Since First I Heard the Footsteps of Thy Soul

AN: It was bound to happen sooner or later. This was not even in my plans. I thought of this while in the taxi ride home and could not sleep until I posted. Title is from Elizabeth Barrett Browning. This time, I would say, the theme is pretty much like the sonnet itself. As always, my friends, be forewarned—themes, situations etc are not for everyone. You should only be so brave and patient as to wander inside whenever I start using sonnet lines are titles.

Pairing: Chuck/Blair

Rating: PG13

Summary:

Part 1

What is the true measure of a man?

He had asked himself the question more times than he could count. In the last year. In the last month. In the last week. In the last few hours.

They said the brain was a powerful being, a rational thing, a sympathetic creature. They said the brain could wipe away memories so ugly, so horrifying. The brain tended to do so to keep its owner sane.

It went to show then that his own brain abhorred him. It was the only possible reason for it. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it.

The blood gathered around her, seeping darkly into the carpet. It would not stop, pooled like mercury under her body, taunting him. His brain, traitor that he was, showed him the memories late at night while he lay in his own bed. His blissful bed, where no one else could ever come near.

Was it in the brave and stoic face he would have in the face of death?

Chuck Bass stepped inside the suite, stopped right at the doorway. The moment he looked up, the photograph mocked him, and he turned his eyes away.

"Bass."

He raised his gaze from the pavement to Blair's curious eyes as she approached him. "Took you long enough," he drawled with an arrogant tilt of his head. He was not certain how well his mask worked. He leaned against the limo because his legs would not hold him up.

If she could see herself forgiving him one day into the future, no matter how long it would take, he would wait for her. If she could see herself forgiving him, if there was a chance, no matter how slim, she would come to him.

She stopped three feet away from him. "Was the waiting intolerable?"

She wanted him to say yes, needed him to say yes. She had to know that he needed her there. Slowly, he nodded his head. "But you know by now I'd wait forever for you, Waldorf," he told her.

His response elicited just the reaction he predicted. Blair drew in her breath sharply. Her eyes glittered, and he knew it was from the memory of the night before, when he had come to her with his soul bare before her, naked like he had never been naked before.

He lifted his hands, and her eyes fell for the first time to the bouquet of pink roses and the gifts he had brought for her. She loved presents, and even so she frowned, did not reach for them. "You think gifts and flowers can make me forgive you."

"I think you've already forgiven me," he told her, and this time, despite the words there was no trace of arrogance in his voice.

She lowered her lashes, reluctantly she reached for one gift-wrapped box. The tape holding the wrapper closed was uneven. He had walked past the store employees offering to wrap it up for him, and spent the morning mulling over his approach while he sat on his bed and struggled with the glossy white and pink paper.

"Because you told me you'd stand by me through the darkest, and the worst."

She bit her lip, blinked at the box he handed her, then hugged the gift to her chest. It was not so much the present, he thought. Not so much the gift, but the moment that she embraced.

"And between the two of us, you're the honest one," he reminded her gently. She had never lied to anyone but herself, to her parents. About the two of them, about what they shared, she had been open and honest to the breakpoint. He stepped closer, then said, "I know you forgive me before I even said I'm sorry."

She looked up at him, so close to her now she could almost touch him.

"So I'm sorry," he said firmly.

"If you already know, then why are you apologizing?" she whispered. "I don't have to forgive you if I've already forgiven you."

He took another step forward, and he could almost breathe her in. "Because," he reasoned, "I'm sorry."

And she nodded, showing him she accepted his words, taking them as a promise.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to say I love you," he continued with a smile.

Her eyes flew up to his, and he saw the wild surprise on her face. She took in the smile, the slick-backed hair, the bright, respectable clothes. He looked almost like he did when he came to apologize for Tuscany, bearing his bright yellow flowers that ended up in the trash.

"I know you love me," he told her.

And still she stood her ground. "How do you know I haven't stopped? You were a Basstard, Chuck."

Even the word she used to malign him was uttered so gently, he wondered if she heard herself, if she would even ask the question again. He stepped forward, and did not retreat. He pressed against her and he looked down at her, so close to him, that he only needed to whisper for her to hear. "Because if you love me half—no, a quarter—as much as I love you, that would be impossible."

