A/N: Thank you all so much for your patience and enthusiasm for this story. I'm pleased to welcome a few new readers since last chapter, and I'm so grateful to every single one of you for taking the time to read, review and PM. I love you all. XOXO.
i.
She realizes as her shoes find the sidewalk that she's been feeling it for a few minutes now. That it registered in her quietly, even as she got to her feet in Mark Bar, but the sensations of walking out into the wet chill with her hand tucked into his arm distracted her from it then.
It starts to expand now, pressing on her joints, curling around the rims of her ears.
She's tired.
She pushes it off, shuffles to keep up with him, with the new urgency in his gait as he strains forward to track the sound of the child he hears crying.
There- was that it?-
She squints into the fuzzy darkness of the Park. She might have heard something just then; she nods when he glances over at her for confirmation.
She would probably be able to hear better if she wasn't so tired.
Which is fair. It's been a long day.
Even as she falters, slowing in spite of herself, he squeezes her arm against his side. Pats her curled fingers with his free hand.
She forces herself upright and quickens her step, straining harder to hear. She doesn't want him to think she doesn't care about a maybe-lost child. Like she told him a few moments ago, before crossing Fifth Avenue on his arm, they're in this together.
ii.
Wednesday, February 6
"What was it like to find her?"
He sighs inwardly. Serena doesn't want to move; doesn't want to go to school, clearly – given it's 10:15 and she's still in her borrowed pajamas – and doesn't want to do anything but ask quietly probing questions about those first agonizing hours.
They're sitting across from each other on his love seats, having coffee and avoiding each other's eyes, while sunlight floods his suite. It's easily the brightest day all winter.
He takes a long sip.
"It was late," he says, "and snowing."
Serena waits, and then, when it's clear that's all he'll volunteer: "But what was it like?"
She sees his mouth tighten; brow tense, just for a moment. He blinks several times in rapt succession, eyes focused on the contents of the mug cradled in his palms.
She stays very still, wondering for a terrifying moment if he's about to cry.
He parts his lips, and her own eyes prick hotly.
"A nightmare," he says, softly, and with finality.
Her vision blurs. "But thank God you did," she offers, thankful for the unexpected distraction of gratitude to focus on, for the unexpected vulnerability in his face. She swallows, using the sleeve of her (his) sweater to swipe at her mascara-less eyes, and sits up. "Do you ever think about what might have happened if you weren't out?"
"Incessantly" is the honest answer to that question.
But he doesn't want to talk about this anymore, so he says: "I'd rather not," which is also an honest answer.
"How l…" Serena stumbles, swallows down the lump in her throat, barreling on despite his discomfort and her own, "How long was it before you realized… what happened?"
He looks her in the eye then, gaze hot and jaw set.
Where are your stockings, Blair?
Serena's heart flips when Chuck's nose grows pink, not knowing that he can feel the scrape of dried blood on his fingertips, the memory of the moment that he realized the skin he was touching was bare and stockingless filling his eyes with tears on the instant.
Serena swallows, shifting forward, setting down her coffee cup, murmuring his name, sorry and low-
"The doctor told her," he says, breaking eye contact.
Serena falters, tangled hair falling forward, fists easing up from where they dug into the cushion behind her, propelling herself toward him. "She didn't remember on her own?"
He can't tell her, about those horrible moments, kicking her foot out from under the blanket when she grew too hot – twisting to see what was on her leg – the morbid twist on a classic Waldorf-Bass standoff, and it says…
He shrugs in what he hopes appears a convincing denial. "It didn't look like it."
Oh.
Right.
"How bad was her memory loss?"
He stifles an eyeroll at Serena's budding curiosity. "I'm not sure, honestly."
Serena's looking away, too, at the floor, mouth twisted.
"She was torn… during the exam, she was…" Serena waves a hand vaguely over her lap, oblivious to the way Chuck's head snaps over to look at her, and then she glances up and says, "Don't tell anyone that."
He closes his eyes against a fresh wave of fury. "I'll be doing my best to forget it, don't worry." He gets to his feet before she shares or asks anything further. "Care for a shot of Bailey's?"
"God, yes. I thought you'd never ask." She hands him her half-empty cup and flops sideways, stretching her legs and propping her feet on the opposite armrest.
He's placing both their mugs on the bar when the doorbell rings.
He looks through the peep hole, not bothering to quiet his movements, and comes back into the suite without opening the door.
Serena's blue eyes, wide in her upside-down face where it hangs from the armrest near the kitchen, wait.
"It's for you," he says, and pours out their lukewarm coffee, reaching for the French press.
iii.
