Tonight is your lucky night, my loves. I've been working on another, non-smut (for now!) story and I think I'll try and stretch it to a short series and give you bits at a time. I can't promise frequent updates, but if there's interest, I will certainly do my best!

This takes place after Bart's death in 2x13. In this story, Jack doesn't exist. Enjoy.

I'm Just Trying to Save You

She was going to kill him.

Well, first she needed to find a way inside his lair…back into his life, make sure he wasn't dead already…and then she'd kill him good and proper.

In all the years she's known Chuck Bass, not once had she ever been denied access to suite. Sure, there were times when he was otherwise preoccupied with prostitutes or loose upperclassmen or his dad's clients…but all those times Blair made the conscious decision to just let him be and not be the cock-block she knows she has the ability to be.

But to be flat out told that she was not allowed to get past the lobby to the elevators (per Mr. Bass' request, the know-it-all, snob of a front-desk receptionist told her—accompanied by two, TWO security guards) was definitely a first for Blair.

So she decided to stage a protest.

Standing in the middle of the street, in the pouring rain, she would wait. She would make a fucking scene if she had too—scare away business from the hotel and start to scream his name until the cops came. Maybe the flashing lights would snap him out of his stupor. Maybe she could smoke him out of his cave.

She just had to try. Something.

Because Chuck Bass did not get to run off on her after his father's funeral (after she told him those words), crash her mom's wedding and then sneak off when she was still asleep before completely fleeing the country—with no word of where the hell he was or if he was alive (and if he loved her too).

She wouldn't let him do that to herself.

Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

He's standing in his suite, number 1812, by the window looking out at the rain—straight out, not looking down. Not risking what he might find there.

"Go home" he tells her before hanging up the phone.

It was the fourteenth time she called and he couldn't bear to hear her voice, so he didn't give her a chance. He spoke the words and ended the call before he gave her a chance to change his fucking mind.

Because it was her gift, to always change what he thought he knew, what he thought he believed and turn it on its head—until the only thing that made an ounce of sense to him was her breath on his face.

The front desk calls after a hostile brunette tries to get past security.

"Should we have her escorted off the premises Mr. Bass?"

He told them she could wait in the lobby for as long as she wanted, but he wasn't coming out.

He'd never leave his suite again if he could help it.

Not until the memory of his still body against the stark white sheets leaves his mind.

Not until the feel of his stupid bedazzled suit jacket scraping against Lily's skin as he grabbed her bare arms and shook the information out of her left him alone.

Not until that look of goddamn pity in his beloved's eyes dissipated and she just looked at him the way she used to—with hatred and adoration and lust but never, never pity.

Forty-five minutes later, the front desk calls for a second time.

"Sir, she's standing in the middle of the street and refuses to move."

"Tell her to come inside. Or at least under the goddamn awning." And out of the fucking rain, because it is absolutely pouring out there.

It was so typical of her to cause a fucking scene at his hotel. And he was supposed to be the unstable one.

"She refuses unless she can come up, Mr. Bass" the soft voice tells him "She's getting drenched out there. She's determined. You have to admire…"

"I don't have to do anything" he says abruptly.

Bitch, that stupid bitch. I told her to go home. I just want her to…I just want her…

Fuck.

"Send her up. Immediately."

He hangs up.

It's over, done with—except not, because she's on her way. Determined. Drenched—and not the way he prefers either—and angry. Oh, how she'll be angry with is how they deal with sorrow: theyfight it. But not in the healthy way with counseling and prayers. With destruction—destruction of self and of each other.

She purges over a toilet and he binges on faceless whores and poison—and somehow, they always end up back together, locked in a self-contained prison with no real plan of attack.

They know how to hurt and how to fuck but they never make progress.

But now she's on her way up and he's not sure what to expect. But it won't be pretty.

Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Blair's fucking pissed. She's soaked, her outfit is beyond ruined (she didn't think that far in advance) and she's absolutely freezing. To add insult to injury, with every calculated step she took down the hall to 1812, her heels made an embarrassing squish squish squish squish noise.

"I hate you Chuck Bass" she whispers to herself "God, how I hate you."

But I love you more. And it consumes me and it steals my sleep and my appetite and I just want to wrap my arms around you once more.

