A/N: Hello, hello, and happy holidays! I am pleased to bring you our next installment. =D
Thank you so, so much to everyone who has favorited, followed, and reviewed! I seriously flail with joy at each notification, so I can't thank you enough for making my day every single time. It's the best holiday gift a writer could ask for! =D
i.
No.
She hasn't in- months. A month and a half. Since Thanksgiving. No. no, no.
No.
And not because she's had to stop herself. Not because she's been disciplined. It's because she hasn't wanted to; because it didn't cross her mind. Because she felt good, she felt beautiful and wanted, and desirable, without it.
It's the longest she's gone without needing to struggle against her urge to do it.
She's gripping both sides of the faucet hard enough that the pinwheel-shaped polished steel handles are leaving pink teeth marks on her palms. Lips pursed, she exhales out, slowly, the steadiness of her breath interrupted when she jumps as someone knocks. "Just a minute," she calls, lightly, eyes never leaving the mirror.
"Sorry!" The woman's voice on the other side seems to fade even over two syllables.
She looks at her face, appraising every angle, every plane, the pillow of her lips, the sweep of her cheekbones, the arch of her hairline as she shakes her head and settles her hair behind both shoulders.
She hears it then, as clear as if he were in the room with her: Waldorf. You're looking particularly luminous today.
She glares at herself in the mirror. Those aren't tears. The lights in here are hurting her eyes.
Drifting to a stop, two textbooks cradled in her arm, students jostling around them in both directions. She could feel, can feel again now – goosebumps kissing their way up her ribs.
He turned, they both did, and the babbling brook of navy blazers and striped ties ebbed and flowed around them. Just exchanging pleasantries.
No secrets in these eyes.
His smirk deepened.
New moisturizer?
She squeezes her eyes shut, because her nose is growing pink and she's not going to cry again. But her body betrays her and a few tears slip from her eyes. She grips the faucet harder – she needs to get back out there and make conversation – but she can't stop the flood now: a kiss on her forehead, thumb having drifted to a rest on the rim of her ear, fingers tangled in her hair; drifting comfortably to consciousness to find, as though this is their hundredth time like this, his head cradled on her shoulder, his forehead snugly at the juncture of her collarbone and neck; and, as her stomach lurches of its very own accord – plausible deniability, her brain justifies as an aside – and she flips the water on, both taps, full force, the sudden spray not quite harsh enough against the beautiful, untouched white of the sink to drown it out: All yours.
She turns away from her pink nose and wet cheeks, gathering her hair into one fist.
It's a good thing she left her coat at the table, along with her empty wine glass and full second cabernet.
Those billowing sleeves are better left out of this.
ii.
Saturday, January 26
Jenny's eyes are wide with barely-contained amusement. Her mouth is trying to twist into a wry smile, but it's like her facial muscles don't quite believe it. Like there must be some mistake.
The hand that holds out the envelope is steady.
"What?" He says again, after a five-second stare-down.
"Open it," she says, smile about to burst through.
He marks his spot in his book with his thumb and reaches for the envelope with the other hand. She snatches it just out of his reach a moment before he touches it.
He opens his mouth, a silent chuckle, and rolls his eyes.
"I just want to make sure you're emotionally prepared for this," she teases, passing it behind her back into her other hand and stretching to keep it away as his interest piques and he grabs for it.
"This better be good," Dan says, getting to his feet and plucking it before she can get away.
She watches for his reaction, and she's not disappointed. His eyes light up when he sees the handwritten address, his name scrawled in graceful black across the front, and the official, and not mass-printed, return label in the top left corner.
He straightens, drawing the envelope back like he wants to make sure he's reading it right.
"Oh, my God," he murmurs. He looks up at her. "Conde Nast?"
Grin spreading, Jenny nods.
"Oh, my God," he murmurs again, and then tears into the envelope. "They must have- someone must have read my- something—or figured-"
She's not listening: she knows what's in the envelope, knew it as soon as she pulled it from their box downstairs. It's square; it's firm, like heavy cardstock; and it's handwritten.
He stops as soon as he's gotten it out of the envelope. "What…."
She bounces onto her toes, then hops in the air, twice. "Dan," she all but squeals. "It's an invitation to the Met Valentine's Day Gala."
His eyes rise slowly to meet hers. He blinks.
"Gala," he repeats.
Blue eyes sparkle back at him. "I can't believe you got your own invitation. Penelope and the rest of the girls got theirs yesterday- by courier- I guess yours took an extra day because…"
Well, because the courier probably got confused by the Brooklyn address and went back to the office to double-check.