Nate gives a skeptical look.
"Stop trying to stir things up," he hisses, with more confidence than he feels.
Penelope doesn't even look irked at his accusation. She's looking pale, he notices; less makeup, maybe. Her face looks thinner, but it could just be less blush or powder or whatever girls wear. Her hair is in a ponytail with no headband.
"I'm not." She's just as flat. "I'm seriously asking you if she's okay."
"Of course she is," he dismisses. "It's bullshit gossip like this that makes people not okay, you know."
She looks around, bored of his lecturing, and her shoulders tighten as she steps a little closer. She cornered him alone in the courtyard – not on the steps where everyone would see; not in a crowded hall or in the library with prying ears.
She looks into his eyes. "Look, I haven't told anyone else. And I'm not going to. I just…" she glances away and swallows. "It would be understandable, given… everything."
"She's fine," he cuts her off. "And it's none of your business."
He turns to go, but she catches his sleeve.
Her eyes are shining with tears when he looks at her.
"She's my friend," she whispers. "They- they both are."
His eyes darken. He scoffs in disbelief. Pulls his arm away. "You don't even know what that means."
iv.
Chuck excuses himself to take a shower, taking his coffee with him, while Humphrey stands around fidgeting and Serena drags herself upright.
"Mugs are in the cupboard above the blender," he drawls to Dan as he slides past.
Serena, dripping sarcasm: "Thank you, Chuck."
He smirks to himself, shutting his bathroom door, and turns the water all the way up.
In his sitting room, It Girl and Lonely Boy regard each other wearily.
"I'm sorry about last night," Serena starts after a brief silence.
Dan nods slowly, searching her face. "Do you even remember last night?"
"Yes," she says, defensively, though it's not completely true.
He holds up the bundle he brought in, which she hasn't noticed before now. "I brought your coat."
He drops it over the back of one of the high chairs at the bar and spends a few long moments observing 1812: bed unmade, with pillows only on one side; duvet mashed against one end of the love seat opposite Serena, two pillows mashed with equal ferocity into the opposite corner.
Her eyes track the movement; she becomes aware, suddenly, that though there's nothing to hide, he has nonetheless found her in Chuck's suite, in Chuck's clothes.
"Thank you," she says quietly.
"I know you've been lying to me," he says in return.
She blinks up at him.
"A lot," he adds.
"I had too much to drink-"
"Several times a day for the past few weeks? No." He shakes his head.
She closes her mouth. Licks her lips.
"You're right," she says simply. "You're right, and I'm wrong. I was wrong."
Dan steps toward her; she gestures for him to sit, but he stays on his feet.
"Why are you here, Serena?" Her blue eyes flit over his face. "Why did you sleep at Chuck's? Why didn't you go home?"
"It was late…"
"It wasn't that late." He shakes his head; that isn't what he meant. "I mean, if you needed to be with someone, why are you with someone else instead of me?"
"I don't…" She shrugs listlessly, not like she doesn't care but like she doesn't understand it herself, although it's affected and she hopes he doesn't see that. "I don't know. We've all been friends for a long time, and with everything that's happened…"
His exasperation, his worry, slips into his words: "What, you're circling the wagons?"
"Maybe," she murmurs, helplessly.
He watches her carefully. "Last night, Chuck stopped me when I was about to follow you out. He said, 'you don't know her like this.'"
She doesn't flinch.
"What did he mean, Serena?"
She clears her throat slowly. "When I'm struggling with something and I drink, I don't know my limits. I don't make good decisions."
He does ease down next to her now, movements mechanical. He reaches for her face and gently tips her chin up so she looks at him. "Is that all he meant?"
"Yes," she replies without hesitation, and then: "I'm sorry, Dan."
"I know you are." His thumb traces her jawline, and she's startled to see, for the second time in thirty minutes, a man in her life welling with tears. "You told me last night that you wanted me to leave you alone- "
"I didn't mean that," she insists.
"You told me to fuck off."
Shaking her head vehemently, she cups his face in both hands. "I didn't mean any of that. That's what I mean – I drink too much, I get out of control, I –" she's tracing him now, thumbs over his brows, his lips, "I say things I don't mean. That's what Chuck was referring to."
"I just want the truth, Serena," he says, quietly. "If you don't want me around, then tell me that. Please."
"I do," she breathes, moving closer to him, suddenly, tears falling unbidden down her own cheeks, pressing her mouth hotly against his. "I do, I do, I love you," the words spill out with urgency. She's practically on his lap when he pulls back.
"We can't do this here," he murmurs, brushing her hair out of her face.
