Chuck and OPEN
After making sure Blair was settled (he left her, naturally, at the bar), Chuck had excused himself so he could go back to his room and change clothes. His hands still shook as he wriggled out of his now-ruined suit, and he left the bloodstained clothes lying in a crumpled heap, which he then kicked into the corner of the room for good measure. Having secured new clothes (more casual ones this time, including his trademark scarf), he headed to the master bathroom, only barely managing to resist the urge to take a long shower. No matter what his father said, he couldn't shake the fear that the Palace wasn't totally safe. Even the armed guards his father had posted outside the hotel's gates did little to assuage his terror.
As much as his id was screaming at him to hire a call girl and try to salvage the night with scotch and sex, Chuck's survival instinct kept him moving through the motions of toweling off and redressing. He did allow himself a few extra minutes to dry and style his hair (confidence always made him feel better, after all) and slipping into new clothes. Even so, he at least allowed himself to pour a large snifter of scotch, which he proceeded to drink at a speed that, if he were in any other state of mind, would've made him cringe.
His brief respite over, he poured a few more swallows of alcohol before returning to the hotel lobby. Somehow, even in his shaken state, he still looked for all the world like the scandalous boy billionaire that the Upper East Side had come to love (and hate). Even the look on his face seemed calm - almost bored - to the untrained eye as he swept toward the hotel bar.