173. i loved you then and i love you now (one)
Title | i loved you then and i love you now
Chapter| one
Rating | pg-13
Characters | Serena. Dan. Blair. Nate. Chuck.
Summary | The year is 2019. Two of New York's most prestigious private schools, Constance Billard and St. Jude's, are hosting a 10 year reunion for the class of 2009.
Notes | I started writing this ages ago and recently reformatted/replotted it to correspond to the events of 5x24. Chuck's presence is therefore regrettably necessary. The title is from Grouplove's TongueTied, which has been in my head a lot re: GG lately.
prologue.
i just have one last question:
will it be my heart, or will it be his?
- city and colour (comin' home)
The year is 2019. Two of New York's most prestigious private schools, Constance Billard and St. Jude's, are hosting a 10 year reunion for the class of 2009. The guest list includes Blair Waldorf, owner of the prestigious Waldorf Designs, and her fiancé, Charles Bass, the head of the business empire that was founded by his father. Author of two best-selling novels and professor of literature Daniel Humphrey is also expected attend, along with his wife, (in)famous wedding photographer Serena van der Woodsen. NYC's second-most eligible bachelor, newly-elected Congressman Nathaniel Archibald, is expected to attend alone, though it is rumoured that socialite Penelope Shafai offered to be his plus-one.
The days of Gossip Girl ended ages ago, but it appears that the anonymous blogger is back with one last round of gossip - secrets from years before, secrets that were carefully buried, secrets that will turn their lives around.
one.
Serena never quite knows what to do with herself when she's the first one home. It doesn't happen often, not on week days, and she doesn't really know what to do on an August afternoon in the suburbs.
It still seems foreign to her, sometimes, living in the 'burbs. It's technically a village, as her neighbours like to remind her whenever she slips up, but Cayuga Heights feels like a suburb, no matter what its official title is. She likes it on the weekends, snowmen in the winter and flowers blooming in spring, but during the week, she spends most of her time commuting to the city or elsewhere in the state. She drives now, has her own car and her own license and has a need for them - something she didn't expect would happen in her life when she was younger.
There are a lot of wives on her block, wives in the Stepford sense, wives that tend to gardens and drive kids to soccer and sip margaritas on their porches. Most of them are older than her; they're friendly, but they're not her friends.
She's only really close to the couple who lives two doors down, Louisa and Jessie, married two years with an adopted baby boy from Ethiopia. Louisa works in Dan's department, which was originally how they'd all met, and Serena likes her a lot, thinks she's softspoken and kind and that she makes amazing banana bread. Still, it was Jessie that Serena had really bonded with. Jessie would make coffee in the bizarrely complicated machine that dominated the kitchen counter and she and Serena would sit at the table and talk, talk about travelling, talk about their childhoods, talk about spouses who correct your grammar over dinner. Jessie wasn't a Blair substitute - no one was - but she was the closest friend Serena had made since moving to Ithaca.
Things had been different, though, since baby James had arrived. It made sense, because Jessie and Louisa were busy adjusting to motherhood. It made sense, because Serena's been keeping her distance - just for a while. Just to adjust, to let them adjust.
She's contemplating whether or not she actually wants to give daytime television a try when the front door opens and a voice calls, "Daddy!"
Serena starts a little - it's three o'clock already.
Trixie rushes into the living room in her bare feet, a red scrape on one of her knees and a beaming smile on her face. One of the sleeves on her school shirt is rolled up, one isn't. "Mommy! You're here!"
"I am," Serena says with a smile of her own, getting up off the couch. "Daddy had to work a little later today..." She touches a hand to the top of her daughter's head. "What happened to your knee, baby?"
"I tripped," Trixie shrugs, tipping her head back, brown hair falling out of her braid. "I didn't cry, though!"
"That was very brave of you," Serena says seriously. "We're still going to have to clean that cut up, though..." She glances down the hall. "Where did you leave your sister?"
"Taking off her shoes," Trixie says easily, slipping her little hand into Serena's as they walk toward the door together. "She's slower than me."
