A/N: Am I writing this as an afterthought for episode 13's aching ending? Yes.
Am I writing this out of thirst for more Chuck/Blair? Yes.
Would I be writing this if I actually own Gossip Girl? No.
Oww…my head hurts.
Probably the damn hangover. Again.
But wait…this pillow…the texture of it…seems familiar…
Yet it doesn't feel like the sheets back home…
Where am I? And…
Oh, God. What happened last night?
Think, Blair, think!
Grr. I can't bloody for the life of me remember!
Dinner with the Archibalds…Nate in his tux—such a sight—and his, oh, no, father fighting, me taking that limo down to Victorla…and…
No…No. This is NOT where I think I am.
This is NOT how I spent the night…
This is not…
Open your eyes. Just do it.
My eyelids flutter open involuntarily, surveying the room. Got to blame that body.
Crumbled sheets. Scattered clothing all over the place—unable to locate their positions—my Mayflower dress, and, wait, not my nightdress! Beside that, lord in heaven, a bow tie, a black tux, a light blue Armani shirt, and…is that…a scarf I see draped on the bedside?
Then this must mean…
Painfully and hesitantly, I raise my head up from the stuffed pillow, turning to the spot next to me on what I now notice as a double king-sized bed.
The most regrettable horrifying sight in my life: Chuck Bass—somehow, bizarre, maddening moments of my life always end up involving him—his short brown hair messed up, half-naked, snoring like a chipmunk (a freaking chipmunk!), his body rolled to facing my side, arms reaching out.
I did not just lose my….to…Chuck Bass!
Oh, forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
Again, anything involving a Bass is a sin.
And sh—. What the hell am I wearing?
A fumbling of the hands confirm that a fluffy bathrobe—one of the Basses' suite's specialty, with two at a time per night—secure my body.
But what of last night?
Ugh. My head hurts just thinking about the words.
Better get dressed before he wakes up.
You can hate Chuck, but you've got to love him for his thoughtfulness. Somehow he's managed to sneak in my favorite black office-bitch outfit.
Huh. Love or hate.
As soon as I'm done, I do what I do best—throwing my pillow right on Chuck's snoring head.
I get an immediate satisfying response—a muffled "Ow" sound from the covered face.
"Wake up, Bass-tard," I call, "We need to talk."
The brown head shuffle a little, before moving its hands up to remove the pillow—not before taking in the scent.
Excuse me, but ew.
"Ah, morning, babe," he smiles hazily—the way his million other worshippers might have found sexy, yet downright a worst possible confirmation for me. "The sweet scent of your smell."
Chuck puts the pillow down beside him, patting the spot near his inclining position. "Why don't you come sit?" the twinkle of boyish mischief evident in his eyes.
Standing at the opposite end of the bed, I remain rigid in my place. Never in hell, Bass.
"So you're not answering my question," I start.
He raises one eyebrow in a look of pure (Chuck-fabricated) innocence. "What question?" as he does morning stretches, yawning.
"What, exactly," my hands move inevitably to my hips, "Did we do last night? And please tell me it's one word, four letters, starting with a K." I add quickly.
Chuck's mouth twitches in the corners as he gives a chuckle, blinking slowly in a reminiscent kind of way.
"I think, for someone aiming for Yale, you forgot an 'ed,'" he finally says, crossing his arms at his chest. "And, no, to my utmost pleasure—stop smacking me, babe!—we, uh, had one word, three letters, starting with a S—"
I cringe. If I didn't know it before, my worst possible nightmare has just come true.
He smirks. "Or, if you want to put it more mildly," his voice softens mockingly at the word, "It's one word, four letters, also starting with a S—"
I can't take it anymore.
"Uh, no, stop there," my hands automatically cuffs my ears, "Don't. Ever. Mention. It."
He gets up from the bed, coming to my side, placing his chin upon my shoulders, his hands wandering all over the place.
"What's wrong?" he coos—very uncomfortably icky.
I twirl around to face him.
"What's wrong?" I retort. "It's me and you! You and me! And this! I didn't plan for this to happen—I didn't…"
"Well," he takes my hand (which I swat away), "I asked if you were sure in the limo and you kept right on kissing me."
