Summary: He's Chuck and she's Blair and it's enough for everyone. And maybe enough for forever. A series of drabbles, snapshots in CB mornings-after.
AN (1) : Recommended listening : "Giving Up" by Ingrid Michaelson.
AN (2) : So this is just a little thing I wanted to write, fun little short-short moments of Chair fluff, because don't we all need more of that? Anyways, I've been super busy with school and such, so your reviews would make me so very happy! :) Thanks in advance, friends.
"If you love something let it go free. If it doesn't come back, you never had it. If it comes back, love it forever."
- Doug Horton
She has a toothbrush. Of course, he always knew that she did, because her teeth are perfect, little white pearls in the oyster that is her mouth.
The toothbrush is pink. It's smaller than his blue one, with soft bristles. He smiles at that - her gums aren't that tender.
"What are you doing?" he asks her one day, when he notices from his lazy position in bed - the goosedown duvet messily thrown over his lower half - that she's unpacking some things from a small Louis Vitton bag. She pokes her head out of the bathroom - his bathroom - with a curious glare, her espresso-colored ringlets tangled from the night before.
"What do you think I'm doing, Bass?" she asks, disappearing again into the bathroom.
He shrugs to himself, secretly in heaven because Blair fucking Waldorf is naked in his suite, messing around in his bathroom.
It's the first time she'd actually stayed through the night.
He climbs out of bed, walking to the bathroom.
"Peeing?" he asks with a smirk. "I didn't know Waldorfs peed."
She looks uncomfortable for a second, twisting her limbs as pretzel-y as she can while staying on the toilet.
But then she seems to gather herself. "Of course I pee."
He smiles, lounging against the counter.
And then he sees it. Her little pink toothbrush is next to his in the cup.
Somehow, it reminds him of forever.
The flush next to him brings him back to the present, the beautiful girl silently professing her claim on him.
She stands, turning on the shower. "I brought some shampoo and stuff, too, if that's okay," she tells him. "As much as I love you, I hate smelling like a boy."
He laughs, once, to acknowledge her joke, but his heart is racing. He wraps his arms around her, kissing her cheek as he feels her smile.
"Blair," he says seriously, "that's more than okay."
He sings in the shower.
She would've never guessed it, because he never sang. She always did, anything from Mumford and Sons to Robyn to Adele to Hot Chip. Autotuned rap was her favorite, because she knew she sounded completely ridiculous and it would always make him laugh.
And he really didn't laugh that often.
She wakes up one morning, regrettably late, because she needs to go to class soon and her hair is almost unmanageably long and full.
And then she hears him, belting out The Naked and Famous, all of the parts, sounding like a complete lunatic.
And she grins, crawling out from underneath her silky duvet, walking into her bathroom silently.
She starts singing along, and he freezes.
"Oh, come on, that was great," she tells him.
He laughs, letting her climb in the shower.
He massages shampoo into her hair, loving the feeling between his fingers of the silky strands, knowing that she was going to cut it soon because it was getting longer than she usually let it get. He softly sings her "Here Comes the Sun", admittedly her favorite song by The Beatles (and she knows that he knows that, too).
"You're so beautiful," he says, smiling into her collarbone.
Her lips meet his, an entirely new kind of song.
And she doesn't go to school that day.
She cries, sometimes, after they make love.
At first, it scares the shit out of him, because usually girls crying after you'd just fucked them is never a good sign.
(Though, with Blair, it really was never just a fuck).
He asks her, picking up the courage in his little lion heart, in the dark of her room once, in the middle of the night.
He knows that she'd thought he was asleep - that was the only reason she'd allowed herself to cry.
"What's wrong?" he whispers, dreading the worst.
She sniffles, then swallows, turning towards him in the dark.
He can see the whites surrounding the brown of her eyes. "I just don't understand how you can love me," she whispers.
He frowns, brushing her hair away from her forehead, shorter now but still past her shoulders. "You're perfect." He's said it so many times, he wonders if it will ever be enough to all of the lies Eleanor had told her over the years.
