A/N: Yeah I've never tried this fandom before. I hope it works out. Please let me know, good or bad. It was mostly spawned by frustration with plot holes and how the series ended; I haven't ever actually seen any of season five or season six, so it's probably at least slightly AU from the end of season 3 with canon-based bits here and there. It begins about a year and a half after the finale, although I don't know when the finale was set so I'm also just starting where I want. If the writers can re-write history to make Dan Gossip Girl, I can do what I want here, right?

If all goes as planned, this will be four parts, with each part having three months of the year the title mentions. The title and inspiration is taken from 'Farewell, December' by Matt Nathanson. Thank you for reading and replying and whatever, even if it's been a long time and I'm doing something new.

Disclaimer: I don't own Gossip Girl. That's all Cecily von Ziegesar and, like, a few people at the CW that probably shouldn't take credit for much after about season three.

January

Nate likes his life, now. He does. He's used to the attention, and honestly he usually does what he can to draw it to himself. Running for mayor of New York City is a situation where you want to attract attention and get people talking. At the same time, though, there are times when it's nice to just be alone.

He's actually alone quite a bit these days, at least behind closed doors, and it's kind of nice. He works, pretty much always, and doesn't have trouble finding a date if he needs one but he doesn't want one. Feelings about public service, running the newspaper, being focused—those are a lot simpler than really dwelling on matters of the heart. It isn't he's shut that part of himself off, exactly, but he's put it in perspective and he's a lot happier for it.

It doesn't hurt that his married friends don't have much time for him. He isn't part of their club and he's too busy to be bitter about it. He has other things to fill his time—the paper, all the things that are required to be visible enough to run for office, maybe a little preoccupation with how his mother's doing since he barely gets to talk to her and sees her even less. They've never had an extremely close or warm relationship but they've never had a terrible one either, so he wants her to be happy and healthy at the very least. He knows, in some ways, they're all the other has by way of close family connections. At this point, Grandfather is more of a professional or political connection, even if he doesn't need or want that. So yes, since he hasn't completely surrendered to the world he lives in, he thinks about his mother more often than he's willing to admit.

Still, though, absolutely none of that means he doesn't relish the chance to slip the disaster, the armed guard, the photographers, and prying eyes…all so he can hide in the crowd at Times Square for a bit. There's something freeing about blending in and looking around, which sounds completely backwards but it isn't. And also something in knowing that his rep would kill him if she knew this was happening. So would the mother he was just thinking of, and Blair, and Chuck—anyone who thought it posed a danger to him in any way. Let's face it, though, the danger is there. Someone is always crazy enough to try and off a public figure—even if he isn't president or anything—for a little bit of notoriety and attention. It's like a gamble and God knows he's always enjoyed one, at least a little.

That lasts five minutes. Not because someone does anything to hurt him, but because someone recognizes him—and not someone from the press or the public. Someone from that life where the married people don't have time for him.

Someone he hasn't seen since he let her get away, in a gold dress and marrying the man he knows is the wrong one. It's what she wants, though, and she swore she was happy and over him and it didn't leave him much of a leg to stand on. So he let her go and he hasn't called, even when he's thought about her.

She looks better than she has in his head or behind his eyelids on the occasions he dreams about her.

"Nate," she says, her voice barely more than a sharp whisper. He turns and grins slowly. It doesn't hurt to see her, not really.

No, she's never been so pretty – so beautiful – it hurt just to look at her and know she didn't want him.

He's a politician now, which means he's a liar by trade.

"Serena," he says, not diving toward her and hugging her like he would've. In fact, he takes a step back and has to apologize for bumping into someone before they can say anything else.

"Are you here alone?" She asks. Yes, she's married and she shouldn't, but they're friends. Or they once were. They were a hell of a lot more than friends. She watches, and she worries in that way she does where no one else knows it's happening because she still has a ready smile. Anyway, she knows it's virtually impossible to actually get him alone. Maybe it's only impossible for her, because she knows he occasionally has Scotch and cigars (not really cigars, but they're business men and they're never admitting they still toke up every now and again) with Chuck. She knows he buys off Henry's nanny for an afternoon here and there to do something Blair usually finds incredibly pedestrian, like build Legos or play video games. Serena hasn't seen him alone since they shared a dance at her wedding, and that was still in a room full of people so it wasn't really alone.

She hasn't actually seen him even once since then. That was over a year and a half ago.