She nods in agreement, smiling a watery smile, and whispers in his ear that Lily is at the salon, and then off to a luncheon that should keep her out of the house until at least mid-afternoon, glancing furtively over their heads to indicate the Van Der Woodsen suite just three floors above.
As if on cue, the hum of the shower swishes to silence.
Dan gets to his feet.
"I want to thank Chuck for last night," Serena explains, and nods at her coat. "The key to the suite is in the inside pocket. Meet me up there?"
Dan looks, for a split second, like he's about to argue, but then he nods, mouth quirking into a perfunctory smile. He leans down and kisses her full on the lips, a hand fisting in her hair with surprising passion, like he's staking his claim.
The bathroom door cracks open.
Mercifully, Chuck is dressed in fresh pajamas and a robe (not that he didn't amusedly debate coming out in a towel).
Dan nods a farewell as he collects Serena's coat.
"Rain check on the coffee," he says.
"I'm holding you to that," Chuck replies, rubbing his wet hair with a towel.
Serena climbs to her feet, touching Dan's arm warmly as he goes, and smiles at him as he closes the front door to 1812.
Her expression falls flat when he's gone, and she crosses between the love seats toward Chuck.
"He can't know," she says, simply.
He almost smirks. "Please. He probably didn't have any coffee because it wasn't decaf." She rolls her eyes impatiently.
"Promise me."
"You think I'm going to tell Humphrey you did a line of coke backstage at a fashion show? Isn't he a writer? It's too cliché." Now he does smirk, leaning into the familiar comfort of being Chuck Bass. "Besides, I'm starting to come around to this whole Reborn Serena. She's so pure. So wholesome."
She slaps the lapel of his robe.
He chuckles. "I promise, Van Der Woodsen. It was a one-time slip. Not worth mentioning, not that I would anyway."
She nods, and suddenly her face turns serious. "Thank you. I mean- "
She stops him as he moves away.
"Thank you for everything. Last night, and- what we talked about this morning. All of it."
"Don't mention it." He fights the urge to squirm a little, and nods at her feet. "Want some shoes to go upstairs in? Arthur can drop us at school."
She acquiesces and heads upstairs to change, but texts him fifteen minutes later and says to go ahead to school without her; that she'll see him later and return his clothes.
v.
He's starving at lunchtime – he and Serena just had coffee, no breakfast – and so is Nate. But Nate's always starving.
"Where is everyone?" Nate asks, tucking his tie into his sweater to eat. "It's empty enough without…"
Blair.
He clears his throat. "Serena and Dan are out today, too. And did you just get here? I haven't seen you at all."
Chuck throws him a knowing smirk. "Went a little too hard at the afterparty last night."
"Oh, yeah?" Nate sticks his fork into his roast chicken lunch. "Which show?"
"Betsey Johnson," Chuck says absently, his attention focused on deftly maneuvering a tiny sliver of ginger between his chopsticks.
Nate passes him a spare napkin. "Any noteworthy incidents?"
Chuck's hand slows; his eyes flick sideways; but he tucks the napkin into his collar with a flourish. "Ran into that girl Havolynne from last fall. Remember her?"
"Tall, long hair, with a Southern drawl? She's tough to forget."
Chuck hisses suggestively with a quick purse of the lips. He's smarmed on enough mornings-after to know how it's done.
"Forget her, I did not."
Nate guffaws. "Well, unless you guys played doubles, that doesn't explain Serena and Dan."
Chuck has a mouthful of spicy tuna roll, and chews it slowly, trying to read Nate's vibe. Is he fishing? There's no way he saw what happened last night- if it had gone anywhere, everyone would know by now.
But Nate doesn't usually ask questions like this.
Then again, Nate doesn't usually get benched in basketball practice for aggression against other players- his own teammates- either.
He takes a sip of his steaming sencha and smirkingly tells Nate that even if he had an interest in keeping track of anyone's affairs other than his own, Serena and Cabbage Patch would not be near the top of his list.
Nate shrugs it off, but Chuck doesn't see the effort it takes for the blond to unclench his fist under the table as he changes the subject.
vi.
So, fine. No one trusts him, apparently.
No one thinks he's trustworthy.
Or smart enough to unwind their deception- is that it?
Dan never appears back at school that afternoon; nor does Serena.
Penelope approaches him, more timidly this time, after the last bell, and asks just above a whisper if he's heard from her at all.
He snaps at her to mind her own business, which this is none of, and storms off, hitching his basketball gear higher on his shoulder – seething inwardly because apparently it's not his business, either.
