Author's Note: These two snippets are part of a much larger, multi-chapter fic I am working on. Unfortunately, I was not able to finish it in time for limoversary but I could not let the day pass without posting a small something to celebrate that iconic moment. Happy seventh limoversary!

The flip phone in his pocket chirps, and he takes one last long drag on his cigarette as the phone buzzes against his thigh in what undoubtedly will be a short, clipped text message demanding he come right away. He flicks his wrist tossing aside the cigarette and giving himself a glimpse at his wrist watch. His eyebrows furrow together in surprise when he notices the hands are on the left side of the twelve, and his own hand slips into his pocket to fish for the phone.

The keys to the limo jangle in his pocket as he pulls out the phone, as he steps away from the huddle of men dressed in black suits and crisp, white shirts chugging coffee and waiting for their own phones to buzz. A couple of them glance at their own watches because they usually leave this underground parking garage long before he does; a couple of the newer guys who don't know how tight lipped he is call after him inquiring if everything is okay.

Their concern – or, more likely, their desire for gossip they can spread like wildfire through the not so silent working class of the Upper East Side – falls on deaf ears as he yanks open the door to the limo, as he glances at the message one last time before tossing the phone aside into the passenger seat. And his own concern – or, more likely, confusion – replaces theirs as he drives the sleek, black limo out of its parking space and up the ramp to the busy streets aboveground.

It takes him longer than he anticipated to reach them; the streets are not nearly as deserted at this time of night as they are during a normal pick up. And he swears under his breath when he spies them standing outside the busy nightclub because it is November in New York and there is no way that thin negligee with its spaghetti straps are keeping her warm against the evening chill.

If this was his younger brother rather than his employer, he would wallop him hard on the ear and chastise him for not offering up his coat. But this is not his younger brother and, as he stands holding open the door, even he has to admit there is some kind of unusually bright and warm glow surrounding the young lady in question as she slides into the limo carrying a balled-up mess of sea foam green fabric in her arms.

He holds the door open expecting his employer to climb in after her and then glances to the left because maybe he misunderstood the text message, maybe he is supposed to give her a lift home and then return later. It wouldn't be the first time his employer has used him as a taxi service for his best friend's girlfriend so the two can spend the evening getting lost together.

But it is the first time he has watched his employer walk around the limo and enter through the other door; the first time he hasn't had to suppress a frown over the way his employer expects everyone but his own father to slide over and make room for him. And he has to quickly unknit his brows, smooth out the wrinkles of confusion on his forehead as his employer barks out his name and directs him once again to drive the limo up Fifth Avenue.

He mutters his apologies, carefully shuts the open door before returning to the driver's seat. One glance at the rearview mirror to check for oncoming traffic causes him to freeze once more because his employer seems lost in memories, lost in some kind of emotion – a mixture of awe and befuddlement – he has never seen grace the sixteen-year-old's face before. One glance at the normally poised young lady sitting in her slip with her hair no longer bound by a headband causes him to release the parking break, to shift the limo into drive and decide to take the fastest way possible to her house as he pulls out into traffic because clearly something awful must have happened for her to want to head home so early in the evening.

And he has barely driven through three stoplights when he hears her murmur out her thanks. He has been around the bounding blocks of the Upper East Side enough times to know the thanks is not directed at him so he keeps his eyes on the fairly busy road and barely manages to catch the whispered words of admiration as he speeds through yet another green light.

" You were…amazing up there."

The compliment – the first he has heard from the backseat that wasn't tied to sex or business or drugs in so far as he knows – causes his eyes to leave the road and shift to watch in the rearview mirror for more than a moment longer than it should take for his brain to realize Blair Waldorf is sliding across the seat with more than a verbal thank you on her mind. For more than a second longer than it should take for his lungs to gasp for air when he hears Chuck Bass pause and act in a far more respectful manner than giving up his suit jacket.

"You sure?"

