Title: Trouble Is Her Only Friend
Author: heythereanna (Anna)
Pairings: Brooke/Nate, Rachel/Chuck
Rating: MATURE; Language, Adult Content
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing, even though I wish I could take Mark Schwahn's position and remake seasons four through eight of One Tree Hill.
Author's Note:
Playlist: Leave A Light On, Tom Walker. Power, Isak Danielson. Grace, Rachel Platten. Almost In Love, Olivia O'Brien. Brave, Jhene Aiko. Take Yourself Home, Troye Sivan. Pill For This (from Songland), Sam DeRosa.

- - - - x - - - -

Of all the things that Brooke would have imagined that she'd be doing in her new post-grad life, running through New York City at daybreak would be right at the very bottom. She likes her sleep, she likes her jet black coffee that jolts her awake and the morning yoga that makes it possible for her to still have the flexibility of her sixteen year old cheerleader body. It's usually her calmest time of the day. And yet here she is, jogging through Central Park on a Sunday, at five in the morning before the rest of the city has even woken up yet - because she hasn't even gone to sleep yet.

It's not that she hadn't wanted to, she reasons as her feet pound the pavement at a leisurely speed. She actually prefers to appear well rested, to not have to throw on layer and layer of concealer just to disguise her dark circles or throw half a bottle of Visine in her eyes to satisfy their bloodshot appearance. She would love to go back to her hotel room and pull the covers up to her nose, to breathe in The Plaza's signature lavender water linen spray and catch a few hours of sleep before she goes to her off the books brunch meeting with Dan Humphrey - which is what she'd been attempting since the sun that's currently peeking over the treeline had set.

She'd tossed and turned like a banshee, ripping apart the perfectly made bed with her restless movements. She'd tried listening to relaxing music, audiobooks on the history of fashion, even downloaded a meditation app on her phone. She'd ordered chamomile tea to calm her nerves, mindlessly watched Friends re-runs, everything. But nothing, and she meant nothing, could get her mind to slow down and let her fade into even a semblance of sleep. And so when the clock she'd been agonizing over hit four in the morning - which hadn't ever been a real time in her morning routine, Brooke had said fuck it. She'd thrown on a pair of yoga leggings with her oversized Duke cheer t-shirt, tossed her unruly hair up in a ponytail and literally ran out the door of her hotel - because if she can't sleep through her issues, she can still run them into submission.

Brooke's lungs scream for more oxygen as she follows the wooded trails of the park. The world around her is beginning to rise, the birds chirping in the trees and the sound of car horns blaring in the distance becoming the soundtrack for her run. She hadn't bothered to grab her iPod. The music would've just been another thing to try and balance with the already full spread of material that she's working through. She could go into work, she thinks to herself as she rounds a bend in the trail. The office will be empty right now, other than the few interns looking to make their mark by working through a Sunday. She could throw herself back into cotillion, into floral arrangements and supervising seamstresses and calling caterers. She could just hole herself up in her office until she's supposed to meet Humphrey in Brooklyn, refuse to take any calls from anyone - including Nate, which she's sure wouldn't go over well with his magnanimous offer that he's waiting for her to accept. Surely he'll understand, considering that one of the biggest things that she's trying to wrap her head around is the massive penthouse apartment that he's holding out to her on a silver platter.

But Brooke doesn't stop, because she can't stop. Even as the sweat begins to bead up on her forehead, she finds herself a servant to her mind's ramblings, her body just the passenger to the ever racing thoughts. They bounce around like rapid fire artillery as she grits her teeth through the aching muscles that are beginning to howl with pain.

Nate. Masquerades. Suit jackets. Dance auctions. Congressional runs. A family name. Disappearing to Los Angeles. Enough baggage to fill an airport. Tortured and beautiful admissions. Penthouse apartments. An offer she can barely refuse.

Rachel. Falling back into old habits. Brutal honesty. Unwavering friendship. Matchmaking attempts. Sidewalk screaming matches. Misplaced loyalty. Spiteful words that can't be taken back. Deafening silence.

Tripp. Strong drinks. Jealousy with a side of vengeance. Sweaty palms. Lips forced on hers. Dangerous intentions. Vicious rivalries. Threats not to be taken lightly.

Eleanor. The chance of a lifetime. Cotillion. Tremors that don't make sense. Dresses that should be hanging in museums. Utter admiration. The mentor she's always wanted. The mother she's never known.

Dan. Lonely Boy. Best sellers of betrayal. Epic love stories. An Unkindess of Ravens. The unfailing truth. Blackmail. Newspaper articles. Tests of faith. A breath of fresh air.

Chuck.

Chuck.

Her body finally gives out on her as the root of her insomnia surfaces, managing to get herself to a nearby bench as she gasps for air. She squeezes her eyes shut as tears sting her vision, bowing her head into her hands as she struggles to compose herself. She doesn't know why she's even doing this, why she's even collapsing in the middle of a public place. It's shameful in her mind, to do this without some sort of cause. Victoria would be furious with her and if a picture of her like this got out in the press, she'd face Eleanor's wrath as well. But then again, she does have cause.

This is her brother.

After all of the things that she had put up with over the last decade, she's cut Chuck out, she's actually gone and chopped her ties to her brother, and she's choking on her tears as her hands fumble for her cell phone. She wants to call Rachel, to tell her all of the horrible things that had been said between them, but that's out of the question. As his girlfriend, she's practically designed to take Chuck's side - and not to mention, she'd been the one to tell him about why she'd come to New York in the first place. And on top of that, Chuck's probably already told her his side of things - and there's no changing a story once Chuck Bass's version gets out.

She contemplates calling home, getting through to Haley or Nathan and bawling her eyes out before asking for their guidance. But that means explaining why she had left and where she is, throwing the life that she's built for herself into complete and utter disarray. The people she had once turned to with every single issue are now a thousand miles away, firmly on the side of a man who had broken her heart for the umpteenth time, preparing for another baby of their own and for the new niece or nephew to arrive. They don't have the time to deal with her issues, not that she'd let them.

She thinks of calling Nate, who she hadn't said a word to about her fight with Chuck - let alone her interview with Dan. She doesn't want him to feel any more guilty than he does for her drama with Chuck, he carries far too much weight on his shoulders already, and she doesn't want to dredge up old ghosts with seeing his ex-girlfriend's husband. She knows what he'd say, that using Dan Humphrey is too great of a risk for a moment of payback, and she almost welcomes it. But she stops herself. She knows that he'll try to ply her into giving him an answer, something that she doesn't have the capacity to do.

But more than anything...she wants to call Chuck. Brooke doesn't know how to live without him. Chuck had been in her life since she'd been a child, a little girl without an inkling of the woman she would become, and now if her anger has its way she'll never see him again. But that doesn't mean that she doesn't hurt, doesn't ache to call him and forgive him, but Chuck will never learn if she does that. He'll never understand that sometimes apologies just aren't enough, that certain things just can't be forgotten and there are no take backs in the real world. For the first time since Chuck's tumultuous relationship with her boss's daughter had ended, Brooke understands why Blair had left him, why she had taken off to Monaco and never looked back. Chuck Bass is not to be trusted, not when he's hell bent on manipulating everyone around him, and this version of him doesn't have a place in her life. Not anymore.

She jogs the entire way back to the hotel, passing by the concierge with a curt hello before she takes the elevator back up to her room. Her legs feel like jello, practically vibrating as she makes her way through her temporary home. She's sighing under the hot water of a well deserved in no time, letting it wash away the grime and sweat - along with all of her exhaustion. It's not the first time she's pulled an all nighter, she reminds herself when she walks out and sees the time on the clock getting close to seven, but she groans when she realizes that she'll be dealing with what could be a pivotal moment in her career on zero sleep and enough stress to send her into Bellevue. She just wants to curl up in bed and sleep the rest of the day away, maybe eat some room service. She just wants to rest, maybe attempt to catch her breath before she heads back into work tomorrow, before she has to make a million decisions that don't matter while she's trying to make one that actually does.

Brooke's mind drifts back to Nate's "gift" as she readies herself. She's still trying to wrap her head around it. She understands the limitless wealth, the legacy of power, the unbelievably connected family. She can even comprehend the fact that she may or may not be dating a future Congressman - because if she's really being honest, she knows that Nate is bound to win whatever he sets his mind to because she's seen it firsthand. She's just not sure what she is to him. Is she simply another trophy to set up on a shelf? Some game that he's playing to amuse himself while he takes over the world? Or is it really just a competition with Tripp? She wants this fairy tale that he's spinning to be real, to know that the floor isn't going to drop out from under her the second she gives into him.

She knows what a risk he is, what it could do to her life. But the truth is, she doesn't care. Yes, he terrifies her, consumes her, turns her into someone that she hadn't known still existed. But she doesn't want to be reasoned with. She wants to be reckless and impulsive, wants to silence every voice that dares to tell her that Nate is nothing more than the dangerous king of the Upper East Side who could ruin her. She wants to be the woman that he had pressed up against the wall and kissed so savagely that she could feel him on her lips for days, the one who had thrown caution to the wind and let her body and heart do the thinking - because a part of her knows that if Nate Archibald is the ruler of Manhattan, she wants to be the queen that rules beside him.

And just as the phone rings, the screen flashing bright, Brooke's reminded that the universe has impeccable timing.