"If you were a little slower, you might not fall and hurt yourself," Serena points out gently, giving her daughter's hand a little squeeze.
The front door is wide open. Lucy is standing next to it, nudging her shoes into a neat line on the mat. "Mommy, hi!" she says brightly.
"Hey, Luce," Serena greets her fondly. She waves at the van parked in their driveway; Melody and Aaron down the block have kids their age and they carpool, switching drivers each week.
"You're here instead of Daddy," Lucy points out, wrapping her arms around Serena's legs.
"You say it like I'm never here, baby."
Lucy shrugs. "After school it's Daddy or you and Daddy. Mostly."
"I guess that's true," Serena nods, bending to press a kiss to the top of her head. Her schedule fluctuates far more than Dan's does, so they'd arranged it this way - he's always done lecturing in time to pick the girls up from school.
Lucy pulls back after a moment. She looks just like she did when she was sent off to school in the morning: her hair neatly brushed and braided, her skirt unwrinkled, her shirt sleeves buttoned at her wrists. She giggles after a moment. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Serena scrunches up her nose, makes a face. "Because I love you, Luce," she says easily before turning to Trixie. "Come on. Let's clean up that knee and we can talk about what we want for a snack."
"Mommy, no," Trixie pouts. "It's going to hurt."
"But you were so brave when you fell," Serena says coaxingly, steering both girls toward the downstairs washroom. "You can be brave again..."
"I would've cried," Lucy nods. "But you didn't."
Serena smiles softly at Lucy, steers Trixie to sit on the side of the bathtub. "It'll only sting for a minute, sweetie," she soothes. "Lucy will hold your hand; won't you, Luce?"
Lucy nods, happy to be given a job, and sits next to her sister, takes her hand. "Can we have applesauce? For a snack? And crackers."
"Sure," Serena says absently, pulling out the first aid kit. "What do you think, Trix, does that sound good?"
Trixie nods, biting her lip apprehensively.
"It'll be fine," Serena promises her as she kneels down in front of them. "Just a little sting..."
Trixie nods again, takes a deep breath, and squeezes her eyes shut. Instinctively, Lucy does too.
Serena sits back on her heels and just looks at them for a minute, her little girls. They're identical, completely, and it's always impossible for strangers to tell them apart. When they were born, she'd memorized the heart-shape birthmark on the bottom of Trixie's foot obsessively, terrified that she wouldn't be able to tell her own babies apart.
But the differences had been there right from the beginning. Trixie had wailed as a newborn, Lucy had whimpered a little and been quiet after that. Trixie woke them up more often in the middle of the night, demanded attention more frequently, was eager to hold her own bottle and get on her own feet. Lucy did everything more slowly, more carefully - she liked to be held for longer, liked to be cuddled, worried at the thought of independence. The only first she preceded Trixie to was speaking; she said mama two weeks earlier. The differences expanded as they grew older, as they turned into their own little people with distinct personalities, so like one another and yet such opposites in some respects.
Serena can pinpoint every minute difference between her daughters, every similarity, too, but the simplest way to put it is this: Trixie is like her, and Lucy is just like Dan.
"You're not listening to me."
He snaps back to attention, his eyes settling on his fiancee's face - and realizing then that she's angry with him. "I'm sorry," he says earnestly, brushing her hair back from her face, tucking a lock of it behind her ear. "I'm listening now."
Her jaw is set; she won't forgive him easily, those days are long gone. "I'm trying to plan our wedding. The least you could do is pay attention."
"I am paying attention," he sighs. "But you've had your wedding planned since you were a little girl. I thought you knew exactly what you wanted."
"My groom was supposed to be interested in our wedding," she huffs.
"You're groom was supposed to be Nate," he volleys back.
She glares, huffs, "Chuck."
"It's true, Blair," he sighs.
"It's irrelevant," she corrects. "I said yes to your proposal."
"The second time," he murmurs.
She glares at him, snaps, "Chuck," in a way that isn't playful in the slightest, and he remembers agreeing with their therapist that the past was to be worked through and then left behind.
