QUICK A/N! I got really busy towards the end of writing this so I haven't been able to edit it. I swear I'll come back and fix them—really! For now, if you come across a mistake, just close your eyes and pretend its not there.

.

.

.

.

Roadmap to Self Discovery

.

."All men should strive
to learn before they die
what they are running from, and to, and why."
~James Thurber

.

.

.

.

.

You hurt so bad, but it's ok; he's aloe vera.

.

.

You love him as one loves a foreign object that they've seen all their life. You love him like you love the Eiffel tower, or the Sistine Chapel; something familiar yet distant. You love him like you love Eleanor—something that's always been there, that you know absolutely but you don't truly understand.

You love him, but that doesn't stop the irony from striking almost every day and leaving you slightly irritated as you always are when your plans don't work out.

It was supposed to be a love story for the ages—you had it all planned out, you guys would be high-school sweethearts and go to the same college and always be together, right from the very start—it was supposed to be a story of success. You'd always classified the hardships (such as your boyfriend and your best friend's drunken night together) as mere trials that would bring you to the inescapable happy ending of the perfect fairytale. Never once had you considered what would happen if the shoe didn't fit, or you switched princes or even roles midway through.

But it's okay, because this time it's like before, only a million times better.

There are no more expectations, no disappointments, no sadness, and no bright, bright future looming overhead. There's no heat, no passion, no spark, and he only touches you with affection in public places, but that's okay; you've had enough heat to last you a long time, and you're still recovering from the burns.

.

.

.

Things are just like you've always wanted them to be.

.

.

He says he loves you two weeks in. You're walking down Central Park hand in hand and it looks like a scene out of the movie that you've always wanted your life to be, and nothing like the daytime soap opera that your life has turned into.

"Love you, Blair. Always have, always will."

His periwinkle blue eyes crinkle around the corners as he smiles down at you, and you remember the last time he said those words and how they sounded infinitely better twisted around and murmured in your ear as pure heat swirled you around the dance floor.

You smile back and tell him you love too. Then you buy a cup of hot chocolate and wrap your hands around the warm Styrofoam instead.

.

.

.

Her heart breaks too but you're not supposed to care.

.

.

You guys run into Vanessa three weeks later. It surprises you since even though you guys don't run in the same social circles you thought she would have come looking for him judging by the messages she left on his cell phone those first weeks that you found and couldn't be bothered to delete.

You're at Lilly's art show when she taps Nate on his shoulder.

"Hi," she says, looking up at him beneath those thick eyelashes coated in Maybelline. Just for a moment, you're a bit irked.

She looks at him square in the face then, all suddenly with a quick unattractive head jerk (but its Vanessa, and judging by her clothes, attractiveness was never a top priority for her), and stares at your boyfriend.

You should be more upset than you actually are since it looks like Nate's having a 'moment' with someone else, but maybe you're just too drained from having to fight boys off rooftops and wipe coke off their noses because you just can't bring yourself to break up the moment that's transpiring right before your eyes.

Finally, Nate lowers his gaze.

"Well, see you guys around," she murmurs, and then wanders off.

You think that you might have seen her wiping her eyes as she walked off and the thought occurs to you that maybe you should walk after her and comfort her, but it such a foreign concept and you've been there before and it was no big deal, you survived it, and even if you walked after her you aren't quite sure of what to say, so you don't follow. Besides, you think, you aren't sure of what you saw and you aren't going to expose yourself to all the diseases that Brooklyn possesses for something that wasn't a complete certainty.

.

.

.

You might have outgrown fairytales, but you did always cast Nate as Prince Charming for a reason.

.

.

You're there for each other during important things.

In fact, you were sitting right there, on his sunny yellow bed covers watching him as he paced around the room, trying to decide if he should let Grandfather pay his way into Princeton. You're there to remind him about 'legacy' and to list off the most important and influential Vanderbilt's, which you've had committed to memory since you were ten, and to nod when he rants on and on about being his own person, not being shackled to his family name, and importance of dignity. And when he's done muttering to himself, you're there to quietly ask him, what happens now?

You're there to hold his hand as he calls Grandfather and quietly defends himself; assuring him with the gentle squeeze of your hand when he falters, that he can do it—you believe in him. And when he's done, you're there to softly tell him that you're proud of him.

Your there to see the boy you've always loved act like the man that you knew he could be.

.

He's there for you too.

Harold comes during mid-April. He smiles at you a little, but he grins at Nate.