It's the office number, so she's almost positive it's her boss. Of course Eleanor's calling her on a Sunday, and she thanks everything holy that her boss is an unbearable control freak because it gives her a few more minutes before she has to ponder what her future with a certain brooding Vanderbilt heir looks like.

"Good morning Eleanor." Brooke sighs as soon as she puts the phone on speaker, tapping concealer beneath her eyes. Stupid fucking insomnia. "What can I do for you?"

"Miss Da...I mean, Brooke?" Millie's clearly terrified tone squeaks through the phone, the brunette stopping from the shock of hearing her assistant's peppy voice. "I'm so sorry that I'm calling...I was trying to get a head start on some of the vendor calls for tomorrow and there's a woman who keeps calling the office trying to get through to you... I've explained that we're closed for the day, but she won't take no for an answer. She says her name is Haley James Scott? She says it's urgent, but I couldn't get..."

Millie's words fade away as Brooke's face practically drops to her bathroom floor.

Haley.

Haley who had chosen her to be her maid of honor at her wedding - her second one at least.

Haley who she had stood by when she'd gotten pregnant at eighteen.

Haley who had made her a godmother to her beautiful son, a boy that makes Brooke believe that heaven truly does exist.

Haley that had held her hand after every disappointment and told her that everything was going to be okay.

Haley who's probably fucking livid that Brooke has dropped off the map. Or at least, she had been the last time she'd seen her.

"Where are you even going, Brooke?"

Haley's impatient voice cuts through the air like a knife as Brooke throws a few things in her suitcase. She won't need much, she can have the rest sent to her if she winds up needing it. All she knows is that she needs to get the hell out of the state of North Carolina, far away from her ex and his now-pregnant wife, and she's thrown together a first class lifeline out of her life.

"Away from here." The brunette chokes out as she flies around the room like a bat out of hell, refusing to meet her best friend's matronly gaze. She can't tell Haley what had happened, she just can't. Lucas is her oldest friend and Brooke isn't about to get into the middle of their relationship. She's already done enough damage when it comes down to Lucas Scott. She doesn't need another reason to feel guilty when it comes to him. "I'll figure it out when I get to the airport, I guess."

Lie, lie, lie. She's already contacted the stepbrother that none of them really know, already has a whole new life in New York all laid out. She just needs to drag herself to the airport, get her ass into the private flight hangar in the next forty five minutes and just get the hell out of Durham. The only reason why Brooke doesn't want her to know where she's going is so Haley won't come running after her - or worse, have Lucas come hunt her down and bring her back to the Bermuda love triangle from hell. He has a baby on the way and she has a life to live. She just needs a fresh start, and Chuck is offering that to her on a platter located inside of the Bass Industries private jet.

But Haley isn't satisfied, shaking her head from side to side in the negative. She looks like she's about to throw up and it's certainly not from her morning sickness. "You have a life here, a future! They're having a baby, Brooke. You can't keep running away because he didn't choose you!"

Haley's words hit her so hard that she nearly falls over, her jaw dropping as tears fill her eyes. It's as clear now as it's ever been that she can't stay here. She can't stay in Durham with this constantly sitting on her shoulders, with her heart so heavy that she feels like she might slip into an early grave. She can't let Lucas's decisions drag her down anymore, and his responsibilities shouldn't include her either.

Brooke shakes her head as she tosses her bag over her shoulder, barely even glancing at her friend as she walks out of her bedroom. "No, I'm running because I'm choosing me..."

Millie's sweet tone brings her back to the present, forcing her into making a decision. "Should I take a message? She seems rather...testy."

Brooke inhales deeply, trying to keep herself calm. Her eyes slip shut as she clutches the phone, biting down on her lower lip in shame. "Well, if you were five months pregnant and you had no idea where your best friend had jetted off to, you'd be testy too." She shakes her head. She can only imagine how big she is now, given that Haley had started showing almost immediately with Jamie. She realizes at that moment how much she misses her best friend and that she has to take this phone call, Lucas Scott and his bitch wife be damned.

"Patch the call through, but please make sure take messages for anything else. I have a breakfast meeting with Dan Humphrey in an hour." She sighs, turning around and leaning against the vanity cabinet.

Waiting for Haley to scream at her is a lot like ripping off a band aid, Brooke finds as Millie transfers the call over. She tries her very best to keep her voice steady as she speaks after the telltale beep of the call merge, gulping down her panic. "This is Brooke Davis."

"This is Brooke Davis?! Are you FUCKING kidding me, Brooke?!"

Haley's shouts immediately made Brooke wince, visibly cringing as she tried to figure out a good answer. "Hales-"

"No, you don't get to Hales me! You've been gone for nearly six weeks with no explanation other than you were 'choosing you', when I'm fat and pregnant and can't run after you! You don't call, you don't write, don't so much as bother to let me if you're ALIVE! I almost filed a missing person report until Nathan found your name in the New York Post's society pages at some hoity-toity fifty grand a table charity event in Manhattan, so don't you even think about using Hales on me!"

She stays silent for a moment, unsure of what to say. Finally, when she can just barely hear Haley sigh with relief on the other end of the phone, she immediately word vomits out her guilt.

"I slept with Lucas."

Brooke's voice is soft like a child who's taken a cookie from the jar on top of the cabinets, filled with remorse. If there's one thing that Haley understands, it's how disastrous the Scott brothers can be. She is, after all, married to the far better brother. "That's why I left. We got really drunk at Blue Post, we kissed, and when I tried to tell him to stay away from me, I slept with him. He told me he was choosing me, that he was leaving Peyton, and then he found out..." She trails on, cringing at the memory for the umpteenth time.

"...that Peyton was pregnant." Haley's trembling voice comes through the line with another soft sigh and Brooke can practically see her shaking her head in regret. "Oh honey, why didn't you tell me when you were leaving? I wouldn't have said any of those awful things...oh God, Brooke, I was so horrible. You don't have to go through this alone, and you certainly didn't have to run a few hundred miles to get away from it. I can send Nathan to come get you, you can stay with us and..."

"Wait, hold on. You think that because I told you why I left, I'm coming back to Tree Hill? Just like that?" Brooke says in disbelief, and she can hear Nate's voice as clear as day.

Because I get the sneaking feeling from the fact that you haven't found somewhere other than a hotel to live, that you've got a slipknot in this whole life you're building here. Me included.

It's unnerving how right he can be and this is the perfect example. This is the slipknot, the tethering strand that can pull her back home. He'd known last night that there would always be something holding her back, something keeping her tied to Tree Hill, and this phone call is it. This is what's holding her back, because she'd never actually made the decision to stay. When she'd hopped on that plane, it hadn't been to make a new life. It had been to escape Lucas and the mistakes that she'd made. There hadn't been an ounce of closure, just running away as far as she possibly could. But now going back...it isn't her fallback plan.

It's her worst nightmare.

Brooke squeezes her eyes shut to keep the tears that are bubbling up at bay. She's struggling to keep her composure. "As much as I miss you and Nathan and Jamie...I'm not coming back. I'm sorry, but...New York is my home now." She utters softly.

"There's only one Tree Hill, Brooke, and it's your home. You belong here with us. I get that you have this new job and everything, but your work isn't everything." Haley's voice is nothing short of patronizing, and Brooke clenches her perfectly manicured hand as she tries to remain calm. She loves Haley, loves that she's given up her career to be a mom, but doesn't she understand that not everyone has to have a family to be happy?

"I love you, Hales...but I'm not flipping burgers at a diner. I'm helping to run a multi million dollar company under a woman that could be a lifelong mentor - who also happens to be my godmother. This is the career I've always dreamed of, it is not just work. For the first time I'm out on my own and you have no idea how good that feels." Brooke explains, a smile creeping on her lips as she thinks of Nate for a short moment. "I have family here, friends here...I'm even seeing someone. It's casual, but I'm trying to move on. Lucas gets to do that, so why shouldn't I?"

"The guy in the article who dropped a quarter of a million dollars for a date with you?" Haley asks quietly, and she can hear what sounds to be a newspaper rustling in the background of the call. "Nathaniel Archibald: CEO of Vanderbilt Enterprises, future congressman of New York and he's got an estimated net worth of...Jesus Christ, Brooke, is that even a real number? Does he own the entire city of New York or something?"

She smirks. Of course Haley has a copy of The Post from last week's event. She's clearly done her research since finding out where Brooke's landed, but she knows that the young mother is simply protecting her. It's what makes her such an amazing friend - and mother, for that matter. "You should get a second resource for your investigation, Tutor Mom. That article in The Post has a typo. He dropped half a million dollars for a date and a dance. A bargain with the dress I was wearing, if you ask me." She teases, trying to bring some sort of normalcy to the moment. "His family is old money, like ancient...but we really don't talk about it. And he's not even sure if he's running. It's more his grandfather's thing than it is his. Oh, and he prefers to be called Nate - in case you plan on stalking him more."

The pause on the phone is damn near infuriating, but she lets Haley process what she's just said, listening for any sign of a hint. If she hears her nibbling on her nails, she's nervous. If she hears a sigh, she's relieved. As far as she is from her, Brooke still knows her like the back of her hand.

"And you're happy?"

The question is complicated, to say the least. She turns to face herself in the mirror as she does an evaluation of sorts. Is she happy here? She's thrilled with her career, with the incredible work she's in love with. She's blissed out when it comes to Nate, even when he's practically forcibly moving her into a penthouse and crossing every single boundary she attempts to lay out between them. Sure, there are things going on with Chuck and Rachel that aren't exactly easy - far from it, actually - but that doesn't minimize the happiness that she does feel. She's absolutely enamored with the hustle and bustle of the city, how nothing is ever the same twice and there's no such thing as quiet. New York has always been a second home to her and making it her only one just feels...right.

