Gossip Girl: Fic - Five Times Blair Waldorf Wore Jeans [1/5]
[1] Community Service
She collides with him in the hallway, her arms full of collapsed cardboard boxes. The materials scatter, and she lets out an exasperated sigh.
“Watch where you’re going, Bass.”
“Please, Waldorf, we both know you did it on purpose.”
She glares at him, kneeling to gather the boxes. There’s something different about her, but he can’t put his finger on what. She’s as beautiful as ever, and the set of her mouth tells him that, as usual, she’s annoyed by his presence.
“Really, and why is that? I just can’t tear myself away from you-so I run into you instead?”
He picks up the box at his feet, smirking as she attempts to reach it without stepping closer to him.
“Something like that,” he concurs, moving into her personal space as he hands it to her.
She rolls her eyes, pivoting on the spot and walking away from him. She’s always walking away from him, something he finds both irritating and gratifying. He can never hold her attention, but he can at least admire her ass as she storms off.
Then it clicks. The pieces fall into place and he knows what he find unusual about his favorite Park Avenue princess.
She’s wearing jeans.
Months of watching Blair-from afar, from up close-and he’s never seen her wear jeans. Maybe once, but with some trendy blazer shirt and Manolos. Today, she’s wearing a black tank top and sneakers. As she turns the corner at the end of the hall, he can see her long hair flip in its ponytail.
The world might be ending. He pinches himself on the arm to be sure it isn’t. Then he follows her.
He finds her giving orders to a group of Constance girls. They are young and hanging on her every word. He only catches the end, to meet in the gym.
She rounds another corner, and it occurs to him that the gentlemanly thing to do would have been to offer to help carry something.
Chuck Bass isn’t a gentleman. He’s dreaming of pressing her up against a wall to see if she feels different when wrapped in denim.
The gym is full of people, mostly underclassmen. There are canned goods everywhere, and he spots Blair moving among tables. She’s distributing her boxes, stopping to talk every once and a while.
He walks to a table, moving things around as if he’s supposed to be there. She’s walking in his direction, cradling her phone on her shoulder.
“-done in a little while. I should be home for dinner at seven. Thank you, Dorota.”
Blair snaps the phone closed, unconsciously slipping it into her back pocket. Her hand lingers there, and the picture she makes as she contemplates her next move charms him. She scans the progress of her fellow volunteers-and then she spots him.
She moves to his table, the light-washed jeans accentuating her mile-long legs and making his throat dry up. Without speaking a word, she sets a box on his table and begins assembling it for him. She bites her lip as she folds over the last corner, the tricky one he hates doing.
“Didn’t take you for a resume-packer,” she says, finally looking him in the eye.
“Come again?”
“No one volunteers out of the goodness of their heart,” she begins, “Well, maybe Humphrey thinks he does, but we all know what’s at stake here.”
She picks up the packages of pasta he’s knocked over and quickly re-sorts them. Her hands mesmerize him, bare of their standard accoutrements. She smiles at one package, half laughing as she holds it out to him.
“Do you remember?”
Chuck glances down, flushing red. Of course he remembers this. He was eight years old when he last touched a stove-his only job in the Waldorf kitchen had been to watch the water boil. Her father had set him up on a stool while Blair rolled out pastries. Chuck hadn’t paid attention to the pot, assuming someone would tell him when it was done (he hadn’t known what boiling water looked like, but didn’t want to admit it in front of her).
“The pot boiled over, water went everywhere,” he said, adding ruefully, “how could I forget?”
She laughs for real this time, the light reaching her eyes.
“My father was so upset with me,” she confesses with a smile, “he told me that yelling about ruining my jeans was unbecoming and unladylike. Not to mention an overreaction.”
She takes the package from him, sticking it at the top of the pile. He reaches for the box, pulling it to him and closing the flaps. Blair hops up on the table, swinging her legs as she watches.
“They were good jeans, though. They had pink flowers embroidered on the pockets.”
He opens his mouth to reply, but closes it again when a group of freshmen arrive with a question for Blair. She slides off the table, placing her hand on his shoulder to steady herself.
And she’s walking away from him again, gesturing at the carefully labeled boxes, then counting something off on her fingers. Blair’s in her element now, taking charge of the situation, becoming a leader of a different sort.
He carries the box over to a pile of similar containers, each bearing a tag marked ‘pasta.’
“Oh, Chuck. I was going to come back and get it.”
She’s standing before him, half-bemused.
“It’s not a problem,” he says, almost offended, “I think I can handle it.”
“I’m not doubting your ability to lift the box, Bass,” she nods at his pants, “I was trying to spare you.”
His uniform trousers are streaked with dust, and he suddenly understands why she isn’t wearing one of usual ensembles.
She tags the box, carefully writing out each letter in block printing.
“Well,” she teases, “now that you’ve volunteered your time, would you like me to sign off for your credit? It might even negate a detention in the eyes of Harvard.”
“And Yale?”
“You would have to carry over two boxes.”
He smiles, and she smiles back. It’s a tentative understanding, and he wonders how much of it is real and how much of it depends on this casual world of deliberate charity.
She flips her hair over her shoulder, and his gaze runs down her body. Swallowing hard, he's reminded that--even untailored and unpinned--Blair Waldorf is a force to be reckoned with.