Dan's brow furrows. "Why would I be invited to the…" he shakes his head. "Lily, I guess."
Jenny snorts. "I mean, yeah. Dan Humphrey from Brooklyn didn't get invited to a fashion gala at the Met because of his street style." She nudges his foot with hers, as if trying to prod the appropriate reaction out of him. "It's a big deal to get invited to that, Dan. Seriously." And plucks it back out of his fingers. "We should frame it." She turns away, gloating, as though the invitation is for her and she's about to do just that.
iii.
"Ha," Blair half-murmurs, half-laughs into the receiver, sleepy and glowing from her shower, wet hair in a nondescript heap on her pillow. "Sounds like my mother."
He shakes his head. "Could have easily emailed me himself. But no. From Ellen James, to Chuck Bass."
"But how often does your father ask you to dinner?"
The pause while he thinks it over burns through thoughtful and into embarrassing. "The last time was… I think I was sixteen."
Blair bites too hard on the side of her lip that's still healing, and stifles a squeak. "So," she rejoins, trying to keep her tone light- she hadn't realized Bart was quite that absentee- "one can't expect him to change his spots so quickly, can one?"
"One cannot," he confirms.
She twists the ringlets of the phone cord in her fingers, cradling the receiver against her shoulder. "Did you get any other invitation today?"
"Met Gala? Yes. You?" He glances at it, where it lies, unopened, past the Scotch he poured himself but hasn't touched yet.
Eyes drifting closed, her lips curve into a smile that he'd be proud of if he could see it – cherubic and toxic all at once. "Against my mother's express orders, yes, I did."
He smirks, unbeknownstedly matching her. "Well, one can't expect to effectively enforce restrictions from Paris, can one?"
She sighs, the picture of contentment. "One cannot. Although apparently, one does."
Luckily, Dorota's loyalties are right where they should be.
"D'you think…" he falters. "Will you go?"
"I don't know."
It's quick enough that he knows it's a prepared answer. It's what she's decided to say if anyone asks.
"Maybe things will have died down by then," he offers.
"Only to whip back into a tornado when The Waldorf Recluse makes her society comeback. With no Archibald on her arm," she adds, and he notes with what should not be a pang of pleasure (but is) how her voice drips sarcasm.
"You could go with Serena, as a pair. Arrive together, leave together. You don't have to talk to a guy all night," he points out.
She eases onto her side, free hand searching the cool emptiness of the mattress beside her.
Searching.
"Except you," she teases.
"I'm not a guy," he retorts. "I'm Chuck Bass."
Her laughter is so easy. It's just like before. When she was Nate's girl and the first to RSVP for society events, when she glided through public life, snickering with him in a corner here or there. It's just like that.
He doesn't see her smile fade when her fingertips find what she's looking for. "Serena will probably be going with Humphrey, anyway."
"She'd leave him at home in a second if you wanted to go together." He picks up his glass from the counter and heads for his bed.
"But just picture it: Brooklyn in a set of Armani tails."
He chuckles through a sip of Scotch. "That'll be the day."
"Chuck," she says suddenly, and he can hear the frown in her voice.
"Speaking."
There's a pause, and a short, harsh sigh. "What do you think Bart wants?"
"Probably to reduce my ascot allowance."
"I'm serious."
"I…" He shrugs, pulling back the comforter. "I don't know. If he was pissed about something, he'd come here and give me a few choruses of 'Just When I Thought You Couldn't Disappoint Me More.' Unless he wants to blindside me with something. I haven't spent that much time thinking about it."
A lie: his heart sank as he replied to Ellen that, yes, he was free on Monday night, and that he'd be there, and hasn't fully rebounded.
Such is the life of children unable to gain their parents' approval. They both know it.
She sidesteps the deception.
"You don't think he… knows." It's barely above a whisper. "Do you?"
At first, he thinks she means, about us. That Bart knows; that Gossip Girl sent him an email, personally; that Serena spilled the beans to Lily and Lily whispered it in his ear, though why it chills him that his father could know about Blair, probably the most upstanding girl he's ever been involved with, he's not sure.
Then he realizes that she means about the revolver.
"No. Kathryn- the night manager- erased the surveillance footage right after. She played it off like a glitch in the system. He told us about it himself."
"No one else knows that could have told him?" she persists.
The image of Serena lunging at the narrowing space between the doors of the penthouse elevator flashes through his mind.
"The circle's closed."
Erik's watchful gaze sliding back toward the television when he came into the room afterward.
