"Evil is a point of view."

By Isabelle

Disclaimer: I own my car, my purse collection and my freedom of speech. I don't, however, own Gossip Girl. I'm working on getting the rights, though ;)

Rating: Oh, it's going to be M. ;)

Summary: Vampires don't get obsessed with pictures left on their graves; pictures of lovely brunettes and chubby baby boys. Vampires are soulless and evil. He didn't know their names, but he knew they were special. She must've been special to him, and that thought alone haunted him. All he knew is that he wanted her for himself, even if he had to kill her to get her. Chuck/Blair.

A/N: You know, I promised myself that I wouldn't do this. I hate breaking my own promises, dammit. Oh, and thank Tati, otherwise there would be no fic. Seriously.

"You're beautiful to me because you're human. Your frailty. Your short years. Your heart. All that suddenly seems more precious than anything I've ever known."
Anne Rice

She remembered his greatest fear was that she would die in childbirth. His consolation during those long eight months had been resting his head right above the rise of her belly, content in the slow drum of her heart while his hand rested on her stomach. His strong son proudly kicked under her skin, showing his father what an overachiever he was.

"He senses when you're near, he's not nearly as active when I'm alone or with other people," she told him once, and he hid a proud smile.

"I still think he will be a mama's boy," he reiterated. "He'll always be latching on to you." And she knew that what he meant with those words was that she would be around for their son to be attached to. Chuck always meant two things when he said only one.

"He can be a daddy's boy, too," she replied, smiling at him, carefully eying all the toys that continued to appear in the nursery. He had learning mats, stuffed animals, colorful building blocks, rattles of all shapes and sizes, two rocking chairs and a crib to rule a kingdom. The tiny baby, not yet born, would be Prince of Manhattan.

Eleanor brought them more and more footed onesies, which Chuck scowled, and had infant-sized suits made, which Blair insisted the child would not wear for a few months. Regardless, there were bowties, ties, scarves, all custom-made for the soon to be born Bass.

And when she fell asleep before him – which became more and more common as the months dragged on – he would lay awake and watch her, ear to her heart, hand on his son.

So it came as a surprise when Chuck died the night his son was born, and Blair lived. Because it was not the way he had feared it would've gone. He had been so reluctant to leave her that week as she quickly approached her ninth month. Her belly was huge, she waddled unhappily and she was bitchier than usual. But an earthquake in Los Angeles had left him no choice but to take a plane out to the area, so he had left his young wife behind.

She had seen the fear in his eyes as he dropped her hand and walked reluctantly to the limo. He had asked God to make sure she was OK. God had kept his promise. When Blair went into labor a few weeks early, Chuck had panicked and rushed home. His plane was lost somewhere over the Rockies.

When Lily and Rufus had carefully told the very angry and scary Mrs. Bass the news of her husband, the baby boy had no choice but to be born amidst the screams of his crushed mother.

Brenton Charles Bass-Waldorf was the prince he was promised to be. The youngest heir and richest little baby in all of New York. His name was picked by his late father, and the first time Blair was able to look at him was five days after he was born. She had been too weak. Unlike her son, who was strong, proud and hungry for his mother's milk despite having been born so young.

Blair's pale face took in the tiny pink one that was latched on to her nipple, suckling hungrily. Eyes closed and small, peeling fist resting on the side of her enlarged breast.

She dared not make a sound, dared not touch him out of fear that he would stop eating.

At five days old, his strong brows and slightly slanted exotic eyes told the world that he was a Bass, through and through. He had slick, straight dark hair just like his father, which stuck out in all directions with no intention of being combed. He wore little cashmere socks and a small blue hat that she was sure her mother had taken care of coordinating.

It took her a good ten minutes to see some of herself in the little boy. It was when he let go of her nipple and yawned widely that she finally saw he had her nose and lips.

That was the first time Blair Bass smiled since the news of her husband.

The tiny face peered up at her, silent and calm. He had his father's essence. Blair wondered if Chuck's spirit had somehow come into his son the moment he had died. This made a tear plop down on the baby's face from her own, and he let out an angry cry.

Three Months Later

She still could not peacefully sleep through the night. Her little boy, who slept next to her on her large empty bed, barely made a noise until seven in the morning, after which he let out an angry, demanding wail for food. She jumped, ready for the distraction and the disappearance of the shadows in the room.

"There, there, my love," she whispered to the small boy in footed onesies. He kicked his little agile legs angrily, just like he used to when he laid inside of her belly, responding to his father's feather-light touch. "I know you're hungry," she said.

His little head bounced on her shoulder, squirming in his indignant search for food as she adjusted her gown to reveal a large breast. Brenton, sensing food entirely too close yet so far for his comfort, let out an angry, high-pitched wail as his tiny fist banged against the bare skin of her collarbone.

