Hello, my beloved readers =) I really apologize for the delay between chapters; things have been super intense at work, so my schedule has been dicey. Going forward I am going to avoid providing ETAs because I feel terrible when I can't deliver, and I want to focus on providing high-quality content and telling the best story possible – so please bear with me and know I will publish absolutely as often as possible!
I'm so grateful for each and every review, follow and PM. I've had a few people worry I am going to abandon the story, and let me tell you, that will never happen. =)
i.
She cradles the broad bowl in her third and fourth fingers, the cool reassurance of the stem steady against the web between them.
She's stopped crying.
Her nose is red because it's cold outside.
There's soft music playing- ambiguous piano; the dead of January; no more holiday festivity- and not many people here. Most of Manhattan is hunkered down for the impending storm.
She takes another sip.
Her life was so different just twelve hours ago. She was at the apex of the life she'd always dreamt of then.
She can almost feel lips on hers, kissing her, masculine murmurings for only her ears, strong fingers gentle on her waist. She closes her eyes. She can almost, almost…
When you were beautiful.
She's obviously drunk off a half glass, because it's that, and not the loss of Nate, that makes her jaw quiver. She steadies it against the rim and takes another sip of red, free hand slipping into her pocket to retrieve her phone.
A gush of frigidity hits her back as the door to the street opens down the short corridor behind her. She sighs inwardly. Why did she sit directly in the path of the door?
(Because she needed to sit down in the first seat she could reach: trying to disguise her tears for windburnt eyes, commenting in answer to the bartender's attentive and low-toned "Good evening, miss," that it was getting cold out there, rubbing her hands together and patting her nose to reinforce the misdirection.)
The bartender raises his head and her eyes perk up, but he's looking past her, greeting the new arrival with a smile and a lift of one hand. Ridiculous disappointment flares in her. It's a bartender.
I want nothing else to do with you.
You and the Waldorf name can weather this storm alone.
Now would you please leave.
No missed calls.
Actually, you don't even have me.
No texts.
She squeezes the sides of the phone without thinking, and selects Shut Down when the power menu materializes.
The new arrival has shuffled off to her right and the last buzz of her phone turning off is punctuated with the soft slap of his leather gloves on the polished wood of the bar. She pockets the phone and looks over.
He's taking off his scarf, hanging it on a wall hook directly to the right of the seat he's chosen, at the end of the bar. Absently she swirls her red, watching him for no other reason than that she has nowhere better to look. He shrugs out of his coat, hangs it up likewise, even stops to brush off the shoulders and straighten the sleeves.
He turns to the bar, but then, before she realizes, further- and sees her. Their eyes meet. His gaze is warm and brown and steady.
One corner of her mouth twitches up in an excuse-me smile, and she glances away. She hears the exchange to her right; one last breath of fresh air before we're trapped inside for God knows how long - and adjusts her headband, spine imperceptibly straightening on the tall chair where she's perched. She crosses her legs the other direction.
ii.
Friday, January 25
"Two minutes."
Bart nods without looking up from the paper he's skimmed dozens of times. It's succinct, subtle; it admits no guilt, but manages to exude an almost abject humility.
Grant Ketterley, Bass Industries' Director of Public Relations, idly drums his fingertips on the upholstered back of one chair that's pushed into the small round table in the corner of Bart's office. A great strategic mind who can upend any maelstrom to show its copper bottom, Grant has nonetheless never been able to quite shed his love of the tactical kill. The man rises and sleeps by the pulse of the media. He's probably itching to go browbeat a reporter for something, not stay here counting down the seconds until the phone rings for Bart Bass to say "Approved" so that there might be a chance a press release or media relations presence could be needed.
Bart has told him to have a seat more than once, and he complies each time, but finds himself back on his feet within minutes.
At the other end of the table, chair yanked out and right foot resting on it- clasped fingers resting with likewise agitation on the elevated knee- is the timekeeper, Controller of Bass Industries, Matthew Pivent.
On the love seat opposite, Bart's Chief Legal Officer, Loren Jesselson, flicks through emails on her laptop. "They understand the sensitivity of getting this out before close of business?"
"I've reconfirmed at least three times."
She nods.
Grant looks over. "It's not likely the media will catch this on a Friday afternoon."
Bart glances up, but his head remains bent to look at the paper on his hand. "If they do, though, it's a field day."
"If we're having second thoughts," Loren replies, "we could still make it a private contribution. Anonymous, even."
"One minute." Matthew glances at his watch; it's 4:04 pm. The market has been closed for four minutes. They're in the clear.
"I want to be clear that Bass Industries, not just the Bass family, fully supports the efforts of the NYPD. A private contribution doesn't communicate the same message."
At the same time, he does not have to say, a slew of media attention makes the donation look tacky.
And, none of his lieutenants have to say, no one actually doubts that to begin with.
Quiet falls, punctuated by the light pitter-patter of Loren's fingers on her keyboard and Grant's restless drumming. Matthew pulls up a draft on his Blackberry and sends it at the thirty-second mark, confirming the call time.
He's barely finished sending it when the phone trills, twenty seconds early.
Four pairs of eyes exchange glances.
Bart clears his throat as he picks up the mouthpiece; Grant drifts closer; Matthew sets both feet on the floor; Loren closes her laptop.
"Bart Bass."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Bass. This is Kent Slusser from JP Morgan. I'm calling to confirm a wire."
He nods, gaze back on the press release.