"And anyway, I don't think he'd be showing his appreciation for me taking his handgun to…" He pauses and simply skips the next few words. "By scheduling a father-son dinner."
"No," she agrees. "I guess not. Well, I hope the ascot allowance doesn't affect your wardrobe selection process for the gala."
"I can always donate a kidney," he reasons, eyes crinkling when her laugh bubbles against his ear.
A comfortable silence falls, and he has to convince himself to bring it up again.
"It's none of anyone's business if you do or don't go to the gala, and it's none of anyone's business if you go alone, you know."
"I know. I just don't want more questions. And not that Nate even cares…"
This stabs at him, which is surprising. "Nate cares."
She'd probably be surprised at how true this is.
"No, I mean, not that Nate cares about what anyone says, one way or the other, but if we were both there and not together, it would just stir up more headlines." Her voice cracks, just a hair, and then stiffens: "And I can't do more headlines."
"It's your life. People aren't entitled to know if you have a boyfriend."
She chuckles again, sadly. "They're just entitled to know the last person who was inside me, I guess."
He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a long drink of Scotch. Holds the glass against his temple. "You should do whatever you want."
"Maybe I'll go as a nondescript blonde."
"Do you have a dress already?"
He hears the rustling of her duvet, like she's rolling over, sitting up.
"A whole closetful."
And the distinctive sound of a yank on the chain of her bedside lamp: sleeping in the dark tonight, he notes.
She exhales as she sinks back into her pillows: "I used to be Blair Waldorf."
He thinks she's about to say she's going to bed, but instead she says, "so – what color do you think I should paint my bedroom walls?"
iv.
Sunday, January 27
Serena- and this does surprise him- is almost like a different person once he presents her with his invitation to the gala.
"Oh my God!" she squeals, mouth full of croissant, dropping half of it onto her lap and carefully dusting her fingertips on her napkin before reaching for the marbled ivory square. She inspects it enthusiastically, like she didn't get a nearly-identical one herself.
"'Daniel Humphrey,'" she reads in a pompous baritone, "'is cordially invited- '"
"Cordially," he emphasizes, holding up his coffee cup when the waitress approaches with a gleaming silver carafe. She looks confused; her patrons generally don't hold out their coffee cups like truckers at an interstate diner. She tops off Serena's afterward, waiting as it is on its saucer.
"Well." Serena mock-pouts as he takes a bigger-than-polite gulp. "Now that you're a big famous socialite, you can bring a plus one to this thing. Have you thought about who to ask?"
She bats her eyelashes.
He's suddenly leaning forward, fingertips brushing her hair back, kissing her on the mouth. She giggles against his lips.
"I thought," he says as they separate, "I might bring the most beautiful girl on earth."
"Bar Refaeli? I think she already has a date," she teases.
"Damn." He reaches for his coffee cup. "Back to the drawing board."
Serena picks up her fork and idly spears some avocado. "Give it some more thought," she suggests with a lopsided grin, the exact face that made him fall in love with her. The face that confirms she has no idea how beautiful and perfect she is. "You might think of someone else worthy of being on your arm."
Their eyes meet, mutually sparkling, and he squeezes her knee under the table.
"In all seriousness, though, isn't this invitation gorgeous? There's something different about all of them. One year the names were tipped in pearl powder or something. This year they're hand-painted. My mom saves all the society invitations, but the Met ones are always the nicest." Her words slow as she finishes the sentence. She's looking over his shoulder, and then, without preamble: "Nate's here."
He looks behind him. Nate looks like someone just ran over his dog. He's wearing one glove and carrying the other; three quarters of his scarf is dangling down his torso, with the other quarter hanging onto his opposite shoulder for dear life. His shirt is untucked and wrinkled at the hem. He's glancing around, scanning the faces of the diners at Dais.
"Should we ask him to…"
He doesn't even have time to beat her to it when Nate spots them and waves hello.
"Hey, you two," he says as he makes his way over, but his eyes don't even come to rest on them.
"Good morning," Serena replies.
"Hey, man." Dan can't help it; he glances back and forth between them.
Nate pulls out his phone. "Have you seen…"
"Chuck," Serena supplies, with an inclination of her chin.
Chuck is immaculately dressed, in sharp contrast with Nate, who looks the way Chuck looks on mornings when he hasn't been home all night. His usually languid pace is faster than normal. His smile is wide. "Nathaniel. Sister." He blinks. "Humphrey."
"Out of curiosity, do you know my first name?" Dan tilts his head.
Chuck doesn't spare him a glance. "Derek, right?"