She shakes her head the tiniest bit, and he knows that it means she doesn't want to argue with him, but that she still feels like she has to.
He brings his lips softly to hers. "You're so beautiful, Blair," he whispers. "And I love you because you're the most incredible person I've ever met."
Her lips twitch towards a smile, her dimples fighting their way onto her cheeks. "More incredible than Hermione?"
He laughs, remembering how many times he and Blair had watched the Harry Potter movies when they were younger, how he'd had the biggest crush (secretly, though, because he was Chuck Bass - only she knew) on Emma Watson.
He nods with a grin, pulling her towards him. "Even more than Hermione."
She misses him, all of those nights.
Alone, after she'd left him (once, twice, three times).
She likes to make her life into an Ingrid Michaelson song sometimes, her love being too big for him and all of that great stuff.
Really, though, if she had to soundtrack her nights, they'd fit more into "Breakable", because there was nothing stopping his way into her heart anymore.
Maybe there never was.
Sometimes, she fucks, when she gets drunk enough at galas for various ridiculous events. She lets herself think his name, lets herself feel his hands against her skin. When she's really drunk, she sometimes lets herself feel when they're one.
She never stays. Never cries.
He spots her one night, stumbling out of the darkness into the hallway at the Palace.
She wonders fleetingly if he'd been listening, though she wanted to think he wasn't that pervy.
Maybe she imagines it, but maybe he asks her, "Are you going to get home okay?"
She's sure she nods, but he looks doubtful, helping her into an elevator and making sure she makes it into a car.
"Goodnight, Blair," he says.
Maybe she imagines it, but maybe she whispers, once the car door is closed and she's already moving down East 52nd Street, "I love you, too."
But he doesn't hear her.
He lets her go.
She's twenty-two when she decides she's never really going to know who she is.
She goes to her hairdresser, handing him a picture of Mia Farrow from Rosemary's Baby, and tells him confidently, "I want this."
He looks at her with wide eyes, but she nods, resolute. "Cut it all off," she directs, raising her eyebrows.
He does, and she looks at into the mirror afterward, running her fingers through the short stands of hair, their brown looking darker than ever, softer than it's ever been.
She smiles, goes home, puts on a pair of skinny jeans and a t-shirt.
And then she finds herself knocking on his door. She knows she'll always come back.
It's late, but she's not surprised (though immensely relieved) to see him still dressed.
His eyes get big, but he doesn't say anything, silently letting her in.
She sits on the couch, and very seriously tells him, "I've gone insane."
He wants to smile, but he holds it back. "The jeans were a bit of a drastic choice."
She rolls her eyes, but he can tell it makes her relax the tiniest bit. She chews on her lower lip a little. "It's very short," she states.
He nods. "It is."
The awkward silence that follows is unfamiliar to both of them.
Finally, she brings her eyes to meet his. "It'll grow back," she says, tears filling her eyes.
He holds back laughter. "It will. But I think I like it."
"Really?" she asks, her brows knitting together.
Blair bites a hangnail - another thing she never did. "Goodnight, Chuck."
He smiles softly, nodding and opening the door. "I'll see you soon."
She walks down the hallway, taking eighteen and a half steps before she turns back towards his door.
He's still there, watching her carefully.
She walks back towards him quickly, and it's like a chemical charge when he takes her in his arms.
He holds her, standing there in the doorway, and she lets him.
"I like it too," she admits later that night, in the dark in his arms. "I've always wanted to do it."
He smiles, kissing her forehead, granting her everything.
"It should be long enough by our wedding," she starts, and he laughs.
She nods against his chest. "That will be in a year and a half, so that gives you six months to propose. I'll be done with school."
He shakes his head. Blair Waldorf is always (always) Blair Waldorf. "Okay."
"I'll probably cut it again when Bart or Audrey is born. I'll be twenty-five, and that just seems like it'll be easier and everything."
"Completely," he agrees. "And I like the names."
"We should get a dog after that."