"Good afternoon, Kent. I trust all is well with you. Please proceed."
"Indeed, sir, thank you." Kent strikes a few keys. "The wire was initiated yesterday and is being held in escrow. My notes indicate the amount is ten million US dollars, even; to be extracted from Bass Industries' tertiary treasury account with JP Morgan, for immediate release."
"Completed by close of business," Bart confirms, eyes tracking to Matthew, who nods reassuringly as Kent confirms.
"Yes, sir. To be transferred to the City of New York, care of New York Police Department, Office of the Commissioner."
"That's correct."
"May I go ahead and release the funds now, sir?"
"Yes, please do."
Three more keystrokes, then a click of a mouse. "The funds have been transferred, Mr. Bass. The wire should be complete in the next thirty minutes. Bass Industries will receive a written statement with all the details of the wire, including the confirmation number. Is there anything else I can do for you today?"
"No, Kent, that's all for today. Please give my warmest regards to Megan."
"Thank you, sir. And to you and yours."
Bart hangs up. It's 4:05. The markets have been closed for five minutes; the financial world will begin closing down in forty minutes. It's a tight window for transferring eight figures between two public institutions under the radar.
"And now we play the waiting game." Bart leans back in his chair; Loren flips her screen back up. Matthew cracks the door behind him and asks Ellen, Bart's assistant, to ask Dining to send up some coffee.
iii.
Friday, January 25
It's like climbing to heaven trying to reach Blair Waldorf, Dr. Genove thinks after a lengthy wait in the lobby while her identity is verified- apologies, ma'am; security is tight for any Waldorf visitors these days- followed by a stately elevator ride to the penthouse, a thorough welcome and check-in by the Waldorfs' housekeeper, and a final ascent up a curving staircase to her new patient's bedroom.
She glances at her watch as she knocks, shrugging the sleeve of her sweater back to uncover the timepiece.
4:05.
She'll make sure they use the full hour.
"Come in," Miss Waldorf says.
And she does, and there, abed like a queen in her lying-in period, is the face that one can hardly avoid if one tries, the last two weeks in New York. She looks different: un-made-up, tawny hair messy and unrestrained by a headband, wearing an oversized turtleneck in an ambiguous gray-green shade, but if one looks directly at the face, it's instantly recognizable as the same girl.
"Hello, Blair. I'm Dr. Isadore Genove. Is it all right if I call you Blair?"
Her patient nods, a small movement. "That's my name."
Dr. Genove sets down her shoulder bag. "If you'd prefer, I can call you Miss Waldorf."
"Blair is fine." A small smile that doesn't quite reach the eyes, the doctor notes.
She takes care to keep her own voice even as she gestures to the chair at Blair's vanity. "May I sit here?"
"Yes, of course. Did Dorota offer you anything to drink?"
"She did- but I'm fine, thank you." Dr. Genove carefully turns the chair to face Blair, and takes a seat. They look one another over for a few seconds. "I love your room."
Blair's eyes do seem to brighten at this, but there's a sadness to her expression. "Thank you."
"This shade of blue is beautiful. It's like a cornflower blue?"
"French blue, actually." Blair clarifies steadily.
"Ah."
"Common misconception."
The doctor hesitates, then.
And she doesn't detect that Blair's right hand, no longer splinted but still wrapped, nudges something further away under her duvet.
"So," Blair continues, "where should we start?"
iv.
Friday, January 25
The first Friday afternoon back to school lacks completely the usual ebullience of weekend promise. Gossip Girl has gone quiet again; students haven't shaken off the shock of seeing one of their own catapulted from star of the Constance-St. Jude's media to star of the actual media, and tipping has dried up as completely as if someone shut off a valve.
Ties are still worn straighter; skirts are still worn lower; hallways are still quiet; the library is still crowded.
Nate and Chuck are waiting in the courtyard, safely sheltered from any prowling paparazzi (who have failed, sadly, to disappear), for Arthur to cut through the late-afternoon traffic and take them home. Since an "anonymous" source reported to Page Six last Sunday that Nate Archibald took a cab ride from The Palace Hotel to his townhouse, "in what appeared to be a silence that could have descended into tears at any moment," Chuck has been his ride to and from school.
Their classmates stream out the school doors and disperse, tugging scarves high and hats low, shouldering their way through the much-diminished crowd of photographers and reporters that floats beyond the gates.
Serena is upon them before they realize. Chuck opens his mouth to say hello to her, but her fingers are on his lapels before he can utter a sound.
Nate's brow furrows when he sees, even as his neck cranes around the corner to see if the black stretch is out front yet.
"Can I help you?" Chuck teases as Serena puts her hands inside his coat, patting at his chest, then digs under another layer, brushing aside his tie to check his inside breast pockets. She frowns.
"I need a cigarette," she mumbles dismissively, like he's bothering her with the question, withdrawing her hands and sliding them in his outer coat pockets next.
He moves his hands out of the way, inwardly shaking his head even as he does so. "I don't have any."
She huffs and shoots him a look, leaving her hands in his pockets. "Not any?"
"Sorry."
"Since when are you smoking?" Nate asks, eyes intently moving over her face.
"Well, I guess I'm not," Serena retorts, with another pointed look.
Chuck laughs a little, mirthless, and looks around the corner. "I can offer you a ride home as a condolence, sis."
"I'm waiting for Erik," she says.
"You okay?" Nate asks.
"I'm fine." And she turns and goes.