"Have you talked to Blair?" Serena pipes up, urgency creeping into her like she's just realized she slept through her alarm clock.
Nate takes a deep breath, and shakes his head minutely. "I…"
"No more than you have, I'm sure," Chuck cuts him off. "If you'll both excuse us, Mr. Archibald and I have some routine business matters to discuss."
"Dealer schedules and such?" Serena's tone is bored, but she's watching them closely: Chuck's hand on Nate's shoulder; Nate's rapid blinking.
"And such." He gives a diplomatic nod. Chuck the Statesman. "Nathaniel, our corner booth awaits."
Nate turns. Chuck tugs at his bowtie- 11 AM on a Sunday, no occasion- and smiles. "Celia. Randolph."
Serena manages to stifle her laughter until he's out of earshot. "I'm not surprised he knows my middle name, but yours?"
"Impressive," Dan agrees, holding out his cup for the waitress as she draws near again.
Chuck and Nate's corner booth is mostly obscured by a potted magnolia tree, but they're in Serena's line of sight. And so it is that she tracks them out of the corner of one eye, and sees that Chuck drains two ice waters and barely touches his meal; and that after a tense, rapid-fire exchange, Nate wolfs down a stack of pancakes, eyes trained on his plate.
v.
"So, like, what, I'm just supposed to pretend?"
She lifts one shoulder, tiredly.
"Just… maybe don't indicate one way or the other for a while. Until things die down."
He's agitated. She can see it in the way he's blinking: fast, eyes darting all over, from her to the ceiling to the floor.
"I mean, do you think I'm just, like, out there talking to paparazzi or something?"
She tenses a little at his tone, and the oddly accusatory question. She didn't expect he'd be so affronted. "No, of course not. I just meant… look," she sighs, hand passing over her eyebrows, forehead, hairline, "I think we could both do with less attention from the media right now, don't you? I mean, not just us, but both our families. And given they seem to think we're this…"
Swallow.
"Perfect couple, and we…" she closes her eyes. "Obviously aren't, it would shake the hornet's nest and probably cost us a few more weeks of being scrutinized if we let on about that right now."
He stares at her.
"Is this about the gala?"
He knows her well enough to know she'd be thinking about how it would look if they were or weren't together there. Or at least, his mother does, and asked him twice last night if he thought Blair would go, and twice more if he didn't think he should ask to escort her, as her first social appearance, so she wouldn't have to go through it alone, even if- of course, of course, she understands, they're just friends now.
"It's about the whole thing." She looks down at her lap. "Can you just please do me this favor? I realize someone else might blow the cover, but I'm hoping interest will die down before that happens and things can go back to…"
She blinks miserably.
"Blair, I can't…" he swallows against the rush of frustration he doesn't really understand. "I can't pretend to be something I'm not. This great boyfriend. I…" he shakes his head.
"You were," she whispers.
"Sh-" he silences himself and bites his lip. Blair glances up in alarm, wondering if he was about to tell her to shut up.
"This doesn't have anything to do with us or who did what to whom," she says. "I'm trying to help us both here. Most of the country already knows I was…"
His nostrils flare.
"If it comes out that we're not together, and then word is out and someone else gives a tip, suddenly it's going to be on all the tabloid sites that I was publicly known as this promiscuous…" she waves a hand. "Who lost my virginity in the back of a limo. Then I'm notorious for a whole set of different reasons. If we can just keep the lid on long enough for the interest to die down…"
She looks at him pleadingly.
"Limo?" he echoes. The word is like a gunshot.
And it hangs in the air between them.
It takes several seconds for her overstatement to sink in. Her lips part, aghast. "You didn't know?"
Silence lingers again.
At length, Nate swallows and licks his lips.
"I won't say anything. I'll just play along. You're right," he says, robotically.
"Nate, I'm so sorry."
He exhales, slowly, eyes on the floor. "I'm sorry, too, but I honestly don't even know who's apologizing for what anymore."
"Do whatever you need to do," she murmurs. "I'll deal with it."
She always has.
"I've got your back, Waldorf." He reaches for her hand, tiredly, and they shake, avoiding each other's eyes.
When she hears the elevator ding closed in the foyer below, she feels relief.
vi.
Monday, January 28
He wears a navy suit with sage pinstripes and an ivory Oxford with hunter pinstripes- green paisley pocket square- for dinner with his father.
Bart is waiting for him at the elevator, though he clearly arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early. Chuck glances around, looking for the reason his father would delay sitting down at a table to wait for him, but Bart doesn't appear to be otherwise engaged.