You see the look in his eyes and it's like he recognizes you a little again, that he's just a bit proud of you, and you can't help grinning a little wider and puffing out your chest a bit, because even though it's sick and twisted and just plain wrong for a father to accept you for your choice of boyfriend, you can't help but be just a little bit happier.

Nate's a perfect gentleman throughout the duration of Harold's stay.

Of course, Nate's always been a perfect gentleman, parents or no parents.

He holds the door open for you, then Harold, to slip into his shiny silver car. He laughs at Harold's jokes, plays racquet sports with Harold and only beats him by an appropriate two points, and one night he accompanies you to your father's hotel room and the two spend the whole night trading embarrassing stories of your childhood.

When your father leaves, he beams at you, and you can almost imagine that he's forgiven you.

.

.

.

No matter how much you dust it off it's just not as shiny anymore.

.

.

It's a Sunday, and Nate and you are watching a movie (from DreamWorks starring Hugh Jackman so Nate enjoys it too) when a unexpected thought pops into your head and suddenly your jerking up from the couch and running off to your room leaving a severely confused (which frankly, was nothing new) Nate.

Three minutes later you're racing down the stairs while your heels make a faint clinking sound until you arrive in front of your boyfriend a little out of breath and an object clasped tightly in your hands.

The sunlight shines on the object slightly and it glint escapes for a split second from your tightly fisted palm. Nate smiles and holds his hand out for you to pin your heart back onto his sweater.

"It's back where it belongs," you tell him.

He nods in agreement as you both settle onto the soft cushions. You try not to think about the last time this pin was in front of the both of you and the awkward moment when you'd shuffled your feet and asked for it back before leaping out of the door and using it for another ploy, while Nate looks down at the shiny heart from Tiffany's now reattached to his mint green jacket and tries not to think about Vanessa and her hand-braided bracelets, weaving in reds, blues, greens, and yellows because she had always knew those were his favorite colors.

You pop in another movie, a comedy, and you both smile so hard, even after the muscles in your faces begin to hurt.

.

.

.

The devil never was known for his subtleness.

.

.

He corners you a little less than a month after you and Nate make it official.

It's not the first time he's tried to talk to you but whenever he came too close you would always quickly move away from him, Chuck, I need space. His brown eyes would narrow and get a shade darker while his hands unconsciously reached out for you before he nods and turns away, creeping back into the shadows; waiting.

He's been surprisingly patient though, not pushing you any further than you've been willing to go, and you admit that you're quite impressed because you don't think that you could have resisted for quite as long.

But now you guess your time is up.

You see him at Hazel's birthday party (a dreadful chore but necessary if you wanted to keep sitting atop the stairs) and Gossip Girl reports that though this is the first real party (real party, not some opium den or some coked-out limo) that Chuck Bass attended since the death of Big Bad Bart (may he rest in peace) he didn't look like he was in the partying mood.

'I wonder what this Bass is really fishing for' Gossip Girl types, and you can almost hear her banal tones braying her overused pun.

It doesn't take you long to figure it out. You have the answer when Chuck Bass demonstrates his superior sleuthing skills and follows you to the bathroom in the guest bedroom. As you exit the restroom you find him perched against the doorframe, blocking your way out of the room; his dark eyes digging deep into you. You can almost hear what Gossip Girl would say if she saw, 'guess that it really is going to be the Bass doing all the fishing. Hook, line, and sinker B. You know you love me, xoxo…' But since you're not some B-list wannabe who's only chance of getting close to the elite was to live vicariously through their lives (just for a moment you wonder if Gossip Girl was Jenny Humphrey), you say, "what do you want Bass?"

He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't let go of your eyes either, and suddenly the whole atmosphere changes, becomes thicker, and you find yourself having respiratory problems. Your heart begins to speed up until its racing faster than the time you fought Serena on the lacrosse field and you suck in your breaths like a marathon runner while electricity is running up and down your spine making you dizzy and unable to think of anything but him.

You used to live for moments like this, but now you look away.

You know you've lost, which stings, but it's just not so important anymore, because you can't play his game anymore. You feel like you're a step behind everybody all the time, scurrying behind flowing blonde hair or running to catch up with brooding dark figures, and now you're just tired.

You're Blair Waldorf, he says, you're supposed to go down fighting.

He's grasping for straws now, his dark eyes boring into you, demanding that you choose.

You're Blair Waldorf, he repeats, desperate now. You're Blair Waldorf, funny, sassy, smart, amazing brunette with a heart of gold that's cloaked with darkness. He knows you better than you know yourself. You're Blair Waldorf, and Blair Waldorf belongs with him.