"She was in such a good mood yesterday," Nate murmurs, shaking his head as Serena stalks away. He runs a hand through his hair, forgetful, and then hisses as something smarts. He examines his hand briefly: new scabs growing over a still-fresh wound, covered irresponsibly by a single large Band-Aid, rinsing bits of debris out of it in the kitchen sink, his mother shining a light on it to check for gravel, shrouded in the now-stained-beyond-repair hand towel Chuck draped over it in the back of the limo fifteen minutes before-
And then shakes it out.
Chuck's eyes roll toward him, one corner of his mouth twisting wryly. "Nothing we haven't seen before, really," he observes.
"True," Nate agrees, eyes drifting back toward where they can still see her, and just then Arthur pulls up.
v.
Thursday, January 24
Blair is blonde now.
She doesn't warn him, and so when he arrives, he stops short on the threshold to her bedroom. "Hi," he manages.
Her lips part, and she breathes out. "Hi." She waits, and then: "What do you think?"
"It looks great," he lies. "It's a nice color."
Which it is, but it's all wrong for her. It completely washes her out. She barely looks like herself.
"I told the colorist I wanted the most common shade of dirty blonde there is, the one that most of the fake blondes in the world wear. She wanted me to try something more gold, said it would go better with my skin." Blair flicks a hand, wrapped in a cloth bandage now, no longer puffy and splinted. "I told her I wasn't interested in turning heads."
He blinks.
She smirks.
"Though I seem to have rendered you speechless."
He smiles, a slow, easy smile. "You definitely have."
There's a sound on the stairs behind them: Dorota, coming up with a tray for Chuck.
"I ate already," Blair says, and gestures to the teacup on her nightstand. When she turns her head to the side and he's looking at her profile, it's easier to recognize her.
When they're alone again, and he's balancing the tray on his lap and eating roast salmon and risotto, Blair pulls a copy of Page Six out of her bedside drawer. Unsurprisingly, this week's feature was on her again, more pictures of her and Nate, and her and Serena, filling the pages with pixelated confidence and poise. Painted lips, proud posture, headbands and flowing dark hair.
Chuck watches her muse slowly over the pictures.
"I didn't want to keep pretending to be her," Blair says, without looking up, as she flips another page.
He puts his fork down on the folded napkin on the tray, not letting the silverware clink against the plate, in case it disturbs her.
"Who do you want to be?" The question almost cracks. He feels afraid to ask it.
She shakes her head, a tiny movement, and swallows. When she looks up, her eyes are wet.
"I never asked you, but… why were you out there that night?"
His nostrils flare. He moves the tray off his lap and balances it on her vanity, then crosses, with unsure feet, and perches at the side of her bed.
"I was coming home," he says.
"What time was it?"
He shrugs slowly. "Three-something?"
She nods. "It was storming for hours by then, right?"
He nods too.
"So you were… walking home?" The way she says the words indicate how foreign the concept is.
He swallows. "From 81st. I…" he trails off, but she waits. "I thought the walk would do me good." His heart actually flips at the vulnerability of the statement.
Her lip, no stitches anymore, quivers for a second. "As it turns out," she says, eyes bright with tears, "it did both of us good."
No. No, no, no.
His heart starts to burn.
"I slept with someone," he blurts out, almost adding else to the end of the confession, and thankfully stopping himself.
To his surprise, she smiles, a sad smile. "I guess I did, too," she almost whispers.
He inches closer. She doesn't shy away. "Blair, I'm…" he stares into her eyes; her face swims for a moment, as his own eyes mist over. He blinks it away. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be." She reaches for his hand then, blonde hair falling over her shoulder as she leans forward, and he moves closer still, since she's not meant to be bending and they both know that.
Their hands touch, just as she says: "You're Chuck Bass."
His eyes flick up to meet hers, mouth dry.
But her expression is soft. "Don't apologize. If you were anyone else, you wouldn't have been there."
His heart sinks, because she thinks he's apologizing for sleeping with someone; and really, he's apologizing for all of it, for the blast and for Bemelman's and for wanting her to be hurt, and for, ultimately, getting what he wanted.
If I were anyone else, he tells her silently, it's you who wouldn't have been there.
Her fingers squeeze at his gently. "So, thank you." She releases him. "Finish your dinner. Salmon is disgusting when it gets cold."
He stays with her until nearly midnight, texting Arthur to dismiss him around ten, and when he gets home he goes straight for his closet.
The pink sweater and button-down were returned to his room days ago, having been sent for dry cleaning, the spots of blood on the cuffs where he dabbed at Blair's face in the cab magically erased, as though that whole night never was. That whole night, sitting at Bemelman's hating himself for thinking about her, then hating her for having that effect on him, then trying, trying to catch her- the eagerness with which Cadence unhooked the line of buttons down his chest, fumbling back into his clothes in the dark, the chill that hit him when he slid his coat off and dropped it on Blair's shoulders, trying to stop the trickle of blood in the forced-air heat of the cab as they crawled uptown, waiting in the hospital with her coat balled against his chest like it was her he was holding-
The pink shirt and sweater hung like silent angels, smilingly assuring him that whole night never was.
He stared at them the first night they were placed there; checked the cuffs to ensure all the stains were removed; and backed away.
Now he comes right at them, purposefully. Not bothering to unhook, he nearly tears off a button trying to yank the shirt from its hanger before he gives up and plucks the metal hook itself, and turns and walks back out of his suite. Retracing his steps the morning of the first Page Six blast, he strides with quiet rage toward the corner of the building, where the trash chutes are. He opens the hatch and shoves the sweater and button-down, hanger and all, down the slide.