"No patience," she chided, a bare smile on her lips as she repositioned her child and quickly inserted the dripping nipple into his desperate mouth.

Baby Bass let out a contented sigh, and all signs of anger vanished from his small brows as his eyes drifted closed. Blair ran her fingers over her son's silky hair as the little boy snuggled closer to her and the source of his nutrition. He was absolutely perfect, she thought. Times like these – when the only sound in the room was the suckling noises he made, his little body warm against hers – he was absolutely perfect. It was just the two of them… just the two of them.

When Brenton had his fill, he simply let go of her nipple and stared up at his mother with his father's eyes. At times, times like these, when the room was dark and cool, she would be chilled to be bone. The baby blinked at her, slow almond-hazel eyes eerily still and knowing.

"What are you thinking about?" She whispered to her baby, touching his soft cheek and making him smile for no other reason than feeling his mother's touch. "You're so much like your father…" But the words died in her throat.

Brenton, sensing his mother's melancholic mood, kicked his legs a bit and babbled.

"I'm sure you know it." She smiled down at her baby and picked him up to stare at him head on. "He named you, you know."

The baby drooled from his mouth and let out another crackle of laughter.

Blair, allowing his small laughs to ease her spirit, set him down and began to pepper him with kisses from his little legs to his stomach, fingers and then face. He ate it up, basking in his mother's attention and staring at her with adoration.

And then he fell asleep again and the distraction was gone.

Blair watched him, the rise and fall of his tiny chest, as he whimpered slightly in his sleep. As his little fingers twitched, becoming peaceful once more once she rubbed her hand over his stomach, comforting him.

He always slept next to her large empty bed.

"Blair, dear… Perhaps we should at least clear the closet." Lily suggested, watching her daughter-in-law anxiously. "I don't think it is healthy that you stare at it each day… it's been five months now, dear."

And she was thankful when Brenton, as if sensing the attempt to remove his father from the room, started crying. No amount of soothing from his mother would calm him. He wanted neither milk nor bed, and Blair Bass was at a loss.

"Let's talk about this later, Lily, please," Blair pleaded, looking over her son's angry pink face.

"Very well," an even more concerned Lily acquiesced, smoothing her hand over her grandson's dark brown head of hair.

When she left, Brenton stopped crying and gave him mother a gummy-grin, letting out a high-pitched squeal.

"Overprotective of Daddy, too, aren't you?" She asked him, and he sneezed into her blouse as a response. A gentle baby sneeze worthy of a stomach tickle.

One Month Later.

"Dorota!" Blair's booming voice was heard through the large home. "Dorota!"

Frantic steps were heard down the marble hallway, echoing with their urgency. Her ever so faithful maid's lovely plump figure came bustling towards her, eyes wide with concern. Nowadays, it seemed that Dorota's permanent facial expression was concern. Ever since… Ever since things became so very awful.

"What is wrong, Miss Blair?" She asked, huffing and puffing.

Blair turned her head, her hair in a sharp bun and body clothed in a puritanical dress, with matching dark stockings and severe shoes. Dorota had seen her young charge dressed in many a thing in her day, but she had never seen her so closed off. The only person she would allow near her was the little angel (as Dorota called him).

"The baby's bottles were not properly sanitized, Dorota. I insist you keep these nurses in line. I wouldn't want my child getting sick from a badly cleaned bottle, would I?" Blair snapped, pointing at the spotless bottles all arranged before her.

Brenton pushed himself up and down in his bouncer, wiggling his chubby baby legs as he happily chewed on a gummy toy. He was cross-eyed in his intent. He would defeat the gummy toy.

Dorota studied the clean bottles doubtfully. Blair had taken to becoming very irate over the smallest things. Such as last week, when she fired two maids and nearly killed another after finding out that Chuck's ties had been re-arranged in another closet in order to make room for Blair's new fur collection.

"I sorry, Miss Blair. I will talk to them very sternly," Dorota assured her, nodding.

A small smile graced Blair's lovely face as she turned to notice the baby staring up at her in ever-present adoration. Dorota breathed, happy to be out of the line of fire.

"Are you getting the upper hand on that evil toy, my love?" Blair's demeanor changed completely as she squatted down to talk to the baby. Baby Bass, loving the attention from his mother, let out a squeal and showed her the wet toy as proof of his prevalent attack. He babbled an explanation with mass detail and completed his testament with a mean bite to the red rubber.

"My son, the warrior," Blair chuckled, and Dorota's heart clenched.

