A/N: Happy New Year! (I was really hoping to get this up before midnight so it could be the last chapter of 2018, but que sera, sera… unless everyone is on vacation in Alaska/Hawaii/American Samoa? Lol =D)
I heart every single one of you for reading, following, favoriting and reviewing. Thank you so much. I'm so looking forward to bringing you more and more of our story in 2019 =)
Yahira… I'm super keen to hear if your idea was correct. Do tell, please!
i.
She tugs at the wrist of one glove with the fingers of her other hand, casting a backward glance at the table. Just to make sure she didn't forget anything.
Fast as a blink, her vision blurs over the scene of their corner, her second empty wine glass next to his half-full lowball tumbler. Closed leather booklet with the receipt for their drinks, charged, signed, tipped. Tealight flickering warmly against the juncture of the walls.
It snaps back so quickly; a second later she doesn't remember that for one moment, everything went hazy.
She fastens the top button on her coat and adjusts her headband. He's a pace in front, pulling on his gloves, scarf looped effortlessly. He smiles back at her as he pushes the door open and lets her walk through ahead of him.
The night is somewhere between violet and slate. The lights of the city are ever-there, ever-purple, ever-resistant to letting the city sink into the comfort of true darkness, but clouds heavy with the impending storm hang low, dampening them.
It's a perfect night, she thinks, for a cozy start, the kiss of the back of a gloved hand as a princess is tucked chivalrously into the back of a town car, the setting of a date for a stroll through the snow tomorrow. A perfect juxtaposition of the dark and the stormy against the lightness of two hearts freshly a-flutter. A perfect scene for inducing envy in all who hear it told.
As they step out from under the lee of the awning, he bends his arm, bringing a broad umbrella up to protect them both from the light but steady freezing rain that's falling around them, and extends his arm.
A sparkle, intense- mature; romantic; like nothing she's ever seen before- in his eye.
She gleams back up at him, breath coming in a quick white wisp, and tucks one glove into his elbow.
ii.
Friday, February 1
The spaces of Dais and the lobby of The Palace are hung with sumptuous black-and-white striped tapestries gathered with wide gold ribbons above where they spill in draped puddles on the floor; striped tablecloths to match adorn every table in Divine, with tall white tapers in scrolled brass candleholders lighting each one.
The catering staff of The Palace have foregone their usual black-and-white outfits to dress in full tails with gold sequined bowties and vests: tuxedo trousers on the men and pencil skirts with tuxedo stripes on the women.
Custom-made gold serving gloves adorn the hands that hoist beveled mirrored trays shimmering with champagne in tulip-shaped flutes.
When The Palace's patriarch gave orders to his two house managers that the scene at his hotel must, without fail, be the site of this year's most photogenic and remarkable Fashion Week kickoff party, waving an impatient hand when they asked what sort of aesthetic he'd like and saying he didn't want to go with the same-old-same of red carpet and brand-dotted white backdrop for photo ops (looking at you, Four Seasons) or neon lights in blue and purple and orange (this isn't Vegas, Bryant Park Hotel), but that they should create "something classic yet modern, timeless yet humorous, with the perfect dose of excess… but without being excessive," Xavier and Kathryn had exchanged a panicked glance after he turned his back, clearly satisfied with having provided his creative "guidance."
Tonight, when he steps off the elevator with Lily on his arm glittering in floor-length red taffeta with shoulder pads and cap sleeves, murmuring to her that his only wish is that The Palace lobby had a grand staircase, as her entrance is not something to be missed- Lily turning to murmur into his ear before pressing red lips to his- they both drift to a stop.
"Oh, my God," Lily breathes, hand coming to her heart. "Bart, this is stunning. It's like we've died and gone to avant-garde heaven."
A waiter approaches, subtle, from his place next to a pillar.
"Champagne, Mr. Bass? Ms. Van der Woodsen?"
"Thank you, Zachary, yes," Bart nods, taking two and handing Lily's to her first.
She takes it, distractedly, eyes still roving over the tapestries, the tapers, the freshly-washed marble floors devoid of any inch of red carpet.
"Do you like it?" Bart nudges her as they maneuver through the thickening crowd.
"I love it." She peeps at him roguishly. "Tell the truth. Did Charles design this?"
Bart scoffs, shoulders jumping like she's dealt him a blow. "You wound me." He inclines his flute toward her. "To the most wonderful woman in the world accompanying me to the most stylish party in the world."
She clinks and lets it linger. "I'll drink to that."
iii.
Serena's tone is light, but her blue eyes are icy enough that one could actually mistake her for Bart's biological child.
"Brother dear," she greets him, eyes on the bartender, though she's holding a full flute that she just got in exchange for the empty one she gave to a waitress.
He takes her in, the slight pinkness in the whites of her eyes, the tautness of her neck. She stuck out school today, all the way to eighth period, which he'd predicted she would: she couldn't very well "leave school sick" and still attend the kickoff reception. He's been avoiding her as best he can, not wanting to become the focus of her aimless, simmering frustration the way he imagines Humphrey probably is; which he supposes is a use for the man, anyway.