Heart pounding, he lets the suite door slam behind him, leaves his shoes and coat in a trail on the floor, climbs into bed, and buries his face in a pillow.
His right hand fumbles blindly for another pillow, which he pulls down over his head.
It starts as a roar: guttural, furious; if he wasn't Chuck Bass, one could say it ends in a whimper: desperate and lonely.
But he is Chuck Bass, and Chuck Bass doesn't whimper, so when he's roared himself hoarse, he gets up and pours himself a double.
vi.
Thursday, January 24
Serena's warm gaze bubbles, concerned, over a chicken salad and Perrier: "What happened to your hand, Nate?"
"Slipped the other day during practice," Nate says, easily. Vague team sports injury. Nothing to see here.
Serena nods, spearing a large forkful. "Do you need stitches?"
"Nah. Scabbing over already." He holds up the back of the hand in question, as if she can see through the beige fabric of the Band-Aid.
"That's good," she simpers without looking.
"You're especially vibrant this afternoon, dear sister," Chuck intones.
"I saw Blair last night." Serena smiles at him, but her eyes flatten when their gazes meet.
Nate looks up from his sandwich. "How is she?"
"She's okay, considering. She just needs a lot of support and love right now." She picks up her salad dressing and pours the rest of the container into her bowl. "She called me to help her with something personal."
"She won't return my calls at all." Nate frowns. "You're lucky."
Lucky, he thought, bitterly, looking at Nate's woeful blue eyes. You don't even know how lucky you are.
A toss of blonde waves. "Are you calling her cell? She doesn't have it anymore. You have to call her house." Serena clips her words at the end, her movements neat, confident, like she's a subject matter expert teaching a seminar on Blair Waldorf.
"She got rid of her phone? Why?"
She gives him a look. "She needs time to recover, Nate," she lectures. "That means fending off unwanted invasions of her privacy."
Nate shifts in his seat; Serena seems oblivious or indifferent to the slight she's just made at him.
"Her dad left yesterday, back to France. Her mom left the day before."
Her mother left on Monday, actually, but he's not about to correct Serena.
"They left her alone?" Nate asks, disbelievingly.
"She has Dorota," Serena defends. "And she has me."
"And others," Nate mutters. "It's not like-" he pauses, glances sideways at Chuck- "you're the only one who cares about her."
Serena smiles a smile that could be sympathetic or smug. "Of course not. But we're basically sisters. It's just a different level of connection."
vii.
Wednesday, January 23
She doesn't call him tonight.
He's ready; waiting; he's had three espressos. He's prepared to stay up as late as she wants.
He came home, still early enough to be definitely on the safe side, flushed, sweat between his shoulder blades, blood on his shirt, a manual-focus camera cradled awkwardly in both hands, and left his phone on vibrate while he showered.
Got out; put on pajamas; ordered dinner and coffee service; and waited.
He can't know that Serena is leaning forward, nearly in the front seat of her cab, at that very moment, urging her driver uptown faster, like she's afraid Blair will change her mind.
He can't know that while he eats his dinner, eyeing his phone every few minutes, Serena is gaping wide-eyed as Blair tells her, tearfully, why she's called. Nodding in slightly horrified, reluctant, compliance.
He can't know that as he hesitates, giving it a few more minutes before he starts pounding the espresso- because surely she's going to call- Serena is clutching Blair's hand, watching bleaching agent being painted onto Blair's dark, wet locks.
That when he gives up, thinking she must have gotten tired and gone to bed, and slips into a jittery half-sleep, rife with vivid dreams that he can only marginally recall later, Blair's eyes are meeting Serena's in her bathroom mirror while one of the city's premier colorists blow-dries the hair she's just toned into a shade that, she's tried to warn the girls, is going to do nothing for Blair's coloring.
In fact, Chuck does dream of a blonde that night, though whether it's a blonde Blair Waldorf, or Serena Van der Woodsen, or Lily Van der Woodsen, or Jenny Humphrey, or even Cadence Alexander, he'll never remember.
viii.
Wednesday, January 23
They go way uptown, to 106th, to a court near the FDR where they sometimes play. It's out of the way, but Nate's tired of the consequences of being seen in public, so Arthur takes the highway rather than going through town, and lurks around a corner where the stretch is inconspicuous.
The air is cold enough to make Chuck's nose run; his fingers, ungloved so he can grip the ball, are freezing, but his chest and back are sweating before they're done warming up.
"D'you ever think what might have happened if Serena went through with her idea of…" Nate's nose wrinkles in distaste (apparently forgetting he half-endorsed the plan)- "using herself as bait?"
"Not really." Chuck dribbles. The sound of the basketball is an unexpected balm, a familiar comfort. "She wasn't his type. Even if we knew where he was and were actually stupid enough to attempt something-" he backs up to three-point territory- "that was more of a fantasy than a plan."
He dribbles twice; winds up; shakes his head and starts over.
When he shoots, it swishes perfectly through the net without the slightest graze of the rim.
"Nice." Nate retrieves the bouncing ball with a swipe and backs up. "Yeah, I guess so. The idea of going vigilante was appealing, though."
Chuck smirks, like he's amused by the idea.
"I guess so."
Nate dribbles and passes to him; he passes back, leaving Nate meandering around the court.
"The idea of getting my hands on him," Nate muses. "You know?" He looks up, and suddenly Chuck wonders if he knows. If Serena told him.
