"You look nice, Serena."

The words were harmless, polite even. But when the words came out of Nate Archibald's mouth whilst he stood next to his girlfriend in her foyer, they were lethal weapons.

Ever oblivious, Nate didn't notice the way Blair's face screwed up for a second before she regained control, or the way Serena's eyes shone with hope.

Chuck noticed. He'd always felt like an outsider at these gatherings Blair insisted on hosting every week. ("We're fifteen now, we don't play outside!") Serena was her best friend, Nate was her boyfriend, but Chuck was just Nate's friend, dragged along to even out the numbers. His position, however humiliating, gave him ample opportunity to notice things the other three missed, things he may have been able to use for blackmail later.

Blair took Nate's arm and spun him around. "Dorota's bringing us lemonade," she said as she led them into the lounge. She followed the same routine every week, sometimes switching lemonade for cookies, but always grasping Nate's arm, and leaving Serena and Chuck trailing behind. Chuck glanced to his left and fought the urge to roll his eyes – Serena's attention was focused on the back of Nate's polo shirt, a faint blush on her cheeks.

Once they sat down – Nate and Blair occupying one sofa with their interlocked hands between them, and Chuck and Serena on the other, sitting as far apart as they could – Serena spoke. "You guys remember Georgina Sparks? From middle school?"

Blair made a noise of disgust. "She's a psycho."

"You barely ever talked to her, B," Serena said wearily. "Anyway, she's coming back to the city next week; we should all go out."

Chuck couldn't imagine anything worse, but Nate replied, "Sounds great, we should go –"

Blair stood up suddenly, cutting off Nate's words. Some colour had drained out of her cheeks. "I just need to run upstairs for a second." She smiled and dropped Nate's hand before she sped up the staircase.

Nate and Serena lapsed into a conversation about all the fun they could have in the city with Georgina Sparks – neither took much notice when Blair didn't return for fifteen minutes, nor when Chuck excused himself, smoothly delivering a lie about needing the bathroom.

He did end up in the bathroom, coincidentally, drawn there by the sound of a tap barely covering the sound of heaving. The door was shut, but not locked, as if she'd barely taken the time to ensure her privacy. He pushed the door open slowly, taking in the sight beyond. Before his eyes were drawn to the girl he'd come looking for, he saw the empty box of macaroons half-lying in the sink. The black of Blair's dress contrasted starkly to the while tile on which she knelt, one hand grasping the edge of the toilet bowl. He didn't want to think about where her other hand was, hidden from his view by her body.

For a moment, he was torn between making himself known and slipping away unseen. Then, he heard a whimper and Blair sunk back onto her calves.

"Waldorf," he said, forcing his voice to sound level, as if this was just another one of their encounters from running in the same social circle. He'd make a lewd comment and she'd scoff in disgust, and they'd both emerge unscathed.

She yelped in shock. The hand that had been on the toilet bowl reached up to her face – he presumed to wipe her tears. When she stood up to face him, her eyes were dry, but the tell-tale mascara stains remained. Her headband had been used to scrape her hair away from her face, a far cry from the dainty placement in her curls he had witnessed not long before.

Unsure of what to say now, he merely stared at her; confident he knew her well enough to predict she'd be the next to speak. He wasn't disappointed. She cleared her throat. "I don't know what you thought you saw, Bass," she told him firmly as she moved over to the sink. She pushed the empty macaroon box onto the floor nonchalantly. "But walking into someone's bathroom, when the door is closed, is the work of a pervert."

"Thank you for the compliment," he drawled. "But don't try and distract me with your dirty talk."

She finished fixing her mascara in the mirror and turned around to face him. Wringing her hands, she fixed him with an icy glare. "Why did you follow me upstairs? Serena and Nate…"

"I think you can trust them enough not to start having making out as soon as our backs are turned." Her whole body tensed with his words, making him almost wish to take it back.

"Answer my question," she hissed, giving no vocal indication that his words had affected her at all. He had to give her credit; she still managed to shoot daggers at him with nothing more than her gaze, despite her obvious emotional turmoil.

He shrugged. "I wondered where you'd gone, and I didn't fancy hearing all about our apparent plans next week."

"You wondered where I'd gone?" she asked quietly, the disappointment clear.

He wanted nothing more than to turn and run downstairs, out of the building if he could manage it. Instead, he reached behind Blair for the glass by the sink. Blair moved out of his way silently as he filled the glass with cold water. When he offered the beverage to her, she blinked dumbly before snatching it out of his grasp and downing it in seconds.

"Shouldn't you be glad it was just me who walked in on you?" Just Chuck, no-one special.

She refilled the glass, but made no further attempt to drink it; just held it in her hands. "If it had been Nate…" she laughed bitterly, "it would've shown he cared about me more than 'you look nice', 'let's hang out' Serena van der Woodsen." When she imitated Nate, her voice went up an octave, leaving Chuck wondering if Blair even cared about his best friend at all.

"He's your boyfriend, isn't he?" His voice sounded strange even to his own ears.