"Hello," his father greets him, with a quick clasp in greeting. "You're early."
He's shrugging out of his overcoat, chocolate wool with teal silk lining, and handing it to the hostess, who murmurs an apology when her fingers graze his as she takes it. "Am I?"
"Yes," Bart says without checking his watch.
On their way to the table, Bart spots an acquaintance, and to Chuck's sharp surprise, his father puts his hand on his shoulder to stop him from going ahead to the table and leaving Bart to exchange pleasantries.
He prods him ever so slightly forward, and Chuck steps up to the table.
"Reginald. You remember my son Charles?"
"Of course," Reginald beams from behind Gucci spectacles. It's nonsense. Chuck has never met this man before in his life, and they all know it. "How have you been, my boy? Where are you now in school?"
"Wading my way through junior year at St. Jude's," Chuck replies smoothly, giving the two-handed handshake the way his father does when he really cares about someone's favor.
Reginald nods approvingly. "Fine school. Fine, fine school. When you're ready to compare the merits of the Ivies, give me a call. Your father here is biased," he mock-confides, holding one hand up to his mouth as though to stop Bart hearing.
Bart chuckles good-naturedly. "I'll send him your way," he promises. "Enjoy your meal."
"Great to see you again," Chuck adds, slightly for his own pleasure.
When they're seated, napkins across their laps, Bart asks if he'd like a glass of wine, and he politely declines, waiting for the punchline.
His father shrugs and reaches for the raw bar menu. "Suit yourself," he says, and then: "What looks good? I'm in the mood for a tuna tartare."
vii.
She's struggling to stay awake. Today she started physical therapy and she's embarrassed to admit it, but her ribs are aching from the exertion.
She tilts her head back- she still has to sleep propped almost upright on pillows- and stares at her ceiling.
Nothing's wrong; they're probably talking about lapel sizes or their mutual dislike of the Humphreys or something.
They were supposed to meet for dinner three hours ago.
She's reached for the receiver twice, and stopped herself.
Eventually she dozes, waking with a start for no reason at all, to a racing heart.
The light is still on. Her books are still stacked inside her locked doors.
Everything is fine. She'd just sleep better knowing why his father asked him to go to dinner, that's all.
Tonight is the first night in a few days she's needed the book stacks to feel safe, but that's normal, to go back and forth. She'll grow out of it soon. Hopefully, anyway; it's a painstaking process, stacking the books one by one without twisting the wrong way.
viii.
He's hovered above "Send" on her name twice, but reason tells him that it's too late to call.
He reaches into his pocket for his wallet, and when he places the side with the key card against his electronic lock, a business card flutters to the floor.
He picks it up and turns it over as he badges in.
"Octavia" in feminine script, and a phone number.
He kicks the lever to open his trash bin and drops it in without a second glance; his eyes are rooted on "Blair – Home."
Thumb floating again above the green button, reason finally wins. He'll talk to her tomorrow. She's probably peacefully sleeping by now; he can't risk ruining that.
ix.
Tuesday, January 29
Serena's smile is as warm and confident as it's always been. Her face betrays none of the reality that she's come to the Waldorfs' completely uninvited and is hoping against hope that she won't be turned away.
Luckily, her casual demeanor as she gestures vaguely toward the sky ("here to see Blair" in a confidential tone) lets her slide past the doorman; she's in the penthouse before anyone has time to fact-check, even were they so inclined, which she's reasonably sure they aren't.
Dorota isn't in the kitchen, and so there's no one to stop her as she hurries up the stairs and knocks.
"Blair?"
There's a pause that she wishes she didn't understand so well when Blair's non-drowsy voice comes back to her: "Serena?"
"It's me," she confirms, tone bright.
Another pause.
"Can I come in?" Serena tries again.
A third pause.
"Sure," Blair says.
Her excitement deflated, she steps inside, nonetheless determined to sparkle for her best friend.
"Is everything okay?" Blair asks at once.
"Y- yes." Serena blinks. She's almost forgotten that Blair's hair is blonde; it's been nearly a week since she's seen her. Her friend's face looks different, too. Her eyes look larger. Her cheekbones look sharper. Her shoulders, stiff inside a loose scoopneck sweater, look more pronounced. "How about you?"
Blair licks her lips. "As fine as fine can be," she offers, frugally.
Serena gestures to the corner of Blair's bed. "Can I sit?"
Blair appears to consider it before nodding.