And Arthur knows the answer without even needing to glance in the rearview mirror once more, although he does because you don't become Chuck Bass' driver without some kind of interest in voyeurism. But it only takes once peek at the way Miss Waldorf presses her hand against Mister Bass' cheek, at the way Mister Bass tries to hold her hand as it falls to know that this is different, to cause Arthur to push the button to raise the partition between the front and the back of the limo. And when they are ensconced alone in the back of the limo, Arthur reaches for the volume dial of the radio and tries to wipe the smile off his face as he softly sings along to the words.

"—heart and soul. I'll hold onto this moment, you know, 'cause I'd bleed my heart out to show. And I won't let go."

The iPhone in his pocket chirps, and he pops one more piece of Nicotine gum into his mouth as the phone buzzes against his thigh in what will undoubtedly be a short, clipped message demanding he come right away. He flicks his wrist tossing the nearly empty packet onto the passenger seat and lifts his gaze to the small, green numbers on the dashboard. His eyebrows furrow together in surprise when he notices the hands are on the right side of the nine because he is not expected until ten, and his own hand slips into his pocket to fish out the phone.

He breathes a sigh of relief and smiles as he reads the text message from his wife imploring him to take lots of pictures for her, but the tap on the glass pulls his attention from his phone and he glances up to see a man in a blue uniform directing him to pull up in line. If the sleek, newly washed limo looks out of place amidst the jumble of smaller cars, pickup trucks, and SUVs, the firemen running this clinic say nothing as they motion for him to pull to the right. And he slips the phone back into his pocket, makes a mental note to reply later as he pulls the limo into the newly vacated parking spot.

After shutting off the engine and pulling the parking break, he grabs the owner's manual – its slim spine cracked from so much use – tucked into the cup holder, yanks open the door, and steps out of the limo. The two firemen assigned to this location greet him in cool, professional tones asking him to unlock the doors to the backseat and inquiring if he brought the owner's manual with him.

"Top of the line," one of the firemen – his nametag reads 'Bazmozgis' – comments as he takes the well-thumbed owner's manual in hand and begins flipping through the pages. The fireman states his name, gestures towards the other fireman with the manual introducing his partner by the name of O'Neill.

"Arthur," the driver of the limo replies over his shoulder as he opens the door to the backseat. O'Neill seizes upon the invitation climbing into the backseat as Bazmozgis continues to flip through the manual looking for one page in particular.

"How old's the kid?" O'Neill calls from inside the limo and Arthur ducks down to meet his gaze before answering his question. There is a hint of pride in his voice, a hint of excitement as he explains that the child in question was born less than forty-eight hours ago.

"A boy," Arthur says as Bazmozgis gestures for him to step aside and climbs into the limo after his partner. "Seven pounds exactly."

"Small tyke, huh?" O'Neill replies as he jostles the car seat side to side, as he and Bazmozgis work in tandem to check the quality of the seatbelts holding the car seat in place. And Arthur is halfway through his assertion that the baby is the picture of health when Bazmozgis interrupts to say the installation looks great to them, when O'Neill climbs out of the limo to fetch a certificate of safe installation from the folding table assembled in the middle of the parking lot.

The short wait leaves Arthur just enough time to grab a stray, reddish leaf off the floor of the limo, to adjust the soft newborn head support left in disarray from the frantic jostling, and he returns to the driver's seat after he is handed the certificate. He murmurs his thanks, places the certificate gingerly on the passenger seat, and ends his sojourn to the outer boroughs with a right turn onto one of the roads that lead straight to his employer's kingdom.

Traffic moves quickly for a Friday morning, and the phone begins buzzing against his thigh as he makes a right turn off Lexington onto East Seventy-Seventh. The crumpled packet of Nicotine gum crinkles in his pocket as he pulls out the phone, and he barely has time to register the caller's name before the door to the backseat flies open.

He swallows back the temptation to chastise the Polish maid unsuccessfully attempting to unlatch the car seat from its base; the wrinkled uniform and tendrils escaping from her bun clueing him into how well the last seventy-two hours have gone for her. So, instead, he moves to help her; expertly unlatching the car seat with one hand in a fluid motion that only comes with a tremendous amount of practice.