He doesn't know why he glances over his shoulder. He knows he's alone. He didn't bring his cell phone. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt under a very casual coat (it has a hood and no collar or lapels and the woman who 'helps him' shop for clothing would be horrified) in public, for the first time in forever except the time he was "caught" jogging in the park as part of a being-seen strategy. There isn't a representative, an image coach, a campaign manager, or a Vanderbilt anywhere in sight. "Yeah," he says with a leading tone. Something riles the crowd up, though, and it interrupts. He steps a little closer to her and puts his hand on her elbow. It's mostly to keep them together as the crowd tightens around them. "Are you?"

Serena smiles that wide, closed-mouth smile he's still not convinced anyone else even knows about, while she nods. It's conspiratorial, but not in a devious way. In some ways, he created that smile of hers and it's his favorite. And he almost hates she can undo all the progress he's made pretending he's moving on.

(He is. He's just married to his job now. He's in love with public office and attention and it doesn't hurt that he ends up with free meals or coffee with phone numbers penned on the side in hopeful ink because… yeah, he's still not hard on the eyes and he knows that. Plus he's polite; Chuck's never been convinced it's an effective life strategy, being nice. Nate knows otherwise and it gets him his way more often than not.)

He doesn't know what he'll get from it this time, but the smile he gives her back is nice. It isn't all that polite. "Interesting," he comments lightly. He's already looking for an escape, though. Not an escape from her, an escape for the both of them. He finally thinks of something and seizes her hand. "Come with me," he adds, like he was giving her a choice.

They end up on the roof at the Empire. Once upon a time, it would've been hosting a New Year's Eve party, but they've all moved on. The place has transformed from young vibrancy to old-world elegance as Chuck has grown up. The Empire has grown with him. Nate's not in the mood for a cigar room or freshly-warmed cognac with a dignitary. He wants the rooftop, even if the party stays private—maybe most especially if it does.

"We shouldn't be up here," Serena admits. It's cold, and her clothes are always a little too small for the weather, but she doesn't want to shiver. She doesn't want his jacket, and she knows he'd give it to her without a second thought. He'd drape it over her shoulders and… even though they've got the market on inappropriate conduct cornered… she wishes for a split second it wasn't all so familiar. She doesn't want it. Not like this.

He just shrugs, and it would be annoying if it wasn't so him from ten years ago. "Who cares?"

She laughs. "I don't. I don't have anywhere better to be."

He sighs. "I had invitations to four different parties, including Blair and Chuck's," he admits, coming to stand next to her. "I didn't want to be anywhere else."

"You're never anywhere anymore," she says. Yeah, she's pouting a little. "I miss you, Nate."

Nate glances over at her, not chancing more than a glance. As much as he can say he's put the way he felt about her on ice, it's not entirely true. He's always known he'll always feel the way he felt about her. It's just a fact. And, like rainy days and Mondays, it always comes around to drag him down. The only chance it had to do anything else was the brief moment she chose him. No, he's not walking around a big ball of hurt feelings and jumbled up, complex emotions. He's not angry or devastated or anything like that—it's all quieter and more accepted. Not quite numb, but not as stabbing as it was for so long. His glance turns into a stare when he realizes it doesn't hurt to turn his head that far.

He was hers, but she wasn't his. She never really has been. Rainy days. Mondays.

The way things had been, the way things were. The way they are.

When he doesn't answer, she braves a question he does hate. "Do you miss me, too?" Her voice is impossibly small, and he knows, without her adding it, she knows how selfish the question sounds.

Because she is that selfish. She always has been and he's loved her anyway.

"I try not to think about it," he says. That's one thing he's always been – honest. Well, except the times he wasn't but there's really only one example he can remember for certain where that was the case. "I have enough going on without thinking on what I'm missing."

"Anniversary parties," she answers. "Birthdays. Old traditions."

So… she's listing things he's missing by not being one of the married insiders? Great.

"Do you know how selfish you sound?" He manages, his words breathy and disbelieving. He peels his eyes away from her, but he feels her steel beside him. "You can't have it both ways, Serena. You never could and that was always the problem. Your decision is made – and so is mine. I've never been afraid to commit."

Yeah, he's talking about his job, but he's talking about their history, too.

All it takes for them to turn back into themselves, as friends, is a joke about him maybe needing to be committed, since he's living the life he always swore he didn't want – and a bottle of champagne he 'do you know who I am's his way into down at the bar.

They actually bring in the new year at midnight, together, with champagne and silence.