"Sorry," he mumbles, glancing back at his newspaper wistfully.
"Would you prefer that I just plan this entire wedding while all you have to do is show up on the day?" she asks tightly.
"No," he sighs. "Of course not."
"This has to be my perfect wedding," she says softly, seriously. "You know what a disaster my last one was."
"Hm," he murmurs, sympathetic but vague, because he doesn't know, not entirely - she's never really told him about it, about how it had been for her.
She sighs, setting the seating chart in front of this. "Look at this," she says firmly, before dialling the caterer's number.
"You're bossy today," he comments, smirking over at her, but she's already absorbed in her phone call.
Nate walks back into his townhouse just in time to hear his phone ringing, and he grabs it quickly, still breathless from his run as he answers, "Hello?"
"Well, hello, stranger," a familiar voice says in his ear.
He grins, laughing a little. "Hey, Penny, what's up?"
She heaves a small sigh, the way she always does when he calls her that. "Your publicist called me this morning...early this morning."
"Oh, yeah?" he asks, moving toward the fridge and taking the orange juice out, drinking a gulp right out of the carton.
"She wanted to know if I would be attending our high school reunion with you," she says. "I had to tell her that I didn't know."
He chuckles. "Can't say I'm surprised. Annabeth loves you, she's always pushing for me to propose."
"Oh?" Penelope asks, a prim hint of curiosity in her voice. "I thought you were playing up your bachelor image at the moment."
"I am, I guess. But Annabeth thinks it's important for me to settle down," he says with a small role of his eyes. "In a year or two."
"You're supposed to date for at least three years before you propose," she tells him blithely. "Everyone knows that."
He laughs. "Oh, everyone knows that, huh?"
"They do," she insists. "And while you know that I enjoy being your occasional arm candy...I wouldn't be opposed."
"I know," he says more softly, sobering. "I do, but really...it's not you, honestly, I would just...I don't think I'm the guy you want to marry."
"It is you, then," she points out. "If you think that."
He sighs. "Got me there."
"Let me know," she says briskly. "About the reunion." She smacks her lips by the phone and then hangs up before he can even say goodbye.
Nate sets down his phone and gets out the cereal instead. It nags at him sometimes, this thing he's doing with Penelope. They have fun together, more fun than he ever imagined they could, if he's being honest, but there's an odd imbalance in their relationship. He knows how she feels about him, what she wants from him, an heirloom ring and his last name, and it wouldn't be fair to keep letting her want those things if he didn't want them at all.
He is, however, entirely unsure about what he wants. Much of what he's done in the past few years has been chosen for him: Tripp ran for senator and Grandfather had lured him into the race for congressman before he'd really realized what it meant for him, what he'd agreed to. It was a surprise to be elected and he's proud of it, he thinks he's good at his job - he tries to be, anyway.
But it all feels so planned, so perfectly laid out by others. He knows - he's always known - that Penelope could fit into this picture easily. Her parents are wealthy and she's been a consistently classy socialite, no party pictures or scandals in her past. They photograph well together and he knows that she could easily be his wife, could easily organize charities and head committees. But he also knows that her feelings for him are genuine, and he can't exploit that.
He could marry her so easily. They could leak pictures of the two of them doing the things couples do - getting lunch, holding hands, going to the opera - and it would come out as news, their official relationship. He could probably only wait two years before popping the question, and there's no question of what her answer would be. The wedding would be elaborate, her gown gorgeous, the guest list expansive, and their picture would be on Page Six. It would be the easiest thing.
It nags at him, though, the idea that this isn't the life he chose for himself. Marrying Penelope would be like marrying Blair would have been once upon a time; perfect, approved by his family, approved by his constituents.
He pours milk into his cereal, thinks that he was never sure if he wanted that, if he wanted the perfect life, the perfect wife.
The milk splashes over the edge of his bowl, pooling on the counter, and he sighs, staring at it for a beat.
There was a time when he'd wanted much more of a mess.
