Sometimes he thinks he dreamed it. Her chestnut mane as it fell down her back, her dainty, soft hands in his, her deep brown eyes as they bored into his own.
Always matching.
And her perfect lips, as she told him that she loved him, every part, the lightness and the dark. That he was all she ever wanted, that she could not wait to spend the rest of her days in his arms.
If someone had told him six months ago that she would have pressed her lips on his once again and vowed never to leave, he would have laughed in their face and told them to grow up, told them that fairytales do not happen to people like Chuck Bass.
So sometimes he thinks he dreamed it all.
But then he feels a pinch in his side, an occasional ache in his left temple, blistering reminders that six weeks ago he was pulled from a wreckage alongside her (them) and was placed in a coma, only to awaken gasping her name, his whole body aching for her.
Told by strangers in blue scrubs that the soon-to-be Princess Blair Grimaldi of Monaco had been discharged some hours ago andno, I'm sorry Mr Bass, she did not leave a message.
He laughs mirthlessly as he wonders if the oxycodone was causing hallucinations, because surely this was his hell.
His adopted mother and pseudo step sibling are there in the days after but he is not, he is miles away. His mind is still in the back of a town car as he meets her gaze and tells her he loves her too - and cannot imagine the day he won't.
They tell him the baby died and he swallows; hard, because although he did not give his DNA to her or him, he was adamant that anything that is a part of Blair Waldorf would be a part of Chuck Bass too, and there was no doubt in his mind that he would have loved the child as his own. He knows it like he knows his own name. Like he knows the sound of her heartbeat.
Two weeks of torturous bedrest and physiotherapy later and he is allowed to return home. But he walks back into a kind of dull, clunking darkness, because it has been 336 hours without a word from her and he thinks he might be dying (again).
Nate is almost offensively helpful, bringing his meds and his scotch when he refuses his meds, walking Monkey because it seems even his dog cannot handle the morose beast who has locked himself away in his lair of ennui.
Weeks go by and he recovers from his physical wounds, so to the outside world he is back to his normal self. But he knows that he is dead inside, and will be so long as she is away from him and not taking his calls, texts or responding to his desperate voicemails.
The first is perfunctory and to-the-point. He has dignity in his first call.
"Blair. It's me. Please call me back."
His second is made when he has accidentally mixed his meds with a finger of scotch.
"You're avoiding me, I know. But I won't stop calling. I can't. I love you. I love you. I love you."
He leaves more messages until even her voicemail inbox tells him to fuck off.
If the child was a boy, he would have asked Blair to name him Henry. So that he could be all the things he could not. So that he could be the kind of man who wouldn't hurt someone like he hurt her. So that he would not need to say sorry for his many mistakes, so that he would never have to wonder if he could have been with the love of his life if he hadn't been raised with an icy grip on his right shoulder.
He has no appetite, so by the two month mark he is more gaunt, a fact he only notices when he accidentally looks in a mirror. He cannot bear to face the stranger staring back at him. Whenever he looks at himself, he sees her. It is the way it has always been and as he has learned by now, it is the way it always will be.
"You need to take care of yourself, Charles."
The blonde haired head tilts and blue eyes meet his, and she is the only mother he has ever known so begrudgingly, he agrees to allow her to help even though he sees no point in prolonging a life that feels like it is dragging on.
Two and a half months in and even still, every night is a new dream of her, of them, of us, of everything they could have had, of what she might be doing right now. Putting up her hair, getting into a bath, stroking the hands of a man who will never hurt her.
He takes long walks with Monkey, the dog happy to be out again with his master, trotting along the streets of a Manhattan that now feels strange and foreign. Cold and indifferent.
On the walks he tries to connect the dots of where their 'us' dissolved. When, where and why the map of her heart was redirected back to Monaco.
He had resigned himself to this fate many months ago, was content to allow her fairytale thrive and see her shine with another man. To watch her bask in the light as he stayed in the shadows of their great love. Content to have once felt her love touch him - a feathery whisper against his skin that he could never forget.
But the glimmer of hope that he was given in the room of his hotel, her glowing expression as he kissed the back of her hand with the understanding that he would love her baby as much as he loves her - it is a vision that will not stop replaying in his mind and he is slowly going mad wondering whether it happened at all.
Then on a rainy night the night before the birth of a new year, he sees a familiar figure in the rain, and offers an umbrella.
A/N:Ooh, this was cathartic. I don't know if anyone reads GG fanfiction still, but I was recently on a rewatch and I couldn't stop thinking about the interim between 5x10 and 5x11, and what that must have been like for Chuck. I would love to write a piece from Blair's POV as well, but as a lapsed Catholic I don't know if I can truly make her reasoning make sense. Anyway, hope you enjoyed! Please review if you have time.