And the knowledge that, no matter how much they outwardly let go of each other, they'll always need the silences shared together to rejuvenate them when they get tired of pretending.

February

Jenny Humphrey never really straightened her life out. Instead of selling the drugs, she started doing them with the models she clothed for some designer he can't pretend to name. She never got her own design company off the ground because she trusted the wrong guy to handle her money.

She overdoses in SoHo during fashion week.

Nate and Serena end up alone together on the roof of the Empire after her funeral.

He wasn't actually allowed to attend. He wasn't completely sure he wanted to, or he would've pushed it, but he didn't want to draw the attention he'd inevitably bring to such a painful family affair. Some things need to remain as private as possible and, honestly, it's a sacrifice he's willing to make. The people who are always with him are downstairs, though. Even if he has some space to think things over, it isn't much. He's not surprised to see her when she walks through the double glass doors. He's halfway through the bottle of Scotch, not even bothering with the ceremony of glasses, and he just hands it to her without a word and without a smile.

"I never forgave her for breaking us up," Serena admits after her first drink.

"She's your sister-in-law," he protests incredulously, taking his bottle back right from her hands. "And she's not what broke us up."

"Well she definitely didn't help the situation."

"I didn't talk to her at the wedding. Yours, I mean." There was a long time before he said that. He doesn't want to talk about Serena's wedding, pretty much ever. In fact, he's not sure which he wants to talk about the least – the Humphrey wedding or the Humphrey funeral. "I'm supposed to go upstate for a few days to some college campuses. Speeches and things like that."

She appreciates the subject change and smiles, changes her tone to lightly teasing. She wishes she could just go back to a college campus and have it be that easy; it'd be a nice little rewind button. "So what you're saying is, in the next few days, you're going to spend more time on a campus than any stretch before in your life."

His jaw drops and he laughs, even though he doesn't want to because her joke was terrible. He bumps her shoulder with his. "No, that's you. I actually finished my degree."

That should not make it hard for her to breathe. It all goes back to his statement, last time, that he's never had trouble committing. She has enough trouble staying in one place, or had done, that she didn't even know one of her closest… something (she can't call him a friend because he's so much more than that)… was a graduate. "You did? When?"

"I, um… my dad broke his parole and got caught. I didn't go to any of the graduation stuff because they were extraditing him that same afternoon." He admits. "Everyone else had a lot going on so I just…."

"What, put the paper in a drawer and forgot about it for the last five years?"

"It's in a frame," he says quietly, but now he is smiling. "In a box. It might be in the back of my closet. I'm not really sure where it went when I moved in, actually." He takes a healthy drink from the bottle when he considers that because… it's like… pieces of his life, ones that seemed really important, and now he has no idea what actually happened to them.

On some level, Jenny and Serena are included with that. The only one of his friendships that's fallen by the wayside, and he knows how it got there, is the one with Dan.

"I don't even know where you live anymore." Maybe because of the words that just popped out, she steals the bottle from him. Like as it's pressed to his mouth. He chokes a little and they both spill and it shouldn't be funny, but before he knows it, they're sitting down, backs to the wall and shoes coming off. The both smell like Scotch and they're laughing their asses off. They used to do stuff like this all the time and it feels like them.

He likes it way too much.

"The Lower East Side," he says quietly. Eventually. Like way after she made the statement and they got all riled up.

"That's not very close."

He doesn't know what to say, so he shrugs. It's not very new and not very much like the grown-up him all at the same time. It's not like he told her he'd stay still, stay in the place she left him all those years ago. In fact, he'd told her the opposite. What did she expect?

His head can't really be indignant about it, because she expects the same thing she's always gotten from him. Their whole lives, he was there for her and said she could count on him –always—and she knew where to find him. Her not knowing where he's lived for the last nine months is actually a pretty big deal. On a day with a funeral, no matter how close the deceased was to them when she died, it doesn't seem totally right.

"Grab your shoes," he says finally. They leave the Empire for the Lower East Side and don't really look back and they don't care who sees them, shoes in hand, walking out together, a little less than sober and in all kinds of disarray. (With his "supervisors" behind them. God.)

March

She shows up on his doorstep on a rainy afternoon. He's actually been working from home, a little under the weather, but nothing he can't manage. Well… until she's there and she kind of looks exhausted and he wants to ask questions. Mostly, he's off his game because he doesn't feel great and he's surprised to see her, so he just lets her in without saying anything. He offers her a small smile, because that's exactly how much energy he has on him at that moment, and closes the door behind her before he crosses the apartment and finds his spot on the couch. He pulls his laptop into his lap before he realizes she hasn't come into the room very far at all.