Shrugging out of her coat and slipping off her shoes- no time for that in the foyer, in case Dorota caught her and prevented her from getting up here- Serena sinks down on top of the duvet cover. "So. Fashion week starts on Friday," she points out.
Blair's eyes flit down, and she catches herself and forces them back up. "Yes. Kickoff parties and all. My mother will be back to get ready for her show."
Serena's smile widens. "Are you excited?" Blair falters, and Serena amends: "Do you think you'll want to go to any of the shows?"
Lips part. "I haven't really thought about it."
Serena visibly does not believe her, but dutifully avoids the topic. "If you want to go to any, just let me know. I'd love to go with you. Be your date," she teases.
Blair smiles, a fond smile. "I'll definitely let you know."
Encouraged, Serena glances around. "Did you get your invitation to the gala?" She doesn't notice that Blair's gaze doesn't move.
"I did. I haven't decided anything about that, yet, either."
"Can I see? They're so pretty- Dan actually got one addressed to himself, which is crazy- I knew my mom was trying to show her support after Cotillion, but to actually get him added to the guest list was a great surprise…"
She's looking around, on Blair's vanity, her dresser, her nightstand, trying to spy the invitation.
"I had Dorota put it away somewhere," Blair preempts, somewhat curtly. Serena looks at her, and she smiles a little. "For safekeeping. I'm… not sure if I want to go yet."
"Right. Of course. Maybe wait to see if things die down?"
"Exactly."
"I totally understand." Serena is still looking at her, longer than Blair is comfortable being looked at now.
She starts to ramble. "I'm hoping fashion week will take up all the media's bandwidth, and there's bound to be some scandal or a show will be a disaster and everyone will focus on that, and maybe if that happens, I can go into the gala after the red carpet part is over to avoid being on camera…" she trails off, lifting both shoulders listlessly. Even to her own ears, she's speaking a foreign language: avoiding cameras, for God's sake.
"I know you're under a lot of pressure," Serena murmurs. "I mean, it's not even practical to leave your house yet. I can only imagine what that must be like."
"Yeah."
Serena clears her throat absently, pressing one palm into the mattress and shifting her weight. "Blair?"
Brown eyes meet blue. "Mm?"
"You're not… you didn't relapse, did you?"
Blair stares at her for a moment, like she can't figure out what Serena means, and then lets out a surprised bark of dry laughter. She presses the heel of her hand against her side, frowning at her own lack of care. "No."
Serena doesn't look away. "You sure?"
"I'm sure. Believe me. There's not enough room for that much sickness in one person. I've officially traded that in for…" she gestures vaguely over her body. "This."
There's an awkward silence as the profound sadness of Blair's self-assessment hits them both.
Now Blair a-hems. "I appreciate the concern, but I promise, there's nothing to worry about. If anything, I'm going to get fat from lying here, what with Dorota shoving an extra serving of protein on me at every meal." She rolls her eyes. "Doctor's orders."
Serena nods slowly. "If you need any help with anything…"
"I know I can always call you. Thank you." She blinks and glances at her bedside clock. "I actually have my therapist in about ten minutes, so…"
Serena straightens. "Oh- of course. Right. How is that going?"
"Second session, so it's not going much of anywhere yet." Blair's tight smile is back. "But I'm sure it will be productive. The doctor is highly recommended."
As she speaks, Serena is getting to her feet, and without warning she approaches and puts her arms around Blair, who leans into her but seems to stiffen at the same time.
"I love you," Serena whispers in her ear, and with Blair's eyes shut it jars her back to the hospital room, to the first real cry she had after it happened, to Serena's murmur and the comfort it brought her, that they were sisters and always would be and Serena was there and maybe it could all still turn out to be okay, somehow.
She opens her eyes, with effort, tears herself away from that. From then. "I love you, too," she whispers. "So much."
Serena is gone by 3:19 PM, and again Blair feels relief, and no guilt that she lied and her doctor isn't coming until 4:00.
She gets up, carefully, to call Dorota and ask for tea. She checks her reflection on her way back, tracing her collarbones and facial angles and eyes the way Serena so obviously did. She takes in her pale, dull complexion and sighs. If she was purging, she'd be glowing from perspiration due to the strain; and glowing she definitely is not.
x.
The first day back to school after Thanksgiving, Chuck is in the back corner of the library, the reference section where the Oxford English Dictionary and the Letters and Papers of the Anglican Kings are kept- he's texting, obviously, not actually engaging in use of the library's resources- and Blair comes sauntering down the aisle, index finger scribbled with Dewey Decimal coordinates between her second and third fingers.
