Summary: They were indestructible and that's where everything went wrong. "We did good, Bass. Real good." CB. Always. One-shot.
Authors Note: Warning: Blair dies before this takes place. This is angst.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
You don't know where she goes after she's gone.
You hope it's some place special.
Filled with Dior, Prada, Gucci, and Chanel.
You know it's not.
You weep until your eyes bleed, literally.
Lily worries about you, you don't sleep, you don't eat, you don't even drink.
You hold your son in your arms and look at him. Like really look at him. He's mostly Blair, the same eyes peering up at you, the same nose, ears, cheeks, everything except his jaw. It's a Bass jaw, definitive, defining.
You whisper to him that you'll never be your father.
You busy yourself with work, pass Henry off to countless nannies. Never Dorota, never someone that you know.
You don't look at him, never tell him that you love him.
You don't come home half nights, spending the night in some willing blonde's arms. Never a doe eyed brunette's.
It takes away the pain, the loss.
The loss of losing her.
That thought alone is enough to bring you to tears no matter where you are.
You scream it from off of the Empire State Building, off of the top of Bass Industries, atop of the roof on Victrola.
You whisper it to yourself as you doze off, as you hold your son for the first time.
You say it in passing when asked about the thin strip of white across your tan finger.
A shrug of the shoulders, cold eyes.
"My wife died."
Henry turns one and you realize that you wasted an entire year being your father.
You cradle him in your arms, tell him that you love him, kiss him all over and he smiles.
You busy yourself with him instead, you watch him grow up, learn to speak, learn to walk, learn to spell.
Before you know it four years have passed.
Henry he stands in front of her grave, his eyes wide as he looks at the grave and then back at his father. He's still too young to understand.
You crouch down to his level, engulf him in a hug and whisper soothing words in his ear as he cries.
It's his birthday.
History repeats itself but this time it'll be different.
You promise yourself.
You fall in love again - countless times.
Ayra, Belle, Cicily, Daisy, Elyia, Felicity, Gloria, Harriet, Ivana, Jane, Kathleen, Lo, Marian, Nicole, Ophelia, Penny, Quinn, Rosttea, Saffron, Tyaa, Uma, Vivian, Whitney, Xander, Yvette, Zelda.
You make sure none of them are brunette, none have brown eyes.
You always imagine her face, you silently scream her name as you come down from the high and then you leave.
You never call, they just always reappear, begging, pleading for more. It sadness you, depresses you, that girls this desperate literally exists.
And Henry, he grows not to ask questions.
To turn a blind eye, to ignore.
On his eighth birthday he asks about her, his mother.
You gulp, throw your suit jacket on his bed and tell him everything about her.
The good and the bad and the dirty and the sad.
"My m-, she did that to herself?" The eight year old whispers. He's a smart boy, he gets it from her he thinks with a grin.
He doesn't ever miss the way he never refers to her as his mother, even though Chuck does.
Chuck, always does.
Her death, it's not a secret.
Her picture hangs on walls.
Her family visits.
And Henry, he marries.
And Chuck, he weeps.
He visits her grave daily, weekly, yearly.
He forgets to visit once in a while as he moves on.
But he hears her whispering every single night before he dozes off to sleep.
"We did good, Bass. Real good."