"How are you?" he asks cautiously.
"How are you?" she fires back, accusing- provoked by nothing, the way Self-Loathing Serena tends to be. She twists her head and focuses those cold eyes on him. "Or maybe I should ask, how's Blair?"
Erik, behind her in slate gray that somewhat coordinates with the blush-and-silver of Serena's floaty, full-skirted dress, long legs extending from beneath the cloud of tulle like stems from a blooming peony, actually steps back at her harsh tone.
Chuck and Erik look at each other, and Chuck twists his mouth diplomatically.
"I'm not sure how she is," he tells Serena. "You'd have to ask her."
She doesn't hide her extravagant eyeroll. "I'm sure you don't," she says. "I'm sure you haven't seen her in ages, right?"
Chuck blinks. "I wouldn't put it that way," he says flatly.
She stares at him like he's told her he just came in from strangling puppies.
"Do you think this is okay?" she asks him at a hot whisper, finally turning toward him and away from the bar.
"Serena…" Erik glances behind them.
Like she doesn't hear him: "Do you think it's okay that she should go through this without me? Do you think that's healthy?"
She shakes her head.
"You probably think things are best this way. You probably think…" she flaps a hand diminutively: "'oh, Serena's just, just- nothing, Serena's totally useless when it comes to anything serious, anything that- anything that requires maturity or reliability- Blair's better off without that useless flake- "
She misses the flinch that crosses his face as she enunciates the word 'useless.'
He cuts her off. The hand that is not holding his still-full flute comes out of the pocket of his navy tux trousers- mauve bowtie and silk lapel flower; does it get better?- and reaches for her gesturing hand, stopping short of touching her.
"I don't think you're useless," he tells her, quietly, steadily.
"I'm sure," she all but snarls. "I'm sure you're not just totally convinced of my worthlessness, that I'll just make everything worse, like I always do…"
"Serena." Erik grasps her arm now with both hands; Chuck's hand still hovers, closer now, as Serena has advanced toward him a little. "Enough. You're about to make a scene."
She shoves her little brother off, almost elbowing him in the chest, and downs her champagne with a flourish.
"Wouldn't that just be perfect? Serena the Liability? I mean, honestly," she chuckles, eyes drifting closed for a moment, "what could be more natural? Beautiful party, attending with her high-society family, Serena gets messed up, knocks over a table, maybe the tablecloth catches on fire…" she eyes Chuck. "And has to be spirited away before anyone realizes it wasn't even an accident?"
Chuck touches her now, fingertips just at her wrist, and she looks down at the contact. "I don't think you're useless," he repeats.
She waits, expressionless.
"I think," he says, very quietly, "she's suffering right now. She isn't herself."
Erik opens his mouth to add something, but Serena cuts him off: "Luckily, I can be myself enough to make up for the both of us. Tell me, after I stumble and overturn the buffet tables like dominoes for sport," and she smirks, leveling a hard look right into Chuck's eyes, ignoring Erik's woeful silence at her side, "are you going to take me through the kitchen and up the freight elevator so no one sees what a train wreck I am?"
Chuck's fingertips graze her forearm, almost in spite of himself, as he clears the knot from his throat. "You're not a train wreck," he tries again. Comforting words used to calm Self-Loathing Serena. "You're… suffering, too."
Erik presses his lips into a thin line, swallowing, unbeknownst to either of them.
"Spare me the psychoanalysis," she says with a scowl. "I'm fine. I'm just trying to be there for Blair, selflessly. It's what real friends do."
She starts to step away, and Chuck sees, briefly, the anger in Erik's face as he goes after her.
She pauses, and speaks, half over her shoulder: "Conscious. I'm conscious." Then she turns, plucking a full flute from the tray of the same waitress, and beelines for the bar. And he's confused for a second before he remembers that all he did was ask her how she was.
iv.
She's in bed, live-streaming the coverage at the massive white tents fifty blocks south, covers pulled up to her chin like her laptop is a two-way mirror and they might be able to catch a glimpse of her if she doesn't hide.
She can't help but smile a little at the buzzing background, people in black crewnecks with black headsets clinging to their heads; an actress and socialite kissing each other's cheeks in greeting, one with a fur muff and the other in embroidered brocade.
Fashion is a whole world that one can always escape into, a whole world where, no matter what's in one's heart, what's in one's mind, one can alter the axis of one's existence by choosing deliberately what one puts on one's body. It's a delicious blend of expression, communication and, sometimes most importantly, misdirection. It's so much bigger than one person, even one person who's been splashed over the headlines the last few weeks.
Surely, surely…
She hasn't verbalized it yet.
Surely, she thinks, she can make it into one of the shows without too much fuss. Maybe a felt hat in a subdued shade over an uncharacteristically long sheath, belted- with a bolero?- and blonde ponytail pulled over one shoulder. Maybe even a pair of cat-eye glasses to disguise herself.