His brain rattles with Penelope's tired eyes and limp ponytail all the way to the locker room, as he wrestles into his jersey, as he hydrates and warms up.
He needs to see her, now, needs to look at her face and see her easy smile and assure himself that she's all right.
That Penelope is just trying to cause trouble.
Maybe find a juicy enough tip that she can entice Gossip Girl with. God knows the vapid girls who've idolized Blair for the last several years are stumbling around like a handful of blind lambs without their shepherdess to guide them. Anything to bring meaning to their shallow existences is probably worth smearing whoever stands close enough for them to reach.
Serena's close enough.
And it's not like she doesn't have a past.
And it's not like she's not in serious emotional distress.
Which is why he needs to see her, needs her to walk around the corner, even canoodling with Humphrey would be great, just so he can assure himself that she's fine. That there's nothing to worry about.
That Penelope made up the story about her cousin the model who texted Penelope last night saying she'd just done a line of cocaine with Serena Van Der Woodsen during the Betsey Johnson afterparty.
The thought of Serena acting the way he knows she acts when she's on hard drugs, without anyone around to stop her-
But Chuck said he was there, too.
So, what, they're doing coke together now? Or Chuck's keeping an eye on her?
But won't tell him? All of a sudden it's some big secret?
And Humphrey?
Surely he's not covering for Serena dipping her toe back into old habits.
He's so preoccupied with the shuffling of cards in his head, visions of Chuck holding back Serena's hair while she leans over a mirror with a rolled-up bill perched between her fingers spinning mercilessly in his brain, that his coach has to yell Archibald twice before he realizes he's being put in the game.
vii.
Dan stays a few hours, just long enough to provide her with a shot of comfort that someone, under whatever misguided pretenses, thinks she is good and worthy and valuable.
They make love twice.
With anyone else, it would be fucking; with Dan, it's lovemaking and it's so heartfelt and tender that she actually feels guilty doing it.
She never felt guilty before, with him. She felt loved, and loving. Now it feels like she's tricking him, and the sensation coils heavy and nasty in her stomach, even as her heart sings while he brushes her hair back and whispers incoherent love in her ear.
She still settles in his arms after, feeling him brush his fingertips down her spine, twining her legs with his, but every time he's quiet, she's tense with anxiety that he's about to realize just who he's holding.
They laugh and tease and share soft looks- today, they giggle that he's lost his skipping-school virginity to her- but she finds that she has to stop herself from clinging to him, because any moment could be her last, the last moment she manages to keep the blindfold on his eyes before he sees her for what she really is.
It's exhausting.
In the corner of her mind, she knows that it's exhausting. She knows that part of her is dying for the big reveal.
She's not sure how much longer she can keep up the charade of being Dan's Serena.
And so it is that once they've said their final whispered goodbye, shared their final lingering kiss- a deep one, leisurely, voluptuous, that ends with her back pressed against the wall and evidence that he could be ready to go a third time firm against her pelvis- she slumps back in relief.
Her stomach has growled twice in their time together, and she offered to order lunch for them, but Dan didn't want to leave any evidence that he was skipping school (classic hooky rookie, she chided), so they went without.
Her face relaxes without him there to inspire her to school her expression.
She pulls her hair into a tangled knot since he won't want to run his fingers through it.
She puts Chuck's loaned pajamas back on over her lingerie, and as she does so, her stomach releases a ferocious howl, bubbling and churning like it's trying to process the shame she feels every time she's with him. (And probably because she hasn't eaten today.)
With a stab of perverse satisfaction, remembering the way she apologized to Dan again and again for her inebriated actions last night, she bypasses the phone she'd use to order something to eat and finds, instead, a tumbler and a half-empty bottle of whisky, which she brings with her as she climbs back into bed, kicking her bedroom door shut behind her.
viii.
He's not sure what possesses him, as he hasn't been invited, but after school he directs Arthur to the Waldorfs'.
The doorman waves him through; there have been no paparazzi outside on his last few visits.
Dorota is in the kitchen, preparing a tea tray that must be for her. He steps off the elevator and greets her, noting with a trace of excitement the way she's smiling to herself, something he hasn't seen in weeks.
"She upstairs," Dorota glitters, collecting the tea tray. "I announce you."
As she passes, she tilts her head and he leans down to hear her:
"She wearing… dress."
He looks at her face, waiting for more, but she just hurries up the stairs with barely-concealed glee.
She comes back down much the same, and gestures that he can go up.
When he crosses the threshold, he sees why she's so giddy.
Blair is indeed wearing a dress.
A Carolina Herrera.