Blair had not shed a tear in front of anyone since Chuck's plane had gone down. She was cold and reserved and submerged herself in her son, ignoring absolutely everything else. She was meaner than usual, ignored her friends and refused to let anyone move anything that had belonged to Chuck. Everything was in its place as if he were going to walk in at six o'clock, kiss his wife and bounce his son on his knee. In her mind, Dorota was sure this was what Blair thought.

This troubled her beyond belief. Eleanor had tried, Harold had tried, Serena had tried, Nate had tried, Eric had tried, Lily had tried, Cyrus had tried – even that boy from Brooklyn had come and left with a black eye. Blair had actually seemed to enjoy that one. They had all tried and they had all failed.

Day after day, week after week, month after month, Blair Bass ordered her staff around, catered to her son's every need and seemed to live her life as if her husband would walk through the door at any given moment. When the sky darkened and her baby whimpered in need of sleep, she would come to the realization that Chuck was not coming home. That she would sleep alone in her large bed, and it would be the same the next day. So she would take her baby behind closed doors and spend the evenings there. She didn't leave the room unless the child needed something she couldn't provide, and Dorota never heard her sob. Not once.

It was evident that Blair was on the verge of a complete breakdown.

So Dorota would pace back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. If Mister Chuck were here, he would know how to get through her. He always knew. But Mister Chuck was not here, and the maid clenched her eyes at that reminder.

"How did she do today?" The daily call from Eleanor made Dorota repeat what she always said.

"The same, Miss Eleanor. She get mad today about bottles, which were clean and she said they were not." Dorota sighed. "If Mister Chuck were –"

"But he's not," Eleanor snapped, annoyed at the daily reminder that the little boy with pale skin she had met when he was a child could have this impact on her daughter. An impact so large it would destroy her.

When Eleanor found out about Charles' death, she hoped that Blair would deal with it. With daily sobs, slight neglect of her son and home, but then eventually she would accept his absence. But Blair had done the opposite. She had become militant in everything she did, and her mother came to the realization that she didn't know her daughter at all. She didn't realize her daughter had loved that young boy with the pale skin so very much. She loved him so much that his absence was making her decay, and Eleanor finally became afraid that she would lose her daughter.

"I will suggest France again," Eleanor concluded.

"But, Miss Eleanor, you know what happened last time…" Dorota reminded her.

They both remembered. Eleanor had mentioned France when the child was but two months old, and Blair had coldly looked at her mother.

"This is our home, Mother." Blair had stated, losing her appetite for the steamed asparagus.

"He's not coming back, Blair. He's gone." Eleanor had replied, a desperate attempt to shake her daughter out of the emotional coma she seemed to have fallen into.

Blair's fork had fallen limply out of her hand. "You're such a frigid bitch. No wonder Daddy never loved you."

Needless to say, it was never spoken about again.

The inhabitants of the Bass penthouse retired for the evening. Dorota lay in her bed, tossing and turning, still dreaming of solutions to 'fix' Blair. Mrs. Bass watched her angelic son drift to sleep contentedly, fed and warm on his tummy as she hummed to him.

None realized that as they closed their eyes and drifted to slumber that night, things would finally change come the morning light.

One diced grapefruit. One hard-boiled egg sans yolk. One small glass of sugar-free apple juice. One whole wheat toast with no butter or jelly.

The contents were always the same. Dorota, an expert at this new routine, oversaw the breakfast process for Mrs. Bass. The time was 6:47 AM, and Blair would come out of her room in exactly three minutes. Not a minute before. Not a minute after.

Liza, one of the new maids in whom Dorota saw actual potential, bustled in with the daily newspaper in her hand. Dorota sighed. This was the missing piece. Blair would methodically read the paper, like Chuck had often done, from beginning to end. By the end of it, Brenton usually woke and demanded his mother's attention.

"Dorota –" Liza was out of breath, her face pale and nervous.

"Ah, paper. Good girl, go make tea –"

"But Dorota –"

"Miss Blair wake in one minute, go make tea –"

"But you don't understand –"

The older maid huffed loudly and glared angrily at her younger protégé. "Miss Liza, if you wish stay –"

"What is the ruckus?" Both ladies froze as they turned to stare at the pale-faced Mrs. Bass. She sported her flowered silk robe like she always did, her hair already in her tight chignon and her face properly scrubbed.

"Nothing, Miss Blair." Dorota yanked the paper from the girl and placed it next to the sugar-free juice, where it belonged. "Here, paper –"

"But Dorota!" Liza cried, horrified, and Blair blanched at the girl's display.

"Dorota, if this poor, displaced thing can't control her voice –" Blair snapped, her eyes angry at the disturbance of her routine.

"Don't read the paper, Mrs Bass. Don't read it!" The girl cried in agony.