She wouldn't sit first chair- not even at her mother's show, she can't risk it- but she should at least try. At least one.
And maybe, if it goes well, more.
Dorota does have a knack for disguises, she thinks as the laptop screen goes momentarily black between segments and her reflection is mirrored back at her: dusty rose turtleneck draped with blonde waves. She's barely recognizable.
But an alias couldn't hurt.
Aurelie, perhaps. She's always liked that name. And some French surname. Bonmarchand?
Maybe she'll find a lower-profile show that Chuck is also going to, and take a cell phone, and text him in the middle to move his head because she can't see.
She's chuckling at her own plan, the dreamy, fantastical scene playing in her head: Aurelie Bonmarchand text-taunting Chuck Bass as he twists to look over his shoulder- nice ascot, by the way; I love that shade of blue- Blair Waldorf's name on no one's lips, proof of the princess-recluse's forgotten status obvious in the very lightness of the air around them, and her own heart slowing, shoulders relaxing at the comforting realization that she's no longer the talk of this town-
When her bedside phone shrills, and she jumps.
v.
"I think we should leave her alone," Erik murmurs. He smiles at the waiter who catches his eye: "San Pellegrino on the rocks, please?"
"I'm inclined to agree, although she came dangerously close to threatening arson thirty minutes ago," Chuck drolls back, eyes elsewhere, expression pleasant.
Erik heaves a sigh, adjusting his bowtie. Serena was obviously drunk before she came downstairs- honestly, does she really think he's stupid enough to fall for the old I-need-more-time-to-get-ready-no-this-is-tea-in-this-cup-really? Their family invented that.
He wasn't prepared, though, for the rapid loss of footing once he finally got her downstairs, nearly two hours after the reception started. Managed to maneuver her as far away from their mother and Bart as possible, which wasn't difficult, as the happy couple was surrounded by press requesting photos and statements to splash across the Style section in tomorrow morning's special edition.
The Palace's kickoff reception, evidenced by the fact that Anna Wintour stopped by and made a point of giving Bart her RSVP to Sunday's Fashion Week brunch for all to hear (live-Tweeted by Conde Nast, tagged #NYFW, and hastily viralized by every fashion blogger in the Twittersphere), is the toast of Manhattan.
Serena didn't care when he told her.
He waited; watched; repeated it. Her love for all things editorial, and Dan's hopelessness in comprehending what she was saying, was the reason she gave for why her boyfriend wasn't accompanying her to tonight's reception: It's not his thing, she'd said. But tonight, it didn't seem like her thing either. Not even the arrival of Anna Wintour, the photo of her smiling sedately next to Bart just twenty-one floors below, prompted movement from his sister.
When, finally, she got herself zipped into a dress, still loafing on the edge of her bed with tulle frothed around her as he held up shoe options until she finally slipped on a pair, and forewent a purse- I don't need one; we're just going downstairs; as if that had ever mattered before- she was silent on the elevator ride down, taking two glasses of champagne and downing one in three swallows, weaving through the crowd with the other in hand as he followed, smiling awkwardly at the waiter who thought one of the flutes she took was for him.
And she saw Chuck, and stopped in her tracks, and then drew herself up to her full height.
"Any suggestions?" he asks his stepbrother. "I know you've dealt with her in this state before."
Chuck turns his head, voice low: "I'm not sure any of us has been in this state before."
They drift apart, one eye on the door unless Serena comes back down from upstairs, where she retreated, shoulders slumped in defeat, after twenty minutes at the reception, declaring it a lame party.
Chuck watched over Erik's shoulder when Erik stepped around a pillar to track Serena's path to the elevator, alert for a stumble- she's obviously pretty far gone- and saw her eyes drift shut as she leant on the elevator wall before the doors closed.
Lily's eyes are sparkling when Chuck greets her, although she's looking around the room with obvious intent.
He jumps in front of it: "Serena's upstairs having a cup of tea," he explains confidentially. "Her throat's been bothering her."
Lily tsk-tsks. "She's been fighting that all week. She has to take better care of herself."
He takes a sip from what's still his first flute. "I couldn't agree more."
vi.
He doesn't miss the frustrated hand through the hair or absent tug of the collar while Erik stares at his tightly-clutched phone.
When Erik's gaze seeks him, he's already looking.
Erik nods his head toward the exit.
When he hands over his phone, on the way to the elevator, Chuck sighs.
Called B, but got disconnected. Gonna keep trying til get thru. Want to say hi?
Serena's on the sofa in the Van der Woodsen suite, bare legs dangling over its arm, and she barely registers their presence when they come in.
"Serena," Erik says quietly, "you need to stop. If it's her house phone, you might be waking her up…"
"No," Serena retorts emphatically. "She's awake. We were talking for a minute, but we got disconnected somehow and," and she presses the Call button again, hard, "I need to talk to her."