It is eerily quiet in the penthouse at night.
Blair's not sure where Chuck is at this hour; perhaps it's a meeting running late, or maybe he went to get drinks with his associates. He would have told her, if she'd asked, but she doesn't ask much anymore.
This is her home now, the Penthouse suite of the Empire Hotel. It isn't their only house - they have a residence in Paris not too far from her mother and Cyrus, as well as house for vacationing in Ibiza, but officially, this is their home.
It still feels like Chuck's suite most of the time, even though she's been living here since they got engaged. They're both so busy; the tabloids call them a power couple but in reality they're a couple with very little time on their hands. Chuck is busy with business in Amercia during the day and business on other continents at night, and Blair is busy with phone calls from Paris and Milan at all hours and, for the last sixteen months, wedding planning.
She wanted to get married in December at first; she had visions of snowflakes drifting slowly from the sky, of a small, chic jacket to wear over her gown. But those were the visions of her childhood, visions that included Nate, visions that she'd left behind long ago. She decided on October instead, the eighth, hoping that it would be a day of orange leaves and bright skies, completely different from her childhood fantasies, completely different from the nightmare her wedding to Louis had turned out to be.
Everything is set for the day. The invitations have been mailed out, her father and Cyrus have agreed to walk her down the aisle, and the menu has been chosen. Penelope will be her maid of honour, Nate will be the best man, and she'd decided against other bridesmaids and groomsmen. It will be perfect, she's determined to make it so.
In the empty, quiet penthouse, in a bedroom half-lit by a sole bedside lamp, Blair takes off her dress, laying it neatly in the pile to be sent for dry-cleaning. She sets her shoes back into her closet and unhooks her bra, tosses it carelessly on a chair. She studies her reflection in the floor length mirror, pressing a palm against her flat stomach for a beat and then turning to the side to inspect her profile critically. A few locks of her hair tumble out of her carefully constructed chignon and over her shoulders.
She moves away from the mirror after a few moments, going back to her closet and taking out the wedding dress that is tucked carefully into the very back, out of sight. She takes it off of its hanger gingerly and steps into it. She pulls it up carefully, settling the bodice around her breasts, smoothing the fabric of her hips, before she reaches around herself to zip it up.
She can't quite get the zipper done up completely, but that's alright, for now; it's almost a perfect picture. She pins the flyaway strands of her hair up again and stares at herself in the mirror. She envisions a bouquet, and a smile. She imagines that Penelope is there, holding the train of her dress. She thinks of the way her father will smile, of the way Cyrus will hug her. She thinks, hopes, wishes, that Chuck will tell her that she's beautiful.
"I do," she says aloud, softly, into the empty air of the penthouse.
The words don't seem to take up any room at all.
"Hey," Dan murmurs from the doorway. He huffs a quiet laugh a beat later, says softly, "I go away for two days and they took over my side of the bed..."
Serena glances up from the wedding magazine she's browsing through idly, smiling briefly at him before looking down at their daughters, curled up and fast asleep on his side of the bed. "You know I suck at being bad cop," she murmurs. "And they missed you."
His eyebrows lift. "Is that the party line? You missed me, too?"
Her smile stretches a little. "I did..."
He smiles back at her, moving around the bed to her side of it and touching her cheek, tilting her mouth against his for a kiss. "I missed you, too."
Serena smiles at him, soft and genuine, and he brushes his thumb over her bottom lip. "Really?" she asks quietly.
"It's impossible not to miss you," he says easily, the words light. He kisses her again. "You're the most missable person I know," he murmurs to her. "Besides..." He tilts his head toward the girls. "Those two."
Serena's eyes flicker over his face, searching for something, though he's not sure what. "I love you," she whispers.
"Come here," he whispers back, taking her hands in both of his, pulling her up out of bed.
Two minutes later they're in the bathroom, the door locked behind them, and she's perched on the counter, her legs wrapped tight around his waist, breathing his name against his teeth as he pushes the hem of her nightgown up around her hips, and he forgets to ask her about the invitations he'd seen sitting on the kitchen counter.
tbc.