"Yeah, I'm happy here. I really am." Brooke gushes with the same grin, resuming her make up application. "And it's only a two hour flight away from Tree Hill. The second you even think you're in labor, I'll hop on a plane. A private one with no lines, baggage claims or tickets to concern myself with. I promise."

Haley sighs, and it instantly makes her feel better. Her maternal voice flowing through the line, demanding as ever. "I want you home for Jamie's fourth birthday and the entire week of my due date. Promise me."

"Throw in lifting the spending cap for the their gifts and you've got a deal. I'm all yours." Brooke smiles. She can only imagine what having two little godchildren will be like, rather than just the one little blonde Scott that gives her so much love that she'll slay dragons for him in a heartbeat - even if that dragon is a five year old bully making fun of the cape that she'd made him. "I promise you that I am going to be front and center for when that munchkin comes screaming into this world. That little boy or girl will be spoiled by me from birth, believe me."

"Girl." The word is quiet, but the joy in Haley's voice creeps through slowly. "I just found out yesterday, it's a girl!"

Brooke immediately feels tears swell in her eyes her hand rests over her heart. Haley's going to have a little girl, a beautiful baby girl that she can already see delicate layette sets for. She's practically designing them in her head already. "I knew it!" She chokes out with a laugh, brushing the tears from her eyes as her heart soars. There's no one in the world more deserving than Nathan and Haley for such a blessing, and the smile that plays on her lips could light up the Empire State building. "You know, Brooke's a really great name for a girl..."

- - - - x - - - -

It feels like any other Sunday morning as Dan sits in Devoción, his favorite coffee shop in Brooklyn. This violent hiss of the espresso machines, the strong scent of freshly roasted beans, the quiet lull of conversation from patrons, the staccato tap of his fingertips on his keyboard: it's familiar, second nature to a regular like him. It's his home territory in a job that forces him out of his comfort zone and into Manhattan on an almost daily basis, and to the outside viewer he's sure he looks calm in his usual haunt. But to him, calm is a foreign feeling and this is not some normal Sunday morning. He isn't here to brainstorm ideas for his next book, to push out an article for his harpy of an editor, and he certainly isn't here to grab a cup of coffee.

Because in exactly seven minutes, his half sister is going to walk through the doors he's staring at and spill every secret she carries, and he has to pretend like she's nothing more than his current subject of interest.

Dan's leg bounces as he sits hunched over his favorite table, his dark eyes darting around suspiciously. He'd chosen this place solely for its location - after all, no one would expect someone like her to actually surface here. No, she's not destined for his world, never has and never will be. Brooke is a Southern belle by birth and blue blooded by marriage, a power player who's positioned herself as the new right hand of one of the most experienced and pivotal designers in the fashion industry. That kind of woman doesn't belong in the borough that bore her namesake, slumming with the Humphrey clan. No, not her.

She owes allegiance to the most exclusive of Upper East Side circles. She can be frequently found at the very epicenter of every high society event that this city could even dream of, the focus of every bated breath when she walks into any room. She's the sort of mythic beauty that exists only in fashion editorials and fairytales, but she's so much more than some damsel in distress. No, she's not even close to the helpless princess who needs rescuing. Brooke Davis, from what he understands, wields enough power from her new corner office throne to take over the city from a different regal brunette who had once ruled with an iron fist - and the Upper East Side is waiting on pins and needles for her to ascend to her rightful place.

And she, incredibly talented and successful she, is his half sister; a product of an affair between her elegant socialite mother and his rogue musician of a father. It doesn't even feel possible. It shouldn't be possible. And yet, it's not just possible.

It's a fact.

"Hey there, Lonely Boy."

Dan's head snaps up at the rasp of her voice, his eyes finding Brooke as she saunters up to the table. She's dressed down substantially more than when he'd last seen her, yet she still looks effortlessly sophisticated. A black long sleeve shirt covers her torso, tucked into a pair of high waisted distressed jeans, an emerald colored scarf around her neck and knee high leather boots setting her a few inches taller. With her minimal makeup and her subtle gold jewelry, she looks like any other Brooklyn resident - which he's sure is anything but an accident. She needs to blend in if they're going to get through this interview without being interrupted, and couture gowns don't exactly fit that bill.

"Lonely Boy, huh?" Dan repeats, shaking his head as he leans back in his chair. "Nobody's called me that in years, I guess you did your research."

"I like to be on an even playing field when I'm about to be interrogated." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she sits down, crossing her legs and looking at him expectantly.

He nods at her jab, a small smile playing on his lips. "Fair enough." He replies.

Their waitress slides up and begins to take her order and he takes the silent moment to really look at her. Yes, he'd observed her for the mere moments he'd had with her days before, but actually witnessing his sister ordering a vanilla latte and a cinnamon roll is so much different then playing over his first meeting with her. He studies the lines of her face to really take in her beauty. The curve of her warm and inviting smile, the way the gold flecks in her eyes rise to the surface when the sunlight catches them just right, the long dark chestnut tresses that flow over her shoulders. He can see Rufus in her features so much more than he could when he'd first found her picture while she sit here in Brooklyn, the borough she's name for. Maybe it's the ease to her movements, the lack of a cheerleading uniform, the way she chats with the waitress about how she recognizes the band on her t-shirt from an old friend back home. There's a familiarity to Brooke that now lingers in his heart when he looks at her, a small voice that whispers the truth of their connection. Welcome to our hometown little sis, it whispers to him, I'm the brother who's been waiting to meet you for most of your life.

Dan clears his throat as the waitress leaves, sipping on his jet black brew to cover up the emotion that's bubbled up in his throat. He wants nothing more than to reach across the table and take her hand, to tell her the truth, but he pushes that urge so far down that he swears it goes through the floor - if only for her sake. "So..." He trails on as he sets his mug down, his awkwardness getting the better of him. "Lucas Scott?"

He notes the subtle wince that crosses her features when he says her ex-boyfriend's name, an unexpected response to say the least. From what he understands, she's only got eyes for Nate Archibald these days. Because apparently, banging one Humphrey daughter hadn't been enough for the lacrosse playing Lacoste wearing prep school boy.

"You don't pull punches, do you Humphrey?" Brooke's lips purse into a hard line, her hazel eyes narrowing. She looks pissed enough to jump up to her feet and disappear back into her perfect world, and he's relieved when her stern demeanor begins to soften. "I grew up with Lucas Scott, but I can't say that I knew him very well until my sophomore year of high school." She folds her hands in her lap as her face relaxes, and he feels himself exhale the breath he's been holding in.

"How did it change?"

The question seems innocent enough, but the smirk that plays on Brooke's lips seems anything but. Shit, he hadn't thought about this. His baby sister - because that's what she would be in his family, given that she's a few months shy of Jenny - is about to unload the details of her past to him. A past which he's not sure he wants to hear about as her new acquaintance, considering the look on her face. "On the record, Lucas took a very good friend of mine down a peg when he beat in in a one on one game. His half brother, in fact - but that's a story for another day. Off the record?" Brooke's smirk deepens, her eyebrow kinking ever so slightly. "He found me naked in the backseat of his truck after said game, where I pointed out the...significance of his moment. Well, not totally naked. I did have mittens on. I got cold."

Dan feels his grip on his pen tighten, his chest clenching. His baby sister, naked in the backseat of some basketball player's truck. His baby freakin' sister. He nearly chokes on his coffee at the thought.

But Brooke just laughs, carefree and anything but humble, and shrugs ever so gently. "What can I say. I did a lot of stupid things when I was sixteen. Lucas Scott...well, he just happened to be one of those things."

A lack of a filter. Unabashed honesty. A reckless past. A colorful romantic history. She's practically a female Rufus.

"But from what the book depicts..." Dan clears his throat, his voice weak. "I mean, it's no secret that one of the themes of An Unkindness of Ravens is a love triangle that you're a branch of."

Her smile is placid when the waitress brings her order, a coolness settling into her movements as she brings her coffee to her lips. "The book is based on Lucas's life." Her words are carefully chosen as she leans back in her chair, but the emotion is written all over the emotion that she's refusing to show. "Based doesn't necessarily means that exactly what happened. There are parts of my relationship with Luke that weren't written in, just like there are parts of Peyton's relationship with him that aren't in their either. There are parts of my relationship with Peyton that aren't in the book. We were best friends. Sisters. So you can imagine there was a lot that wasn't even close to being onto those pages because Lucas didn't even know about them."

"Such as?" He warily inquires, his pen scratching away at his notepad as he listens with rapture. She has him in the palm of her hand.

She's quiet for a second, biting down on her lower lip as her somber gaze drops. There's a silent war waging within her and it's agonizing to see her like this. He's read the book cover to cover so many times its binding is about to give out on him, because it's a snapshot of her at a time he never got to share with her. Dan can picture her at sixteen, heartbroken and facing a pregnancy scare. He can feel the hope and the promise of when she and Lucas had been together, how she'd been his Pretty Girl, his Girl Behind the Red Door, his Cheery. And yet even after he'd broken her heart a million different ways, she sits across from a journalist that could destroy him - and she's hesitating. Her loyalty is stunning, even if it is misguided.