But you won't let me.

She knocks once. Loudly, definitive, authoritative. And then she goes back to shivering.

He opens the door almost immediately and he's holding a towel open to her.

A fucking towel.

But she's cold (teeth chattering cold) and he's just looking at her blankly, so Blair steps in and into the towel and allows him to wrap it around her. It's the closest thing they've had to a hug in a while.

"Glad to see you're not dead" she bites out, because once she sees him and his haggard appearance, the desire to yell out him goes out the window (and back out into the rain).

She hugs the towel tighter across her body.

"I could kill you" she says quietly, because he's still just standing in front of her in a beyond wrinkled dress shirt and pants—with disheveled hair and more scruff then the Chuck Bass she knew would ever allow.

"So do it" his voice his hoarse, most likely from lack of use.

"I can't. You're too pathetic. It wouldn't be a fair fight."

What the hell am I doing here? Blair asked herself like a mantra, over and over again in her head…what the hell am I doing here?

She turns around, Chuck thinks she's about to leave, but then she shuts the door behind her and dead-bolts it.

"Planning on staying then?" he asks. He goes for humor but it just comes out lonely, "For how long?"

"Until I can be sure you won't accidently kill yourself in my absence" she states, noting how necessary the word accidently is for her own health.

Then she hears the water running in the bathroom. She turns her head to look. If he has a girl in here…

"I'm drawing a bath for you" he says, answering her silent question.

"For me?" Blair asks skeptically, ignoring how inviting warmth sounded right about now "You need it more."

He did.

"I knew you'd be cold. And I don't want you suing the hotel for hypothermia, so…" he trails off.

Then he looks her in the eye.

"You don't have to."

And it's true; she doesn't have to do anything. She doesn't have to worry about him (to love him), to make sure he's not dead. She could just leave and never come back.

"No, I do" she says, toeing off her shoes (so he doesn't have to hear her squish) before walking past him towards the bathroom.

But I will anyways. Isn't that how we work lover?

She becomes acutely aware that he's following her and it feels a bit unnerving.

You came here to spend time with him, remember Waldorf?

The second she feels the steam from the bathroom, she's itching to peel the sodden fabric from her body—but modesty gets to her.

"Do I get any privacy?" she asks, turning around.

Chuck has situated himself on the toilet seat, his expression blank.

"My house, my rules" he says simply as rests his head against the wall and allows his eyes to close.

Blair interprets this gesture as an act of exhaustion and not one of respect, but regardless she takes the opportunity to strip down to her matching pale-yellow bra and panties. After deciding that she is quite naked enough for the occasion, she turns off the running faucet before quickly settling herself into the tub.

It scorched her skin a bit on contact (the water, not Chuck's gaze which is now undoubtedly on her and nowhere else) but after giving herself a few minutes to adjust to the temperature difference, she allows herself to relax and sink in further.

When she opens her eyes again, his expression is almost unreadable. She senses confusion at her presence (because she's actually there after weeks of no calls, no visits), anger (because she wouldn't leave when he ordered her to), sadness (because no one loves Chuck Bass) and fatigue (because he looks like he hasn't slept, like he can't allow himself to escape).

"What?" she asks quietly. She has no right to—she's in his home, using up his time and his hot water—but she just has to know what he's thinking.

"Why are you here?" he wants to know.

Blair shrugs on instinct and it's a complete cop-out of a response, but the gesture itself cases the water to ripple around her and in a way—it says more then she can formulate herself.

"The same reason you let me him, I guess."

They were never good at explanations. They were good at saying that they were doomed and that "in the future" things could be different, but it was so damn hard to say exactly why that was in the first place.

"I told you, I didn't want you to catch a cold" he grumbles.

"And I didn't want you to accidently overdose, same difference" she says before holding her nose and dipping herself under the water.

"When was the last time you showered?" she asks him when she resurfaced.

"Yesterday."

He doesn't skip a beat.

"Liar."

Neither does she.

"Why do you care?" he asks out of irritation, but the question itself is rooted far deeper then the present moment and would take centuries for her to explain clearly.

Because clearly Because I love you was just far too complicated for him to understand.

