Disclaimer - I don't own Gossip Girl, nor do I own Chuck and Blair sadly.

A/N - I know I should be updating Five Doors Down, but I had this idea ever since I saw stills from the next episode (Oh Brother where Bart Thou). So now I've finally gotten a chance to write this, here it is :) Hope you enjoy.

For the Night

It's the first time she's ever really had to be the strong one. Serena has Aaron and Dan and Eric and probably even Nate if she wanted. And Chuck? Well, all Chuck has is Blair, and even then he doesn't really have her because weeks ago he'd told her that she would never have him.

Still, there she is, black dress just skimming her thighs, not intentionally provocatively, but she'd made sure that the hemline was just high enough to reveal the tops of her lace stockings, because that way, if the service had gotten too much for Chuck, he'd have been able to look in her direction, if only for a second, to forget he was at his father's funeral.

She doesn't know whether he had, but figures that wasn't the point anyway.

Blair had never liked Bart, partly because her mother never had either, partly because she knew he'd never loved Chuck, and partly for some reason unknown to her. Still, she'd wished countless times that he hadn't been in that accident, not for selfish reasons, but because Chuck had seemed so lost that she wasn't quite sure how to behave.

And then she'd figured that her reasoning was selfish anyway, because the only grounds she had for wanting Chuck not to be lost was because while he was, he wasn't scheming or plotting or trying to unnerve her at every available opportunity.

So when it had gotten to 2pm, and the guests had started to fill the penthouse, wine and vodka flowing way too carelessly, Blair had slipped into 1812, looked the door behind her (as he was, of course, the only one who had a key: she knew other ways of getting past the solid dark wood) and set aside two glasses of scotch, one notably larger than the other for his arrival.

He'd not told her he'd be there, but the look on his face as he sunk back against the closed door after entering showed he wasn't surprised, but appreciative.

Grabbing the fuller glass from Blair's outstretched hand, Chuck takes a gulp, letting the liquid line his throat in one go, before handing it back to her silently for another.

All the while, she says nothing, just pours and sips, refills and sips, tracing her delicate fingertips around the ornamental decanter. She refuses to tell him he's had enough, refuses to let any sign of judgement flow from her eyes or her lips or her hands as she crosses one sheer leg over the other.

Chuck nods at her appearance. He doesn't growl or lick his lips or narrow his eyes to take in every meticulous detail. He doesn't run a hand from her ankle to her thigh, doesn't trace delicate circles across her silk skin, won't tell her she looks amazing or beautiful or slutty even. And yet it doesn't matter because his eyes still tells her the way he feeling, and for all the times she'd wished she couldn't read him, Blair's now glad she has that power. If she hadn't, she might not have stayed.

Taking a sip of the scotch from her glass, she closes her own eyes tight at the burning sensation. She'd always hated scotch; he knew that, but she drinks it anyway because champagne is hardly appropriate considering the situation.

And then he opens his mouth, the first time in too many hours, yet his words aren't what she expects to hear. "I think Lily's been having an affair with Rufus Humphrey."

"Dan's dad?" She questions, immediately regretting it. Her voice is too loud, her tone too abrupt, and besides, her question was stupid: how many Rufus Humphreys did she know?

Chuck simply nods, sighs and runs a hand through his unkempt hair.

"I think..." He begins, staring into the liquid he's swirling around his glass. "I think I'm going to go and live with my Uncle for a bit."

"Where?"

"Miami."

She wants to tell him that Florida is too far away for her to visit when she has school. She wants to smack him across the chest like she would have done if his father hadn't just died, make him realise it's a stupid idea. What was there for him in Florida?

"But you hate the sun."

He shrugs. "Maybe. But it's better than here."

"Chuck..."

She's cut off by his glass being hurled at the wall, shattering into a million tiny pieces around her, brown scotch staining her perfect dress. He makes a loud noise that's somewhere between groaning and shouting, and then he throws everything from the sideboard onto the floor in a heap, ornaments breaking, paper tearing, and all the while Blair just sits and watches silently, because she's just not sure what to do anymore.

Even when the photograph of his mother lays motionless on the floor underneath its shattered silver frame he doesn't cry. Just curls up on the bed with his back to her, knees close to his chest and he rocks, back and forward and back and forward, again and again until she puts down her glass on the now empty sideboard, breathing out as slowly as she can so as not to make any sudden sounds.

Her footsteps across the carpet are silent (they always were that anyway), and she slips her shoes off beside the valance, Egyptian cotton grazing her ankles as she lifts her leg high enough to land her on the bed beside him in one swift movement.

He doesn't even turn his head when she lays down next to him, her chest pressed up against his back, but she feels his breath hitch slightly in his throat, and Blair figures that's something. He doesn't move when she places a hand on top of his and she doesn't speak when he moves his thumb so that he's holding her instead.

Chuck still doesn't cry when she nestles her lips against his neck, just below his hair, but finally stops rocking as he feels her mouth against his skin.

Please don't leave.

"Blair." His voice is strange then against the soft calm, but she keeps her peace and stays still. "If I could find a way to tell how much I love you, I'd do it."