Then he lunges for you, his hands on either side of your face crushing your skull as if he was afraid that you'd run away. His lips attack yours and you don't just feel it everywhere on your body, you feel it in your soul. In less than two minutes, you guys fall back onto some strangers bed, and his hands are grabbing at other places than your face—a dance that you are so familiar with (but only with him—you're partner in more than one way.)

You jerk upright.

He's right. You're Blair Waldorf, and Blair Waldorf belongs with him. But it's too fast, and you can't keep up anymore, not even with yourself.

He knows you well.

He can taste the defeat on your lips, and pulls away with a sigh.

"What can I do to fix this?" he whispers to the quiet room.

But you shake your head and tell him 'nothing'. Not because you want him to chase you or to draw out the excruciating pleasure of the game you both love so much, but because he truly can't do anything.

'This' doesn't need fixing, you realize; you do.

So you stand up, straighten the wrinkles out of your dress, and you tell Chuck Bass goodbye.

.

You find Nate slumped over on a couch, a full glass of champagne in his hands, and despite the fact that your heart is impersonating a hummingbird at the moment, you have to smirk. Nate's never liked champagne. He says the bubbles burn going down his throat.

Chuck's never liked champagne either. He doesn't possess the patience necessary for it. 'You drink to get drunk, Waldorf,' he had slurred at you when you carried him home for Nate one night, encompassing you in a cloud of scotch as he leaned in far too close, 'and champagne doesn't get you drunk.'

"You ready to go?" Nate asks.

You nod you're head, then reach for his glass and down it in one gulp, then you take his hand and you two stroll slowly out of the party, side by side. You try to ignore the burning in your throat the whole way out.

.

.

.

The green eyed monster comes out to play, but then again, for you it's probably never really gone away.

.

.

You're sitting next to Serena when you see the blast about Chuck and Vanessa.

Just moments ago you two were having your frappacino's (your whipped cream scooped off your cup and dumped unceremoniously on the tall Amazonian blonde's) and giggling about Dan's latest mishap (he and Serena were trying the friends thing yet again and you can't help but wonder while you nod and smile and lend your supporting hand, just how long it'll last this time before she comes to you with stars in her eyes and pledging everlasting love and how it'll be different this time—she swears, she can feel it) when your phones vibrate against your thighs and you're welcomed with the picture of a sheepish looking Vanessa fleeing from the Plaza with her horrible Bohemian-that-was-mauled-by-a-wild-grizzly hair in even further disarray.

Serena swears low under her breath then looks up at you, her big blue eyes anxious, waiting for a Waldorf fit or at least a promise of social destruction.

You can feel your heart clench and you are momentarily tempted to give in and give your best friend what she's waiting for but you swallow the acidic bile that's gathering in your throat and pray to the gods that it'll burn away all the remaining butterflies.

Then you smile, sip at your coffee and prompt Serena to continue with her story.

She looks at you, bewildered.

"B…"

"I'm fine," you cut her off, because you are fine, really you are, but even 'fine' can not deal with the cardiac arrest that you are undergoing right now. "So then what did Dan do?"

With weary eyes she gives you a glance before launching back into her story and you laugh and gasp and tut at all the right parts and the suspicion in Serena's eyes slowly melts away.

But five minutes later you start to feel a bit sick again, like you had too much Brooklyn for the day.

.

When you finally reach home you begin to cry off your water-proof mascara, but only for a moment before reality and a strong sense of déjà vu kick in. You've been here before, for almost the same reasons, more than once, and you don't really want to be here anymore.

Besides, you rationalize, you've got no reason to be upset. You told him that you couldn't be with him, you told him that you couldn't play his game anymore, you told him to stop fighting.

But despite of this reasoning your heart still breaks a little, because in spite of your sincere words you had hoped the teeniest bit that maybe, just maybe, he'd stick by you through your darkest thoughts, instead of giving up and forgetting you for whore after whore (yes, you admit, you know about Elle, the blonde bitch—and you thought brunettes where supposed to be his thing). He's supposed to fight for you, just like you fought for him. Then in a sudden moment of self-love that is proclaimed to be the Holy Grail for someone like you by your half-wit therapist, it hits you.

You deserve someone that will never stop fighting for you.

With a sigh, you pick yourself up, reapply your makeup and move on.

.

.

.

Oh, how much things have changed.

.

.

Nate decides to throw you a birthday party since he missed you last one, he explains sheepishly.

But just, he adds hastily because he knew that the old Blair always loved the public, for the two of you, since he's no good at planning parties.