"In the books...Peyton tells Lucas that she loves him months after he'd broken up with me." Brooke's words are deliberate as her eyes meet his, and he finds the tears that have built all the more painful. She smiles, shaking her head. "But in the real world that isn't a bestselling romance novel...Peyton had just gotten back from chasing down her ex in Georgia only to realize that she had feelings for Luke. She told me the night before Nathan and Haley's wedding. Before he and I had broken up."

He knows that part, of course. He knows that Brooke and Lucas had gotten into a massive fight over a kiss that had been shared between he and Peyton in a moment of tragedy, that words had been said that changed their relationship forever. "So in the book, when Lucas tries to tell you that his heart was with you..."

"It didn't matter, because hers was with him." Her voice is so soft that he can barely hear her over the noise of the cafe, just barely holding back tears. "To this day, I don't think he's ever understood that argument. I wasn't mad when I yelled at him. I wasn't. I was crushed because I realized this boy that I loved so much never really knew me, because he was too busy knowing her."

It's raw and it's real and it's everything that a good journalist knows is the quote that makes the piece. It's the missing piece of the book that Lucas Scott had written, because Peyton had forced Brooke's hand. The what if's that would spin from just that revelation would destroy his perfect love story, leaving readers confused on who to root for - because how could this young and wild girl be so selfless? How could she ever be described as an antagonist again, as a hindrance against the great love that Lucas and Peyton had been painted as, when she had given up her first love because she believed she'd never be enough for him? How could someone not want that girl to get her happy ending with the boy she would've given everything up for? She isn't just the woman that the author had praised as fiercely independent, as brilliant and beautiful and brave. She's the one that Lucas Scott should have chosen, the obvious choice, and Peyton Sawyer is the manipulative villain who destroyed her best friend's well deserved happy ending just to get what she had wanted.

And Dan should've been there to help her heal from it.

"Does he know?" He asks her as he lingers in his guilt.

She composes herself, threading a stray wave of her head behind her ear. She looks young, as if that eighteen year old girl who had decided it had been better to be alone than to be with someone who didn't know her has supplanted the calm and confident success story he'd expected her to be, and he feels his heart break - because he should have been there for all of it. His shoulder should have been there for her to cry on, his arms open to help her heal from her first heartbreak. He should have knocked Lucas out or revealed Peyton to be the conniving and selfish sham of a friend she'd been to Brooke. He should have sat up with her for hours, letting her talk about her decisions and the reasons for them. He should have been there for all of it, for every memory he'll never have with her. He should have been at her side, telling her the truth about why they bore a striking resemblance from the moment he'd found out, not waiting patiently in the shadows while Chuck and Victoria called all the shots. And he's going to regret it for the rest of his life.

"He found her journals about two months ago. Apparently she'd kept a fairly extensive one that I never knew about." Brooke laughs bitterly, her smile wry. She looks so much like Rufus that it makes his heart break. "They're expecting, if you didn't know. She told him right after..." She clears her throat, the sound almost identical to his, and sips her coffee. Her words are elusive at best, dodgy at worst. "Right after he found them."

Bullshit. Dan can see the lie written all over her face, and he starts doing the math. "So about two months ago, Lucas finds these journals and it turns out that his wife, your best friend since grade school, is pregnant." He says slowly, his words deliberate. "You moved to New York right around that time, too."

Her reaction is a split second, so quick that he almost misses it. Her lips part ever so slightly, her words nearly tumbling out, but she clamps her lips shut and steels her gaze. And Dan knows right then and there, as he watches his biological sister's eyes harden like steel, that he wants to kill Lucas Scott.

"My older brother, offered me an opportunity for my post-grad life that I just couldn't pass up." Brooke says smoothly, reaching down and plucking a piece of her cinnamon roll from her plate. She pops it into her mouth, absentmindedly shrugging when she finishes chewing. "The timing was truly a coincidence."

Directing the conversation to Chuck. She's smarter than he's given her credit for. "Yes, your older step brother." He puts an emphasis on the only word that shows he's more her brother than the Basshole, smiling tightly. "Tell me about your relationship with the devil incarnate."

She giggles, a raspy melody that any man could set the beat of his heart to. "Chuck is..." She pauses, a faint smile sweeping over face. Nostalgia creeps across her features, a wistfulness to her expression. "Fiercely protective, overbearing really - always has been. I remember when my mother agreed to let me stay in Tree Hill instead of moving to New York with her and Bart, Chuck pitched a temper tantrum so dramatic that he actually tried to pack himself in one of my suitcases." She laughs again, but this time it's softer, more reserved. "He said he couldn't bear to live without me. He was twelve."

Envy surges through him, shades of green coloring her fond memories of the brother that he should have been. Jesus, he's a grown man - why is he jealous over children that had no say in their lives? Dan reigns it in with a simple nod, trying to appreciate that someone had been there to fill the shoes he didn't even know existed. "You'll have to forgive my disbelief. It's rare that anyone has an opinion about Chuck that isn't a bad one. Our first meeting was when I had to yank him off my fourteen year old sister." Your older sister, he remarks to himself as he sneers in disgust.

"Careful, Humphrey. I may want to tear his head off right now, but let's get one thing clear. Charles Bartholomew Bass is and will always be my brother. The only person allowed to talk shit about him, is me." Brooke snaps, her entire body tensed. There's that loyalty again, he thinks to himself, misguided as ever. The sigh that follows is one of frustration, her eyes softening. "He wasn't always this way, you know. People always thought it was Victoria keeping me home at night when I was visiting, making sure I stayed out of trouble when I was here, but that's not even close. She couldn't have cared less. It was always Chuck keeping everyone at arm's length, keeping me from being around the people he ran with. He didn't want me going down the same path as him. He wanted so much more for me."

Yeah, he just forgot to tell you that your mom's been lying to you about who your father is and that you actually have a brother. A real one. And a sister too, in case you're curious. He thinks to himself as listens to her speak, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.

"Chuck is stubborn, callous, tactless at times. He's a royal asshole who likes to get his way, because that's what his dad is, what every man in the Bass family is. It's what he was raised to be and that's not his fault. But he's not Bart and he's certainly not Jack - not to say that I don't love either of them, because I do." She looks like she's reaching some sort of grand clarity as her eyes trail a car passing by, and he knows that she's no longer talking to him. She's reminiscing, processing it all out loud, and for the first time he can see himself in his sister's actions.

Her eyes drift back to him, the same soft sad smile on her lips. "He cares about people. Sometimes deeper than what the average person can handle. Because when Chuck actually loves someone...it's unconditional. As much of a prick as he can be when he's trying to get what he wants...my brother would move heaven and earth to make sure that I'm happy and protected, and that's evident from the fact that he asked you to meddle in my life. Because that, Dan, is my brother. He meddles, he manipulates, he oversteps - but most of the time he truly believes he's doing it for my own good. He may show his affections differently than what the world expects of him, what I expect of him, but I've never once doubted that my brother loves me. And how many sisters, step or otherwise, can say that?"

What had started as a fuck you to Chuck has quickly evolved into something else, he notes as he watches her. As much as Dan wants to absolutely trash her step brother, to drag him through the mud as he so rightfully deserves for all of his misdeeds, he knows right then that he can't. This isn't the end of a relationship between the two of them. It's a pause, a sad time-out from their bond, and he can't bring himself to take that from her - even though Chuck has proven time and time again that he doesn't give a damn if he'll ever have that with Brooke. He has to be better than Chuck. He has to do right by her, because he's pretty sure that he's the only one that actually will.

Dan forces a smile of his own, nodding slowly as he looks at her with absolute adoration, and swallows his own wants and needs. He buries it deep, locking it away as he savors the time he has with her, vowing to treasure every second. Brooke shouldn't have to beg to be put first, to have her happiness valued above all else, and not just because she's everything he'd ever imagined she was. It's not because even after just twenty minutes with her, he'd give anything to be the reason for her smile. It's not even because he wants to be more than the family that she already has.

It's because even if she never hears how much he already loves her, even if she never knows that he's her big brother, Brooke deserves to be fought for - even if it means breaking his own heart into a hundred jagged pieces.

- - - - x - - - -

This is not her life, Rachel tells herself as she walks through a gauntlet of flashing cameras into the 88th Precinct of the New York Police Department.

This is not her life because how could it be? How could having to fend through the paparazzi on a Sunday morning to get into a police station be her life? And of all places, Brooklyn?! How can Chuck getting arrested in the middle of Brooklyn, with its nauseating overtly artistic scene and fresh crop of bean wearing latte sipping hipsters, be her life?

Her life is having designers fight over who gets to dress her for prestigious events that are impossible to get an invitation to. It's faded limo rides home at three in the morning and town car escorts back to the office five hours later because an entire company cannot function without her wealth of knowledge. It's making love on thousand count sheets to the love of her life while he bends her better than any position in the Karma Sutra can. It's waking up beside him the next morning before slipping into monogrammed robes before a perfectly catered brunch. Her life is appallingly lavish, ostentatious, borderline criminal - but most importantly, her life is happy.

Her life is not cleaning up after the hurricane known as the Bass siblings and the aftermath they leave in their wreckage.