She curves her lips against his skin in a smile. "I'll settle."

When he turns to kiss her, just doesn't move her lips, doesn't kiss back, doesn't open her mouth any wider. It's not about her now.

"I don't want for you to settle."

She'd explain, if they weren't how they are, that that's not what she meant. Maybe she'd roll her eyes and tell him that she'd just have to settle is it meant a life free from the losers trying to attach themselves to her in the halls at Constance.

So she does what she can, and traces confident words across his back with her index finger. Even with her joined handwriting, she knows he's understood when his thumb presses into the skin of her free hand and he moves back so that she's closer still.

"I need to get out of here." He tells her again. "Not Miami, just...out."

When his weight shifts, Blair takes the hint and removes herself from the bed linen. She's about to tell him to call her when he gets back, just so she knows he's home, but when he raises his eyebrows and hands her one of his jackets, something inside of her twangs as she realises he wants her with him.

"Your dress." Chuck gestures to the brown stain he'd caused earlier.

She only shrugs. "Doesn't matter."

-

Blair thinks that if she were with anyone else right now, her knees would be clattering against each other in desperate hope for some warmth, for some higher denier stockings or jeans even. It's Manhattan and it's December and it's effing freezing, but somehow the way his hand is clutching at her cardigan hem, just underneath the jacket he'd leant her is keeping her warm.

She'd snuggle, if they weren't Chuck and Blair, or in public, or walking the streets of Manhattan post-funeral. She'd kiss him if he wasn't sad and broken and utterly lost. She doesn't want to heighten his confusion more: she'll be compassionate now, for the moment at least.

If he hadn't just lost his last parent, she'd pretend that she hates the Christmas lights they're walking under, scowl and mutter that the holiday season doesn't need to be celebrated so...dramatically. But secretly she loves this street for its lights, and she knows he knows. So perhaps if she wasn't counting calories or conscious of who might be watching, she'd order them a hot chocolate each to enjoy while they gaze, maybe ask for marshmallows because although Chuck pretends to hate the mini pink and white candy, she knows he loves them really.

If it wasn't for the night, they'd admit their secrets, even though they both know they're not really secret anymore anyway.

When they turn the corner and she sees the old movie theatre, and Chuck doesn't turn to head in the other direction, Blair knows where they're going. He hands some money silently to the cashier, doesn't wait for change and tells her she'll want popcorn.

He pays for that too, and she stays beside him silently, that same thing inside of her twanging as his hands pass under the cardigan to rest on the material of her dress.

"I should have brought you here a long time ago."

Blair shakes her head. "It doesn't matter."

"No." He breathes into her hair. "It does."

-

"I'd sit here all night." She tells him as Audrey graces the large screen and Blair simply marvels at the plush red velvet curtains.

If she could, she'd sit herself in his lap, because she really just wants to be as close to him as she can get, if not for his own sake. She figures if she's close and his hands are on her, then there'll be no room for a gun or a knife or a razor blade. She's not scared of him, just of what he might do to himself.

If she had the courage, she'd remove every pill in that damn penthouse.

"We'll stay." He whispers in her ear, not to give her an answer she guesses, but because it makes her skin tingle and her eyes roll and she catches a small smirk when her fingers grip the arms of the seat.

"But how-"

"Shh." He whispers again. "We'll stay."

If she dared, she'd drape her feet across his legs. She'd let him stroke her hair and kiss her temples and rest his hands on her stomach. If they weren't them, she'd tell him she loved him out loud, and he wouldn't need a long-winded sentence explaining what he would do if certain things were in certain ways.

If they weren't them, they wouldn't have needed a damn funeral to be here.

-

They'd had to be silent when the usher had done his last inspections for the night. They'd crouched, hidden, and somewhere, Blair was convinced she'd slipped a disc in her back, or something else as ridiculous. But when the main lights had gone off, and a select few side lights dimmed the surroundings so that everything was a luscious shade of midnight, he'd kissed her like she'd wanted him to since the night in her bedroom.

"I told you we'd stay."

His voice is husky and laced with fever. But she still can't get over the look in his eyes that says he's completely and utterly destroyed. So she'll stay, if only for the night, if that's what he needs.

If he needs forever, she'd gladly oblige.

He sits her on top of him, removes his jacket from around her shoulders, followed by her cardigan, and then his lips are on every inch of her exposed skin. If she'd have known, she'd have worn a more inappropriate dress.

Her hands fumble with his tie, and when she realises she's not in control, Blair slows herself down because tonight is different.

Chuck's hands are the opposite. They're patient and nimble and when he reaches for the buttons on her dress, he doesn't rip at the row of tiny black circles, but merely smiles, kisses across her collarbone each time one is undone.

Now she's glad of the dress and its inconvenient styling.

And when he finally slips inside of her, no torturing, no filth, no dirty looks or remarks, she lets him lick and curl and trace, doesn't grab at his hair or scrape her fingernails down his back, scream for him to go faster or harder or further, because this is for him.

This is for the night.