She's in front of her full-length mirror- which, he notes, has been dragged from her closet into her main bedroom- hair brushed into loose waves but not curled, face free of makeup, in a stunning bright red Carolina Herrera gown. It's wrapped fabric, what appears to be silk, with a fitted bodice (which should be more snug and could do with some taking in, actually; it's the first time he's able to see visibly that Blair has lost weight), thin straps that sit wide on her shoulders, and a slit that would just show her knee if she walked in it.
He acts before he thinks, and falls back against the door frame in mock injury.
"Waldorf, have mercy," he drawls, unabashedly looking her up and down, on profile as she is.
She turns fully, and he looks at her face, slight pink apostrophes standing out in the bright natural light, reminding him that that's not how he's supposed to talk to her anymore.
But she smiles, just a little, hesitant, and turns back to the mirror. Her dirty blonde waves fall over one shoulder. She's barefoot, and looks impossibly small.
"What do you think?" she asks. "It's from the fall line. I actually got it as an option for the gala."
"It's stunning," he says honestly, eyeing a heap of nondescript navy which he assumes are her discarded lounge clothes.
A real improvement, to be sure.
He hesitates, and then chances it, taking a few steps into the room, still in his overcoat. "Any reason you're trying it on now?"
She shrugs at herself in the mirror. "Just thought I'd see if it fits. If I still fit into it," she adds, at a lower volume.
No risk of that. As someone who fancies himself an expert on her figure, some of her already-slight curves have definitely fallen away in the last month.
"Are you thinking of wearing it… anywhere?" he presses.
She glances at him sideways, and he almost grins when she gives a smirk, albeit a soft one.
"Maybe," she allows, before turning back to her reflection, pivoting sideways, rising on tiptoe, testing the slit.
"Maybe…" he drawls, "to the Herrera show tonight? Bart's not using his ticket. You'd be more than welcome."
She snorts, adjusting the straps a little further apart, then a little closer together, barely noticing as he flicks out the chair to her vanity with his customary gesture and shrugs out of his overcoat. "This isn't appropriate to wear to a show."
"You're Blair Waldorf," he reminds her with the same bravado, dropping his overcoat on her bed and settling into the chair like he's about to watch a fashion show himself.
"It's still a gown," she replies, turning toward him. "I can just see the commentary now: 'Waldorf reappears in public, having clearly lost her mind' – not exactly the society comeback I'd want."
He doesn't want to push, so he resists the urge to ask her specifically what kind of society comeback she would want.
"I'll wear a tux if you want," he offers, resting his chin on his hand, elbow on her vanity.
"As a favor to me, or because you're Chuck Bass?"
Now he snorts, but they fade to silence and he acts without thinking, again: "You look amazing."
She blushes; he sees it on her neck before her cheeks.
She bites her lip, looking at herself, gloriously (in his eyes) half-done, in the mirror.
Sighs a little.
"I'm not ready to go out yet. Not to a show."
"Maybe," he persists, "one of the closing receptions on Friday night?"
"Maybe." She smiles at herself again in the mirror. "Even though we agreed it sucks this year."
"Totally sucks," he agrees.
She turns to walk the three steps to her bed, and the dress furls around her; sinks down, crosses her legs, so he can see one bare leg, foot to knee. It's the leg that has the carving on it, further up, where he can't see; he doesn't know whether the stitches are still there.
"Why'd you come by?" she asks, as though this just occurred to her.
He glances up, chin still on fist.
Why, indeed?
Because he hasn't seen her in a week- is the real answer.
She looks, for the first time, really, since it happened, at ease. Sure, she laughs, teases, pricks at him, and he's sure, with others too. But for the first time, and it's not just the gown- although that helps- he looks at her and sees the Blair Waldorf she used to be. The girl that he knows is still in there.
And he doesn't want to spoil that by saying something like I just wanted to see how you were doing.
"I need an unbiased opinion on this tie," he says instead, thankful that this is in fact a new tie, and that he dispensed with what little adherence he usually observes to the dress code while getting dressed for his half-day at school today.
She leans forward, then gasps when, he guesses, she bends her ribcage the wrong way, and uncrosses her legs, pushing herself breathlessly to standing.
He gets up, too, and meets her halfway.
They both pretend that didn't happen.
She reaches for his tie and inspects it. "I'm a big fan of sage and maroon together," she says presently, giving a nod.
How long has it been since we stood facing each other? -he wonders.
Her eyes are warm when she meets his gaze. "Have you gotten taller since turning eighteen?"
"You're just not wearing heels," he teases back.