In the three days since the War of the Bass Siblings had occurred in the middle of the Bass Industries offices for the world to see, Brooke has all but disappeared. While her things are all still at the apartment, she hasn't come home once. She's not at Victoria and Bart's, she won't take calls from anyone in the family and her name can't be found at any hotel in the area. Even the paparazzi haven't grabbed a shot of her in forty eight hours. She's a ghost, and surely an impeccably dressed one, and Chuck's going out of his mind. The man she loves can't function without knowing that his baby sister is alright - a sister that he had kept Rachel away from for two whole years because her approval matters that much to him - and when Chuck can't function, neither can she. They're one seamless unit, both in their personal and professional lives.

Professionally, having a boss that's drunk by three in the afternoon is a problem, which is what Chuck had done as soon Brooke had left his office. He'd blown off four meetings by the time that his assistant had called Rachel to inform her that he'd high tailed it out of the office after Miss Davis had gone storming out of the building. Maureen, ever the professional, had dutifully rescheduled with the excuse that Mr. Bass had come down with a stomach bug - which couldn't have been farther from the truth.

She'd found him half in the bottle at Victrola, forcing some brunette waitress to sit with him and let him call her Brooke as he repeatedly apologized for betraying her trust, that she could hit him again if she really needed to if she'd just stop hating him. The poor girl had been so terrified that Rachel had to explain exactly who Brooke was to Chuck before sending her home for the day with a bonus check for a thousand dollars in her hands and a signed non-disclosure agreement in the redhead's briefcase.

Personally, she'd have preferred to have left him there to wallow a little bit longer before dragging him back to the apartment. She loves Chuck, but sometimes he can be such a god damn drama queen. But that's the point, really; Rachel loves him, loves him more than she had ever thought she possibly could love someone when she'd met him two years ago. It had taken her almost a year and a half after she'd found him to figure out that she had wanted him and only him, but she loves him. She'll move mountains and part oceans for a man that doesn't know how to deal with his obvious abandonment issues, a fact which she'd accepted long ago. And so when he'd disappeared from the bar before she could finish handling the waitress, she'd known that it would lead to nothing but a shit show. But getting caught hammered out of his mind on a ridiculously early Sunday morning trying to break into Rufus Humphrey's home? That isn't a shit show.

That's a fucking nuclear bomb.

She walks up to the counter in her nonchalant glory, smoothing out the folds of her infallibly classic black pantsuit before clearing her throat in front of the burly police officer that sits behind the desk. He turns on a dime and the look on his face when he sees her is nothing that the red head isn't used to. She's the proud product of the best plastic surgeons in L.A. and she's got the confidence to actually make it work, as well as having the good sense not to turn herself into a barbie doll. Not to mention, it can't be very often that the head of PR at a multi million dollar corporation walks into a Brooklyn police station.

Except, of course, when they're hauled in to get their boss/boyfriend out of custody and back to doing what he does best: work.

"Good morning, I'm here for Charles Bass." Rachel says sweetly, tossing her long and loosely curled hair over her shoulder. "I called this morning to have him moved to a private cell. Rachel Gattina. I posted his fines about an hour ago via wire transfer."

The officer nods stupidly, pointing towards the back of the station with shaky and clammy hands. "I can take ya to 'em, he's right in the back. We kept him away from the cameras, Miss Gattina, just like ya told us to."

"Why thank you, Officer..." She peers at his name tag, giving him a fake smile of recognition. "DiMarco. That was very kind of you. You've got a bright future ahead of you in this department."

Jesus, what levels she'll sink to in order to protect her man. Sweet talking pudgy police officers cannot be her life.

The guard happily leads her back to the holding cells, where she finds Chuck curled up in a ball on the floor of a cell. He looks like absolute shit compared to when he'd disappeared a little over forty eight hours ago. Two days have turned his life upside down, and when he looks up at her with bloodshot eyes and gaunt features. There's a viciously darkening black eye and some bruising along his jaw, the tell tale signs of what looks to be a bar fight. The vague scent of whiskey lingers in the air, paired with the dried vomit on the front of his rumpled shirt and the smell of the jail itself, and Rachel has to cover her mouth just to keep herself from throwing up.

Chuck smiles weakly from the floor of the cell and whistles at her hoarsely, clearly still drunk out of his sound mind. "Well goddamn, Red. You're late." He slurs out.

Rachel has to walk away to keep herself from spewing all the distasteful things that she wants to at that moment, quietly asking the cop to unlock his cell and hands him a few hundreds for his trouble. She breezes by the front desk, making her way to the driver that waits obediently at the lobby doors. "Wait until I start talking to the press, and then get him out the back. Take him to the penthouse through the service doors at the Empire, and throw him in the shower. I don't care how much he fights, just do it and I'll double your pay for the week."

The driver quickly moves to the back of the building as Rachel walks out the front doors, doing her best not to show her disgust as she plasters on a smile for the cameras and gives the tailor made statement that she'd whipped together on the way over. She apologizes to the public for Mr. Bass's behavior and asserts that he's paid any and all fines mandated by New York's finest, trying to be as vague as possible when the reporters ask questions about what could possible have caused such a tailspin in the business tycoon. She talks about the charity donation that Chuck had made today - in other words, that she had made from his personal account - to the New York City Police Foundation and how truly sorry he is for his behavior. She spins straw into gold, and by the end of the press conference, Chuck Bass had just had a little bit too much fun at the bar over the weekend and hadn't realized where he was.

No, of course he hadn't been trying to break into an apartment. Chuck Bass has more property than he needs to begin with, why would he be trying to break into some loft in Brooklyn?

No, it had been a concerned citizen that phoned in the complaint, not Rufus Humphrey, father in law to his childhood friend Serena Van der Woodsen-Humphrey. He had simply gotten turned around in an unfamiliar neighborhood, just like an other Manhattan inhabitant would in an unfamiliar district.

No, his younger sister and her budding relationship with Nate Archibald had nothing to do with this, and no, they had not entered a relationship. They'd been friends for years and were simply catching up after lost time since her graduation at Duke, as well as working on the Waldorf Designs Annual Cotillion together.

Lie, lie, lie. It's what she does for a living, and as Rachel gets into to her town car and the driver begins to return them home, she knows that she's done it well. She just feels like she's sold part of her soul to do it.

- - - - - x - - - - - -

They talk for what feels like hours. The conversation ebbs and flows between sips of coffee and laughter, the topic skittering from work to her personal life to her past and everything in between, and Brooke realizes that she hasn't spoken to someone this openly in ages. She can't talk to Chuck like this, where she feels completely comfortable sharing everything - well, almost everything - with him. She adores Rachel, but she's not one for lengthy and deep conversation. There's no sexual charge crackling in the space between them like there is with Nate, not even a hint of impropriety. The last person she'd been this vulnerable that hadn't been looking to get in her pants had been Mouth, and Dan somehow fills the Marvin McFadden shaped hole in her life.

She finds herself at ease with Dan, content with her vulnerability. She's not sure if it's the fact that they're a thirty minute subway ride from her new stomping grounds, or maybe the way that he listens to her words without a drop of judgement, but there's a safety about him, a shelter from the storm of the city. Although she'll never understand how Serena chose her now husband over Nate - mostly because the idea of kissing of kissing Humphrey makes her stomach roll with nausea - she understands the appeal of the man decreed to be Lonely Boy as he writes in short hand in his little black notebook. He's endearing.

"You know, I really didn't think I'd actually enjoy being around you." Brooke admits as they begin to wind down the interview, the morning having faded into afternoon far too long ago. She's sure that the incessant buzzing of her phone is Nate trying to figure out where her head is, but for the first time in twenty four hours she's not thinking about the decision she has to make - and it's a relief. "Or being in Brooklyn, for that matter. I'll never understand why Victoria named me after it when she won't step more than five feet outside of Manhattan, but...I like it here. And your company's not half bad."

Dan laughs, a wry smile on his lips. "I think there's a compliment somewhere in there, so thank you." He bristles with wit and sarcasm, but there's something in the way that he looks at her that rings honest, something safe and sound in his brown eyes. "Brooklyn could use a dose of your cheer. Just don't break out in routine, okay?"

She rolls her eyes as his phone begins to go off. "I'll be sure keep the herkies to myself." Brooke fires back.

He smirks, looking down at the phone. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but it's my third call from Serena..." Dan murmurs, worry furrowing his brow. His eyes rise back to her as if to ask permission. "Do you mind if I take this?

She's a bit floored. Why would he ever need her permission to answer his wife's phone call? "Of course. Answer it before she sends out a search party." She jokes weakly, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

He jumps to his feet and walks to the back and she bites down on her lower lip. She can't explain the way that he had looked at her, but at the same time she can. It's the same look Luke used to give her when Peyton would incessantly call: part apology, part explanation, part regret.

"Well I'll be damned. Brooklyn Penelope Davis, in Brooklyn of all places! Or is it Davis-Bass today? You'll have to forgive me, I'm not up to date on the latest gossip."

An unfamiliar man slips into Dan's seat, dumbfounding her with his sharp words and his acidic tone as her anxieties are pushed to the back of her mind. The shock is apparent on her face as she searches the stranger's face. Bright blue eyes, perfectly mussed dirty blonde hair, a bespoke suit that screams professionalism - whoever her handsome new brunch partner is, he sticks out like a sore thumb in this place.

"You'll have to forgive me, but who the fuck do you think you are?" Brooke hisses through an ice cold smile, giving her best Victoria Davis impression. Words that could cut to size from an expression so sweet that she practically gags on the sugar seeping from it.