"What?" He asks. It isn't the first time she's been here, exactly, but she looks monumentally uncomfortable and completely uncertain.

"Did you… hire a decorator?" She asks, cocking her hip and setting a hand on it. He knows it's a modeling pose she's used more than once and it's no less attractive on her at twenty-five than it was on her at twelve or fifteen or eighteen or when they dated and she would model his shirts for him. He never did find that blue one she loved after she moved out. Anyway, he's distracted, which he'll blame on the Nyquil he took an hour ago, and she's talking. "I should be insulted. No, Blair should be insulted."

"My mom," he finally manages, needing to clear his throat. She smiles and relaxes a little and moves to sit next to him.

"Don't you get sick days?" Serena asks, and he wants to laugh. She's a lot of things, really, and she understands so many things about the real world. She understands a lot of hard things. A non-stop workload, how to function in a long-term job… not on the list of things she understands. She gets bored too easily, which he learned the hard way when he tried to give her a job.

Actually, he does laugh. He thought the smile used up his energy, but he was wrong. The gentle laughter does it, but he can't think of a better thing to use it on.

"No," he says, still smiling fondly at her because she's her. If he still knows her, whether he's sick or has work to do soon won't matter. She's really bad at stopping by for no reason. Obviously. He doesn't even need to ask because she'll tell him eventually.

"Do you remember when you told me you were here for me always?" She begins. He's glad for her voice, honestly, because it wakes him. The sound of rain against the large window pane, placed to give him a view of a bunch of other buildings, was lulling him.

He clears his throat again. "Of course."

"You look tired."

"No you look tired. I look fine. What were you saying?" He redirects neatly with some light teasing.

"Did that include my marriage failing?" She asks, her voice low. "Because I could really use someone, and I'd like it to be you. I don't know why, it's just always…"

There are a hundred ways he could finish the sentence she lets trail. He doesn't say a single one, though, he just sits there with her – right there, where he said he'd be. This time, though, he's waiting patiently like he said he wouldn't. It takes her a while to speak and, though his eyes are heavy and his head is medicine-cloudy, he doesn't fall asleep while he waits.

"Dan is still grieving," she finally says. He closes his laptop and sets it aside like he should've done from the beginning. He doesn't want to know but she needs to tell him. "Maybe that's all it is, but there's this distance. He doesn't feel like he can talk to me about Jenny, and he's absolutely right. He's never been able to before."

Nate could guess who Dan had talked to about Jenny before; he sees where this is going but he just sits there and, contrary to the way the silence stretches between them, is interested to see what she says.

"I think he's relying on Vanessa for support – but when he's gone, it's for a day or two at a time." She shakes her head. "I'm not sure what they're doing. I'm sure there's a lot of talking and some drinking. The thing that concerns me is how many of their private rituals they're observing. For as much as Dan likes to complain about our history… he has just as rich of a history with Vanessa."

He opens his mouth to say something (he has no idea what it will be, even as he does), but he's saved by a cough that he doesn't want to admit has gotten away from him a little bit. He doesn't need to anyway because he feels the way she's looking at him.

"You should probably get that checked," she says. "Your people aren't taking care of you."

And he really doesn't want to get into it; maybe he reverts into some sort of small child when he doesn't feel well or something, but he can't stop the onslaught of thoughts – she was supposed to be one of his people. She said she was always there for him, but it's all somehow gotten away from them again. Her people were supposed to take care of her so he wouldn't have to go through this anymore. The cough isn't the most painful thing he's faced in the past several minutes.

He just shakes his head. "I'm fine," is all that actually comes out. "It sounds like you need to talk to Dan."

"I'm a little afraid of what he'll say."

The most steady thing about him is the way he looks at her. He can't help it—that will probably always be true. "I can tell you what he isn't going to say – you're not your mother just because you guys hit a rough patch. And he's probably not even going to say –" the next cough cuts him off and she won't let him finish.

She isn't like her mother for other reasons, though. She makes soup – he can only assume either Rufus or Dan has taught her how – from the meager offerings of his kitchen, forces him to eat it and then drink a bunch of water. He isn't sure how long she stays, since she's gone the next morning when he wakes up, but he knows she was there when he finally fell asleep.