"She might be tired, though, and trying to get to sleep," Erik tries again.
Serena ignores him, but shoots a glare at Chuck.
"Serena," Chuck says into the silence as she tries again, ten long seconds later, "let her come to you."
"Shut up. She's suffering and she needs her best friend." She looks up as she brings the phone to her ear. "Just like I need her."
Erik steps forward and sits on the coffee table next to her. "But if she's suffering, don't you think it's up to her to reach out on her own time?"
Her blue eyes meet his. "When you cut yourself open, did I wait for you to come to me on your own time?"
Erik stiffens.
"No," she continues. "I got on a train. I slept by your bed and held you and looked in your eyes and listened to everything you wanted to say. And I'm going to do the same for Blair. That's what you do when you love someone- do you honestly," and she brings the phone away from her ear in confusion, because it's stopped ringing, but the timer is still counting, and her mind is thick and sluggish, "honestly think I don't know-" she presses it back to her ear, "what Blair needs?"
She struggles to sitting when she hears the hum of Blair's voice on the other end.
"Serena?"
"Blair? Blair!"
She throws a triumphant look at the boys.
"Oh, I love you so much, Blair- so, so much," she says into the phone, eyes squeezing shut, "and I want- I was just at the kickoff party downstairs and- you'd love it- you have to come, just have to…"
"I can't," Blair is saying, but Serena doesn't hear her.
"I miss you, and you should definitely come, you don't even have to dress up- just come, it'll be just like old times and maybe- have you decided about which shows to go to?"
Erik glances over his shoulder at Chuck, who's biting on his lower lip punishingly.
"Serena," Blair tries to cut in as Serena bubbles on, "I think you've had too much to drink."
"And Erik's here!" Serena practically squeals. "Do you want to talk to him?"
There's a little sigh that the blonde doesn't even register. "Sure, yes. Please put him on," Blair says with measured patience.
Serena hands over her phone with a benevolent grin at her younger brother and hops up, practically prancing to the bar.
"Hi," Erik says quietly, voice close to breaking. It's the first time he's talked to Blair since it happened.
"Hi," she says softly back. "Is she okay?"
"I mean," he murmurs, watching an extravagant hair flip as Serena leans over a bottle of whisky, "I think you get the picture." He pauses, gets to his feet. "Are you okay? I've been thinking of you."
"I…" she clears her throat. "I've been thinking about you, too. I'm sorry I haven't been in touch," she whispers.
"No, no, don't apologize. I can only…" he starts toward the window. "I'm sorry if you're trying to sleep."
Serena has selected a bottle and she pours herself a generous neat.
Blair pauses. "Can you just- take her phone away or delete this number out of it or something, until she sobers up?"
His gaze drops to the carpet between his feet, and he keeps his voice low. "Yes, if that's what you want."
She pauses longer. "Just while she's drunk," she says at last.
"Okay. Will do."
"Erik, I love you." She says it urgently, like she almost forgot.
"I know. I love you."
She swallows, and the pitch of her voice creeps up. "And please take good care of her, okay?"
When Serena, grimacing from the whisky, realizes Erik has hung up and says he's not sure where he put her phone, she starts to cry.
"Does she want me to leave her alone?" she whimpers at Erik, expression forlorn.
"No, no," he insists, "she's just very tired and it's late- " (it's not that late) "and she said it would be better for you to both get some rest now and talk another time."
Serena seems to accept this. She's barefoot, but still wobbles as she comes around the bar, glass in hand. "She's so smart," she sighs, still teary. "So smart."
"Let's get you to bed," Chuck suggests, before she decides to come back downstairs; with Lily's concern already piqued, the last thing they need is a Serena-went-up-for-tea-and-came-down-plastered-we're-not-sure-what-happened-maybe-cold-medicine situation.
She swats at his chest, then fluffs his lapel flower. "You can't come," she teases.
"Damn," he replies, gesturing toward her room. "That was my next suggestion."
Tears wet on her face, Serena manages a good-natured huff, but accepts his help when she stumbles and nearly falls over the coffee table.
In classic Hammered Serena fashion, she insists that she's sleeping in her cocktail dress, and climbs in, tulle fluffing up her covers.
Erik puts her shoes back where he got them just an hour or so ago.
Serena plucks at Chuck's lapel flower again as he reaches to turn off her bedside lamp.
"Is this a peony?" she whispers suddenly, eyes on his face.
"It's Armani," he replies, and kills the light.
"No chance she gets sick, right?" Erik asks in the elevator.
"She's fine. She just needs to sleep it off."
Erik locked Serena's phone, on silent, in a kitchen drawer while Chuck poured her whisky down the drain and put the glass in the dishwasher. The key is in Erik's inside breast pocket. He'll tell her found her phone in the refrigerator or something tomorrow.
Lily's clearly been waiting for them, and tears herself away, with obvious regret, from where she stands talking to Alexandra Shulman near the entrance to Dais.