Blair raised the glass to her lips and drank. Finishing her second glass of water seemed to change something in her. "Right," she said, placing the glass back on the sink with a loud clunk. "He's my boyfriend; he chose me over her and I chose him over all the other boys at St. Jude's. He can look at Serena all he wants, as long as he doesn't touch her."

At some point during her externalised monologue, Chuck's heart had begun to ache. The feeling was foreign to him. He ignored it. "You're sure that's the right move?"

She was already halfway to the door. As she passed him, she nodded. "Of course. What you saw was just me being stupid. Serena doesn't matter." The words sounded were a mantra.

He sighed. There was no point arguing with Blair Waldorf when she'd made her mind up. She'd go running back to Nate and pretend like she didn't notice every look he sent in Serena's direction. She'd tell herself she was fine.

Just before she reached the door, he grabbed her wrist. She turned to eye him disdainfully. "What?"

He opened his mouth to speak before realising he didn't have anything to say. His mind was stuck on the image of her kneeling in front of the toilet; the image of a broken girl. She tried to yank her arm back, forcing the words out of his mouth. "Next time you're going to be stupid, give me a call."

"So you can take advantage? You're sick, Chuck." Although her words were cutting, he could tell her heart wasn't in it as her voice was soft and her fingers briefly squeezed his arm before she hurried downstairs, back to her perfect life – leaving everything imperfect in the bathroom.

When he returned to the lounge, Blair was tucked under Nate's arm, laughing slightly too hard to be genuine. He made his excuses and left within the hour.

There weren't a lot of things Chuck despised doing more than nothing, which is why he was almost out of the door when the phone in the apartment rung that night. His father wasn't back from work yet – if he was coming back at all – so Chuck strolled over to the phone mounted on the wall and answered with the intention of taking a message.

"Bass residence, Ch –"

He was cut off by the person on the other end of the line. "Chuck?" For a moment, Chuck was stunned into silence, unable to say anything. "You said to call if I was going to… be stupid." She sounded hesitant. "Is this a bad time? I'll go."

"No, no," he said quickly, grateful for the return of his voice. "I wasn't doing anything important."

"I hope that it's okay I called your apartment, I realised I don't have your cell phone number."

He imagined Blair scrolling through her phone contacts trying to find him, and then going through all of the effort to find the number for his apartment. The thought sent little tremors of electricity shooting down his spine. "Will you be at Nate's lacrosse game tomorrow?" He didn't wait for her reply, knowing that she'd be dutifully sat in the stands like always. "We can exchange numbers then."

"Yeah," she said. "Let's do that."

A silence fell over the line, leaving him wondering if she was regretting calling. But she wouldn't make all that effort to call him without being certain she wanted to speak to him; Blair didn't do things half-heartedly or for no reason. Maybe she just needed a prompt, given the private nature behind her reason for calling. "Are you okay?"

He heard her sigh. "I suppose so. I mean I haven't… you know… yet. I thought I was going to, but then I remembered what you said this afternoon, so here we are."

She didn't quite know what to say, he could tell, but he was glad that she'd thought of him before giving into her urge. "Is this about Nate? Serena?"

"You might think that my mind revolves around the two of them, but other things go on in the world."

Chuck twirled the cord of the phone around his finger as he leaned against the wall. He could see the door out of the corner of his eye, but boredom was no longer drawing him towards it. "You know I didn't mean it like that," he said. "Get to the point."

"My mother's new line debuts next week and she's going crazy." The hesitance still hadn't left her voice, and it was starting to grate on Chuck.

"And you couldn't talk to your boyfriend about it?" His tone was harsher than he'd intended; he wanted to reach into the phone and take his words back immediately.

She ignored the harshness behind his words – either she knew he didn't mean it, or the clarity on her end of the line was lacking. "I love Nate, but he wouldn't understand. He doesn't have demons, he doesn't need an escape."

Her words were so certain, making Chuck feel like she was under his skin, in his brain, poking at whatever she wanted. "What makes you so sure I do?"

"Please," she scoffed. "You're Chuck Bass."

He laughed loudly, unexpectedly, despite the irritated noise she made at his volume.

"I'm right then, aren't I?" she asked.

Almost against his will, his hand found his pocket and the badly-rolled joint nestled inside. It was a new habit – one he wasn't particularly proud of. "You're right," he admitted. He slid to the floor, with his legs out in front of him. "You don't have to do it, you know, to be in control." He would never admit it, but when he returned from Blair's hours before, he'd used his computer to search bulimia. The only reason he did it was because he was the only person who knew, and he didn't want to singlehandedly ruin Blair's life by saying the wrong thing. At least, that's what he was telling himself.

There was a vague rustling coming from her end, like she was rolling over on her bed. He wondered if she was lying on her front or back. "Sometimes I just snap," she told him, the hesitation in her voice gone. "It's like there's this pressure building, and sometimes it gets too much, and I snap because I'm weak. I eat and it doesn't help and I hate myself for it, so I puke it up and that just makes everything worse. But I'm powerless against – "

"Blair," he said loudly to get her attention through her tirade. She stopped talking. "You're not weak. You're strong, and the whole Upper East Side knows you're powerful."