Chapter| one
Rating | pg-13
Characters | Serena. Dan. Blair. Nate. Chuck.
Summary | The year is 2019. Two of New York's most prestigious private schools, Constance Billard and St. Jude's, are hosting a 10 year reunion for the class of 2009.
Notes | I started writing this ages ago and recently reformatted/replotted it to correspond to the events of 5x24. Chuck's presence is therefore regrettably necessary. The title is from Grouplove's TongueTied, which has been in my head a lot re: GG lately.
prologue.
i just have one last question:
will it be my heart, or will it be his?
- city and colour (comin' home)
The year is 2019. Two of New York's most prestigious private schools, Constance Billard and St. Jude's, are hosting a 10 year reunion for the class of 2009. The guest list includes Blair Waldorf, owner of the prestigious Waldorf Designs, and her fiancé, Charles Bass, the head of the business empire that was founded by his father. Author of two best-selling novels and professor of literature Daniel Humphrey is also expected attend, along with his wife, (in)famous wedding photographer Serena van der Woodsen. NYC's second-most eligible bachelor, newly-elected Congressman Nathaniel Archibald, is expected to attend alone, though it is rumoured that socialite Penelope Shafai offered to be his plus-one.
The days of Gossip Girl ended ages ago, but it appears that the anonymous blogger is back with one last round of gossip - secrets from years before, secrets that were carefully buried, secrets that will turn their lives around.
one.
Serena never quite knows what to do with herself when she's the first one home. It doesn't happen often, not on week days, and she doesn't really know what to do on an August afternoon in the suburbs.
It still seems foreign to her, sometimes, living in the 'burbs. It's technically a village, as her neighbours like to remind her whenever she slips up, but Cayuga Heights feels like a suburb, no matter what its official title is. She likes it on the weekends, snowmen in the winter and flowers blooming in spring, but during the week, she spends most of her time commuting to the city or elsewhere in the state. She drives now, has her own car and her own license and has a need for them - something she didn't expect would happen in her life when she was younger.
There are a lot of wives on her block, wives in the Stepford sense, wives that tend to gardens and drive kids to soccer and sip margaritas on their porches. Most of them are older than her; they're friendly, but they're not her friends.
She's only really close to the couple who lives two doors down, Louisa and Jessie, married two years with an adopted baby boy from Ethiopia. Louisa works in Dan's department, which was originally how they'd all met, and Serena likes her a lot, thinks she's softspoken and kind and that she makes amazing banana bread. Still, it was Jessie that Serena had really bonded with. Jessie would make coffee in the bizarrely complicated machine that dominated the kitchen counter and she and Serena would sit at the table and talk, talk about travelling, talk about their childhoods, talk about spouses who correct your grammar over dinner. Jessie wasn't a Blair substitute - no one was - but she was the closest friend Serena had made since moving to Ithaca.
Things had been different, though, since baby James had arrived. It made sense, because Jessie and Louisa were busy adjusting to motherhood. It made sense, because Serena's been keeping her distance - just for a while. Just to adjust, to let them adjust.
She's contemplating whether or not she actually wants to give daytime television a try when the front door opens and a voice calls, "Daddy!"
Serena starts a little - it's three o'clock already.
Trixie rushes into the living room in her bare feet, a red scrape on one of her knees and a beaming smile on her face. One of the sleeves on her school shirt is rolled up, one isn't. "Mommy! You're here!"
"I am," Serena says with a smile of her own, getting up off the couch. "Daddy had to work a little later today..." She touches a hand to the top of her daughter's head. "What happened to your knee, baby?"
"I tripped," Trixie shrugs, tipping her head back, brown hair falling out of her braid. "I didn't cry, though!"
"That was very brave of you," Serena says seriously. "We're still going to have to clean that cut up, though..." She glances down the hall. "Where did you leave your sister?"
"Taking off her shoes," Trixie says easily, slipping her little hand into Serena's as they walk toward the door together. "She's slower than me."