"Is she feeling any better?" she asks, casting a glance above their heads.
"She's in bed," Erik replies. "She needs to get some sleep."
"She's run down," Chuck adds.
Lily frowns. "All this has taken such a toll on her. I can only imagine. I'll make sure she gets a big healthy breakfast in her when she wakes up tomorrow," she vows, and then looks at them both seriously. "Thank you for being such good brothers, my loves."
And kisses them both on the cheek, satisfied.
When she's a safe distance away, Chuck breathes a prolonged sigh of relief while Erik straightens his lapels.
"We don't make a bad pair," Erik says drily.
Chuck smirks. "That reminds me- are you more of a flowers or chocolates man?"
vii.
It's nearly midnight when they're finished, and the samples are carefully peeled off, and re-hung on their hangers, and the dress rehearsal wrinkles steamed back out, and the partner shoes left next to each look.
And the runway mopped, and the models sent home in their matching pink lip gloss and dark-gelled eyebrows.
One hanger, a thick one molded like shoulders, is slotted in the moonlight that comes in through a window backstage.
It floats, silvery, ethereal, silent.
viii.
Saturday, February 2
Blair sucks in a deep breath and slowly, slowly, raises her arms, fingertips out, and reaches for the sky.
"Arms up, please."
In Eleanor's Manhattan atelier, the dust is settling, and the prognosis is not quite as grim as Laurel worried it might be. After yesterday morning's announcement there were only two walkouts; the remainder of the roster agreed to the changes, and the logistical nightmare of making the necessary adjustments scheduled began in earnest, with the schedule staggered so the final fittings and dry runs of runway styling can continue at pace.
And somewhere in the middle, Nate is thundering across the hardwood floor of a St. Jude's Saturday morning basketball scrimmage, his pinafore turned so that the blue side is out, darting around his teammates who have their white sides turned out. He fakes, double-fakes, and dribbles too hard, losing control of the ball and overcorrecting, veering close to his guard and spinning artfully, jumping high above his head and spiraling perfectly on the three-point jump shot. It hits the hoop and bounces off, caught on the rebound by a white pinafore, and Nate pauses a moment, staring at the disloyal hoop as play shifts toward the other half of the court. His coach calls out to him, gestures downcourt, and he snaps to it, but it's too late; he's off his man and the white pinafores score two points.
Blair is shaky with fatigue, stomach hot with nerves, after a lurching few hours of sleep that left her more tired at dawn than she was when she closed her eyes. Her physical therapy continues this morning, guided by a quiet, watchful balding man whose vocabulary seems to consist of nothing more than Hello, Miss Waldorf and Goodbye, Miss Waldorf and breathe, arms up, twist, gently, lower, and again.
"And turn to the side, please."
Eleanor smiles over the tops of her glasses from her perch on the edge of a rolling chair, tape measure in one hand, as she works on fitting the two new models. They're IMG veterans, borrowed from another show (tomorrow afternoon, so their novelty value for their original commitment isn't diminished), graciously agreed to by Reem Acra's casting director- because they're old friends; or because word has gotten around that Eleanor Waldorf has gone silent and serious and intense, the usual flutter and chatter vanishing from her manner, and she's lost weight, and no one has to wonder why, and the fashion community is more of a family than anyone would like to admit to the outside world. And so it was that the email came in shortly after midnight to Laurel, who forwarded it at once, sighing her relief over at the four garment bags to be shared between the two bodies they were desperately seeking, to the lady of the house. The declaration that Reem Acra would be honored to help, and they've secured confirmation from two of their mid-lineup girls that they'll be happy to step in, and they'll be at the Waldorf atelier by nine sharp.
Why the hell can't he focus the last few times he's played? Adrenaline and shame light up his cheeks as he charges toward the blue pinafore that grabs a white rebound, and with his guard trailing along behind him listlessly, Nate goes after his teammate, who stops in confusion when Nate reaches from behind him and swipes the ball away. More than one voice rises to chastise him, and another blue pinafore, stance civilian rather than athletic, approaches him, head tilted, saying his last name. Before he can stop himself, Nate lowers his free shoulder and pushes, pushes, shoving past his teammate, feeling a guilty stab of pleasure as the blue pinafore is knocked off balance.
The day after her first physical therapy session, Blair needed to take an anti-inflammatory; today, elation floods her when she can raise her arms above her head, breathe, twist slightly, and lower with no pain. She's given a congratulations- sparing, but glowing- that she's making good progress, and told she should start working on taking the stairs, just a few at a time, once per day, to help both sides of her body regain strength.
"Let's see you walk, please."
Eleanor braces the arch of her foot against the makeshift runway and pushes back, watching as the first new model, pins threaded through her outfit until they've seen the way it moves enough to finalize the tailoring, climbs up and starts down the catwalk, her footsteps punctuating the lack of music.