"Yeah," he says. "Definitely."
After a moment, Nate chuckles. "I know you're more of a lover than a fighter." He holds the ball, elbows splayed out to the side like wings, thoughtful. He shakes his head. "After seeing her leg, though- I mean, that was…"
Nate shakes his head, his expression crestfallen.
"That was the worst thing I've ever seen."
Lucky, he thinks, unable to keep down the fast-forward of Blair bleeding onto his fingers, Blair breathing slowly while her heart raced in a state of Chuck-Bass-induced medical danger, Blair writhing because he jarred her broken ribs, Blair looking straight into his eyes and having no idea who he was, Blair grimacing while a doctor prodded between her legs and her tears streamed into her hair.
You have no idea how lucky you are.
ix.
Tuesday, January 22
"I never thought I'd say this," Blair says in his ear as Dining wheels the coffee cart into his suite, "but I am sick to death of getting gifts."
He scoffs. "I'd imagine most of the unsolicited crap you're getting is unworthy of the term 'gift.'"
"That's definitely true." She glances at the feature on her family that's being replayed on E! News on mute at this very moment:
THE TROUBLED WALDORFS- ANOTHER KENNEDY CURSE?
She sighs as a graphic that looks like a rolodex of photos of her flicks across the screen, each one of them showcasing an elegant, shiny-dark-haired Blair Waldorf. "I've become America's Sweetheart."
He mouths "Thank you" to the retreating Palace employee who has set up his coffee service tray.
"And there's really nothing that can be done from a legal standpoint?"
"Given the federal manhunt, nationally televised suicide, lack of specific laws protecting…" she skips over the word victims' - "…identities, and the fact that most of the places it's being reported are technically entertainment sources rather than journalistic ones, Daddy says it would take years and years to resolve and even then, the chances aren't good."
He sips his espresso. "That's unbelievable."
"Tell me about it." Her voice is dry. "I'm an embarrassment. The Astor side of the family is confused about whether to rush to my side or shun me for bringing shame on our house."
She tries to maintain her flatness, but her tone drops toward the end of the statement, and his lip curls in disgust. "How did you bring shame on anything?"
"That's just how it is."
"That's ridiculous."
To his surprise, though it probably shouldn't be, she flares. "The Astors are one of the oldest families in America. We're born different than other people. It's not just money, it's being part of the clan. Upholding the tradition seamlessly is in my blood."
She's so prim and bossy, so like she was before, that he can't hold in a chuckle. "Easy, Tom Buchanan."
She's silent for a second, and then snorts. "Well, we are," she insists.
"I believe you." He's pouring his second cup; last night he was struggling to keep himself awake, pounding three espressos shortly after midnight when she showed no signs of slowing down. "But no one can control everything."
She neither agrees nor disagrees. She turns away from herself, the Blair smirking beautifully back at her from her own television set.
And instead, her eyes fall on the second spread in Page Six, with more pictures of Nate and Serena, and paparazzi photos of Penelope and Hazel from last weekend, and the intimidating silhouette of The Palace backlit by midday sun.
Silence falls, like it did last night, both of them propped with their earpieces on pillows, channel-surfing or page-turning on mute, as if they were in a room together.
A little while later, Blair clears her throat. "Chuck?"
"Yeah."
"Why were you speaking French in the cab that night?"
He's quiet for a few seconds. "You were speaking it to me, and I couldn't think of anything else to say."
Her voice piques. "Really? Why was I talking in French?"
He shrugs. "You thought I was someone else?"
"Who?"
"I don't know," he replies, then stops himself from lying to her. "A Monsieur Petitdemange? I mentioned it to your parents, and they said you knew him when you were little. Some summer trip you took to France."
Blair pauses. "Hmm. I don't remember anyone by that name."
She must have been six or seven. Darling girl.
She wanted him to sing with her.
He starts to tell her that Monsieur was a bookseller, but stops himself.
"I might have heard you wrong," he suggests.
"It doesn't matter," Blair says.
A song about a bird.
Since falls again, until she asks him to tell her about how everything is at school, skimming over his mentions of Serena, and again until he asks her if she's relieved her mother is gone, and again until she tells him she's thinking of repainting her room.
And again until they're both drifting, and they say goodnight and hang up and Chuck switches off his lamp and Blair falls asleep with the lights on.
x.
Monday, January 21
The double doors of Constance-St. Jude's are flung open wide, a welcoming embrace for the student body that returns with uncharacteristic eagerness, drifting through the schoolyard skittishly in plaid skirts and long wool coats.
Almost in spite of themselves, they slide, like magnets, toward Nate and Serena.
"How is she?"
"Have you talked to her today?"
"Is she okay?"
"Do you think she'll be back to school soon, or…?"
Serena's lips part, her mouth falls slightly open, enough to see the uncertain quiver of her tongue, and she closes her mouth and swallows and shakes her head and moves away too slowly to hide the tears that spring to her eyes. She makes a show of digging in her bag for something- what, no one ever knows- so her hair will shield her face until she can get out of view.
Nate doesn't drift away. Nate stands rooted, eyes darker blue and more intense than usual, dark circles under his eyes, and stares. He only has to do this a few times, holding his ground, before his classmates get the hint and stop asking him about her.
Dan catches up with Serena, reaching for her elbow, and she doesn't pull away. "Hi," she says softly.
