Fic - Maybe We Could Do This If We Tried (Chuck, Chuck/Blair) pg-15, 1/1
Title: Maybe We Could Do This If We Tried
Summary: Leopard. Spots. It's the story of his life. He's been here before.
Rating: pg-15
Author's Notes: 1,620 words. Spoilers up to and and for 1x18. For nemo-88 who asked for Dan/Serena, but got this instead, poor girl. Your D/S is coming, but it may take a little longer than I expected. All mistakes are mine. Feedback is love.
Alright, he fucked up. He’ll give you that. But the truth of the matter is: he is a fuck up and he and almost everyone else knows it, too. Chuck Bass doesn’t give two shits about anything besides fucking, trying to get fucked, and when the next opportunity is going to arise where he can get fucked.
He loves women, he loves fucking women and maybe he wasn’t lying when he told Nate that he was in love with Blair (although, he thinks, maybe, he could have been jumping the gun, too, because what in the hell did he know about love, anyway?) but he definitely was lying when he told Blair he could be the perfect gentleman she deserved.
Leopard. Spots. It’s the story of his life.
So he fucks Lily’s decorator instead of meeting Blair at the helipad.
Blair leaves. He stays. Nate ditches him for Serena ninety-five percent of the time that summer and the bitterness stings just slightly before he buries it down, deep down, with the help of two blondes, a red head that lasts three days (quite a record by his standards) and a long winded series of brunettes that couldn’t quite measure up.
+
Chuck moves on. Moves into the Bass house in the Hamptons and spends the first half of the summer bugging the shit out of Serena, partying, drinking, playing video games with Eric. And it’s fun. Light. Life. This is what he lives for. Nate’s there a lot of the time, which is nice, he guesses, because it’s kind of like the way things were once upon a time - sans the fact that Nate and Serena seemed to have formed this exclusive party of two.
Which is actually fine by him because all they do is sit around and watch TV and lay by the pool and what the fuck, may he ask, is the goddamn point when there are all these lovely, willing women just throwing themselves in his direction?
+
It gets lonely, he gets lonely and June comes to a close and she’s been in Paris a month and he’s been in New York too long and he’s never imagined a life that didn’t involve her, but the reality of it kind of sucks.
Even earlier this year, as winter faded into spring and the bitterness of New York in January could hold nothing on the bitterness she felt for him, she was still there, still in his life somehow. It’s pathetic, Chuck knows, to want that back when he’s the one that ruined this, but he just can’t let go. He starts spending entirely way too much time thinking about Blair in these red satin stilettos she wore once, her in only those stilettos (he’d fucked her up against the wall in Eleanor’s sitting room, black Gucci bunched at her hips, her sighs in his mouth), and he just snaps.
Maybe it’s love, maybe it’s regret, guilt even (they’re all completely foreign so he has no fucking clue what the difference is), but Carter Baizen shows up in mid July, talking shit about nailing the ice queen between his sheets on his Yacht in the south of France and Chuck just can’t help himself. Makes a comment about the striking difference between house boats and yachts - because Baizen wouldn’t know it if it hit him in between the goddamn eyes - and punches him in the face.
When Carter’s fist connects with his jaw, Chuck realizes that he’s only been in a handful of fights in his life (he was a lover, not a fighter, didn’t you know?) and over half of them have been because of Blair Waldorf.
He laughs about it later.
+
“You know, dipshit,” Serena starts hours later as he nurses a tumbler of scotch against his bruised cheek, “you did this to yourself. You really have no right to go all Sean Penn and defend the damsel in distress’s honor.”
“Yeah,” he snorts, “because the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Blair Waldorf is damsel in distress.”
Serena smiles and tosses a bag of frozen vegetables in his direction. “Works better than scotch,” she shrugs at his raised eyebrow.
That customary Chuck Bass smirk, then, “Gee golly. Thanks, Sis.”
The expected roll of her eyes, huff of annoyance, and he mouths, “don’t push it, Bass,” before it even leaves her mouth.
“Do you think saying that will ever get tiresome, S?”