You nod, happily agreeing with the idea because you just can't seem to muster up the energy to put on your party clothes and your hostess smile anymore. You do have the energy, however, to pick up the phone and dial Serena's number to make sure that this wouldn't be some misguided attempt of a surprise party. She assures you that it's not, and that he's going to get you a necklace from Cartier's. Your jaw clenches slightly, and your grip tightens on the phone, before asking Serena to suggest a bracelet instead, because you needed one desperately.

On the day of your pseudo-birthday Nate comes over, smiling happily, bringing with him a small cake and a (to your relief) a medium sized velvet box. He kisses you on the cheek, presents you with your token (the tasteful diamond bracelet you had blatantly ogled the last time you went shopping with Serena) and you two snuggle down into the couch. You watch Breakfast at Tiffany's while he reads the Sports Illustrated he brought with him.

It's perfect, despite Nate's slight snickering as Holly Golightly screamed 'cat' over and over again in the rain. Or maybe it's not perfect, but it doesn't matter because you've stopped searching for perfect a long time ago and this is good enough.

When it's over you settle back into his arms and he sets away his magazine. You begin to talk about romance, about what you guys were like when young, but with college and the future looming so close he can't help but change the subject to something future-related. You talk about what you guys had wanted to be when you grew up, how you had thought your lives would turn out, and you can't help but mist up a little bit, and tell him that you'd always assumed you would have Yale. He pats your head, and holds you closer.

Suddenly he blurts out, "Do you remember that time you told me what you wanted to be when you grew up?"

And you stare at him, slightly peeved, because that was just like Nate, not offering any specifics and conveniently forgetting that he'd asked her that question several times each year during the six years that they had officially dated.

He smiles guiltily and rubs the back of his head as he continues, "You were about nine, and we were at my house. You had come over because you'd just watched Breakfast at Tiffany's the other day, and you were so excited because you wanted to share what you felt was 'the most superb cinematic piece of art that you had ever had the pleasure of viewing.' I remember those were your exact words because I had to look up half of them in the dictionary after you'd hung up."

Nate chuckles.

"And midway through the film you were gazing starry eyed at the screen when you noticed that I was dozing off in the background and you'd slapped me awake and told me to watch and be riveted. But I just couldn't remain conscious, so to distract you, and to keep me from falling asleep again, I started to ask you questions, like your favorite color and your favorite season. Then I asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up, and you rolled your eyes at me and told me, 'duh Nate, I want to be your wife,' before tuning back to the screen.'

Nate smiles at you and you smile back.

You spend the rest of the night talking about how thing used to be when you had planned to be Mrs. Archibald, a successful lawyer who graduated summa cum laude from Yale, and mother of three charming children.

You tell him that you can still see them; your perfect children. Your eldest would be a boy with dark brown hair and he'd be the class clown, a joker and a slacker (only on the surface though—a child of Blair Waldorf would always have a perfect GPA, no matter what), but he'd have a heart of gold and he'd protect his sisters no matter what.

"But Blair," Nate asks, "I thought you only wanted a little girl."

Oh. Yeah.

.

.

.

It's the end and it's all wrong but you can't help but feeling that maybe you're doing it right for the first time.

.

.

It doesn't go quite as far as planned this time; but almost.

You make it all the way until the end of senior year, graduating as Prom King and Queen, and well into the summer.

This time it doesn't end with tears and screaming, or quiet trembling rage; instead it ends with silent smiles and a promise to stay together forever, just in a different way than what you had planned at twelve. Then bagels and some coffee follows to wash away the slight taste of remorse that lingers in your mouth, which, this time, surprisingly, you don't feel the need to regurgitate.

He drives you all the way to NYU because even though he's not your boyfriend anymore the role of Prince Charming has been engrained into him well before you guys started dating. He walks you to your dorm and then reaches for the heart pin that's still on his coat, but you stop him, clasping your hand over his.

"It's always kind of been yours anyway."

He smiles down at you, his blue eyes crinkling in the corners, and just for a moment you think that everything's going to be okay.

It's not the true love that you've always dreamed of, but you can't help but think that it feels a lot better this way.

.

..

…

….

…..

……

A/N So after watching the amazing promo in which Blair Goes Bad, I got so excited that the idea for this fic just popped into my head. This is going to be the first of my multi-chapter fanfictions, but it'll be more of a ficlet than a real story. Of course, the show doesn't follow this at all, so this is AU. Truthfully, I actually found the last episode of the show to be totally uninspiring and Chuck and Vanessa gave me some problems digesting my food.

Anyways, I hope you've enjoyed!