Title: "Home for the Holidays"
Author: monimala
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Rating/Classification: R for language, sexual implications, Chuck/other, Chuck/Blair, filler fic/ep tag.
Disclaimer: Not my characters. XOXO.
Summary: A tag to 1.9, "Blair Waldorf Must Pie." 610 words. What else do you do with a shitty Thanksgiving?
When the fifth person in ten minutes comes up to him in the hallway and asks, "So, who'd you do for Thanksgiving, Chuck?" he seriously considers having them killed.
"So who'd you do for Thanksgiving?" Not "Hey, Chuck, how was the pie?" or "How was the country house?" or "Did you have candied yams? I know they're your favorite." Just who did he nail and how and were there any drugs involved. "Fuck off," he wants to tell them all, "Don't you know I'm turning over a new leaf?"
But then he remembers nobody knows that except Blair, who doesn't believe it for a minute. Okay, truth be told, he doesn't believe it either, but he's Chuck Bass for Christ's sake. He's goal-oriented. He can do this. And he could certainly survive an evening of pedestrian, pseudo-family, holiday bullshit without doing a couple of lines (Nathaniel's old man is nothing if not a cautionary tale) or fucking somebody. If he wanted. Nobody said he had to, right?
His mental defensiveness is almost enough to result in a pouty lip and a foot stomp. Fortunately, he manages to navigate outside to the courtyard before anybody sees the slip. Then he pouts all he wants.
So, fine. Yes. He had sex in between the Peking duck and the fortune cookie. Not literally, because even he's not that kinky. But, Jesus, what else do you do with a shitty Thanksgiving where your dad is out of town, so you have to order takeout and sit in the VIP lounge of your club with a couple of strippers --sorry, dancers-- who barely speak English? To some, that's a wet dream. On a good day, it's his wet dream. Thanksgiving? Not a good day. He'd tried to call Blair. Five times. It's still on her missed call log if she hasn't deleted the evidence. She didn't pick up once. Not even after he left her the message about missing her. As if he ever misses anybody. He called Nate, too, with no results. Which is strange because Nathaniel calls him at least once a day to help those pretty little synapses fire.
"So, who'd you do for Thanksgiving, Chuck?"
Sofie. Anisa. And Keiko. Though he's still not sure where oral falls in the 'hooking up' vs. 'sex' scheme of things. They need to release a new scale, re-plot those pesky bases. Is anal even on the field? What about foot play? Not that he's into feet, but he's open to experimentation.
"Chuck." It's not a question. It never is with Blair. She's the queen of definitive statements. "How was your Thanksgiving?"
He stares up at her on the steps, gestures for her to come down and join him hiding in the ivy, and is infinitely relieved --not that he'll ever admit it-- when she does. "It was fine," he lies with a careless shrug. "Had candied yams. My favorite."
Blair isn't the sixth person to ask him the dreaded question. He didn't think she'd be. She stares at him for a minute, telling him with just those big, brown, bitch goddess eyes that, yes, she checked her call log and, yes, she definitely heard that idiotic message. She smiles just slightly in that all-knowing way before backing him up against the bricks and licking his neck. She murmurs something that sounds like she's complimenting his "musk," but before he can ask for clarification, her hands are inside his pants and she's under his skin.
He turns over a new leaf --for today-- and then he slides home.
--end--
November 29, 2007.