Gossip Girl Fic: new york’s finest
new york’s finest
She’s watching him, the memory of anniversaries and anthems of we were young still playing.
gossip girl. chuck. blair/chuck.
future fic; 544 words, pg.
for caitiedidit.
And in the end, the two of them are still seventeen once; but twice a year, he sits on the coffee table and she sits on the couch, knee to knee and a bottle of something expensive between them.
“What about Jack?”
His mouth curls to a snarl over scotch. “You’re only a pretty lightweight.”
But she’s watching him, the memory of anniversaries and anthems of we were young still playing, still winding, and lost to a night and a day, the best friend that he was waiting to lose as well is there, looming quietly. They’ve never told Nathan, although Chuck suspects something along the lines of him, his wide-eyed displeasure, and the suspension of loyalty; you have to understand, he used to practice, you had a good thing.
“You saw him again, didn’t you?”
Blair rolls her eyes, her shoulders, and the political reminder lingers as well. His parents. Her parents. His parents. Their parents. Age merely makes it cyclical and he long accepted the facts, the simple facts, and knew to survive, it was about advantage.
“Passing,” she murmurs, flicking a lock of hair away from her neck, “across the street - I skipped out on another party early and my mother’s convinced that I’m perpetuating her misery with a new bohemian boyfriend.”
She wears her amusement well - age too - but his fascination lies in the color of her coolness, the coy cruelty of the smile that she has. Often sad, often lonely, but Blair understands and he thinks, there, it’s what he wraps himself around.
The room’s a little colder this year, the bottle a little dry. She sighs, her skirt rising and slipping over her knees. He watches and there’s a soft laugh, her mouth catering to her amusement again.
“You think too much,” he mutters.
She reaches for the bottle, “I keep hanging out with you, Bass,” and her fingers wrap around the neck, her nails click against the glass. She frowns at the year and he shifts uncomfortably, slighting nervous energy without any reason.
So he just blurts something like we could and sex again, putting it together in his head instead of tossing it out and letting it slide. She makes him uncomfortable. He makes her uncomfortable. And it’s a continuous drive of years, waiting to surprise her - something, right, with something. He’s convinced she’s still better at this, but he’s the stronger liar.
Her gaze softens in passing, “We could,” she offers. “Except, you know, we’re not. And I’m not drunk. And you’re not drunk. And it’s all -”
“Relative,” he finishes. His mouth turns, “Prude.”
And maybe is her passing thought to him, her hand brushing his knee. There’s no exact commitment to this, each year, and they barely acknowledge each other within the circles that they move in. Older, wiser, and the jazz starts to seep, to hide a new cycle of mistakes and second guesses.
Her mouth turns again and they prefer layers to growing up, it seems. Maybe one day he’ll be drunk enough to say something, spreading the bouts of having balls. It makes the indulgence of missing the whirl of those years again.
“Should go,” she murmurs, turning to the clock.
He slips a half-smile. “Like always.”
-
She’s watching him, the memory of anniversaries and anthems of we were young still playing.
gossip girl. chuck. blair/chuck.
future fic; 544 words, pg.
for caitiedidit.
And in the end, the two of them are still seventeen once; but twice a year, he sits on the coffee table and she sits on the couch, knee to knee and a bottle of something expensive between them.
“What about Jack?”
His mouth curls to a snarl over scotch. “You’re only a pretty lightweight.”
But she’s watching him, the memory of anniversaries and anthems of we were young still playing, still winding, and lost to a night and a day, the best friend that he was waiting to lose as well is there, looming quietly. They’ve never told Nathan, although Chuck suspects something along the lines of him, his wide-eyed displeasure, and the suspension of loyalty; you have to understand, he used to practice, you had a good thing.
“You saw him again, didn’t you?”
Blair rolls her eyes, her shoulders, and the political reminder lingers as well. His parents. Her parents. His parents. Their parents. Age merely makes it cyclical and he long accepted the facts, the simple facts, and knew to survive, it was about advantage.
“Passing,” she murmurs, flicking a lock of hair away from her neck, “across the street - I skipped out on another party early and my mother’s convinced that I’m perpetuating her misery with a new bohemian boyfriend.”
She wears her amusement well - age too - but his fascination lies in the color of her coolness, the coy cruelty of the smile that she has. Often sad, often lonely, but Blair understands and he thinks, there, it’s what he wraps himself around.
The room’s a little colder this year, the bottle a little dry. She sighs, her skirt rising and slipping over her knees. He watches and there’s a soft laugh, her mouth catering to her amusement again.
“You think too much,” he mutters.
She reaches for the bottle, “I keep hanging out with you, Bass,” and her fingers wrap around the neck, her nails click against the glass. She frowns at the year and he shifts uncomfortably, slighting nervous energy without any reason.
So he just blurts something like we could and sex again, putting it together in his head instead of tossing it out and letting it slide. She makes him uncomfortable. He makes her uncomfortable. And it’s a continuous drive of years, waiting to surprise her - something, right, with something. He’s convinced she’s still better at this, but he’s the stronger liar.
Her gaze softens in passing, “We could,” she offers. “Except, you know, we’re not. And I’m not drunk. And you’re not drunk. And it’s all -”
“Relative,” he finishes. His mouth turns, “Prude.”
And maybe is her passing thought to him, her hand brushing his knee. There’s no exact commitment to this, each year, and they barely acknowledge each other within the circles that they move in. Older, wiser, and the jazz starts to seep, to hide a new cycle of mistakes and second guesses.
Her mouth turns again and they prefer layers to growing up, it seems. Maybe one day he’ll be drunk enough to say something, spreading the bouts of having balls. It makes the indulgence of missing the whirl of those years again.
“Should go,” she murmurs, turning to the clock.
He slips a half-smile. “Like always.”
-