"If you were a little slower, you might not fall and hurt yourself," Serena points out gently, giving her daughter's hand a little squeeze.
The front door is wide open. Lucy is standing next to it, nudging her shoes into a neat line on the mat. "Mommy, hi!" she says brightly.
"Hey, Luce," Serena greets her fondly. She waves at the van parked in their driveway; Melody and Aaron down the block have kids their age and they carpool, switching drivers each week.
"You're here instead of Daddy," Lucy points out, wrapping her arms around Serena's legs.
"You say it like I'm never here, baby."
Lucy shrugs. "After school it's Daddy or you and Daddy. Mostly."
"I guess that's true," Serena nods, bending to press a kiss to the top of her head. Her schedule fluctuates far more than Dan's does, so they'd arranged it this way - he's always done lecturing in time to pick the girls up from school.
Lucy pulls back after a moment. She looks just like she did when she was sent off to school in the morning: her hair neatly brushed and braided, her skirt unwrinkled, her shirt sleeves buttoned at her wrists. She giggles after a moment. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Serena scrunches up her nose, makes a face. "Because I love you, Luce," she says easily before turning to Trixie. "Come on. Let's clean up that knee and we can talk about what we want for a snack."
"Mommy, no," Trixie pouts. "It's going to hurt."
"But you were so brave when you fell," Serena says coaxingly, steering both girls toward the downstairs washroom. "You can be brave again..."
"I would've cried," Lucy nods. "But you didn't."
Serena smiles softly at Lucy, steers Trixie to sit on the side of the bathtub. "It'll only sting for a minute, sweetie," she soothes. "Lucy will hold your hand; won't you, Luce?"
Lucy nods, happy to be given a job, and sits next to her sister, takes her hand. "Can we have applesauce? For a snack? And crackers."
"Sure," Serena says absently, pulling out the first aid kit. "What do you think, Trix, does that sound good?"
Trixie nods, biting her lip apprehensively.
"It'll be fine," Serena promises her as she kneels down in front of them. "Just a little sting..."
Trixie nods again, takes a deep breath, and squeezes her eyes shut. Instinctively, Lucy does too.
Serena sits back on her heels and just looks at them for a minute, her little girls. They're identical, completely, and it's always impossible for strangers to tell them apart. When they were born, she'd memorized the heart-shape birthmark on the bottom of Trixie's foot obsessively, terrified that she wouldn't be able to tell her own babies apart.
But the differences had been there right from the beginning. Trixie had wailed as a newborn, Lucy had whimpered a little and been quiet after that. Trixie woke them up more often in the middle of the night, demanded attention more frequently, was eager to hold her own bottle and get on her own feet. Lucy did everything more slowly, more carefully - she liked to be held for longer, liked to be cuddled, worried at the thought of independence. The only first she preceded Trixie to was speaking; she said mama two weeks earlier. The differences expanded as they grew older, as they turned into their own little people with distinct personalities, so like one another and yet such opposites in some respects.
Serena can pinpoint every minute difference between her daughters, every similarity, too, but the simplest way to put it is this: Trixie is like her, and Lucy is just like Dan.
"You're not listening to me."
He snaps back to attention, his eyes settling on his fiancee's face - and realizing then that she's angry with him. "I'm sorry," he says earnestly, brushing her hair back from her face, tucking a lock of it behind her ear. "I'm listening now."
Her jaw is set; she won't forgive him easily, those days are long gone. "I'm trying to plan our wedding. The least you could do is pay attention."
"I am paying attention," he sighs. "But you've had your wedding planned since you were a little girl. I thought you knew exactly what you wanted."
"My groom was supposed to be interested in our wedding," she huffs.
"You're groom was supposed to be Nate," he volleys back.
She glares, huffs, "Chuck."
"It's true, Blair," he sighs.
"It's irrelevant," she corrects. "I said yes to your proposal."
"The second time," he murmurs.
She glares at him, snaps, "Chuck," in a way that isn't playful in the slightest, and he remembers agreeing with their therapist that the past was to be worked through and then left behind.