"Oh, you really shouldn't do that. Foul mouthed behavior isn't exactly what I look for in a girlfriend for my candidates." The man goes as far as to take her coffee, bringing it to his lips and taking a sip. "But I'll give you a pass on that one, just this once. Consider it a courtesy shot."

"Excuse me?" She's seething now, her rage unbridled as she contemplates how much trouble she'd get into with Eleanor for being charged with simple assault - because the blonde that sits across her is about to have her mug shoved so far up his ass that he'll need a colonoscopy to get it out.

"I'm sorry, I keep forgetting that you're new here." He sighs dramatically, his smirk morphing into a full on grin. "Clay Evans, campaign manager. One of my candidates is making a play for the Manhattan congressional seat - you two seem to be getting awful cozy, but I'll give you a refresher course. Classic Kennedy looks with the blue blooded connections to back them up, ridiculously powerful and wealthy, ruthless head of a media empire, quite the bad reputation with the ladies...am I ringing any bells in that pretty little head of yours, or are you just balancing too many men in your busy social calendar to keep track?"

Oh hell no. Nate is not interrupting her business meeting in order to get an answer from her, and he cannot be using his campaign manager to do it. There's boundaries, and then...well...there's this.

Brooke purses her lips, reigning her temper if only for composure's sake. She folds her hands neatly in her lap as she maintains a cool exterior, ever the Davis woman. "Let's be clear about something here, shall we? Since we're getting to know each other, which is just so adorable of you to do during my business meeting." Her dulcet tone is practically dripping with condescension, refusing to give him the upper hand. "I am not some carbon copy sample size socialite that you can push around with your sad attempt at a power play, and I am certainly not one of Mr. Archibald's harem."

"You most certainly are not." Clay says with a dark chuckle, his gaze steeled. "You know, from all outside looks, you're kind of the perfect package. I mean come on, you're a Davis by blood and a Bass by marriage - which let's be honest, is the best way to be one. You got to keep your father's name and connections in the South and found yourself added to an infamous Upper East Side lineage that basically makes your royalty - which would normally make you out to be the black sheep in a family like that, but you made quick work of those Bass men, didn't you? Notoriously cold hearted Bart foots the bill for your education at Duke. Chuck, a self destructive playboy, flies you out here on his private jet after one phone call with you. And Jack, who proudly declares himself as a heartless jackass, falls over his own feet to buy you your first car before you even turn sixteen. It was a blue Volkswagon, right? So adorable."

Her jaw clenches involuntarily as she fantasizes about repeatedly slamming Clay's head into the table. Why in the hell has he taken it upon himself to dig up all of this about her, and about her family no less? And more importantly, why? Regardless of his reasoning, there's something in the way he speaks that makes her want to reach over the table and slap him until his head spins all Exorcist style, and she's sure she's not the first woman to have that inkling - hell, the first human being.

But he just breezes by her obvious discomfort, looking at her so intensely that she thinks he might burn a hole in her skin. "And then, there's you. I don't need to tell you that you're a knockout, you're not the type that seeks out validation because you already get it from everyone else - but there's a brain in that gorgeous head of yours too. You're clearly talented, your designs were featured in Rogue Vogue before you even graduated high school. You were head cheerleader, sleeping your way through your school's elite echelons, before you reform from the resident party girl to class president who founds a drunk driving program. Then after a second failed try with a novelist who's now on the New York Times bestseller list - who winds up marrying your former best friend - you decide to go to Duke instead of your many other design school options. You graduate with top marks in most of your courses, and finally land a coveted position at Waldorf Designs without so much as breaking a sweat."

"I'm fully aware of my accomplishments, Mr. Evans. Get to the point."

"What I'm saying is that with any other candidate, you'd be the bachelorette I would've chased down for him. I'd have been over the moon to see pictures of you at every campaign function splashed across every major tabloid, because you'd be a game changer for his image. I mean a woman like you? You don't date losers. You date award winning novelists, star basketball prospects, football captains. The man you date could win a congressional seat by a landslide. He'd be the true blue golden boy of the East Coast with a Southern belle on his arm. A Vanderbilt dating a Davis-Bass? That's not just a celebrity couple. That's a political dynasty in the making."

"The point." Her words are a snarl, vicious and demanding. All decorum is gone as she glances over the man's shoulder, watching Dan pace back and forth on the phone with Serena - because she'd really prefer that he not hear any of this. She hasn't said a word about Nate and she'd prefer to keep it that way.

Clay laughs again, shaking his head. "The point, Miss Davis, is that's pretty fucking impossible to do my job when my candidate is too busy being pussy whipped by you to actually decide if he even going to be a candidate."

"How dare you even-"

"Do you have any idea why I'm even here?" He challenges, his jaded gaze unwavering.

Brooke's eyes narrow dangerously. Finally, he's cutting to the point. "I assume you're here to tell me to back the fuck off so that Nate can clear his head and do what he needs to do. Because you're certainly not doing him any favors with me right now." She replies matter of factly, submitting to his little game.

Clay scoffs in what looks to be disgust. "There's a lot of things that I'll do to get Nate Archibald elected. Wrangling the press, blackmailing opponents, the occasional clean up job - without question. But getting the current apple of his eye to bend to his wishes? I'll pass."

"Then no, I really don't."

"I'm here because exactly an hour ago, your stepbrother was quietly released from police custody for trying to break into the apartment of Rufus Humphrey, whose son you're currently been sitting in a coffee shop with for the last six hours. His son, who happens to be married to Nate's last serious girlfriend that left him high and dry in a prison in Monaco on drug smuggling charges, nearly ending any chance of a political future for him. Is my point getting across now, Miss Davis?"

The color all but drains from her face, her sumptuous lips hanging open in surprise. She struggles to process what Nate's resident fixer has just laid on her. Chuck, arrested? And at Dan's childhood home? She'd known that he would spiral from their argument, but breaking and entering into a Brooklyn loft hadn't exactly been on the list of probabilities. When would he fucking learn. "Rachel..."

"Spun the story from breaking and entering, trespassing and resisting arrest into a generous donation to the Officer's fund. I have to give it to your firecracker of a best friend, Red really outdid herself this time." Clay says with some sort of twisted admiration. His body leans forward, his elbows resting on the table. "But that didn't stop the press from inquiring about you and Nate, and here you are, sitting with the man who sent him off the deep end. As you can imagine, that won't look great in the press, who are currently camped outside of this very shop to get a picture of you for their articles - when he got a tip from The Spectator's line hence why I'm here playing chauffeur."

Brooke pales even further, her skin ghostly white. She should have just told him last night, bitten the bullet and thrown it in his face like she did with the rest of her volleys. But Nate had been so sweet and earnest, they'd started kissing and she'd been too distracted by the taste of his lips to think of trivial things like her interview with Dan - and now she's forced to face the fact that she's fucked up. She's never seen Nate mad, but sending his campaign head to get her from her meeting with Dan seems like just the start of his rage.

"So here's the plan, Brookie. You thrown down a nice tip, you grab your shit, I take you out the back door of this place to a very inconspicuous black SUV and we get out of here before the vultures outside know you're gone. You don't say a word to anyone. You don't tell Humphrey so much as a goodbye, you don't say excuse me if you bump into someone, you're silent."

"How mad is he?" She murmurs tentatively, gulping down her hesitation.

His smirk only deepens, and her stomach clenches in fear. "I'm under firm instructions to take you back to Mr. Archibald's apartment and sit at the front door until he gets back from his meeting with his grandfather. And I make somewhere upwards of over a hundred bucks an hour." Clay stands up, straightening his tie and running his hands down the front of his suit. "So I think it's safe to say that you've been a very naughty girl."

He's not just pissed. Nate is fifty shades of grey, dark prince of the Upper East Side, out of his rational mind pissed if he thinks that she's some possession he can have carted back to his apartment at his bidding. He may be the emperor of this fucked up universe that she's wandered into with him, but he is not about to command her to give him what he wants. His entire life can be about control, but not with her. She refuses to be tamed by his childish needs.

"The hell you are." Brooke snorts, shaking her head in disbelief. "Contrary to what you or Mr. Archibald may think, I don't belong to him. So you and your boss can both go straight to hell. You can even carpool in your inconspicuous SUV the whole way down."

Clay leans down, his hand on the back of her chair as he gets uncomfortably close to her. "Let me make myself clear." He whispers as she flinches from his proximity. "Nate pretty much gave me full reign to get me out of here. So either you walk out that door, or I will carry you out of her myself. I have worked way too hard to have some Southern belle who's a little too big for her britches be the headline that tanks his congressional run. You do not want to test me."

She rises to her feet, her hands pushing him back as she does so. He's going too far and she won't have another second of it. "Watch your fucking mouth, Evans." Brooke growls, nose to nose with him.

"You first, Davis." Clay fires back, and the look in his baby blues tells her that he is not to be trifled with. He moves to the side, extending his arm to the door that he's planning to escort her out of. "You can either move and actually apologize to Nate, or you can go out the front door or dash any hopes of a relationship with him. Your. Choice."

Her body stills, her hands dropping to her sides. She may be ready to tear Nate's head off for sending his cronie to pull her away from Dan, but the thought of losing him makes chest tighten. He's promised that he wouldn't disappear, that he'll be patient with her, but the severity in Clay's voice sends her spinning. Even if he is a controlling megalomaniac at the moment, Brooke's not ready to walk away from him - and she's not sure if she could even bring herself to try.