Nate is all the way at the other side of the court, having dribbled hard and charged harder, and he's unguarded and goes up for a dunk. And nails it. He hangs from the hoop with both hands, sweat dripping into his eyes, and drops down, accomplishment coursing through him.
And then he looks up, and meets the faces of a dozen of his teammates, in blue and white pinafores both, staring back at him from half-court. And his coach, glowering, red-faced, helping the blue pinafore that Nate didn't realize his shoulder laid out fully a few moments ago, who's had the wind knocked out of him, gasping, to his feet.
Over the physical therapist's shoulder, Dorota beams like Blair's just won a Gates fellowship. She officially rolls her eyes, but looks at Dorota after he's said Goodbye, Miss Waldorf, and they share a small smile.
"Perfect."
Eleanor slides her glasses onto the top of her head, swiping at her tired- not teary- eyes, and gratefully accepts the green tea Laurel offers her, murmuring thanks without looking.
Nate's still out of breath, eyes hard and cheeks throbbing, after he walks away from their staring eyes and sits in the spot on the bench that his coach points to.
ix.
Dan brings her tea. Really, she could make tea herself at any time. He doesn't need to journey all the way in from Brooklyn to do it.
But he insists, and her head is throbbing too much to come up with yet another excuse to avoid spending time with him, to avoid needing to pretend to be the new girl, the upstanding girl: Dan's Serena.
It turns out to be a wash, because when he arrives she finds she doesn't have the energy to be that, either.
At the first lull in his solicitous questioning about her health- physical and emotional- and offers to be there, for anything she needs- really, anything, I want you to know that, she looks him tiredly in the eye.
"Dan," she says, quietly, "I want you to know there's a lot about me that you don't know yet."
He blinks slowly; nods slowly. "Of course. It takes a lot of time to really get to know someone. We haven't been in each other's lives long enough…"
"No," she cuts in, "I don't mean, like, 'Serena likes rocky road ice cream when it's over 90 degrees' kinds of things. I mean, like, real things. Things I've done." She looks down at her empty cup, between her crossed legs, opposite where he sits at the foot of her bed. "Things I do."
"Okay."
He waits, and she sees that he wants to understand her- really, really does, and it's genuine and patient and irritation rises at him for being so good; and then she's irritated at herself for feeling that way.
"Things that aren't necessarily conducive to me being the Serena that you love."
"Serena," he says, tentatively moving closer, "is there anything you need to tell me? No- anything you want to tell me?"
She looks into his dark eyes, and hers fill with tears.
He comes closer still, leaning over to place his teacup on her bedside table.
"You don't have to tell me now," he murmurs, so only she could hear, even if they weren't alone in the room. "You can take all the time you need. I'll…" he shakes his head. "I'll give you some space if you want. If you just need some time to rest and think about things. Or if you want to talk," he breathes, even lower, and slides his hands into her hair, cupping her face as the tears spill over, "I'm here. I know you know that, but I can't stop saying it." And his chagrinned smile flickers across his face.
She swallows hard, and abandons her teacup and brings both hands to cover his, and says, "do you think you really love me? All of me?"
He doesn't hesitate. He nods. "Yes. Yes. I do."
"Even the parts you don't know?" Her voice quavers, eyes searching his desperately.
"I love you- unconditionally. Whatever you've done, whatever you do, I'll be here for you."
"What if…"
She quiets. His thumbs brush her earlobes, comfortingly. "What if what?"
"What if I'm not the girl you think I am?"
He pauses at that, and she wonders if he's pushing down- which he is- the tense conversations they've had the last few days, when she disappears from school or says she's not feeling well enough to talk or hang out, but displays no signs of illness other than being locked away in her suite.
Or not, based on the lack of answer at the doorbell, which he knows is loud enough to wake her up.
He shakes his head and adjusts his hands as if to emphasize his point.
"I love the woman you've shown me that you are," he vows. "Through and through. The rest is just noise."
She leans her head toward him, and his lips brush her forehead before she rests her face in his shoulder, tears absorbing away into the sweater of Dan, the smell of Dan- Dan, who thinks she's kind, and good, and worthy… like they never were.
x.
Abaete is the first show Lily RSVP'd them for, and after Dan leaves, Serena pulls herself together and changes into an appropriately stylish outfit that she knows will complement her mother's. Not that they planned it or anything.
She and Erik ride to Bryant Park with Chuck to meet their parents, who have arrived already after departing early from a NYPL benefit. Hard pass, Chuck had drawled when Bart asked if he thought the younger trio should be added to the list to lunch with fifty-some Masters of Library Science.
The greeter at the front of the tent looks up from her clipboard, loud fuchsia lipstick somehow working perfectly on her, and smiles a dazzling smile. "Name?"
"Bass der Woodsen," Chuck says, pocketing his gloves.
Serena, pristine beside him, rolls her eyes. "Van der Bass," she corrects.
"Our parents are still working out the pre-nup," Erik explains as the greeter's gaze flicks back and forth, and points out their names on her list.