He waited as Blair seemed to mull this over. Finally, she said, "I want to be powerful, but I see my boyfriend take one look at my best friend and it sends me to my knees in the bathroom." In her pause, he opened his mouth to speak. "And don't you dare suggest where else I could be on my knees."

"I wasn't going to," he lied.

"Yes, you were," she said with certainty. "The only normal thing about this conversation is that I can still rely on you for terrible sexual jokes."

He smiled; glad she wasn't in front of him to see it. "And what about your mom?"

"My mother is so strong. My father… leaves and she does nothing but come out with her best clothing range yet. I want to be like her, I want to just be able to forget, but I can't." He heard her deep intake of breath, and waited for the exhale. "Oh god, I'm so sorry. Just forget I ever said anything, you wouldn't understand anyway. Bye, Chuck."

"Wait!" he shouted, surprised at how much he wanted to continue their conversation.

"What?" she said. If he knew her at all, her cheeks were currently tinged pink.

Mentally, he grasped for something to say. Ridiculous chit-chat wouldn't keep her on the line. "What's your middle name?"

"Cornelia," she replied automatically. Her voice lowered suspiciously. "Why?"

"Blair Cornelia Waldorf." The name fell from his lips as he tested it. It was a regal sounding name, one meant for a princess – or the queen of the Upper East Side. "Not Blair Eleanor Waldorf."

"Yes, obviously not that. Get on with it." Her tone was neither hesitant nor vulnerable. This assertive voice belonged to the girl who ruled over the MET steps.

"Charles Bartholomew Bass." He supposed his name sounded regal, too. "Two thirds of my name is my father's. It's not just me who wants to be like him. Everyone else wants me to be like him. They expect it."

Blair didn't reply for a few seconds. When she did, her tone was incredulous. "You want to be like him?"

"Of course," Chuck replied immediately. "Bass Industries is worth billions."

She groaned; probably closed her eyes in exasperation, too. "Is that the only thing that matters?"

Chuck raised an eyebrow. "What else is there?"

"Happiness, loyalty, selflessness, generosity..."

"If you're just going to list Nate's qualities for the next hour," he drawled impatiently, "let me know so I can hang up."

Now she was impatient. "Many people have those qualities, Chuck, Nate may just be the only good person you know."

It didn't escape his attention that she didn't include herself. "Your point?"

"Your father doesn't have those things, and it seems to me like he's a pretty terrible father to you too."

She was bold for saying that, especially to Chuck. He didn't disagree. In fact, she had piqued his curiosity. "Is this going somewhere, Waldorf?"

"You can aspire to be so much better than he is." She paused, deliberating her next words. "You can be so much better."

"You sure about that?" he asked, letting the cocky, self-assuredness take over his voice.

He could practically hear her eyes roll. "Cut the crap. I wouldn't have said it if I didn't know it was true."

If she could see him, he would've smirked. Instead, he smiled to himself. "Where the hell did you get the idea that you're not powerful?"

She didn't say anything for so long that he wondered if she'd hung up. Finally, she broke the silence. "So you agree with what I said?" Her voice was soft.

"That my father is an awful man? Yeah, I got that years ago, thanks."

"Chuck," she scolded. "Drop the shield of sarcasm for one second and admit that you want to be better than he is."

He glanced over at the door to his father's study, with its door wide open and the desk inside unoccupied. Next to it, the door to his father's room was shut, but Chuck didn't need x-ray vision to know that no-one was inside. "Yes, fine, I do."

He took the 'harrumph' that came from her throat to mean 'finally'.

"But only if you agree that you're strong." He wasn't sure why it was so important for him to know what everyone else already knew, but he couldn't stop himself from making the request.

"I can be," she said after a long sigh.

"And powerful?" he prompted.

She wasted no time in her response. "Of course."

"So do you feel better?"

The line went quiet for a moment, as if she was actually thinking about it. Chuck admired her for that; she was going to tell him the truth whatever it was. "I think I do, actually."

"You sound surprised," he noted. He was surprised, too.

"When Chuck Bass offered to be my shoulder to cry on, I was dubious."

"And now?"

"Let's do it again sometime." It wasn't a request.

Usually, when she talked to him, he resented the never-ending orders, but this time he found he didn't mind. He thought to himself that he would take a thousand orders from Blair Waldorf if it meant he never had to see her purging again.

"Do I not get a say in that?" he tried, and failed, to sound annoyed.

"No. Just…" the hesitation was back in her voice. "Don't tell Nate, okay?"

"Don't worry; I wasn't going to tell Prince Charming that his princess isn't perfect." Was that bitterness in his voice?

Blair didn't seem to notice the change in Chuck's voice. "I didn't mean about that, I know you'd never tell him that." Her confidence in him felt foreign. "I meant about this."

"This?" Of course, he knew what she was talking about – he needed her to say it.

"The phone calls," she clarified. "I mean, I know it's nothing, but I'd appreciate it if he didn't know."

He forced his voice to sound upbeat. "Sure, I won't tell him. Goodnight, Blair."

"Night, Chuck."

There was a click as she hung up. Chuck stayed sat on the floor for a while, listening to the faint hum of feedback from the phone. If this was nothing, then why did he feel anything but?