"We'll name him Handsome, that way Audrey will want to go to Yale."
"We might have a boy."
"I think we'll have a girl." Truthfully, he's always dreamed about a daughter, everything about her a miniature version of Blair.
She kisses his chest. "Either way," she offers her olive branch, "they don't have to go to Yale."
"I suppose we could break the Upper East Side mold of parents living vicariously through their children."
She giggles, his most favorite sound in the world. "Exactly. Harvard would be okay, too."
He laughs, and she savors the sound. "I love you, Blair Cornelia Waldorf."
"I love you, too."
And he sees short brown hair next to him when the sun streams through the curtains, framing her sharp cheekbones and full lips and tiny nose and eyes closed, lashes brushing against her cheeks.
She's there in the morning.
He wakes up, years later, nights and nights of little sleep making him inherently tired.
Her hair is short, again. He doesn't mind at all, though. He loves her neck.
She's sleeping in that exhausted way he recognizes, Handsome snoring in the corner of their room.
Bart is curled up, sleeping exactly like his mother, with his soft short hair, the same brown as hers, and his dark lashes resting against cheekbones that will be angular when he grows up. He's snuggled into Blair's side, her arm peacefully around him.
Audrey sleeps exactly like him, he knows, with long brown ringlets and Blair's bright smile, her dimples making his heart lurch every time. She's older and taller seemingly every time he looks at her. She wrote him a story the other day, her first grade letters perfect, some of them even being in cursive. She's so smart. That, he knows for certain, she got from her mother.
Audrey's eyes slide open. She smiles up at Chuck, Blair's same sleepy, lazy smile.
"We both had nightmares?" she whispers, looking over at Bart.
"I love you, Daddy," Audrey tells him, snuggling into his chest.
And it's more than words can ever even begin to express. "I love you, too, Audrey."
Blair's eyes open, and she smiles at him. "My plan worked," she says sleepily.
Bart stirs against Blair's chest. "Mommy," he says.
Blair looks so excited, Chuck can hardly hold in his grin. Bart had gotten 'Daddy' weeks ago, but 'M's' had been a struggle.
"He said it!" Blair shouts, sitting up excitedly.
Audrey rolls her eyes. "I can say Mommy in French and English."
Chuck laughs, kissing her on the forehead.
"Mommy," Bart says again, reaching his tiny, dimpled hands excitedly towards Blair.
"Well done, son," Chuck says as Audrey scoffs. Chuck grins at Blair. "Your plan definitely worked."
"Are you scared?" he whispers.
She smiles, shaking her head. "No."
She weakly wipes tears from his cheeks, wrinkled now.
The IVs and monitors don't take anything away. She's still the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
"We had quite a run," he smirks.
Audrey and Bart stand outside the room quietly. They have their own grandchildren now.
"My plan was flawless," she agrees.
He nods. "I love you, Blair."
She smiles, kissing him softly. "I love you, too."
Soon, she goes, and Chuck holds Audrey as she cries, always his little girl. Bart stands solemnly by them.
Her funeral is beautiful, all of the Upper East Side coming, paying their respects to one of the most amazing women they'd seen in a long time.
She was ninety-two.
A few weeks later, because he's Chuck and she's Blair and that's enough for everyone, he goes too.
She's young again, because you get to chose in heaven and she's really always been a little vein.
He smiles when he sees her, choosing instantly to be young too.
"Your hair is short," he says, touching her again, his heart healing in a second. He knows she's twenty-two in his heaven. He doesn't need her to tell him why, but she does anyways.
"I remembered the night I decided I wanted to be with you forever," she explains quietly.
He grins. "You've never not been insane, you know."
She rolls her eyes. "The jeans were a bit drastic."
He laughs. "I love you."
"You're stuck with me forever now," she smiles, adding ludicrously, "if that's okay."
"Blair," he says seriously, kissing her lips, "that's more than okay."
AN : So, yay! lol. I'm in a happy mood lately. Thank Spring Break for that :). Please review!