She laughs, both palms clasping on her ribs even before she does it.
He waits until her frown subsides, and then tilts his head. "You sure you won't come tonight?"
She pauses and shakes her head. "But…" she says haltingly, gaze reverting inward for a moment, and then blinks up at him. "I could."
And she nods, more to herself.
And he understands.
ix.
Lily's in white again: winter white this time, a tweed with gold threads spun through it, with a structured cropped blazer and a slim-fitting sheath that tapers to an impossibly slender silhouette just below the knee – and, daringly, white leather boots – kissing his cheek and murmuring about how all this gorgeous sunshine has her confused about whether they're past Memorial Day or not.
Erik is somewhat more traditional in navy trousers and a hunter green blazer, and an untied navy ascot dangling over the unbuttoned collar of his Oxford.
Chuck is all in navy, an Italian wool suit, with a silk shirt in navy paisley and a straight tie in solid navy wool, causing Lily to wax poetic over how impossibly chic he looks.
"No Serena?" he asks casually, tipping his hand to Xavier on the way out.
"Staying home," Erik says with a quick glance.
"Poor darling hasn't been feeling well at all. Quite frankly, I think she's been pretending to feel better than she really has so she can go to the earlier shows, but she's definitely come down with something," Lily adds as they climb into the limo.
"What a shame she'll miss this," he sympathizes.
"I know," Lily tsks with a sigh.
x.
Somehow, there's very little trepidation over this show. Almost none at all.
He's not sure what it is – the distraction of Serena last night into this morning, the guardedness of keeping Nate at an arm's length, or the lift he got from seeing Blair peacock in front of her mirror and stand in front of him, running her fingers over his tie, telling him I could – but the thought to be anxious about this show, though it does cross his consciousness, is fleeting.
As they're sitting down, he notices Erik tapping one foot absently, but then Erik notices it himself and stops, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee.
"I just love Carolina Herrera," Lily sighs, leaning over to them both.
He remembers red furling around Blair's bare ankles, and smiles.
xi.
The smile fades fairly quickly when the show starts – almost as if, through his own failure to worry about it, he brings the reality of the show on himself.
The first two looks, even three- you could make a case that they aren't derived from any one particular inspiration.
But beside him, Erik runs his hand through his hair in frustration when the third look debuts.
By the fifth look, Lily leans over, slowly, hesitantly, and whispers, more to Chuck than Erik: "Am I crazy to be sensing a pattern here?"
He shakes his head, controlling himself with a long, measured sigh.
Tweed, plaid, collared prep-school chic is apparent in almost every single look.
White tailored Oxfords tucked into pin-darted miniskirts, chic patterned tights adorning perfect sets of high heels, and perfectly fitted blazers strut down the runway in front of them, with impossibly smooth steps like the models are walking on air.
The evening gowns, even, are tweed with chic black silk ties knotted at the hollows of bare throats and tucked into the necklines.
One model wears a white swimsuit with a halter neck that has a full folded collar, from which a loose white tie dangles, and a sarong in accordion pleats.
Several of the models carry books and pose with them at the end of the runway.
One, in a three-piece suit in coordinated plaids, carries a small leather notebook, which she flips open and makes a show of scribbling in while she's being photographed.
And every single model wears a headband.
From swimsuit to evening gown and everything in between, not a single look is missing a headband.
He's perspiring by the seventh look; he knows his jaws are clenched, and Lily's head turning toward him at regular intervals is not lost on him, but just as he spared no bandwidth on the content of the show in the hours leading up to it, now he has none to spare for anything else.
He's lost count- they're probably somewhere around fifteen- when a model comes out in a gorgeous red silk cocktail dress and matching long jacket. It flows when she walks in a way that's too familiar to him; it's only knee-length, with no slit, but he's swallowing a lump in his throat, suddenly painfully aware of the camera to his right, which is gliding along next to the model, who is now shrugging out of the jacket. She holds it up to the side, gently shaking it out, and folds it and drapes it over one arm before the hits the end of the runway.
The flow of red silk around slim bare legs; the way she drapes the jacket; Blair folded and draped one of her school blazers the exact same way in a photo for Night Out With. He remembers, because she practiced it in the mirror one night in her bedroom, absently, while they talked about ways to get a sufficiently diverse set of photos for her profile- I can't just be in my school uniform for every picture, she complained; God, no, he agreed, as though the very idea was sacrilege- and ended with her trying on outfits for his approval, which was useless as he approved of everything she suggested and she ended up giggling on his lap, hangers still dangling from his hand, while he pulled a submitted-for-scrutiny headband from her hair.