Dorota then understood. Her eyes widened as her eyes landed on the folded newspaper. Blair's eyes also landed there, and she gulped.

How many hours, how many days and weeks had she waited for news? Nothing came. The plane was still lost, the ever-present emptiness consumed her soul. The unknown. The inability to close a chapter, leaving the book frighteningly open and vulnerable. All her answers could be there; all that she wished to know was seconds away from her.

All she had to do was read.

A younger Blair perhaps would've read it. A younger Blair would've perhaps had more faith. But this Blair was a different person. A different monster.

"Read it, Dorota," she commanded.

Dorota's eyes were wide and frightened. She shook her head. "No, Miss Blair."

"Read it." Her tone and demeanor left nothing to be questioned.

The maid's last intention was to cry for the young girl who had seen so much heartbreak. It was her last intention. Yet sometimes, in this short life, our last intentions are often our first actions.

"No, Miss Blair, please," the maid sniffled.

For the first time, in a long time, Blair took in her maid. Her throat constricted at her shaken voice.

"Please. Don't make me read it," Blair finally said. Dorota looked up at the young girl, at the young mother, and finally saw her humanity. That humanity she had long-ago hidden from the world and its pitying gaze.

With a shaky, pale hand, the maid reached out and took back that which she had placed down. With a shaky, pale hand, the maid opened the paper slowly. She swallowed, her eyes instantly closing in on the picture that stared back at her. That handsome young man she had known as a child. That same child who had pulled her Miss Blair's brown curls and made her cry. That same child who had loved her, hated her and loved her even more. Who had made her laugh, cry, run and hide. That same boy stared back at her. The same boy she had witnessed become a man, though the road were arduous and rough. That same man stared back at her. Next to him were the first pictures of the destroyed Bass plane.

"Read it." Blair's soft voice broke through her reverie.

"Bass Plane Found early this morning… Twelve out of the seventeen bodies found."

Dorota, strong and gentle, slowly looked up at her Blair. The girl's face was stone-rigid.

"Oh, good. He's still missing," she whispered.

"Miss Blair, please –" Dorota pleaded.

"He's not dead!" Her voice was so strong that it resonated throughout the home. Then the small distant cry of an innocent baby boy was heard, shaking Blair out of her trance. "He's not dead."

Dorota honestly thought that it would be years before Blair really broke down, and she would be there to pick up the pieces. The truth was that Blair broke down in that very moment, and she was still there to pick up the pieces.

Blair's face finally crumbled when she snatched the paper from Dorota's hands and saw the face that haunted her nights. As Dorota gathered the young girl's body in her arms, her shaking and screaming bounced against the walls. The paper fell on the floor, and Charles Bass' face stared up at her from the depths.

Blair's next sentence should've foretold the maid of what storm was coming.

"Damn you, Chuck. DAMN YOU!"

Because there was no body, his stepsister and adoptive mother gathered bits and pieces they had of him in their own apartment and filled the casket with relics of the great Chuck Bass. Nate found an old basketball and a picture of the Non-Judging Breakfast Club when they were but eight years old and placed them in the casket. Eric took the video games they had enjoyed together and also placed them in the casket. No one dared to ask anything of Blair, but Dorota hustled out a picture of Blair in her wedding dress, getting ready before the ceremony. She thought Chuck would've liked to keep that with him for eternity.

Blair never made it to the funeral. Her doctor thought it best that she rest.

As the crowd slowly disappeared on that rainy afternoon and the night took over the sky, Eric was the last one left by the grave. From his pocket, he took out a picture of Blair and Chuck at their engagement party. Blair was laughing at something, and Chuck was staring blatantly at her with adoration. Eric also took out a picture of his godson, a responsibility he shared with Nate, and placed it next to his parents' picture.

"Chuck… Wherever you are… You're missed. Your family misses you… Your wife misses you, and I'm sure your son will, too," he whispered, and the gray rain that splattered on his face camouflaged his tears.

And it begins....

A/N: I read somewhere that Chuck had shown his true colors and was now soulless and evil. I thought, "what a farcical comment," but then I started thinking… How about I make him REALLY soulless? How about I make him *gasp* a vampire? Now my vampires are NOT Twilight or Vampire Diaries related, so take that lore out of your head. This is a much darker, bloodier tale. More along the lines of the True Blood/Buffy/Anne Rice vampires and, because I'm going to be dwelling in the supernatural, it gives me artistic liberties, which are always great. This story will most likely be updated on a bi-weekly basis (that means twice a week) and for those of you who've read my stories before I dont really like to chill my characters in their current surroundings. This story will move at its own pace so please dont expect Chuck/Blair interaction right away. It will come when it will come. As always, I love your comments. Thank you so much and I really hope you enjoy it.