She reaches into her purse, tossing a few bills onto the table. The look she gives him could kill, her hazel eyes alight with ferocity. "Touch me and die."

He smirks, rolling his eyes as he waits for her to pass him, his mutters sarcastic and condescending. "In your dreams, Princess."

- - - - - x - - - - - -

He's dying.

Or at least, that's what Chuck's convinced himself of when he rouses on the floor of his bathroom. Either he's dying right now from alcohol poisoning or his monumentally pissed off girlfriend is going to murder him when she gets there, but either way he's a dead man walking and he doesn't need to worry about all the things that are clouding his mind. Things like meddling former friends, violently pissed off sisters, and mothers that have been lying to their child about their true parentage. Things that are a little too big for his britches, but of course he'll never admit that he's struggling to keep his head above water.

He can just barely hear Rachel out in the apartment talking to the driver, thanking him for his services and apologizing for something - from the smell of his shirt, potentially vomiting onto the man's uniform. He's sure that his lovely girlfriend will compensate him handsomely, complete with another one of her ironclad NDA's, and so he set himself on the task of stripping himself of all clothes from his place on the floor. Every movement makes him groan in pain when he stands, dragging himself into the walk in shower. He vaguely remembers arriving at Victrola already half a bottle of scotch in, and then it all goes black. It's probably for the best anyway. He likes himself even less when he's drunk, and he borders soberly on malicious self hatred to begin with these days. And so he cranks the jets and the steam up to high and rests his head against the cool black tile and tries to figure out how the hell he's going to make it through the interrogation that's about the commence.

Liar.

It's for a good cause, he tells himself as the voice of his conscience begins to echo in his mind. He's risking his relationship with her because the day that Brooke finds out that she's a Humphrey is the day that she loses herself. It's the day that she's no longer a Davis, a piece of herself that is so integral that he wouldn't know who she'd even be if she isn't Brooke Davis - but in truth he does. She'll be a Humphrey; a Brooklyn-living, hummus eating, kombucha swilling eco-conscious Humphrey with all their indie rock attitude and their melodramatic sarcasm, and he's not ready for that day yet.

Cheater.

Not on Rachel, he tells himself. Aside from that one little slip up with Blair when she came back from France six months after he'd started casually seeing Rachel, he hasn't slept with anyone else - a mistake that had forced him to realize that he truly had fallen in love with the new woman in his life. It's been her and only her, and he can't even imagine his life without her anymore. He loves Rachel, for fuck's sake he wants to marry her. He's got a ring and everything, tucked away in the back of his safe right beside the last few artifacts of his late mother. It's the one place that his red headed girlfriend doesn't go into because she knows how particular he is about Evelyn Bass's things. It had been the only place that he had known that she wouldn't go snooping, and so a stunning twelve carat black diamond engagement ring is hidden behind the last picture of his darling mommy. Rachel isn't just something to him. She's everything.

Corrupter.

She makes him better. Rachel makes him better, makes him a human being. She makes him want to be the man that she sees in him and it's more than Blair ever did. Rachel doesn't scheme, doesn't manipulate. She's honest to a fault, brutally fucking honest even when she's spinning his company's mistakes into liquid magic. Deep beneath the snappy attitude and the habit of slicing people down to size, Rachel's a good person - and maybe that's the reason that he hasn't told her about the Brooke catastrophe. He doesn't want to ask her to lie for him because he knows that she will. The only thing above her honesty is her loyalty to those that she loves and he won't jeopardize her character. He won't do that to her, not after everything they've been through. Not after everything that she's been through to get here.

Unlovable.

He deserves love, he tries to tell himself. Chuck's purpose on this earth now is to be loved by Rachel and to love her the way she so clearly deserves to be and he has to repeat constantly to remind himself that he is worthy of it. After everything he's been through, after his mother's death during childbirth and his father being a repugnant excuse for a parental figure, after Blair had left him high and dry and he'd settled into the bottle, he deserves this. He can be loved by this incredible woman that literally makes his world stop on a dime, and he won't run. He won't disappear. He will let himself be loved by this hell raising angel that somehow turns his gray skies turn clear and bright. He will let himself be loved, and he won't push her away.

Except he has. He's expertly pushed her away like he has with every other person he's adored on this earth, which brings him to his most anguished title.

Brother.

He doesn't know if he can even call himself that anymore, if he has the right to call Brooke his sister after the way he's behaved. In his heart, she is in all but genetics; she's his baby sister that he'd walk through fire for. He'd lie for her, steal, kill, commit treason if she asked him to. He'd turn back the clock if he could, back when they'd have late night phone calls but didn't really have to say what they were feeling because they both just knew what was really on each other's minds, back when they had been as close as two human beings could be. His muscle memory won't let him forget the way it feels to be loved by her, how the curve of her dimple would deepen when he'd cup her cheek and she'd smile like he wouldn't ever hurt her. He can still feel the happiness that once seemed to radiate from her skin, the way that her soul seems to bring out the very best in everyone around her. He misses her. He misses her so much that it's literally killing him and he has no idea how to fix it other than bury himself in the bottom of a bottle.

Traitor.

The word rings in Chuck's mind as the water and steam swallow him whole. He had hoped that the scalding temperature would take them away, that if he had it hot enough to the point of boiling that he'd escape all of them. He's praying to just pass out at that point, but nothing comes. It's just him and the voices and the sound of the word that he despises so much that it makes him sick to his stomach. In sheer anger at the world, he slams his fist into the tile in front of him. He slams his fist into it over and over again until the tile nearly gives way beneath his knuckles and the water turns bright red with his own blood.

Fuck it. Add it to the list of things he'll have to explain to Rachel. It certainly won't be the worst one.

But the metallic scent of blood in the air send his stomach rolling, and he throws the shower door open at such a rapid rate that it clatters against it's frame. Chuck clutches the toilet like it's a porcelain god, heaving out whatever's actually left in his stomach. He barely manages to cover himself before he hears Rachel come running, the towel hanging carelessly at his hips. His shaggily kept hair streaks across his features, his warm brown eyes squeezed shut, and the sound that slips from his agape mouth is somewhere between a heaving sob and a whimper of pain, guttural and broken and everything that Chuck has never allowed himself to be. Vulnerable.

He can feel her from where he half crouches, half lays on the bathroom floor. He can just barely see the tips of her high heels in the doorway, halted as he tries to grasp his bearing. He can only imagine what he looks like and his pride rears its ugly head. "It's not my first time in a drunk tank, Raye. You don't need to watch over me." He growls as he presses his head to the seat, mustering up the courage to open his bloodshot and watery eyes.

She's looking down at him now, regarding him with a somewhat cool gaze. She's angry, there's no denying that, his girlfriend's face holds an empathy that most don't get to see. Tears are silently gliding down her cheeks as she waits for him to move, horrified and shattered by his actions and his words. She protectively folds her arms over her chest and her walls are back up, guarding a heart that's already filled with disappointment. "I'm not watching you. I was concerned for you. It's what normal people with normal emotions do, not drink themselves into oblivion." Rachel retorts, holding her hand out. His phone is in her hands, the distaste on her face making it clear that she's not a fan of being his secretary. "Now that you can breathe without dry heaving, you can answer your own calls. Like this one. He's been calling for the last hour for you."

Chuck grimaces as he rips it from her hands, watching her briskly saunter out of the room. His eyes follow her curvaceous body all the way to his bedroom, his haggard state still impacted by her beauty. He'll make up for it later, he promises himself as he brings the phone to his ear. He'll find a way.

"Bass." He grunts, his eyes slipping shut as he lays back on the floor, willing himself not to wretch up his guts.

"Well you sound like absolute shit."

Fucking Tripp, always the charmer. Chuck groans wordlessly as his eyes nearly roll back into his head in annoyance. Of course Nate's cousin is calling him when he's practically dying from alcohol poisoning - because that is the definition of his shit show of a life. God knows he can't get his sister on the phone, but the Vanderbilt black sheep? The asshole's first in line to rile his frenemy up, because that's exactly what he deserves right now. "What can I do for you today, Tripp." He mumbles, drifting in and out of his nauseous state.

"I think it's what you should be asking, it's what I can do for you."

"Oh yeah? Cause you're such a wealth of information these days?" Chuck snaps. The man is an insipid gnat, buzzing around his ears looking for somewhere to rest his puny wings. And yet while he can hardly stand the scandal ridden delinquent, he's always been the apple of Rachel's eye. Tripp's her darling, she squeals like a damn teenager when they run into a club, but he's the petulant bane of everyone else's existence.

"When it comes to Nate, I am. And I think we both know how much you'd like to sink him and his blossoming romance to the bottom of the Hudson." Tripp's dark laugh can be heard through the line, raising a chill on the back of his neck. "Brooke's quite the handful, I doubt my cousin could handle her the way she needs to be."

"Careful, Tripp." Chuck's snarl is vicious, his free hand clenching with rage. "Unless you'd like your body down there with him too, I'd highly suggest that you refrain from even think about 'handling' my baby sister."

"Pipe down, Cujo. We're on the same side. I want Nate knocked back down to his woeful ways just as much as you do. Which is why I'm offering to lend you my invaluable services."

Chuck sneers, his voice harsh. "For the right price, right?"

"Nathaniel Fitzwilliam Archibald took everything from me. He's in the shoes that I was destined to fill. You taking down Nate is my price."