The usher that shows them to their reserved seats looks more like an escaped model, legs sleek in Louboutin peep-toes, and she kisses Chuck on the cheek and whispers something about how it's good to see him again, and she should be through around eleven, if…
He smiles perfunctorily and turns away.
"Chuck," Serena hisses, "my mom is right there; can you not?"
"She's an old friend," Chuck defends.
"What's her last name?" Serena retorts.
"She's from Barcelona; they're more casual there."
She shoots him a dirty look, but chuckles under her breath, and sinks down in the chair next to him, relaxed. She accepts her mother's squeeze of the knee, and Chuck reaches across the back of Serena and Erik's seats to meet Lily's waiting hand for a squeeze, nodding at his father.
The lights flip on, and a violin strikes up, backfilled by slow-paced, steady electric chords.
Abaete is known for its structured silhouettes with a twist, usually in a muted palette, but it's clear at once that this collection is a slight departure from what they normally show.
For one thing, the composition of the garments is a little less stiff than in seasons past; a little more figure-hugging, a little more about accentuating the shape of the wearer than establishing a new shape altogether. Serena notices at once how flattering it is, thinking that the designer is leaning more toward her taste than her mother's, and looks over to see, as if on cue, her mother tilt her head like she's not quite sure they're at the right show. Lily leans over to whisper to Bart, gesturing softly with her hand, as if trying to explain it to him. Bart nods seriously, the deep nod of the American male who wants to please his fashion-minded romantic partner, but all he can think to say to his fiancée is that these outfits would look beautiful on her, to which she smiles and links her fingers with his.
Chuck, at the other end of the family seating chart, is noticing something different. He can't claim expertise on Abaete's past lines, but he knows the general aesthetic, and more than seeing that this collection differs, he sees the details of each look: the first one comes out with a skirt slit up the front, six inches or so, from knee-length. The second is a tapered jumpsuit with perfectly ironed pleats at the hip, triple-cuffed hems on the pants, and a deep V-neck with matching folded detail at the shoulder.
He sneaks a glance at Serena, but she doesn't seem to notice anything.
The third is a mid-calf-length skirt with tiers, and he clenches his jaw unconsciously, because it's three in a row in silver brocade, and that's generally not a big color for the fall previews.
The next several outfits come and go, a few in raw silk, a few in velvet, even loungewear in linen…
But all in that light, silvery hue.
And every model, he notices with a jolt on the dozenth look, has soft pink lipstick and sculpted dark brows and lashes, regardless of hair color and skin tone. And almost every one has some sort of hand accessory: silver gloves or a silver cuff or, most knife-twistingly, a corsage adorning one wrist.
Around the fifteenth look, Serena's heart sinks, because there's an avant-garde bow curved over the model's left shoulder.
The bow appears in the next seven looks: spanning a model's tiny waist, adorning a model's chignon, holding up the bustle of one evening gown that a model reaches behind her and miraculously unties, letting loose the expansive train, eyes straight ahead, only breaking stride when she pauses at the end of the runway and flips the fabric over the end of the platform, lingering, pink lips pursed, as a volley of flash bulbs illuminates her.
The final look is the most extravagant of all, tiny bows at both shoulders and layer upon layer of silver brocade forming the skirt, which is slit high up one side, showing a tempting amount of the model's thigh.
The model passes through Chuck's field of vision and his head doesn't turn to follow her; he's remembering, instead, layers of silver brocade that he teased about peeling back, one at a time.
Serena remembers fluffing Blair's bow as Jenny knelt, fingers busy with thread and needle, working on Blair's torn hem, and adjusting the diamond necklace where it had slipped off her collarbone, while Blair sat seething on the edge of a chaise in the dressing room.
After the final parade- one last flip of that train, one last swirl of the layers of silver brocade- Lily leans over Erik's lap, smile hesitant, and says to Serena, "Well, that was certainly a departure. Maybe something from this collection might suit your taste for the gala?"
Chuck pretends not to hear; he flips to the next page in his program.
Serena makes a show of thinking it over, but wrinkles her nose and says, "I don't think silver's really my color."
xi.
Sunday, February 3
This time, it's Serena's turn to refuse to come to brunch; Lily says she might be feverish, although whether Lily took Serena's word for it, or Serena ran the hot water in her bathroom until her forehead was damp and warm before letting her mother in, Chuck isn't sure.
As much as he rolls his eyes inwardly and complains to himself that she's being ridiculous, though, she responds to his texts beckoning her downstairs with one-worders- mostly no and later- and his pulse starts to tighten.
Michael Kors is two tables away; she's already missed McQueen; and Anna Wintour is drinking fresh papaya juice from a straw in the shape of a stiletto (which she brought with her).
Normal Serena could be vomiting blood and intestine tissue and she'd pull herself together and get down here for this.
Erik passes him the key card under the tablecloth, tapping it on his knee as the crowd starts to break up to relocate to the tents, and Chuck excuses himself.
xii.
