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Chuck Bass held his life in his hands: a bottle of scotch in the right and a white Louboutin peeptoe in the left. He took a swig and grasped at the four inch heel, admiring the patent red sole that brought the only sign of color to the room. In his mind, he could see her fretting. Her cherry pout and her pretty furrowed brow as she tore up her room that Dorota would have to slave after later. She would go through all of her shoeboxes, throw her sheets onto the floor, and bend over to look under the bed while she held the matching shoe in her hand. He smirked at the mental image. She would be wearing his favorite dress, the white knee-length one with the sweetheart neck that hugged her curvaceous body in just the right way and when she bent over…(although let's be honest, there was really no wrong way when it came to Blair Waldorf anyway).

He most certainly was not drunk enough for this, because he could still remember the time before the Baizen debacle last year when he had slipped that shoe off her dainty foot and kissed a trail all the way up to her-

Nope, he definitely was not drunk enough. He hit the bottle again, the amber liquid casting its fading light onto the gleaming white of the shoe. His eye drifted to it on its own accord and even with the scotch right at his nose, the faint scent of Chanel 5 ran circles around his head. He dangled the shoe by the heel and turned to see his own ghastly reflection on its patent leather surface.

He kissed the slight scuff on the side as a dedication to the days before it all went to hell.

The night ended quietly as he sat on his bed and took off his shoes. He couldn't remember the last time that he actually spoke more than ten sentences to his father and there they were at the game, cheering on a losing team. He hated beer with his life but he definitely shared quite a few with the older Bass as part of the dear-old-dad experience. He couldn't help but smile at the image of Big Bad Bart having a beer at a hockey game.

He never locked his door (because really, most of the time people were trying to keep him out, not the other way around). As a result, in stumbled a drunken Blair Waldorf dressed in one of his stepsister's nightshirts that skimmed her knee due to their height difference. Their eyes met for a second, hers squinted in desperate concentration through the haze of liquor before she let out the most pathetic roar he had ever heard.

"Yes kitten?"

"I. Hate. You!"

He didn't duck quite quickly enough and the flat side of her left shoe grazed his forehead. Luck was on his side and the spike heel was turned the other way when it collided with his skull. "Woman! What the hel- How much have you had? Serena! Get your animal back on her leash!"

"If we were together, I could say something like you putting me on a leash and then we could have hot sex!" Chuck was pretty sure his mind exploded. "But no, you have to go and be all complicated!" She pummeled him with her tiny fists, falling straight into his arms due to the unbalanced height of her shoeless foot.


"Serena and I went to see Twilight and then we had a few at… I'un'memberwhere," she mumbled into his shirt. Somehow she had gotten from beating him to leaning on him for support and instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her and breathed her in – spilt Cosmopolitan in her hair and all.

"And then?" She felt warm and soft under the cotton as he rubbed soothing circles on her back, careful not to follow that dangerous curve down to territory that could potentially earn him a slap across the face.

"Mm, then, then…" she nodded off for a second, eyes glazed as she tried to remember the rest of the night. He broke out of his reverie when she pulled her hand back and slapped him squarely in the chest. "Y-you!"

"Oh no. Blair, I told you I was brushing my teeth and that you need to stay in my room – sorry Chuck," the blonde golden retriever of a stepsister came bouncing into the room and held her little brunette friend back by the forearms. "C'mon, Blair. Let's get you to bed."

Obviously, Blair Waldorf was not having it. She clawed and pointed accusingly at him in a way that was amusing since he knew that she would have no recollection of this in the morning. "You! A vampire could make it work with some human girl and we can't?! A vampire, Chuck!"

"You two really went to see that ridiculous sham of a film, sis? I'm ashamed for you." Then he stepped forward and took one of the small flailing hands in his. "And you'll see, Waldorf. We'll have our day." Serena gave an exasperated sigh when he kissed her hand and her violent thrashes calmed and she allowed herself to be steered out of the room in a slight daze.

"Serena? I think I need a sparkly boyfriend. It's a perfectly healthy relationship ideal," she whispered as she stumbled out the doorway of his room, her shoe left at his feet and her words laced in his heart.

He took out his blackberry to remind himself to put the sequin tux he had seen at the store on hold. What was he thinking – as though there's anything too flashy for a Bass. He turned in after that, the lone white heel perched on his bedside table next to his mother's picture.

That was a good day, he thought. He knew because he didn't have too many of those.

There was a lump in his throat that was suffocating so he took three gulps of scotch to wash it down. The released breath was rancid even to his own intoxicated senses and he teared up anyway, because what else could it be?

It certainly could not be the tears of a wayward prince who was too scared to chase after his Cinderella.