The image, the feeling of her weight on his lap, the hum of her lips on his while she laughed into his mouth, the way she smiled at him today, his sage and maroon in her hands, and the secret warmth he swore he felt in the way she said, I could- shock him like he's just been submerged in ice water.
He watches the camera, barely able to make out the tiny figure of the model, posing ever so carefully in a way that it's impossible she has not studied, on its preview screen, photographers' flashes rewarding her, this designer, this show, for aesthetics and moments that they did not create.
For a magic, an identity, that belongs to someone else.
He's on his feet before he realizes what he's doing. He doesn't excuse himself or apologize to Lily or Erik; he doesn't even acknowledge them. He hears the flow of Lily's voice behind him, maybe saying his name, but it's not in him to stop. His collar is choking him.
He ducks as quickly as he can to the aisle and disappears into the darkness behind the chairs.
xii.
Not so many blocks away, on the twenty-first floor of The Palace, Serena sits curled in her bed, face slack, still in his clothes, bottle of whisky spent and empty on the nightstand beside her.
When the camera pivots to catch the entrance of the next look, she sees him in navy, turning up the aisle, only half of his face caught in the frame as they cross paths.
xiii.
He tries her from the car, hoping against hope, but the line beeps mockingly. Like she's talking to someone already – maybe her mother, or Serena, or… someone else who cares about her.
Or, like she's seen the show and reached over and lifted the receiver and laid it on the bedside table so no one would bother her.
xiv.
The doorman waves him up again, for the second time in just a few hours, and this time there's no Dorota in the kitchen; only auxiliary lights are on, that he can see. He hears running water off the kitchen; laundry, or shower, something.
There's no way Eleanor is home. She must be quadruple-booked at shows tonight.
The penthouse is dark and foreboding in a way it's never been.
He should really wait to be announced, but instead, he's dropping his overcoat in the foyer and taking the stairs two at a time.
xv.
She's almost definitely ruined his shirt ten minutes later, with her face buried as it is in the crook of his neck, crying hot tears so abundant that they pool on his skin and slither down his chest.
He wasn't even at the top of the stairs when he heard her crying. It was guttural, like every sob was being wrenched from her. In his mind's eye, she was at her vanity, red silk draped around her, wiping her face with tissues.
The reality was somewhat uglier.
Quite aware that he might be unwelcome and should not open her door without knocking, at the sound of a high-pitched whimper, he pushed her bedroom door open, saying her name at the same time, and found her balled up in her sheet, knees to chest, red Carolina Herrera in a puddle on the floor beside her bed.
When she looked up and saw his eyes, shame flickered there, but nothing else.
"Blair," he said again, starting to raise a hand, hesitating, stepping closer. The hair resting against her face and neck was wet with tears.
"Lock the door," she replied, twisting her sheet closer around her. It dawned on him as he twisted the deadbolt that she must be wearing little to nothing underneath.
He turned back to find her leaning against her pillows, curled into a ball, almost certainly in pain.
And waited.
Watched her cry.
She carried on like he wasn't there, with no effort to quiet herself, no request for him to give her privacy.
There was a comfort in watching her cry, those first maybe sixty seconds. It felt like a penance he rightfully owed her, if not for some specific action of his then for the fact that he stood there, unharmed, healthy, intact, and much less deserving of that than she.
She looked up at him, then, and all he could think was: what a difference a few hours can make. And he saw her again in the lamplight, dark hair wet, and then turning toward him, blood on her face, the difference of just a few hours there too.
For the second time that day, his eyes filled with tears.
"Blair," he tried then, stepping forward, "can I…"
And she raised her hand and beckoned him closer.
And into her bed he climbed, careful to stay on top of the duvet so they stayed separated by several layers of fabric, and wrapped his arms around her.
And after a minute, she tugged on his tie and said, "you know the rule."
No ties in her bed.
"Sorry," he chided, loosening it and flinging it across the room, unbuttoning his top button while he was at it.
And that's when she buried her face against his collarbone, shifting carefully, gripping her sheet, until he caught it and pulled it tighter around her, murmuring I've got it.
xvi.
She quiets, at last, his hands forcing themselves to stay still on her back because he's afraid to rub her back and hurt her ribs- which he's sure are going to be sore tomorrow, at the very least- and says, more to herself than him, "I want to die."
He stills, heart slowing.
"What?"
She half-shrugs, like she doesn't care to do it fully. "I want to die," she repeats, barely a rasp.
"You will not talk like that," he says, before he thinks, and then adds a halfhearted, "please."