A cold and calculated smile twists on his face, and all thoughts of anyone but himself slip from his mind. Mending fences with Brooke, explaining everything to his girlfriend, keeping Humphrey out of the fray - it all fades away like a daydream forgotten as the version of himself he truly hates appears. It's the one that forced Humphrey into lying in the first place, the one that pulled Dan's heartstrings until his little puppet did exactly what he had wanted. The side of that rationalizes every awful thing he's ever done by saying that it had all been for the greater good crawls out of its hiding place, feasting on his insecurities and wounded pride. Chuck rises to his feet, staring at his own manical smile in the mirror as he utters the two words that will surely be his undoing.

"I'm in."

- - - - - x - - - - - -

They drive around the city until the waves of reporters have dissipated from the front of what she assumes is Nate's building, the waves of anger and anguish settling in like two old friends passing the time with her. Brooke doesn't quite know what to say as she stares out the window, her forehead resting against the glass. The man who's apparently supposed to keep her in check hasn't said very much either, not since he'd safely gotten her out of the coffee shop and all but shoved her into the backseat. Clay barks an occasional instruction to the man weaving them through the city, but his eyes don't leave the Blackberry that's glued to his hands.

She feels as if she's moving in slow motion as the SUV slows, her eyes looking up at the skyscraper that offensively towers over them. Nate lives only a few blocks from the penthouse that's he's offered her - if that offer even still stands after the mess that she's apparently cluelessly dropped in his lap - and she's sure it's yet another reason why he wants to give it to her. Closer proximity between his office and his building, easy to sneak over to if he needs to avoid the press, the perfect getaway.

She smirks, bitterly shaking her head. He'd been wrong when he'd said that no one could have control all of the time. He's living proof of that. Every choice he makes, every decision that comes down the wire from him, they're all carefully considered without any sort of impulse. It's as if every move he makes is him playing a dangerous chess game, always thinking twelve paces ahead of where he actually is on the board and making sure that he, the king, is guarded at all costs. She's just not sure what her place on the board is - a pawn or his queen - but at either position, she won't sacrifice her own life for his.

She and Clay make their way through the service entrance in utter silence, thankful that her leather boots have a stable enough heel that she can keep up to his rapid pace. The blonde is ever watchful, his gaze bending around every corner as they all but dash into a nearby elevators, and the doors slam shut before she can even catch her breath. It's awkward, to say the least - after all, what is she supposed to say? Hey, thanks for publicly ripping me to shreds before whisking me out of my very platonic meeting? It doesn't have a great ring to it, she muses as she closes her eyes and listens to the elevator hum to life. Clay slams his finger into the penthouse button - no surprise there - and the doors open an uncountable number of floors later.

She feels as if she's on an exploration mission into unknown lands as he leads her into his apartment - if she can even call it that. She isn't sure what she had been expecting, but it certainly hadn't been this. Nate's place must be twice the size of the place he's offering her, if not more, with an stark modern severity that gives it a megalomaniac vibe. The slate gray walls, the floor to ceiling windows, the bold abstract paintings - the amount of testosterone in this place is borderline overbearing. She much prefers the warm wood tones, lush terrace and golden hour light of his other apartment - the one she may or may not be taking - than the panoramic glass walls and marble flooring. It feels like she's walking into an actual fishbowl, one high up enough so that no one could possibly look inside, and the discomfort it brings makes her protectively snake her arms across her chest. How could anyone ever feel at home here?

"You can go in. I'll be here in the foyer if you need something. I know you haven't been here before - try not to take it personally, none of his harem have." Clay's sigh is filled with irritation, his contempt not lost on her - and she can't blame him. He's a man that's trying to shape Nate into a congressman and here he is, a glorified babysitter. But just because she feels sorry for him does not mean that she's going to allow him to behave like a fourteen year old mean girl.

Brooke's frustration easily matches his condescension, rolling her eyes at him as she walks past him, absorbing everything around her. "What, you're afraid I'll try to make off with the silver?" She scoffs over her shoulder, the sound of every step she takes magnified in the empty space about her. "I get that this is clearly out of your standard wheelhouse, but it's just a penthouse. I much prefer Bart and Victoria's home in the South of France. Or my father's property in Aspen." She sighs out dramatically, giving her best spoiled little rich girl act as she runs her fingers along a small sofa table displaying obligatory family photos.

She stops to look at Nate and what appears to be his grandfather, noting they share the same jawline that could cut glass, just before she goes in for the kill with her challenging chauffeur.

"What was it that condescending nickname you called me before? Ah, yes. Princess." Brooke turns her head to look at the fixer, smirking heavily. Her hazel eyes spark with violence, her words harsh and her gaze unforgiving. "Points for ingenuity on that one. Perhaps you should take notes, Mr. Evans. God knows I could use some charity hours and I'm always happy to give etiquette lessons to the help."

She ignores the string of profanities that Clay mutters under his breath as she moves out of the foyer and into what looks to be the great room, her utter lack of concern rivaling that of her ice queen of a mother. He's nothing but the dust on her shoulder, just waiting to be flicked off. That ought to teach him a lesson. You don't fuck with a Davis without getting cut down to size.

The penthouse is expansive, expertly decorated of course, but she doesn't feel any sort of personal touch whatsoever. Other than the snapshots she's already wandered past, everything feels so like it's been pulled off of a page of Architect's Digest. There's not one single intimate item anywhere in the spread of perfectly chosen art and uncomfortably open floor plan, not so much as a set of keys. There's a chill that lingers in the air and nothing seems lived in. The blankets are crisply folded on the dark leather furniture that looks as if no one has ever lounged the day away in it, the books on the end tables don't look like they've ever been opened, every inch of the place is spotless. She absentmindedly wonders how many women have been here before her. Dozens? Hundred? Thousands? She knows the reputation that proceeds Nate and every square inch of this place is a slap in the face reminder of it.

Her gaze lands on a very well stocked bar, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that Clay has abandoned him post before side stepping over to the various bottles. Nate only has the best of the best, no surprise, and she feels obligated to help herself to her new provisions After all, just because her Pomeranian sized guard dog is keeping her cooped up in the mausoleum of bachelor pads doesn't mean she has to do it sober. It's practically an invitation to soften her hardened exterior before the new master of her universe arrives home. Brooke snorts to herself as she pours herself more than a few fingers of bourbon, rolling her eyes. How positively wretched it would be for her to greet him at the door with a scotch and a red lipped smile, the perfect Stepford housewife. She'd sooner bite her own tongue off than welcome him home like a dutiful wife.

But that's what they're all expecting of her now. Clay, Anne, William, the world. Nate's future is the pinnacle of their legacies, every option for their promising futures coasting along with his coattails. Hadn't they caught on to the fact that she had no power over him, that Nate made his own shitty decisions? The idea that she has any control over what Nate does is laughable to her as she begins to nose her way through his apartment, bottle of bourbon in hand with her glass left behind - because lord knows she's going to need the rest of the bottle to pass the time in this prison.

Nate's palatial apartment boasts two decadent floors, each room more regal than the next. The help skitters around her as she meanders, careful not to become her next casualty. A spacious kitchen that she's sure he's never actually used in his life, a formal dining room with enough space for a dozen guests, empty guest rooms with perfectly made beds, lavish bathrooms with every amenity feasible, a man cave that would make every frat bro in the country weep with jealousy, a library that she's sure has never been touched, various other rooms that she's not even sure have a purpose. But nowhere in the endless square footage does she find a piece of the man that she's come to care for, not a shred of him.

Right up until she reaches the final stop on her magical mystery tour almost an hour later.

Brooke's good and tipsy as she slips into what looks to be Nate's home office from the impressive dark walnut desk that sits far across from the door. The room is decorated much like the others, the air of masculinity almost choking her but there's something different about it. The random trinkets reminiscent of street vendors, the exotic photographs that looks to have been taken around the world, the papers piled haphazardously across the weathered wood, the suit jacket tossed over the back of the chair. Where she stands is the only spot in this god forsaken place that Nate seems to have left his mark, right down to the worn in water mark from his scotch glass on the desk top. Her fingertips run along it as her eyes skate around her, attempting to absorb it all. She feels as if she's been allowed into his innermost thoughts, the man of mystery slowly unraveling with every step she takes, and it reminds her of her first night out in New York. No detail is too small, no moment too unimportant. She needs to remember all of this.

She's nearing the imposing leather desk chair, its worn in cognac colored cushion beckoning to her. Come on Brooke, it whispers to her in her somewhat drunken state, see what absolute power he feels. She takes a pull from the bottle as she runs her finger along the back, spinning it to face her. Brooke's delicate hands grasp the jacket on the back, slipping her arms into is and letting it swallow her body up. She nuzzles the fabric almost lovingly, her eyes slipping shut at she breathes in the scent that lingers within its threads. He may be angry as all hell at her, but god does she wish it's him that she's buried in.

When she's good and fitted, she settles into the leather, resting in Nate's place at the helm of his empire. She can't help but feel the Vanderbilt influence roll through her as she sinks in, a small smile pulling at her mouth. So this is what it's like to be a man in charge, she muses to herself with another snort, bringing the bottle to her lips. You wear a nice suit, you sit in a fancy chair, and everyone's just supposed to listen to you. You get everything you want, and if you don't you just-

"Glad to see you're making yourself comfortable."

Her head snaps up to find Nate glowering at her from the doorway, his blue eyes darkened with anger, and she suddenly feels like a child with her hand caught in the cookie jar.

Shit.