"Bass," she greets coolly, without making eye contact.
Head down, he watches her as she side steps along the bookshelves, "idly" playing with her hair so that it bares and then covers and then bares and then covers the back of her neck and upper spine, visible through a small keyhole in the back of her blouse.
"Waldorf."
After a moment of what they both know is faux searching, she turns to him with a forlorn expression. "I can't find the word I need to research."
"What word is that?"
"'Fisticuffs.'" She says it over her shoulder, gathering her hair in one fist again, letting it spill with a flourish this time.
"Wish I could be of service," he says, voice low. "'Fornication'" is more my area."
"You're disgusting."
She holds out for another few seconds, then turns and slides past him, pausing as she slides her hip against his leg- glancing down to where they touch, and using the smoothing down of her skirt where it's imperceptibly mussed as an excuse to let her fingertips linger on his thigh- and murmuring, "excuse me."
She flounces away, clearly pleased with herself, and he smirks and shakes his head because she has no idea who she's dealing with.
xi.
Serena wants to ask who Blair's doctor is, so she can thoroughly Google her at home, but she can't bring herself to push when it's so painfully clear that Blair does not want her there. Her heart leaps when Blair says she loves her, too, but nothing shifts.
And she can't blame her; Serena has abandoned and betrayed her one too many times, she supposes, to be someone that can be relied upon any further. To put one's trust in Serena Van der Woodsen is to try to use a helium balloon as a paperweight.
So instead, Serena pauses in front of the doorman who let her in as she leaves the Waldorfs', and puts on her best long-suffering-best-friend smile.
"Miss Waldorf asked me to give a message to her therapist if I could catch her on the way in," she confides to him. "Have I missed her?"
"No, Miss Van der Woodsen. We're not expecting Dr. Genove until 4PM, unless her appointment time has changed?"
"Oh." She glances down, then back up, and smooths her hair behind her ear. "Then- great. We're on the same page. My message to her was that Miss Waldorf would be ready by 4PM after all." She smiles and nods once. "Thank you."
The doorman returns the gesture. "Of course."
xii.
After school that day, she's reading on her chaise lounge when he steps off the elevator.
Her head snaps up, and she pastes on a scowl even as her eyes light up.
"What are you doing here?" she demands, getting to her feet.
He spreads his arms wide extravagantly, dropping his coat over the back of an armchair (Dorota is out on Monday afternoons, though he's not sure wild boars could have stopped him coming over) as he does so. "The question is, what am I not doing here. And the answer is: wasting time."
She narrows her eyes, stepping closer. "Whatever you think you may have been invited for…"
He puts his hands on her elbows and kisses her, warm, and she "mm"s against him.
When he pulls back, he whispers, "Now take off your underwear."
"Chuck!" she whispers, mock-affronted, and slaps his chest.
"Blair, we need to focus on the task at hand," he lectures, walking her backward toward the wall, kissing her again and again. Her hands are fumbling for her underwear in seconds; they're on the floor without another word, and she steps out of them and against the wall as his hand finds his way under her skirt, and they don't come up for air until it's done.
Her lips are freezing as he steadies her, and their noses touch, and that's cold too. She's panting, her lips moving as if on delay while he presses his mouth against hers, and finally he murmurs, "I win."
She wrenches her face away from his, expression twisting into a scowl. "You do not win."
He nuzzles his nose against hers again. "Oh, I win."
She scoffs and kicks at his ankle with one bare foot. "How do you figure this is a victory for you?"
He genuinely admires how she manages to be so bossy when she's in such a vulnerable, post-euphoric state. She's pink-cheeked and shimmering with resolved desire and breathless from his touch and she's somehow finding a way to put him in his place. He finds it sexy. Sexy, obviously. Not endearing.
"Well," he reasons, the hand that's been wrapped around her waist, half-supporting her, this whole time finding its way up to her hair, which he pushes back from her face, "I've been burning for the last two hours because of you. And now," and he steps back, parting them, and swears he hears a stifled whimper in her throat, "you'll glow for the next eight hours because of me." He bends and scoops up her discarded underwear in one fluid movement, holding them up in one hand. "I'm keeping these, by the way."
Her mouth drops open, but word speed is clearly not her strength at the moment, and he picks up his coat and gives her a deferential nod.
"Waldorf. Always an unholy pleasure."
She tips her head back and heaves a ragged exhale. "You make me si-iiickkkk," she teases, not bothering to hide the satisfied smile on her face.