“Do you think you’ll ever stop being a pompous ass long enough to lick you wounds and tell her that you were just scared?”
+
If life were like some cheesy romantic comedy, that would have done it. The realization would have hit him like a ton of bricks and he’d have been on the first plane out of JFK and on his way to France. Chuck would have had flowers in hand as he groveled on her front steps like some pansy without balls and begged her to take him back by saying cheap shit like, love is not having to say you’re sorry and you had me at hello. (His week of being a reformed bad ass included a lot of chick flicks, and when he wasn’t staring at Blair trying to figure out what color underwear she had on - he may have turned over a new leaf, but he was still male for Christ’s sakes - he may have paid a tiny bit of attention.)
But let’s face it: Chuck’s no hero, and Blair’s no heroine, and this is not Love Story.
It’s the Upper East Side where the people are a lot more fucked up and nothing is ever easy.
So, Chuck stays and sulks and fucks Cecilia and Daphne and Veronica, too (he is Chuck Bass, after all - Leopard. Spots. We’ve been through this before) and wonders if he gains any points for thinking of her the whole time.
+
When he does show up it is because it’s convenient. Business just happens to call him to France and they just happen to be near her neck of the woods and he just happens to know her address. He did not, he repeats, did not ask Serena for directions, or book his father’s jet a week in advance, or pack an extra suitcase, hopeful.
It’s a month later, half way through August; School starts in two weeks and he probably could have waited until she got back to New York, but he didn’t. Among other things, Chuck has never really excelled where patience was concerned.
So instead of doorsteps and flowers she gets him, just him, leaning against the door of her bedroom (he always did have a thing with charming his way past maids and housekeepers, even if Dorota did seem to have it out for him) one hand on her door jam, the other in his pocket.
“What the hell do you want?”
One side of his mouth lifts up in that customary Chuck Bass smirk. “That’s not happiness to see me, is it?”
“Unless you equate happiness with throwing up in your mouth, then no.”
He smiles. She frowns. He leans in, she leans back. It’s familiar territory. Banter. Bitterness. Chuck pushes past her and farther into the room.
“I didn’t invite you here,” Blair says as he plops down on her bed.
“You did, actually.” He folds his arms behind his head. Crosses his legs at the ankles.
“That was before you fucked the decorator.”
Chuck smirks. “I think the preferred term is interior designer.”
“Fuck you.”
“Like you fucked Carter Baizen?”
Blair rolls her eyes. “Negated by the fact that you stood me up.”
Chuck pauses, evaluates the situation. Thinks it’s a pretty good sign that she hasn’t called security yet. He thinks she’s missed him, too. “Are you more upset by the fact that I stood you up or the fact that I fucked the decorator?”
There’s a pause, like she’s trying to choose. “Both… Equally,” she says finally and Chuck stares at her for a long time.
“Fairy tales are for wimps, Waldorf, and we both know it,” he starts. “I am never going to be Prince Charming and you’re never going to be Cinderella. I thought I could change; I can’t. Go figure.”
She laughs, loud and boisterous, only somewhat sarcastic and it rolls off his shoulders easily.
“Jesus, Bass,” she breathes, and he kind of loves the way she looks in that moment - face flushed from laughter, eyes dancing. “It’s not like I was asking you to commit to a fucking marriage. I just wanted you to take me to Italy. What the hell was so hard about that?”
Chuck smirks and pushes himself upwards. Sighs and breathes at the same time, like he’s been holding it in for months. “So it was the abandonment you had the issue with.”
His hand catches hers as she reaches for a pillow to launch in his direction, pulls her towards him.
“Don’t,” she warns, trying to pull her hand out his grasp. He doesn’t let her. “I’m still mad at you. You left me stranded with an ugly guy who had bad teeth and hogged the jump seat,” she says, her face close to his now and he can smell her perfume, the scent of her shampoo, count the freckles on her face.
Fleetingly, he thinks that if he could ever love somebody, really, really love them, it would probably be her - not so much out of a grand gesture or silly romantic notions, but mostly because they just understood each other.