She's just lying in bed, curled on her side, nothing in her hands, no laptop, no magazine.
Relief breaks in him, followed by impatience that he tries to quell.
Before he says anything, she tells him she tried to call Blair again last night- she knows she shouldn't have, but, yesterday at the show, the dresses- she knows this sounds crazy, but…
"I know," he says. "I saw it, too."
Her eyes widen.
"I thought she might have seen it and been upset, and I wanted to…"
She stops; it's a lie.
She just wanted an excuse to call her. She wanted to talk about it as much as she hoped Blair wanted to talk about it.
She shrugs.
He keeps his face neutral. He doesn't want to open the Pandora's Box: he talked to Blair last night and she didn't mention it, so he thinks they're in the clear.
"I feel like…" she pushes herself to sitting upright, with effort. "I need to stop trying to force us to be 'Blair and Serena.' At least for now."
He leans against the frame of the door. "She'll always be Blair, and you'll always be Serena. Things are just…" he licks his lips, parade of pink-mouthed, silver-bedecked, dark-lashed beauties splitting across his vision. "Knocked off their axis right now. You can't expect her to play her usual role."
To be the prim one, the one who knows the rules and lists them off bossily, who tuts Serena for being late and pores over the details of every collection at Fashion Week with her and loves her no matter what.
Which is why pleasure furls in his chest every time she makes him laugh, or snipes at something he's said: because he knows she's still theirs, that she hasn't gone entirely.
"Come on," he says, finally, when he sees that Serena's mentally on the edge of getting out of bed. "You don't want to miss Reem Acra, do you? What if she decides to go to the gala and asks about what they showed?"
She rolls her eyes at what she knows is manipulation and throws back the covers.
And he's surprised to see that under her robe, she's already wearing a chic dress.
"I got dressed and then got cold feet," she grumbles dismissively at his raised eyebrow. "And remind me why you're going to Reem Acra anyway? They don't even make men's clothing."
He smirks dangerously. "Do you know how effective it is to flatter a woman by correctly naming the designer of the gown she spent thousands of dollars and a dozen hours on, to achieve the perfect look?"
Serena sticks out her tongue in disgust, fiddling with her hair in the mirror and reaching for her mascara. He pushes her door the rest of the way open and lounges against the other side of the door frame. "Don't they think you're gay when you do that?"
"I usually phrase it like, 'wow- I must say, it takes a special woman to wear a Reem Acra, rather than the Acra wearing her.'"
"God, you're gross," she snorts, but when she looks at him, a real smile lights her face.
"Deride it all you want; I've learned to be ready to catch them when they swoon."
She pauses, mascara wand halfway out of the tube, and decisively caps it and tosses it back on her dresser, leaving her lashes bare and blonde. "There's no way that works."
"Want me to try it on you?" He winks.
She tilts her face skyward. "Heaven help me. Please wait in the living room."
And so he does, firing off a text to Erik that he and Serena will meet them there; crisis averted.
This time, Erik replies, and Chuck can feel his anxiety through the words.
xiii.
That evening's reception- there's a reception every night of Fashion Week- is a quiet one; the prime-time slots, Monday through Wednesday evenings, are assigned to the top fashion houses, including Eleanor Waldorf Designs, whose collection will show tomorrow night.
So, most of the hand-wringing designers and their caffeinated staffs are in their studios, double-checking hemline evenness, pressing collars, polishing jewelry…
A style correspondent for W magazine approaches Serena, compliments her on her chic outfit and refreshing makeup-free face, and tentatively asks if she has any juicy spoilers she can share about the Waldorf line.
…Reviewing models' cues for the hundredth time; tweaking their pacing, and reminding them to make sure they linger long enough on the platform; a warning bell going off in a distant part of her cranking mind, reminding her that this is unorthodox, and perhaps uncomfortable for the models, and maybe that's why they're having difficulty with the timing…
And Serena smiles and thanks her for the compliment on her appearance, and says, truthfully, that she doesn't have any idea about Eleanor Waldorf's collection, but she looks forward to seeing it, and she's sure it will be stunning, as it always is.
…but this is artistic inspiration, and it's a brand new way of presenting the platform moment, and she has to trust in her vision…
And the correspondent agrees, and transitions seamlessly into asking whether Serena thinks it might be possible that there's a chance Miss Blair Waldorf will attend her mother's show tomorrow night?
…and they run through the production once more before Eleanor calls it quits, thanking the models individually for their hard work and telling them to get some rest, and they slip gratefully into their coats, stifling yawns into palms, and shuffle past her and Laurel as they confer by the door…
And Serena falters, and pastes the smile back on her face after a momentary blankness, and gives a little shrug that could either be reticent or uninformed, and says that she can't offer any comment on whether they'll see Blair Waldorf tomorrow night.
…a row of dirty blondes, hair in unfinished, messy waves, spilling loose down their backs or brushing their shoulders in careless ponytails.