"Sorry," he mumbles, glancing back at his newspaper wistfully.
"Would you prefer that I just plan this entire wedding while all you have to do is show up on the day?" she asks tightly.
"No," he sighs. "Of course not."
"This has to be my perfect wedding," she says softly, seriously. "You know what a disaster my last one was."
"Hm," he murmurs, sympathetic but vague, because he doesn't know, not entirely - she's never really told him about it, about how it had been for her.
She sighs, setting the seating chart in front of this. "Look at this," she says firmly, before dialling the caterer's number.
"You're bossy today," he comments, smirking over at her, but she's already absorbed in her phone call.
Nate walks back into his townhouse just in time to hear his phone ringing, and he grabs it quickly, still breathless from his run as he answers, "Hello?"
"Well, hello, stranger," a familiar voice says in his ear.
He grins, laughing a little. "Hey, Penny, what's up?"
She heaves a small sigh, the way she always does when he calls her that. "Your publicist called me this morning...early this morning."
"Oh, yeah?" he asks, moving toward the fridge and taking the orange juice out, drinking a gulp right out of the carton.
"She wanted to know if I would be attending our high school reunion with you," she says. "I had to tell her that I didn't know."
He chuckles. "Can't say I'm surprised. Annabeth loves you, she's always pushing for me to propose."
"Oh?" Penelope asks, a prim hint of curiosity in her voice. "I thought you were playing up your bachelor image at the moment."
"I am, I guess. But Annabeth thinks it's important for me to settle down," he says with a small role of his eyes. "In a year or two."
"You're supposed to date for at least three years before you propose," she tells him blithely. "Everyone knows that."
He laughs. "Oh, everyone knows that, huh?"
"They do," she insists. "And while you know that I enjoy being your occasional arm candy...I wouldn't be opposed."
"I know," he says more softly, sobering. "I do, but really...it's not you, honestly, I would just...I don't think I'm the guy you want to marry."
"It is you, then," she points out. "If you think that."
He sighs. "Got me there."
"Let me know," she says briskly. "About the reunion." She smacks her lips by the phone and then hangs up before he can even say goodbye.
Nate sets down his phone and gets out the cereal instead. It nags at him sometimes, this thing he's doing with Penelope. They have fun together, more fun than he ever imagined they could, if he's being honest, but there's an odd imbalance in their relationship. He knows how she feels about him, what she wants from him, an heirloom ring and his last name, and it wouldn't be fair to keep letting her want those things if he didn't want them at all.
He is, however, entirely unsure about what he wants. Much of what he's done in the past few years has been chosen for him: Tripp ran for senator and Grandfather had lured him into the race for congressman before he'd really realized what it meant for him, what he'd agreed to. It was a surprise to be elected and he's proud of it, he thinks he's good at his job - he tries to be, anyway.
But it all feels so planned, so perfectly laid out by others. He knows - he's always known - that Penelope could fit into this picture easily. Her parents are wealthy and she's been a consistently classy socialite, no party pictures or scandals in her past. They photograph well together and he knows that she could easily be his wife, could easily organize charities and head committees. But he also knows that her feelings for him are genuine, and he can't exploit that.
He could marry her so easily. They could leak pictures of the two of them doing the things couples do - getting lunch, holding hands, going to the opera - and it would come out as news, their official relationship. He could probably only wait two years before popping the question, and there's no question of what her answer would be. The wedding would be elaborate, her gown gorgeous, the guest list expansive, and their picture would be on Page Six. It would be the easiest thing.
It nags at him, though, the idea that this isn't the life he chose for himself. Marrying Penelope would be like marrying Blair would have been once upon a time; perfect, approved by his family, approved by his constituents.
He pours milk into his cereal, thinks that he was never sure if he wanted that, if he wanted the perfect life, the perfect wife.
The milk splashes over the edge of his bowl, pooling on the counter, and he sighs, staring at it for a beat.
There was a time when he'd wanted much more of a mess.
It is eerily quiet in the penthouse at night.