His damn logic and influencing, velvet voice irritate the hell out of me. Right on, Blair. Worst kissing move in the Waldorf dating history.
"I was drunk," I answer bluntly.
"And you were hurt from Nate." Thank God, for some reason he's off me now, swaggering off to the mini bar to grab a glass of liquor.
First thing in the morning, Chuck? No wonder you're such a…
Wait, Nate? Oh, Nate. Breakin—
"But don't worry, Blair," he takes a swig of the liquor, "You—were—amazing. Up there in Victorla—"
I'll never drink again. I swear to God. Inhibition and memory loss—freakin' effects of the liquor.
He gives a small nod in my direction, leaning his face closer to mine, "And, you know, with me."
I push him away, "Shut up. It never happened, Bass, and you do well know that."
"Oh, but it did," he grins once more.
"Have fun with your little fantasy, then," I grab my handbag, preparing to depart, "I'm leaving."
Closing the door in on his, "Wait, Blair! It's almost your b—"
Birthday, I know. Probably the worst night before a birthday ever.
Mhm…last night was…mhm…
Touching, tracing her smooth skin…taking off that dress…kissing her—
And the first sight greeting me this morning is a big ol' fluffy pillow.
"Wake up, Bass-tard," Whoever messed up our name that way? But, cheer up, it's sweet as ever to wake up to the sound of her voice. And that last night was…oh, the purring… "We need to talk."
If any girl doesn't know it yet, I (by the Chuck dictionary) seriously despise those four words, along side, "I hate you too."
Rolling, I remove the obstacle blocking the sight of Blair from my face, not forgetting to take in—of course it is the pillow she slept on last night—her scent.
Blair, dressed in that killer gorgeous black outfit I picked out from her wardrobe (Great Eye as always, Chuck. Still, I'd love more to see her out of it.), wrinkles her nose.
"Morning, babe," I smile at her—the way a million girls before her find sexy, "The scent of your smell."
Better invite her to come sit here. Why make this serious?
Blair widens her eyes in shock at my request, tightening her face in a sour look that says, 'business.'
And yet she's not coming over.
"So you're not answering my question," she says.
Tip: If you ever needed any excuses/comeback for a difficult question, pretend Innocence.
I raise my eyebrow. "What question?"
This forces Blair to say it out herself. She groans, as if dealing with a two-year-old, sighing, and with hands on her hips, ask, "What, exactly, did we do last night? And please tell me it's one word, four letters, starting with a K," in her fast talking, let's-not-get-painfully-emotional, I'm-not-admitting-the-truth voice.
Her question makes me want to laugh. Which, in fact, I do. Oh, boy.
So if she's playing that word game…
And she keeps smacking me—she's the one to play rough first—during my pleasure speech—or if I do say so myself.
Hurt. But nice.
No, you don't understand me? Sorry. It's that effect of…um, I still doubt it myself.
Get this, she cringes—a lovely shade of pale pink creeping up her cheeks.
Ah-dorable, I think, as I reward her my signature smirk with another simplified, 'mild,' meaning of the S word with four letters.
She suddenly cuffs up her ears.
Looking so helplessly frustrated I can't help myself but to get up to calm her down, placing my chin upon her small shoulders.
"What's wrong?" I ask in my best worried voice.
She twirls around to face me, her eyes alert and scheming up excuses.
So I reason to her of my gentlemanly question (yes, gentlemanly), and, man, does she look upset.
Well, she is my friend. I'd think twice before I—
But I might be…
Oh, no. Not that four-letter word starting with an L that follows falling!
Chuck Bass's never…
Nope. I need my morning Scotch.
As I waltz over to the mini bar for a drink, Blair looks on in disgust.
Her face falls even more at my mention of Nate, whom (I can't help mentioning but) wish it'd be best for her to forget right now, and changes to a frown when I mention the same word I use before my question last night—amazing.
I lean in closer to her face, hoping for a kiss goodbye, but, surprise, she pushes me away, saying she needs to be off, that I should 'have fun with my little fantasy,' (but it was, indeed, a very vivid, delicious fantasy), closing the door in on my face.
Was going to get something special for today, the day before her birthday. Plan's that we would have breakfast here and set off to school together.
Did she ruin it.
But, wait, what's that movement in my stomach?