A short gasp, and then she was laughing. It was absurd, but he was grinning too. She threw her arms around his neck, and he wrapped his arms around her as they met in a kiss as they laughed.

His brain was a traitor, never more so than when it flooded him with memories of joy he could never recapture. He strode into the room, stood right in front of the portrait that hung on the wall. She smiled from within the circle of his arms, leaning back against his chest, bordered by the gleaming silver frame.

Chuck reached up and tore the frame from the wall, then tossed it facedown inside his drawer.

"What the hell am I doing?" he muttered.

There he stood, surrounded by her, everything her. It was a carefree summer, and the suite had been heaven on earth.

"Oh my God!" she squealed. "Catch me, Bass!"

He entered the suite to see her teetering on the chair, with a silver photo frame in her hand. Chuck ran towards her and caught her before she fell on her butt, before she could hurt herself.

"My hero," she said, grinning in mock breathlessness.

He grinned down at her, and smirked. "I'm a regular Superman, Waldorf."

She nodded, her eyes crinkling as she told him, "And I'm your kryptonite."

He agreed, pulled her closer, tighter against his chest. "Completely my kryptonite." He hefted her up higher in his arms, and she tightened her arms around his neck. The corner of the frame bit against his shoulder. "I'm not gonna let you fall, Blair."

She gestured towards the wall, where a screw was conspicuously embedded on what had been a pristine wall. He carried her there, and she reached up and hung the photo frame on the wall. "Like it?" she prompted.

They looked like the perfect couple. It was the type of shot that was published in newspapers for wedding announcements.

Like a fairy tale.

"A little conceited, don't you think?" he said teasingly.

She grinned at him. "This way, anyone who enters this suite will know there's a lady of the house."

"Are you staking claim, Waldorf?"

"What do you think?" she parried.

"I think you are." He nodded towards the picture. "Straighten it. It's a little askew."

She reached up and corrected the angle of the picture. "How's that?"

He did not answer, waited. She was impatient. She would turn. And when she did, the words tumbled out of his mouth. "Live with me."

It was paradise.

Wonderful fodder for dreams. Perfect as nightmares.

A year later and he still stood in the unoccupied suite, could not bear to live there, could not bear to clear it out. He sat heavily on the edge of the couch, his gaze fixed on the lighter spot on the wall where he had taken off the photograph.

Chuck pulled himself up and walked towards the bedroom. He dragged himself to the bed and fell on his side. He closed his eyes.

Her cheeks were wet, her eyes brimming, panicked, afraid. She cried out in pain, as he gripped her arms. He did not hear her, heard only Jack, saw only the picture that he painted.

"Chuck, no, please. Just listen to me, Chuck."

And he was crying, fucking crying worse than he did when his only remaining parent died unexpectedly, snatched from his world and sent him reeling into an abyss.

"I'm sorry!" she sobbed

And even the sound of her voice, the apology rolling off her tongue, the words being coughed out from her lungs. Everything she said, she did, she appeared to be, gutted him from his throat to his belly. He wouldn't be surprised if he saw his insides splattered on the floor.

"You don't get to cry," he rasped, pushing her back against the cold tiles of the restaurant bathroom. Outside, their friends and family gathered. Outside, Serena was the happiest she had been in her life. Outside, there were living a dream. And he ached to yell at them that the dream would lull them into a false sense of hope, and would shatter, cut at them with shards so sharp they would die before they bled.

She was a whore, and she betrayed him. She looked up into his eyes and told him he was the only one, told him he was her life.

"Stop crying!" he spat out. He hated her, and still he was hard for her, aching for her.

Her tears fell to the dark awning under her collar, and all he could do was grab at her breasts, push them together and bury his face in oblivion. Almost immediately, she buried her fingers in his hair, pulling his head closer.

The sensation was always, from her, better than the last. He moaned deep in his throat. In revenge, for making him remember the pleasure, he suckled on the side of breast, grated his teeth against her nipples until she cried out and released his hair, gripped his shoulders.