Blair's not sure where Chuck is at this hour; perhaps it's a meeting running late, or maybe he went to get drinks with his associates. He would have told her, if she'd asked, but she doesn't ask much anymore.
This is her home now, the Penthouse suite of the Empire Hotel. It isn't their only house - they have a residence in Paris not too far from her mother and Cyrus, as well as house for vacationing in Ibiza, but officially, this is their home.
It still feels like Chuck's suite most of the time, even though she's been living here since they got engaged. They're both so busy; the tabloids call them a power couple but in reality they're a couple with very little time on their hands. Chuck is busy with business in Amercia during the day and business on other continents at night, and Blair is busy with phone calls from Paris and Milan at all hours and, for the last sixteen months, wedding planning.
She wanted to get married in December at first; she had visions of snowflakes drifting slowly from the sky, of a small, chic jacket to wear over her gown. But those were the visions of her childhood, visions that included Nate, visions that she'd left behind long ago. She decided on October instead, the eighth, hoping that it would be a day of orange leaves and bright skies, completely different from her childhood fantasies, completely different from the nightmare her wedding to Louis had turned out to be.
Everything is set for the day. The invitations have been mailed out, her father and Cyrus have agreed to walk her down the aisle, and the menu has been chosen. Penelope will be her maid of honour, Nate will be the best man, and she'd decided against other bridesmaids and groomsmen. It will be perfect, she's determined to make it so.
In the empty, quiet penthouse, in a bedroom half-lit by a sole bedside lamp, Blair takes off her dress, laying it neatly in the pile to be sent for dry-cleaning. She sets her shoes back into her closet and unhooks her bra, tosses it carelessly on a chair. She studies her reflection in the floor length mirror, pressing a palm against her flat stomach for a beat and then turning to the side to inspect her profile critically. A few locks of her hair tumble out of her carefully constructed chignon and over her shoulders.
She moves away from the mirror after a few moments, going back to her closet and taking out the wedding dress that is tucked carefully into the very back, out of sight. She takes it off of its hanger gingerly and steps into it. She pulls it up carefully, settling the bodice around her breasts, smoothing the fabric of her hips, before she reaches around herself to zip it up.
She can't quite get the zipper done up completely, but that's alright, for now; it's almost a perfect picture. She pins the flyaway strands of her hair up again and stares at herself in the mirror. She envisions a bouquet, and a smile. She imagines that Penelope is there, holding the train of her dress. She thinks of the way her father will smile, of the way Cyrus will hug her. She thinks, hopes, wishes, that Chuck will tell her that she's beautiful.
"I do," she says aloud, softly, into the empty air of the penthouse.
The words don't seem to take up any room at all.
"Hey," Dan murmurs from the doorway. He huffs a quiet laugh a beat later, says softly, "I go away for two days and they took over my side of the bed..."
Serena glances up from the wedding magazine she's browsing through idly, smiling briefly at him before looking down at their daughters, curled up and fast asleep on his side of the bed. "You know I suck at being bad cop," she murmurs. "And they missed you."
His eyebrows lift. "Is that the party line? You missed me, too?"
Her smile stretches a little. "I did..."
He smiles back at her, moving around the bed to her side of it and touching her cheek, tilting her mouth against his for a kiss. "I missed you, too."
Serena smiles at him, soft and genuine, and he brushes his thumb over her bottom lip. "Really?" she asks quietly.
"It's impossible not to miss you," he says easily, the words light. He kisses her again. "You're the most missable person I know," he murmurs to her. "Besides..." He tilts his head toward the girls. "Those two."
Serena's eyes flicker over his face, searching for something, though he's not sure what. "I love you," she whispers.
"Come here," he whispers back, taking her hands in both of his, pulling her up out of bed.
Two minutes later they're in the bathroom, the door locked behind them, and she's perched on the counter, her legs wrapped tight around his waist, breathing his name against his teeth as he pushes the hem of her nightgown up around her hips, and he forgets to ask her about the invitations he'd seen sitting on the kitchen counter.
tbc.