"Hey. Good morning," he replies back, frozen almost in spite himself, like he planned to say something else but now that he's looked at her face he can't get it out.
"I'm sorry I didn't call you," she murmurs, eyes dampening again, wrist still bent at an odd angle from where her hand is tucked into her bag on the pretense of digging for the ever-elusive distraction: "It was an intense family weekend."
The phone is ringing, ringing, and he almost hangs up.
He's not sure what's possessing him to call her suite's land line. He obviously has her cell number. He can call her there if he wants to talk to her.
But a little twinge in his heart tells him that's not why he's clutching his own phone right now.
The corner of his mouth quirks up. "It went beyond brunch with Bart?"
Serena smiles back ruefully. "As if that wasn't torture enough," she affirms, finally sliding her hand out of her bag and blinking her un-made-up lashes at him.
Dan's expression falters.
"Ms. Van der Woodsen, hi, I'm- I'm so sorry to disturb you- it's Dan-"
"Well, good morning, Daniel. What can I do for you?" She sounds bemused, like she's curious how he got this number, but is too well bred to ask.
Then: "He can't be so bad, right? Now that you're spending all this time with him. He must be developing some… fatherly instincts?"
"N-nothing at all, I was just- I was just going to leave Serena a message, I tried calling her cell but it… it, there was some glitch, and I thought it might not be working, you know- " He chuckles, strangled. "Sending all her messages to cyberspace, who knows."
He can almost hear Lily's smile. "Oh! Heaven knows, with the amount of cell phone use that girl partakes in, I wouldn't rule it out. Would you like me to ask her to call you? She's just having brunch downstairs with Charles."
"Oh, that's- that's nice. And how are you doing, Ms. Van der Woodsen? After everything that happened yesterday—are you and Mr. Bass doing well? I can only imagine how stressful that must have been."
"It's very kind of you to ask, Daniel, and we're both a bit shaken up, but there's steadiness in routine; I'm just about to dash off to the spa, and Bart has been in his office since dawn, which, I guess, is his own brand of Saturday soothing."
"Yeah," Serena replies with a shrug, "I guess so. I mean, he's trying, at least."
Dan's dark eyes search her, sliding back and forth, probing at her gaze for a second too long. "That's good," he says, with a little nod.
"So, do you want me to tell Serena you called?"
"N- no, that's- that's perfectly fine, actually, she just texted me-" closing his eyes as he wills the wish to be reality- "so I'll give her a call when she's finished with brunch. I'm sorry to- disturb you. Give my best to Mr. Bass."
Lily's chuckle flutters. "I'll do that if I ever see him, Daniel. Have a nice day."
Serena breaks his gaze. "I should go, I'm woefully behind on my reading for… well, everything."
"Okay." It's barely above a whisper.
She kisses him with surprising warmth, and lingers against him, and whispers, "I love you, Dan."
His hand finds her waist through her coat like he's bracing himself from a wave of emotion, and only opens his eyes when she runs her hand over his hair.
"I love you, too," he tells her, barely getting it out before she whirls and goes.
She hurries toward the foot of the steps, and he sees Chuck dragging himself- it really looks like an effort- up the top flight, alone, unnoticed, uninterrogated, skulking in the background, and he watches, heart in his throat, to see if Serena will go after him, after Charles, and link her arm through his or murmur something to him-
But she goes the opposite way, hustling up the stairs at twice Chuck's speed, so that they go opposite directions at the top of the stairs with near-perfect symmetry.
xi.
Wednesday, January 23
Lucky, he thinks. You have no idea how lucky you are.
"Yeah," he nonetheless agrees with Nate's assessment of Blair's leg when he finds his voice, realizing it's been several seconds, shaking nightmare material out of his mind.
Nate shakes himself out of his own reverie, flaring nostrils highlighted because they're chilled pink, and dribbles, movements swift and jerky, passing the ball between his legs, switching his stance and repeating it, bouncing it on his fingertips and letting it spin. He passes it to Chuck, gets it back, bounces it over and goes for a jump shot, brandishing his palms above his head as he moves toward the basket.
Chuck dribbles. Passes it, hard. Nate leaps- impressive vertical today, even for someone of Nate's height and natural ability- and swipes it into one hand effortlessly, the other hand guiding toward the hoop. The dunk is perfection, and the ball hits the ground with a resounding thwack, bouncing high on the rebound. Nate hangs on the hoop for a second as Chuck congratulates him, but he doesn't smile.
He drops back down, swiping his nose on one sleeve while he reaches for the now-listless basketball, but when he's palming it again, he's frowning. He turns back to Chuck, opens his mouth, and falters before looking at him-
And then he stops.
"Hey."
The smile, Chuck's first in days, fades instantly. "What's up?"
Nate's not looking at him. His breathing is visible, suddenly, and Chuck's not sure if it was before. His chest rises and falls under his gray sweatshirt. He reverse-nods past Chuck, an inclination of the chin.
Chuck turns. He falters. Turns back toward Nate, but Nate is already coming toward him, swiveling his shoulder so they don't brush, and pushing the basketball against Chuck's torso with finality.
"Hey." The second time Nate says it, it's nothing more than a growl.
xii.
Monday, January 21
Blair can't get away from herself.
Everywhere she looks, there's a grinning, or smirking, or pensively beautiful Blair Waldorf gazing expectantly back at her.