“I’m sorry,” Chuck says, and mostly means it.
He kisses her and she lets him.
Summary: Leopard. Spots. It's the story of his life. He's been here before.
Rating: pg-15
Author's Notes: 1,620 words. Spoilers up to and and for 1x18. For nemo-88 who asked for Dan/Serena, but got this instead, poor girl. Your D/S is coming, but it may take a little longer than I expected. All mistakes are mine. Feedback is love.
Alright, he fucked up. He’ll give you that. But the truth of the matter is: he is a fuck up and he and almost everyone else knows it, too. Chuck Bass doesn’t give two shits about anything besides fucking, trying to get fucked, and when the next opportunity is going to arise where he can get fucked.
He loves women, he loves fucking women and maybe he wasn’t lying when he told Nate that he was in love with Blair (although, he thinks, maybe, he could have been jumping the gun, too, because what in the hell did he know about love, anyway?) but he definitely was lying when he told Blair he could be the perfect gentleman she deserved.
Leopard. Spots. It’s the story of his life.
So he fucks Lily’s decorator instead of meeting Blair at the helipad.
Blair leaves. He stays. Nate ditches him for Serena ninety-five percent of the time that summer and the bitterness stings just slightly before he buries it down, deep down, with the help of two blondes, a red head that lasts three days (quite a record by his standards) and a long winded series of brunettes that couldn’t quite measure up.
+
Chuck moves on. Moves into the Bass house in the Hamptons and spends the first half of the summer bugging the shit out of Serena, partying, drinking, playing video games with Eric. And it’s fun. Light. Life. This is what he lives for. Nate’s there a lot of the time, which is nice, he guesses, because it’s kind of like the way things were once upon a time - sans the fact that Nate and Serena seemed to have formed this exclusive party of two.
Which is actually fine by him because all they do is sit around and watch TV and lay by the pool and what the fuck, may he ask, is the goddamn point when there are all these lovely, willing women just throwing themselves in his direction?
+
It gets lonely, he gets lonely and June comes to a close and she’s been in Paris a month and he’s been in New York too long and he’s never imagined a life that didn’t involve her, but the reality of it kind of sucks.
Even earlier this year, as winter faded into spring and the bitterness of New York in January could hold nothing on the bitterness she felt for him, she was still there, still in his life somehow. It’s pathetic, Chuck knows, to want that back when he’s the one that ruined this, but he just can’t let go. He starts spending entirely way too much time thinking about Blair in these red satin stilettos she wore once, her in only those stilettos (he’d fucked her up against the wall in Eleanor’s sitting room, black Gucci bunched at her hips, her sighs in his mouth), and he just snaps.
Maybe it’s love, maybe it’s regret, guilt even (they’re all completely foreign so he has no fucking clue what the difference is), but Carter Baizen shows up in mid July, talking shit about nailing the ice queen between his sheets on his Yacht in the south of France and Chuck just can’t help himself. Makes a comment about the striking difference between house boats and yachts - because Baizen wouldn’t know it if it hit him in between the goddamn eyes - and punches him in the face.
When Carter’s fist connects with his jaw, Chuck realizes that he’s only been in a handful of fights in his life (he was a lover, not a fighter, didn’t you know?) and over half of them have been because of Blair Waldorf.
He laughs about it later.
+
“You know, dipshit,” Serena starts hours later as he nurses a tumbler of scotch against his bruised cheek, “you did this to yourself. You really have no right to go all Sean Penn and defend the damsel in distress’s honor.”
“Yeah,” he snorts, “because the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Blair Waldorf is damsel in distress.”
Serena smiles and tosses a bag of frozen vegetables in his direction. “Works better than scotch,” she shrugs at his raised eyebrow.
That customary Chuck Bass smirk, then, “Gee golly. Thanks, Sis.”
The expected roll of her eyes, huff of annoyance, and he mouths, “don’t push it, Bass,” before it even leaves her mouth.
“Do you think saying that will ever get tiresome, S?”
“Do you think you’ll ever stop being a pompous ass long enough to lick you wounds and tell her that you were just scared?”