"I feel bad for room service is all. You're starting to look like Howard Hughes. Are you planning on harvesting your urine in milk bottles anytime soon?"

The words are brave, but she feels like a coward. Deeper into the warmth she sinks.

Her feet pop out and he's transfixed on her sparkly pink toe-nails. They mock him with their joviality, their ease, their life.

Chuck can't remember what it feels like to be alive.

"It's on my To-Do list right after I kick Blair Waldorf out of my hotel, soaking wet and with no clothes on."

But he'd never do it. That's why he let her in in the first place—he wants her to remind him that he's alive.

As it is, he already looks half-past dead.

"Glad to see you have your priorities in check" she says as she sits up and glances at her wet clothes in a pile on the floor "I need something to wear."

She says this because she knows he's bluffing without giving the threat enough time to process. If he was going to kick her out, he never would have brought her up in the first place.

"Do you?" he talks in riddles, like the lost soul he is.

"If I'm going to save you, clothes are kind of a necessity" she says matter-of-factly.

"So that's what you're here to do? Save me?"

"That's right" she says, jutting her chin up "I won't leave until I do."

The closest thing to a smirk comes across his face—an involuntary twitch brought on by extreme disbelief that borders on humorous.

Instead of addressing her twisted mission statement, an idea flashed in his mind.

"I have something you can wear" he tells her as he stands up and leaves the room.

"What is it?" she calls after him as curiosity (and trepidation) gets the best of her.

Chuck came back a few moments later with a box from La Perla. He opened the lid and lowered the box to reveal a red silk baby-doll inside.

Blair's eyes narrowed immediately.

"I'm not wearing one of your whore's hand-me-downs" she snaps, secretly noting that apparently hookers had good taste in lingerie.

"It's not" he said firmly "It's yours."

I don't understand.

"I don't understand" she says as she covers her chest with her arms (because it just feels necessary in this moment).

He sighs dramatically, like putting the effort into a conversation with her wasn't worth his time.

"I bought it for you before…as a Christmas gift. I never had a chance to give it to you. Obviously" he states "So you can wear it or not, I don't give a shit."

With that, he drops the box on the floor and walks out—closing the door behind him and finally granting her privacy.

It wasn't until after he left that Blair let his words sink in.

Carefully, she extracts herself out of the tub and rewraps the towel under her arms as she approaches the box like it was a UFO.

Lifting the silk up by the straps, she saw how beautiful the piece truly was. There was something incredibly intimate about it—definitely something you would not buy for a friend or even an old lover.

With dread, Blair realizes that Chuck must have drawn the same conclusion she had on the days leading up to the Snowflake Ball—that just maybe, by the time Christmas rolled around, they would have reached their "in the future" and finally be together.

But then Bart died.

And then funerals and I love you's and that's too bad and late night cuddling and cowardly letters and trips to Thailand and standing out in the fucking rain…

And then life. Life and death happened and they weren't together even though they probably were supposed to be.

This gift…this thoughtful, intimate gift served as a representation for a future they dreamed about and a present they were currently deprived of.

And the thought of wearing it around him made her sick to her stomach.

Spotting a bathrobe hanging on the back of the door, Blair quickly snatches the fluffy white robe and secures it over her body. Once she is completely covered, she pokes her head outside the door.

He is laying on top of his bed and staring at his ceiling like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"Chuck?" she asks quietly.

He turns his head to look at her.

"Do you have something else I can wear? A spare set of pajamas…anything?"

"You don't like it" he states as a fact, turning his head back to the ceiling "I used to know you so well."

"No, it's not that" she insists, shaking her head for emphasis even though he wasn't looking at her "It just doesn't feel right—I mean, it's not appropriate under the circumstances."

"Under the circumstances" he repeats with another ghost of a smile "When did you turn into such an adult?"

Blair's not sure if it's a rhetorical question or if he's attempting an insult, so she just remains silent.

"Help yourself; you know your way around here by now—even if it's not appropriate for you to do so."

Taking a deep breath, Blair pads across his bedroom barefoot and goes to his dresser. She opens the top left drawer first in order to access his ungodly number of pajama sets. For some reason, Chuck took as much pride in his variety of sleepwear as she did in her lingerie—which is weird considering how few people saw either.