There she is on the internet, and not even just on the gossip rags anymore- who would have thought she'd ever long for those days- but on virtually every media site, alongside his mug shot (a few of the outlets use a nicer picture of him in a scarf and peacoat from several years ago, where he looks handsome and wholesome, but most of them have enough sense to remind the general public that he was in fact a violent rapist and murderer); on the cover of the magazines that she insists Dorota not hide from her, prompting much hand-wringing and spluttering from her mother, and more velveteen reasonings from her father; and on television, on every entertainment network, though the mainstream news channels lose interest after a few days.
Which is something to give thanks for, she supposes.
Oh, the irony: Blair Waldorf, Silver Linings Queen.
An animated turning of newspaper pages on E! News reruns the Night Out With feature that she once so longed for, planned for, coveted and reveled in, and that's now come back to haunt her: resplendent Blair, looking virginal in ivory cashmere, perched cross-legged on this very bed, in this very room.
Waldorf's bedroom in her family's generational Upper East Side penthouse is fit for royalty, the walls a chic cornflower blue reminiscent of the taste of Marie Antoinette, with nods to all manner of vintage fashion, taste and society.
She complained to Serena afterward that she'd clarified at least four times that her walls were French blue, not cornflower blue. Who on earth would want bedroom walls in a shade called cornflower, she'd demanded when the article finally did run, irked that the reporter had not heeded her insistence.
Serena had laughed, eyes sparkling, while they sipped fresh-squeezed orange juice, a copy in each of their hands, also on this very bed.
Blair smiles now, careful as her stitches have just come out, unconsciously touching at her lower lip to make sure, again, that it won't split back open.
She's had almost no trouble breathing the last few days, now that she's observing bed rest the way she was meant to from the beginning, and now that her torso is wrapped, and now that she's eating an extra serving of protein with every meal.
And the nightmares…
Well.
The worst one, she jokes to Chuck on the phone that night when he tentatively asks her if she's been sleeping well the last few days (because he knows she did on Friday, because he was there), is the dozens of doe-eyed, satin-haired brunettes that seem to reflect back at her from every medium.
He falters when she says that.
Oh, wait, she teases; that's real.
xiii.
Sunday, January 20
The young man- his name is Carlos Metsulas, his assistant Ellen has reminded him- shifts nervously in front of his desk.
He's in his Sunday best, clean-shaven, his blazer pressed, close-cropped hair combed neatly, and smelling of aftershave.
He seems to think he's being fired, even after Bart tells him he's not.
"I'm not sure I understand, sir," he says apologetically, looking at the check in his hand. The check is for two hundred thousand dollars, nearly three years' salary at the job Carlos has worked for close to a decade. He glances around, like he's waiting for The Palace's personnel manager to come out from behind a curtain and translate what's happening.
"I want you to know how deeply the management of this hotel appreciates your attention to detail, especially in your recent duties, and how much we value you."
The lingering backwards glance at the guest in 1712 who ordered room service at 4 AM…
"You're worth a great deal to not only The Palace Hotel, but to Bass Industries more broadly, and your sound judgment has provided a profound benefit to many, me and my family included."
…the hot-footed approach to the concierge desk, where Kathryn was just about to take her first sip from a fresh cup of coffee, looking up with a polite smile as he hurried across the lobby…
"So now I hope you'll take your family on a wonderful vacation, spend a month or two abroad, whatever you want- and when you return, I hope you'll stay with us for many years to come."
…the passing back and forth of the phone receiver as they talked with the NYPD, coffee cooling next to Kathryn's keyboard.
"And continue exercising your sound judgment on behalf of The Palace Hotel, your colleagues, my family and me."
Mr. Metsulas' eyes are round and disbelieving. He stammers gratitude on gratitude, until Bart stops him with a polite nod, a diplomatic smile.
"Please be in touch with Xavier when you wish to return to work. And enjoy yourself, Carlos."
xiv.
Wednesday, January 23
"Hey."
Chuck is holding the basketball loosely against his stomach, breath coming out in delicate white mist, as he watches Nate stalk off the court.
The paparazzi is one they've seen before, maybe around thirty years old, about Chuck's height, and thin. He's bundled in a knitted cap and plush-lined coat, fingerless gloves gripping his camera, which he still has aimed at Nate. He was half-hidden by a tree, peeking around the corner with his lens trained on the boys as they shot around, out of earshot but clicking his shutter enough times to sell the spread of Nate Archibald works out his grief over girlfriend Blair Waldorf's tribulations at basketball court on Upper East Side for somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty five thousand dollars.
"Any statement you want to give?"
Because if he gets Nate to actually comment, the market rate for the package just doubled.
"Yeah," Nate says, without breaking stride, "I do."
And the paparazzi starts to back away, then, but it's too late.
"You want a statement?"
Nate reaches out, grabs a fistful of plush-lined flannel, and yanks the guy close. "My statement is if you don't leave me the fuck alone I'll mess you up worse than that guy messed up Blair. You understand me?"
Chuck can't hear his words, but he takes a halting step toward them. "Nate…"
The paparazzi blinks, putting on a brave face that Nate knows because he's applied it once or twice himself. "Archibald the White Knight," he says, and adjusts his camera where it's now pressed into his chest, maybe auto-focusing the lens.
Nate chuckles, and loosens his grip. The paparazzi steps back and opens his mouth to say something else. He's miscalculated.
Badly.
With impressive speed, Nate's fist catches him across the jaw, and he's leveled with one punch. Nate stands still over him.