Arthur watches her dart through traffic towards the entrance with the empty car seat in hand raising his hope that she'll be more careful with the owner of that car seat on their return. He pops another piece of Nicotine gum into his mouth as he waits, fights his boredom and his craving for another cigarette with the noxious smacking of his jaw, and nearly swallows the gum in excitement when he spies his employer stepping out into the crisp November morning.

The man with the slightly disheveled hair and untied bowtie around his neck – moves slowly. Carefully walking in step with the wheelchair being pushed towards the street by an orderly; carefully limiting his movements to keep from smacking into the car seat he gingerly carries in front of him with both hands.

And as Arthur stands holding open the door to the limo, even he has to admit there is some kind of unusually bright and warm glow surrounding the man – because after everything that has happened in the past seven years, Arthur can no longer think of Chuck Bass as a boy in his mind – and the woman he married despite the evident exhaustion under her eyes and the evident hesitation across Mister Bass' face.

"Congratulates Mrs. Bass, Mister Bass," Arthur tells the young couple as they reach the open door of the limo. Both of their smiles deepen; a flush of pride creeping onto both their faces as they glance at the tiny infant safely buckled into his car seat.

Mrs. Bass' hand reaches out to adjust the blanket tucked around the infant before she bides Dorota to take the baby and, when his hands are free, she reaches out to hold the hand of her husband, to lean into his for support as she stands up from the wheelchair.

The orderly folds up the leg rests, moves to head back into the hospital, and only pauses when Arthur calls after him, when Arthur hurries to grab the certificate and shows it to him. The orderly shrugs at it; this is Manhattan, after all, and no one is going to tell Mister and Mrs. Bass they cannot take their baby home. But Arthur's employers are intrigued by his instance that the orderly acknowledge the certificate – Mrs. Bass calling for him to show her the piece of paper as she stands at the open door of the limo with Mister Bass' arm curled around her waist and his hand clutch tightly in hers.

"It certifies that the car seat was properly installed," Arthur explains softly holding the paper out to her. "That it's safe for Mister Henry to ride in the limo."

There is a pregnant pause, a moment when nothing is said between those assembled near the open door of the limo because the statement is meant to belay all those fears neither Mister nor Mrs. Bass like to address, and then Mister Henry chimes in with a cry that he is ready to take his first limo ride.

Now.

And Arthur watches as Mister Bass slowly helps his wife into her seat, helps to buckle her in with a tender kiss to the temple of her forehead. And because he is a man, because he respects her position in his life, Mister Bass does not even consider asking his wife to scoot over but rather takes the car seat back from Dorota and walks around to the other side of the limo.

Dorota has already settled into the passenger seat of the limo by the time Arthur climbs into the driver's seat; she has already turned around to make sure Miss Blair is comfortable and Mister Henry is safely buckled in by the time Arthur turns the key in the ignition.

Once glance at the rearview mirror to check for oncoming traffic causes him to pause, however, because his employer seems lost in memories, lost in some kind of emotion – a mixture of pride and love and security and adoration – Arthur has never seen grace the twenty-three-year-old's face before. One glance at the deliriously happy expression on the face of the woman who freed herself seven years ago today causes him to release the parking break, to shift the limo into drive and decide to take the long way home as he pull out into traffic.

And he has barely driven through three stoplights when he hears her murmur out three words, eight letters to the man sitting next to her. Barely has time to lift his gaze to the rearview mirror in time to see his employer sweep his eyes from the baby latched in securely between them to his wife.

"You are…amazing."

When the words dripping in adoration meet his ears, Arthur moves to push the button to raise the partition between the front and the back of the limo. And when the new family of three are ensconced alone in the back of the limo, Arthur reaches for the volume dial of the radio and does not even bother to try and wipe the smile off his face as he and Dorota softly sing along to the words of an oldie.

"—everything's nothing without you. I'd wait here forever just to, to see you smile, 'cause it's true, I am nothing without you."