She doesn't move from where he forehead rests on his shoulder. "Maybe if I were dead, people would stop making a mockery of every photo of me that's already been shoved down the public's throat."
He wants to say that it's misguided flattery, that she's a style icon now- and that's something, in spite of everything- but he can't. Because as much as she's humiliated, he's furious.
He glances over at the nightstand for the first time. The receiver is indeed off the base, ivory cord stretching over the side of the table, so it must have been tossed on the floor when she climbed into bed.
He doesn't know what to say to her, so he tugs her layers of sheets higher and tighter for good measure, and rests his head on top of hers.
Time passes softly, slowly- and a short time after the damp warmth at his collar goes to chill, she unfists the hand that's grasping the navy silk and apologizes for ruining his shirt.
He smirks as she pulls back, attempting a ghost of a smile through swollen eyes and mottled skin, and reminds her that that's the second item of clothing of his that she's ruined in the last few months.
She narrows her eyes skeptically.
"The cashmere trousers, if memory serves," he says with raised eyebrows.
Her jaw drops.
"How dare you even bring that up- " she attempts imperiousness and, taking into account her raw voice and visible exhaustion, pulls it off rather well- "when you know it was beyond my control, unlike the linen shirtdress incident?"
He sighs in mock exasperation- anything to brighten the light in her eyes.
"We talked about the shirtdress," he reminds her, his tone deliberately patient. "They looked like snaps, not buttons."
She scoffs. "What kind of idiot would put snaps on a linen shirtdress?"
He cocks his head and leans back, a pinprick of recognition dawning in his mind that this, this, is the first time they've ever reminisced about that month, and maybe this is not the right time, and she's been through so much and they've never really-
But then he sees the trademark unimpressed-Blair-Waldorf expression on her tearstained face and pushes all that aside.
"Forgive me," he drawls, "for not stopping to analyze the construction of your dress, when you had my pants around my ankles and your hands in the waistband of my underwear."
She rolls her eyes, looking away in disgust. "Certainly took your time getting your tie off," she mutters.
"I had it off in three seconds," he protests, "I just wanted you to stop yanking on it like a leash."
"I mean, really, who wears a tie on a Saturday night visit to have sex, anyway?"
He raises his free hand to gesture indignantly; the other one flattens against her back, keeping her sheet in place.
"Who wears a linen shirtdress with snaps in December?" he retorts.
"They were buttons!" she half-shouts.
They hold each other's gaze for a few seconds; she cracks first and laughs. His eyes crinkle. She reaches up to take hold of the sheets she's wrapped in, and as he hands them to her, he protests one last time: "They looked like snaps."
"Give it a rest, Bass," she sighs good-naturedly. Then: "I'm sorry about your shirt."
"Call it even," he says, "even though it's not."
"Because of the pants," she reiterates.
"Because of the pants," he confirms.
"You know," she says, "you can buy a million silk shirts, but public humiliation on this scale is priceless." She pauses, gaze falling. "I should know."
He looks down, too. He knows just as well.
He inhales quietly. "Blair…"
"Let's just pretend it didn't happen for now," she says. "I'm not ready."
She glances over at the red on the floor, that she practiced walking in a few hours ago, perched, coquettish, on the edge of this very bed.
I could.
He nods. "Okay- "
He's about to say but when Eleanor's voice, muffled, rings up from below.
"Blair, darling, are you awake?"
Their eyes find each other in mutual panic. He slides past her and picks up the red dress, tossing it into her closet as he tells her in a tone that says he knows the drill that he'll go through the bathroom- and passes her her navy lounge clothes.
She pulls her pajamas on once he closes the door to the bathroom, hesitates, and then eases the door open and sticks her head around it. "Thank you," she whispers.
"Mom?" she calls, heading to her bedroom door to unlock it.
Dorota is waiting at the base of the base staircase with the overcoat he dropped in the foyer on his way up.
"I thought you might need later," she whispers, pressing the button for the elevator.
He's in the limo, nearly back to The Palace, when Blair calls him and whispers that he left his tie, "but don't worry, I kicked it under my vanity."
He snorts, then turns serious. "Did your mother pick up on…?"
He's not sure which he wants to ask about: whether she picked up on the fact that Blair had just been crying, or that Chuck left her bed thirty seconds before Eleanor came in, or that Carolina Herrera's collection, like several others, was a complete ripoff- or tribute, depending on how one looks at it.
"The reviews of her collection are in, and she's getting praise across the board," Blair murmurs back. "Believe me, she's not picking up on anything. You could have stayed in the room and I don't think she'd have noticed."