"I love you," she whispered, like it would solve everything, absolve everyone.

He looked up at her, and he saw the reflection on her eyes. His devastated face. In response, he mouthed, "Fuck you, bitch."

Chuck grabbed her thighs, tore off the flimsy scrap of lace that pretended to be her underwear. Her cream confection of a gown lifted easily. He flinched when she laid her head on his shoulder, and peppered soft kisses in the crook of his neck. "I love you," she whispered. He freed himself, roughly pushed inside her, slamming her lower back onto the tiled wall behind her. Blair tightened her arms around him. He moved faster, pumped harder. And he felt her fingers gently playing at his nape, soothing him. "It's okay. I love you."

And fuck her, she meant to say she forgave him.

He didn't do anything wrong. She was the one who broke him into a million pieces.

And her tongue swirled in his ear even while his hips slammed against hers. Her hands lowered, and slid into his shirt, holding on to the bare skin of her back, her fingers splayed wide, touching as much of him as she could. "If this is the last time," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

He was intent, punishing himself every time he entered her. "Shut up!"

She threw her head back, groaning at the sensations of him driving inside her. She laid her left hand on his chest, and Chuck glared down, saw the glittering diamond on her finger. His heart clenched at the sight. He slapped one hand over hers. The diamond blinded him.

She came with a muffled scream, and clenched tightly around him he felt himself tighten. He pulled out and let his seed spurt over her thighs and her dress.

Blair reached for some toilet paper, and wiped the mess away. She drew out more toilet paper, then reached for him. He flinched away from her, then zipped up. "I don't want to see you again. Never again."

He walked away from her, out of the restaurant and towards the grand flight of stairs and that descended into the hotel ballroom. Down below, there was a love song played by the band. It was a banal rhythm, so unsuitable for the end. Everything until then had been crisp and alive, everything she was had been more than he needed.

Here lies Chuck Bass. Killed by perfection.

Loving as much as he loved her—that should be illegal. It only made them victims; sometimes it made them criminals.

"Please stop!" she called from behind him.

He stopped at the top of the steps.

"Don't," she pleaded.

"I'm leaving. For Monaco. For Bangkok. For Cairo. Wherever. I want you gone by the time I come back."

"Chuck, talk to me. I know you still love me."

Damn her for using it against him. She knew, as well as he did, he wouldn't ever stop. Not even for this. Because he loved her, not twice, not thrice, not even a hundred times more than she loved him.

"And that's too bad," he growled. He jerked his head towards the restaurant. "Nate's there. Try fucking up his life next. He'll let you do it too."

"Chuck, please." She reached for him, just when he turned to her. He met her eyes, for that one unending second when everything froze. She caught air when he moved, and Chuck's eyes widened as he realized what had happened.

Catch me, she had said to him once.

He reached out his hands, and his fingertips brushed hers. Chuck watched in horror as she stumbled on the top step, and in a mass of pale satin and chiffon made for a spectacular sight, and he was frozen at the sight of limbs and skin and hair as she hit each step of the long hotel staircase.

He stared down in horror at the twisted body on the landing, where she had stopped falling halfway down where the staircase curved. Underneath her the blood pooled under her hips, under her head.

And then there were people, all around him, all around her. And even then all he could see was blood. So much of it. So much he knew he died.

And then the woman's voice, accusing, firm. He did not recognize her. He did not recognize anyone at the time. The only thing he could see was the crumpled form.

Later Lily would tell him it had been Eleanor.

"What did you do to her?"

He woke up with a start, gasping, sweating. He shuddered. He was hot, and so cold. They said hell was fire and death was cold, so he was sure he died that night and was burning where he belonged.

It had been two years. It was time to forget it. And still his treacherous brain would not let him. It snuck in the dead of the night, or every time his mind wandered. And sometimes, it was not even his brain. He opened his drawer and drew out the frame. Sometimes, it was everything else.

He hung the photograph back on the wall, covering the blank space that had discolored over time.

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped off the smudges of the silver that his fingerprints made. His thumb hovered over the glass, and very lightly, he touched her smile.

tbc