He steps close, closer, right in front of her. "Actually," he whispers, close to her face, "I think I usually make you-"
And she kisses him then, sweet and long, and slips her hands under his collar and then into his hair.
And the following morning, she appears at his door with no underwear and he feigns grief when she tells him some pervert made off with them, and they decide there's time to have sex twice before she has to meet Serena.
And they pass in the hall that afternoon, half-hidden smiles on their faces, and turn casually to each other in the sea of students, like two halves of a magnet. And he says, "Waldorf. You're looking particularly luminous today. New moisturizer?"
Heavy-lashed eyes blink slowly back at him, and there, yes- genuine admiration for him, too.
Game recognizes game.
"And you, Bass," she says softly, "look like the cat that ate the canary."
His eyes crinkle with pleasure. They hold each other's gaze for a burning moment.
"I love canaries," he says, and she holds back laughter with effort, before they slide past each other.
xiii.
Dr. Genove accepts a cup of tea this time, because she sees that her patient again has one.
"How are you feeling today, Blair?"
Blair blinks back at her.
"I'm feeling conflicted," she says quietly, and doesn't elaborate.
Dr. Genove nods, letting the moment draw out, before placing her cup of tea down on the vanity and opening her notebook.
"Can I ask why that is?"
"I received my invitation to the Met Valentine's Day Gala on Saturday."
(Well, it was couriered over Friday night, but Dorota made an attempt to follow her mother's instructions and not give it over to Blair, which lasted all of twelve hours before she came to her senses.)
The doctor nods.
"Are you feeling conflicted about whether to RSVP?"
Blair rocks her head slowly back and forth, not indicating 'no,' just that she's mulling it over. "I'm feeling conflicted about whether I can return to this world in total… yet," she adds. "Whether I can… dress up and be looked at and talked about."
"You've been under an intense amount of public pressure and scrutiny," Dr. Genove reasons. "It's certainly normal to feel hesitant about willingly entering back into the foray."
Nearly cutting her off, Blair blurts out: "That life used to be all I ever wanted- all I ever could want. Now I can't quite… picture myself there. At least not at this moment. I'm not sure when it will revert back."
She swallows.
"Or if it will."
The doctor threads her fingers together slowly, pen resting in the open spine of her notebook. "Did receiving the invitation provoke or crystallize some of these feelings, or had you been conscious of them prior?"
"Prior," Blair says, "I think, but I didn't realize how much they related to being seen publicly until the invitation came."
She reaches over to her bedside drawer and tugs it open. And lifts out the invitation, safe in its envelope.
She smiles wanly. "I've looked at it a hundred times. A few people have already asked me if I think I'll go."
Dr. Genove smiles back, warmer. "What have you told them?"
Blair shrugs. "Just that I'm not sure yet. I don't want to talk about it with my… most of my friends."
"I understand. The most important thing, Blair, is that whatever decision you make should be made regardless of public opinion. If you go, don't let it be because you're smoked out into the open. If you don't go, don't let it be because you feel shamed or afraid. Ideally, whether you go or don't go, it should be because you don't care what people think and you're doing what you want and staying true to who you are."
"I know," Blair says, voice wavering. "I just wish I had even an idea of what and who that was."
xiv.
"That corner table looks nice." He gestures with a raise of his chin, rather than his hand, since he has his coat draped over one arm and their drinks occupying both hands.
She has her own coat and her wine glass, with just a few drops left, in her hands.
"I agree," she says, voice silken, throwing him a brilliant smile over one shoulder.
He insists she sit against the wall, as far away from the path of the cold air when the front door opens as possible, and she graciously obliges. He sets down their drinks and hands her up into the tall chair.
They toast, informally, on her first sip of her second glass of red: To good health, great conversation, and New York City.
She's just begun answering his question about her father's areas of practice when she stops to take another sip and he places a tentative palm on the table, not quite at her forearm, but close. She glances up through her lashes.
"I hope you don't find me too forward," he says earnestly, "but I can't help but say this. Your eyes are positively… luminous."
Her smile freezes, and she forces it a little wider. "Thank you," she replies.
He hesitates, perhaps reading her face, perhaps thinking he's offended her.
"I'm sorry if I've overstepped," he adds, flashing a charming, self-effacing smile. "I couldn't help myself."
Waldorf. You're looking particularly luminous today.
"No, no- that's," she pauses, her stomach churning, not fluttering, "that's very kind of you."
She's sliding off her chair, taking care that her coat doesn't slide off with her, tucking the bell sleeves over the wooden back.
"I'm going to use the ladies' room quickly," she says apologetically, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "Excuse me."