Title: Where the White Picket Fences Grow

Author: Isabelle

Summer: Gossip Girl. Chuck/Blair, the afterglow and thoughts

Rating: PG-15


Little tornado
Bane of the trailer park
Lifting houses to leave your mark

He branded her skin. He branded her skin with the palm of his pale hand as it curved around her waist and cupped her breast. He was poison, she knew, he was hope.

At times she would see it – she would see the lost little boy wanting so desperately to change. It was mere moments; while he thrust inside of her that she saw it, she saw hope. White-picked-fence hope. He would confuse her then, she would have to blink to regain her center and she would have to breathe.

After they lay for mere moments in each other's arms when his little-boy hair would stick to her collarbone her mind would race, her heart would beat and there would be hope. His fingers, soft from lack of hard-labor and from weekly-man'icures would caress her fingers. He loved her ring finger; he would explore it from base to tip in a sensuous massage and at times, when he was in the best of moods, he would kiss it.

And she would hope, she would hope that he would give in, that he would take her far from here were they could smile without regret and laugh without disillusion.

He would slide off her and get dressed, at times throwing her a side glance and a coy smile. Her heart broke.

Little tornado
Noah can build his ark
But he will never disembark

"Are you going to the charity function?" he would ask is bare whispers.

She would cover her bare breast with the Egyptian cotton and nod, her hair a tangled mess.

"What time should I pick you up?" he asked, slipping into his loafers.

She would look at him, giving him a sideways glance. "Six. Six would be good."

"How about five? We can have an early dinner at Flamboyan," and he would cat-crawl on top of her.

And a smile would tug at her lips. "Sounds romantic."

Then it would be there again, that look of vulnerability and hope. "I'm trying, Blair. I'm trying to change."

And she would nod and touch his rebellious eyebrow. "I know."

Make it go faster
Baby go faster
Make it go twice the speed of you and me

"Maybe we can leave the event early." He would whisper, kissing her bare neck. "Make it back here and… watch a film."

And that would bring a full smile to her face. "Well… we can start it."

His scent would linger in her room until it was time to see him again, to touch him again. He would be a perfect gentleman; he would open the door for her, place the palm of his hand on her lower back and hold his drink.

And when they would be alone again and his bare hand would caress her breast she would see it again; little-boy-lost, little-boy-hopeful, little-boy blue. She would hold his head against her chest and smooth his eyebrows, and let him caress her fingers.

Because one day he would take her hand and they would fly to where the picket-fences grow in wild pastures. That day, she knew, the finger that he caressed would not be bare.

Yes, she could love him. He could change. Perhaps he would change when she finally loved him. Perhaps.

"Do you love me?" he would ask, wet with the afterglow. Her eyes would close. Her breath would slow.

They would lay in silence.

Now you know why the little boy is blue.

Perhaps he would change when she finally loved him.

"Perhaps." She would say. Perhaps.

Make it go faster
Baby go faster
Make it go twice the speed of you and me


The End