+
If life were like some cheesy romantic comedy, that would have done it. The realization would have hit him like a ton of bricks and he’d have been on the first plane out of JFK and on his way to France. Chuck would have had flowers in hand as he groveled on her front steps like some pansy without balls and begged her to take him back by saying cheap shit like, love is not having to say you’re sorry and you had me at hello. (His week of being a reformed bad ass included a lot of chick flicks, and when he wasn’t staring at Blair trying to figure out what color underwear she had on - he may have turned over a new leaf, but he was still male for Christ’s sakes - he may have paid a tiny bit of attention.)
But let’s face it: Chuck’s no hero, and Blair’s no heroine, and this is not Love Story.
It’s the Upper East Side where the people are a lot more fucked up and nothing is ever easy.
So, Chuck stays and sulks and fucks Cecilia and Daphne and Veronica, too (he is Chuck Bass, after all - Leopard. Spots. We’ve been through this before) and wonders if he gains any points for thinking of her the whole time.
+
When he does show up it is because it’s convenient. Business just happens to call him to France and they just happen to be near her neck of the woods and he just happens to know her address. He did not, he repeats, did not ask Serena for directions, or book his father’s jet a week in advance, or pack an extra suitcase, hopeful.
It’s a month later, half way through August; School starts in two weeks and he probably could have waited until she got back to New York, but he didn’t. Among other things, Chuck has never really excelled where patience was concerned.
So instead of doorsteps and flowers she gets him, just him, leaning against the door of her bedroom (he always did have a thing with charming his way past maids and housekeepers, even if Dorota did seem to have it out for him) one hand on her door jam, the other in his pocket.
“What the hell do you want?”
One side of his mouth lifts up in that customary Chuck Bass smirk. “That’s not happiness to see me, is it?”
“Unless you equate happiness with throwing up in your mouth, then no.”
He smiles. She frowns. He leans in, she leans back. It’s familiar territory. Banter. Bitterness. Chuck pushes past her and farther into the room.
“I didn’t invite you here,” Blair says as he plops down on her bed.
“You did, actually.” He folds his arms behind his head. Crosses his legs at the ankles.
“That was before you fucked the decorator.”
Chuck smirks. “I think the preferred term is interior designer.”
“Fuck you.”
“Like you fucked Carter Baizen?”
Blair rolls her eyes. “Negated by the fact that you stood me up.”
Chuck pauses, evaluates the situation. Thinks it’s a pretty good sign that she hasn’t called security yet. He thinks she’s missed him, too. “Are you more upset by the fact that I stood you up or the fact that I fucked the decorator?”
There’s a pause, like she’s trying to choose. “Both… Equally,” she says finally and Chuck stares at her for a long time.
“Fairy tales are for wimps, Waldorf, and we both know it,” he starts. “I am never going to be Prince Charming and you’re never going to be Cinderella. I thought I could change; I can’t. Go figure.”
She laughs, loud and boisterous, only somewhat sarcastic and it rolls off his shoulders easily.
“Jesus, Bass,” she breathes, and he kind of loves the way she looks in that moment - face flushed from laughter, eyes dancing. “It’s not like I was asking you to commit to a fucking marriage. I just wanted you to take me to Italy. What the hell was so hard about that?”
Chuck smirks and pushes himself upwards. Sighs and breathes at the same time, like he’s been holding it in for months. “So it was the abandonment you had the issue with.”
His hand catches hers as she reaches for a pillow to launch in his direction, pulls her towards him.
“Don’t,” she warns, trying to pull her hand out his grasp. He doesn’t let her. “I’m still mad at you. You left me stranded with an ugly guy who had bad teeth and hogged the jump seat,” she says, her face close to his now and he can smell her perfume, the scent of her shampoo, count the freckles on her face.
Fleetingly, he thinks that if he could ever love somebody, really, really love them, it would probably be her - not so much out of a grand gesture or silly romantic notions, but mostly because they just understood each other.
“I’m sorry,” Chuck says, and mostly means it.
He kisses her and she lets him.