.
Her hair is still damp, and falling in loose, probably frizzy waves, but she doesn't have the energy to care.
His footsteps are hesitant, even as he unbuttons his coat. The penthouse is silent. Is she asleep? Is he too late? He whirls, hoping for a come-hither light in the kitchen, but it seems Dorota is off-duty. And he's not about to go knocking on doors looking for her.
He steps carefully through the foyer, craning his neck toward the stairwell, hoping to hear noise or see light coming from the direction of her bedroom.
He comes into view, uncharacteristic measure in his movements, almost tiptoeing. She opens her mouth, chapped lips sticking together again, but doesn't know what to say. She's next to invisible in the dark room, oversized black v-neck sweater and black lounge pants, black socks with white stitching on the heels, and she suddenly feels small and overwhelmingly lost- like this is not her home, and these are not her clothes, and this is a dream of some kind- and her eyes brim with tears. She draws the back of one sleeve across both eyes, knuckle brushing lower lashes, and manages to stand without wincing.
He takes a few more steps, halfway to the foot of the stairs now, and stretches forward and up with an audible exhalation. He swallows. Maybe he should go?
Steps back. Turns, one hand reaching up to his collar to turn it down- even if he's just going to have to prop it back up to get out of here-
And there she is.
He opens his mouth. She's mostly a shadow, black against the darkness of the room, pale sternum and neck and face and hands all that are visible. And shining eyes.
"Hi," he says when he finds his voice.
She takes a step; his hand drifts back down, collar untouched. She takes another, movements a little stilted, and he says: "I'm sorry I'm so late, Lily wanted to have family time- "
She's striding toward him, but slowly, and he meets her halfway. She maneuvers close to him and then her arms are around his waist.
He swallows and hugs her back, arms circling shoulders. "Are you okay?"
"I hate you," she says into his lapel.
"For being late?"
She squirms, unfurls her arms- movements still stiff- and rears back, putting her arms inside his coat and flattening her palms on his back. "For this morning," she hisses, impressively intimidating for someone a head shorter than he who's embracing him. "I hate you for that. Never do that again. Never."
She wraps her arms around him, cheek resting on his shoulder.
"I thought you were going to die," she absolutely whispers. "What were you thinking? You could have died-"
"I didn't," he points out, closing his eyes as she lolls her head against him, side of her cheek against his jaw. "I didn't die. Relax, Waldorf." He tries to tease, but his voice comes out raw.
She's lifted the hem of his sweater and is tugging at the button-down he layered beneath; frees it from his waistband; and her hands settle on the cotton undershirt under that. "God, how many layers are you wearing, Bass?" she mutters, hands finally finding his lower back.
He laughs, low. "Sorry."
"Don't ever do anything that stupid again," she says again. "Please."
"Let's hope nothing about this situation ever happens again," he bargains.
They're silent for a minute, and his hand comes up to rest on the back of her head. This hand has palmed many things today- the landline, while Kathryn told him the guy was in the room right below his; the cool metal of the revolver; his father's shoulder; and now, Blair's damp, slightly unruly hair.
"What if you'd died?" she murmurs. "What if he…?"
Killed you?
"Then I hope you wouldn't let me be buried in a lame bowtie."
Her fingertips bite into his skin. "Shut up. I hate you."
"You said that already."
"I'm glad you're safe," she whispers after another long moment.
He pats her back gently. "Likewise." His hand lingers; there's something off about how she feels. He moves it a little lower, just above her waist, and stops. "What's this?"
She swallows. "Splinted. Apparently I wasn't careful enough about keeping my ribs stable and now I've inflamed the whole area, so I'm splinted and bound until further notice."
His heart flips a little. "Does it hurt? Are you in danger?"
"It just hurts when I move the wrong way. But I'm in the least danger I've been in for a week, so I'll take it."
She steps back a little, carefully, and looks at him. "Have you eaten?"
"We essentially ate all afternoon." He smirks down at her. "I don't know how Lily keeps her figure."
"Damn the Van Der Woodsens and their metabolisms," she agrees. Her hands move idly on his back.
"You look tired," he observes. "Have you slept?"
She shakes her head, not bothering to retaliate for insulting her appearance. Which he notes.
And she probably hasn't slept because she was waiting for him. Which should feel good, smugly delicious, but doesn't.
"Do you want me to go?" His eyes search hers, which are unreadable in the dimness.
"Come up?" she replies. "If you're tired too?"
He is.
Bend ourselves.
But even if he wasn't, he'd say he was.
"You sure?" He glances down. "You don't need to be…"
He stops himself.
I don't want to be alone.
She shakes her head.
He pries his shoes off and leaves them in front of the hall table; they ascend the stairs slowly, slowly, Blair leaning on his arm but wincing every step nonetheless. He folds his coat over her vanity chair as she pulls back her duvet, an ill-concealed squeak as she sinks to the mattress. She murmurs that she's fine when he asks, but breathes through pursed lips like she does when she's steeling herself. She sighs when he flicks the light off, and hums as she exhales.
"Hurt?"
"No."
He peels back the other corner of the bed and sinks down next to her, on many fewer pillows, and only then does he realize what she's humming.
And your neck, and your back.
He turns his head, licks his lips. "What song is that?"
"Hmm?" She's drowsy, like she was in his gray sweater, loose like this black one is on her, and it occurs to him that he didn't even think to look for her collarbones.
"What are you humming?"
"Oh." She clears her throat languidly, shifting a tiny bit on the mattress and concealing her discomfort with another clear of the throat, this one sharper. "Some song from when I was little. It's stuck in my head."
And your beak.
She pauses, as if shaking herself to consciousness. "Do you need to set an alarm?"
He turns his head back and stares at the ceiling. "No. Sleep tight, Waldorf."
"You, too, Bass."
Her breathing evens out and he sees her in the dark, wrapped in his coat, face bleeding, squirming when he jostled her the wrong way- not knowing her ribs were broken-
Alouette, alouette.
Snow swirling around them, she's not talking, panic pushing blood through his veins fast enough to make him throb, feeling her heart race, I did this, this is my fault…
His lips form the word silently: Six.
Chuck.
He moves his hand beneath the covers, resting the back of it against her forearm, and she nudges her elbow into his palm. His eyes sting with unbidden tears. He shuts them dismissively. Fatigue.
A/N: And that, dear readers, is curtain on Act One of our story! Thank you again for coming on this journey with me. I'll be taking a brief break (no more than two weeks) to get all my ducks in a row before publishing the next chapter. I want Act Two to be even better than Act One, so I appreciate your patience as I try my best to do just that!
… Chloe xoxo