A/N: This story takes place post "Into the Woods," my previous post 4x17 multi-chapter fic. But you don't have to go and read all sixteen chapters of that if you don't want to (though, of course, I recommend that you do). All you need to know is that Blair and Chuck decided to give it another go 'round, and they've been going strong for about six weeks now. And Blair and Dan are friends. I think that's all you need to know at this point, but I'll update if I think any further background information might be necessary. Enjoy.

Neither of them would have ever thought it possible. But Dan Humphrey and Blair Waldorf had a date.

A standing date, that is.

Every Friday, at 4:30PM, they met up at a dive bar off Union Square, just before the rush at Happy Hour.

They had their own table, which the bartender reserved for them. It was a wooden booth with high backed seats that gave them a little privacy, and they'd sit together there for a couple of hours over drinks, and go over the events of the past seven days.

They called it "Friday Bitch Fest," because their conversations tended to spotlight the most frustrating, troubling or just plain pesky happenings of the week.

The therapeutic effects of Friday Bitch Fest had been surprising to both. They found that they simply felt better having hashed out their problems with each another. Refreshed, even. Ready to leave behind the annoyances of the Monday-to-Friday grind, and to enjoy the relaxations proffered by the weekend.

Somehow, to their mutual surprise, through all the bitching, Guinness, dirty martinis, and the jokes at each other's expense, they had settled into what could be loosely termed a friendship.

But only loosely.

It was around 4:40PM on a Friday during the first week of May, and Dan was sitting in their usual booth, leafing through a dog-eared copy of Crime and Punishment, when he saw Blair walk into the bar on high heels. She was wearing a long summer sun-dress, a wide-brimmed straw hat and crocheted lace gloves.

She paused to say something to the bartender (which was odd, he thought. The bartender knew their orders by now) and made her way to their booth, sliding in across from him.

"Hi, Humphrey," she said in an exhausted voice.

"Thank God you're finally here," Dan said. "You have to look at this ridiculously opaque text that Serena sent me in the middle of the night…"

He tried to slide his phone across the table to her, but Blair made a horizontal motion with one hand.

"I call precedence," she said, and began to pull off her gloves finger-by-finger.

Calling "precedence" meant that one had had a tremendously difficult week and needed to vent ASAP. But, as might be expected, Blair Waldorf had a tendency to call precedence far more often than Dan thought necessary.

"No. No," Dan interrupted. "See—the thing is—you need to be re-educated in what that term means. In accordance with the terms of the Friday Bitch Fest contract, precedence is only to be invoked in extraordinary circumstances."

"I'm fully aware of the terms of the contract," Blair said with a roll of her eyes. "I wrote the flipping contract."

"Well, you seem to have largely forgotten it," Dan said, exasperated. "Because two weeks ago you called precedence when the heel broke on your shoe."

"It wasn't just a shoe, Humphrey," Blair said. "It was a Louboutin. And I'll have you know that that heel breaking was the biggest disaster of my life thus far."

"Now—see, just the fact that you would venture to say that to me that proves that you shouldn't be calling precedence," Dan dictated. "So now I'm calling precedence, because this text is just, like, crazy. You really have to see it to believe—"

"Dan," Blair interjected in a desperate voice, and, to his surprise, he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. "I'm serious."

Dan exhaled slowly, looking at her face. God, why did she always have to do that teary-eyed routine? It got him every single time.

"Okay, okay," he grudged. "I'll give you precedence. But it had better be good this time."

He sulkily waited for her to speak, but she remained silent for a few moments.

"Well?" he asked, getting curious in spite of himself. "What is it?"

"It's—" Blair swallowed. "It's me and Chuck. We're in trouble."

"Trouble? Wh—what kind of trouble? IRS trouble?" Dan's brows furrowed in thought. "Mafia trouble?" he added, with a look of horror.

"Relationship trouble," Blair said. "And it's…bad. It's really, really bad."

Dan sighed. "Okay. Fine. But if you're going to talk about Chuck you have to recite the oath."

"Seriously?" Blair moaned. "I have to do it nearly every week. Can't we just assume by now that its terms generally apply?"

Dan just looked at her blankly and waited.

"'I hereby solemnly swear that I will not share any information pertaining to the sexual preferences, practices and/or anatomy of Chuck Bass,'" Blair mechanically recited.

"Thank you," he replied perfunctorily. "Proceed."

Blair was silent for several seconds. She opened her mouth a couple of times, but no words came out. Then, to Dan's surprise, the bartender brought her not only her customary dirty martini but also a shot of vodka ("Thanks, Moe," she muttered), which she immediately threw down her throat. Then she set down the shot glass on the table, her eyes beginning to water.

"Uh, Blair—" Dan's voice was guarded. "Seriously. What's wrong?"

"What do you do if—" she began in a trembling voice, then cut herself off.

Dan stared at her. Lowered his head inquiringly.

"How does a couple move past it when—" She broke off again.

"Just say it, Blair," he said gently. "It'll get easier from there."

Blair took a deep breath.

"—someone cheats?" she said. Her eyes flicked up at him, and then she took her martini glass, raised to her lips, and took several deep swallows of the cloudy liquid.

Dan stared at her for a few beats. He opened his mouth. But it took him several seconds to find the words he wanted to say.

Then they came in a torrent.

"That bastard," he said.

He ran his hand over his face. "Seriously, Blair—I've held my tongue for the past six weeks. And I had a lot of reservations, but I really, really hoped that he'd pull it together this time, but—"

He looked at her. "When are you going to realize that he's Chuck Bass and he's never going to change?"

"Dan—" Blair muttered in a weak voice, shaking her head.

"I don't even want to hear you defend him," he countered. "Look, Blair, at a certain point you're going to have to face the truth. However strongly you feel about him, however much you think you're meant to be—he is fundamentally incapable of being in a committed relationship. Not just with you—with anyone. He's a self-destructive, self-serving, immature—"

"DAN!" Blair yelled.

"WHAT?" Dan yelled back at her. " What is it?"

She was silent.

"Well?" he asked. He took a swig of his pint; he swiveled his hand palm-upwards. "Go ahead. Defend him. Create—some narrative in which he's really not that bad of a guy. In which he's just some lonely misunderstood poor little rich boy. I've heard it a million times before, but I'm sure you'll put a new spin on it."

Blair muttered something unintelligible.

"What's that?" Dan asked, his voice flat and impatient.

She tried again, but he still couldn't understand her.

"Blair," he said, and sighed. He resigned himself to hearing her out. "Okay. What."

She looked up at him, her lower lip trembling, and took a deep breath.

"Chuck didn't cheat, Dan," she said in a breaking voice, her eyes filling with tears. "It—it was me. I cheated on him."

A/N: Cue dramatic music.

Please review. Even if it's just to say "OMFG," or to tell me how much you hate me. ;)