Chuck breathes out, unconsciously bringing the basketball closer to his body, white mist clouding his vision for a second before it dissipates, and then he sees Nate bend over and yank the guy up, camera lurching on its strap around his neck, and set him on his feet, and then he winds up-
And hits him again.
"Nate," Chuck says, louder, his heart starting to pound.
The paparazzi yelps, tripping to the ground, blood pouring from his nose, and covers his face with his hands.
Nate's voice crackles to Chuck, but he can't understand what he's saying to the guy.
A third punch, this one to the paparazzi's stomach, knocks the wind out of him as he squirms under broader, taller, more handsome and powerful Nate; All-American Athlete Nate, New York's Prince Nate, Nate the Vanderbilt Heir, who's pummeling him like a street fighter as he tries to get away.
Chuck sees blood on the sidewalk as Nate lands another punch, its target out of sight but seemingly on the side of the paparazzi's face, and he drops the basketball and goes after them. "Nate!"
As he gets closer, he hears what Nate is saying.
"You want a statement? Huh?"
His knees are on either side of the guy's legs.
"I was a fucking terrible boyfriend. I don't deserve to breathe the same air as her." And he hits the guy in the stomach again, causing him to gasp and heave like he's going to vomit.
The guy twists to the side as Chuck approaches, and his heart lurches: Nate appears to have broken his nose and split open both his jaw and cheekbone.
"Nate- Nate- "
Nate surely hears him, but redoubles and hits the guy underneath him again. "You want to know," he seethes, "what that guy really did to her?"
And Chuck can't know exactly what he's seeing, can't know he's seeing the way Blair backed away from him, that night when she told him to come in because she thought he was Dorota, and she was changing, and he saw- bloody purple, damaged tissue and broken bones on her torso, and her leg, those horrible black letters, and the way she quavered and begged him to get out, pressing herself backward against her bathroom door, putting as much distance between herself and him as she could—
But Chuck could guess, and guess correctly, that the word WHORE is beating in Nate's mind with every fistfall.
"You want to know?" Nate says again, rearing up on his knees, staring down at the bloody face of the paparazzi.
I'd like to break a few of his bones.
He pulls his elbow back again; the paparazzi struggles to get his hands up in front of his face; Chuck gets there in time, and he's dragging Nate backward by both shoulders.
"Come on. Nate." He hauls him to standing, basketball bounces echoing in his ears, but Nate turns and shoves him away, getting blood on his shirt in the meantime.
"You want to know?" Nate half-shouts at the guy, but he's rasping and raw, and closes in on the form that scrambles to get its bearings, to stand up, to flee.
But fails, because Nate has knocked him in the head and he's dazed.
Chuck realizes, in horror, that Nate's about to kick the guy in the ribs.
He sees Blair on the hospital bed, yelping and writhing, ribs seven and eight -
He rushes Nate from the side and knocks him down. "Stop it," he whispers hotly. "Stop."
The look in Nate's eyes when their gazes meet shuts him up.
For a second, he's sure Nate is about to break his jaw.
Then Nate blinks, looks around quickly, swallows.
And from behind him, Arthur materializes. The limo is waiting just up the block; neither of them saw it approach.
"Mr. Archibald, if you'll please come with me," Arthur suggests with quiet urgency that leaves no room for argument, hooking his arms under Nate's and hoisting him to his feet, blinking and stumbling, one hand bloody and with a red spatter on his sweatshirt.
Chuck reaches out a shaky hand and helps the paparazzi up.
"How much?" he says when he finds his voice.
"What?"
The guy is bleeding. There's blood in his mouth from his split lip- is his jaw broken?- and it's mixing with the blood that's pouring from his nose, tinging his teeth yellow, washed in dark red.
Arthur has tucked Nate into the back door of the limo and approaches, again, withdrawing something from his inside breast pocket and handing it over to Chuck, who stands panting at the same rate as the bloodied photographer on the sidewalk, a pace away from the bloodstain.
"How much?" he says again. He nods at the guy's chest, noticing the blood on his own shirt as he does so. "For the camera, too."
He takes his checkbook and the pen from Arthur.
When he slides into the limo, camera with shots of him and his best friend playing basketball like they're eight years old again cradled tenderly in both hands- he has no idea how to hold a camera- Nate is crying.
His head is in his hands, and he's crying real tears.
The knuckles that face toward Chuck are ripped open; Nate's fist must have glanced off the guy's face on one of the blows and skidded across the pavement. It's dirty and bleeding in earnest.
The limo turns a corner and they're headed downtown, toward the Archibald townhouse. Chuck didn't even have to tell Arthur that Nate wouldn't be accompanying them back to The Palace.
He reaches over into a compartment near the bar- in Nate's line of sight, although Nate doesn't even register his presence- and plucks a hand towel from a stack of clean white squares. He holds it up to Nate's bloody knuckles, his mind's eye flashing back to the blood spatters on the wall of his own suite when he split his knuckles in a similar way, oh, my God; oh my God - and the way Nate's eyes traveled over the stains, to Chuck's heaving shoulders, and the perfunctory nod.
Me, too.
Chuck closes his eyes briefly, then gently removes Nate's hand from the side of his head and drapes the towel over it, watching as the blood soaks through the white linen almost immediately.
Nate squeezes his eyes shut, tears trickling down his cheeks, and lets out a sob. A lump rises in Chuck's throat to match.
They're a few blocks from Nate's house when the blonde turns to Chuck, head still sunk into one hand, and with raw, red eyes, whispers to Chuck in wonder:
"I only meant to hit him once."