Running her hands over the various silk, flannel and cashmere choices, Blair eventually decides on a flannel set decorated in blue-pinstripes. Normally, she'd protest to wearing such a fabric, but she was still trying to shake the cold from before and it's not like Chuck was in any state to comment on her appearance anyways.

Without saying anything, she hurries back into the bathroom and slips into the pajamas. After briefly towel-drying a majority of the moisture out of her hair, Blair faces the mirror and gives herself a pep-talk necessary to get her through the next few hours.

"You can do this Waldorf" she whispers, "He may be a mess and you may be in love with him but that's not going to stop you from applying the principles of tough love on him just like your mom did with you—and it will make him stronger."

It has too.

After taking one last deep breath, Blair opens the door to the bathroom and walks towards his bed with a purpose.

"When was the last time you ate?" she asks.

"Food or pussy?" he asks seriously.

Blair feels herself flush.

"Food" she bites out "Asshole."

"Don't remember" Chuck admits.

Blair runs her fingers through her hair.

"It's time for you to take a shower" she tells him.

"Is that so?" he asks, not bothering to look at her.

"It is" she says again, trying her best to hold her ground "I don't care if all you do is stand underneath the running water—anything is better then your current condition, you're probably filthy."

"Fine. Will you call room service for me?" he asks.

Blair squints.

"You want to eat now?"

"Not exactly—if you insist on my showering, I was hoping Kim and Kristi could help me with some of those hard to reach places" Chuck says as he sits up and leers at her "Unless you want to volunteer?"

"You, get in there" she demands, pointing to the room behind her "I'll order food for you to eat and start to clean this pig-sty up."

With great difficulty, Chuck pushes himself to his feet and waltzed over to her.

"Is this how you plan on saving me? With a shiny clean apartment and a plate of food?"

Frustrated, Blair pulls him by the collar until he was in front of the shower.

"I'm just getting started, Bass" she tells him firmly before slamming the door behind her.

Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

A few minutes later, Blair nearly jumps when she hears the water in the shower running—she is half-convinced that her extreme desire for him to bathe is causing her to hallucinate, but she eventually accepts the fact that he is actually doing what she asked. It was a victory—albeit a very small one, it was a victory nonetheless.

She picks up a small trashcan by his wardrobe and begins to walk around his suite, stopping to throw away any suspicious paraphernalia she could find.

For things she considers dangerous or unsanitary, she enlists in the help of a tissue or the bottom of her discarded high-heel.

Blair tries to keep her calm as she collects empty scotch, jack, and whiskey bottles off the floor and bar. She tries not to shutter as she pushes a discarded syringe into the trash bin.

She picks up a small bag of coke and a few different colored pills she found on the coffee table. Sliding them into the pocket of her pajamas (his pajamas), she makes a mental note to flush the pile once Chuck got out of the shower.

Fifteen minutes later, the water was still running and Blair starts to get concerned. It isn't that she doesn't want him in there—god knows he needs to bathe—but she came here to spend time with him and not to stand in the middle of his suite with a pocket full of pills and drugs.

This wasn't going to save him. This was only killing her.

Taking a deep breath, Blair walks into the bathroom doing everything in her power to keep her eyes on the floor.

"It's just me" she announces. Who else would it be? A maid? A hooker?

"Couldn't resist taking a peek could you?" he drawls over the flow of the water.

"Not exactly" she tells him as she pulls a handful of pills out of her pocket and drops them unceremoniously into the toilet "Just detoxifying."

Before she gives him a time to respond, she opens up the bag of coke and shook the contents into the toilet bowl.

Chuck turns off the water and grabs a towel.

"Say goodbye to your easy fixes Bass" she says before flushing the toilet.

"You know I can get all that replaced within the hour, right?" he tells her as he steps out of the shower.

"I plan on cutting off all your communication to the outside world."

Blair turns to look at him.

"Even more than you already have. And that includes your dealers" she says.

Chuck stares at her, but doesn't protest. In fact, he doesn't say anything.

Blair considers this another small victory.

"I'll be in the living room. Let me know when you're dressed" she tells him before walking away (before he has a chance to tell her no, you can't make me or worse: leave.)

Xoxoxoxoxoxoxox

TBC...