fic: "girls and scrapbooks (the first autumn of 1/4th of the sisterhood)" [Blake/Leighton], part 2
Title: girls and scrapbooks (the first autumn of 1/4th of the sisterhood)
Author: fivewhatfive
Fandom: Gossip Girl RPF
Pairing: Blake/Leighton
Rating: R (maybe a hard R? I never know)
Summary: Blake thinks scrapbooks are suitable Christmas gifts. Shenanigans ensue.
It’s 1:12 am; something is glowing.
Penny doesn’t scamper away fast enough when Blake rolls over, blindly reaching towards the nightstand. She nearly smothers the teacup pooch in the process of retrieving her Blackberry.
There’s a text from Leighton.
‘Next time decaf for Leigh, yes?’
Blake smiles and rolls onto her back, typing: ‘Plus dinner with Blake?’
She presses ‘send’ and waits, immersed in darkness but the glow of her phone’s screen, which gradually dims with inactivity. Blake is on the verge of accepting it as a pitiful metaphor when the screen suddenly brightens again -- fine, still a metaphor - and signals the arrival of a new message.
‘Deal’
-
Blake gives the phone a highly skeptical look before pushing the call button again and ending a mildly frustrating conversation with clearly-never-took-an-order Sue.
On her way to the living room, frustration metamorphoses into a contented humming. Because even if there's an eighty percent chance their order will turn out wrong, Leighton still showed up at her door, wearing jeans and a long scarf that kind of clashes with her hoodie but is Leighton enough not to be Blair, which is the sort of thought that normally would've made Blake feel schizophrenic instead of relieved.
"Dinner will be here in fifteen," she announces before sinking into the couch.
Leighton frowns. "It's raining."
"That's what I told Sue," Blake replies and the edge in her tone reveals some of her frustration isn’t exactly gone.
Leighton sighs, sympathetic. "It's always a Sue."
"I know," Blake laughs and looks at the TV. She nearly does a double-take when she sees Leighton hasn't changed the channel during her absence. "Oh, look. The Food Network."
Blake spies the corners of Leighton's lips curl, right before she swiftly dodges the subject. "That's some efficient party planning we're not doing."
Blake nudges her playfully. "Stop making fun of my incredibly transparent attempts to redeem myself."
There are some things they haven't discussed yet -- namely the ones that involve lips touching -- but it feels like they could, if she wanted to. If she hadn't been wary of crossing another line and having them tread on eggshells for the rest of the week.
"You know, you don't have to throw a party for the cast," Leighton says, disrupting her reverie.
“I do, I want to make Vitamin Water feel sorry for themselves,” Blake argues. “And spend time with everyone, and be fun again,” she goes on, gesticulating at each new item.
Leighton turns her head, one cheek pressed against the backrest of the couch while her eyebrows rise dubiously. “It’s Saturday night and we’re watching the Food Network while takeout doesn't get here."
“Are you implying I’m not fun?”
“I was gonna say quirky.” Leighton smirks and turns her head back to the TV, resting both feet on the coffee table. It's then that she notices the scrapbook, buried under a pile of magazines. “This is still here?”
“Yeah.” Blake gazes at it and a fleeting thought almost makes her reach for it. “Maybe I should just finish it.”
Leighton murmurs something that could be an agreement or denial, reaching for the scrapbook herself. She thumbs haphazardly through the album, until she happens upon a dry leaf.
Blake sits upright, a bulk of explanations rising to her throat, which she ultimately swallows back down and settles for waiting.
She doesn't realize she's expecting Leighton to say something until she doesn’t.
Leighton softly closes the scrapbook and pushes it aside, onto the empty space on the couch, before sitting back herself and focusing on the TV set. Blake follows the example. She's the one who practically had to wrestle the remote away from Leighton in order to watch the Food Network, anyway.
She's not sure how much time has passed when the sound of rain softly pounding on the windows starts somehow filtering past the voices on TV. It makes her oddly sleepy, though Blake won't dare yawn and supply Leighton with legitimate reasons to change the channel.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees Leighton move. Blake steals a sideways glance, finding the brunette with a cushion on her lap and both hands on top of it. Leighton's head is slightly tilted - by now Blake supposes her sideways glance has crossed over into openly staring -- and there's a thoughtful look on her features that can't be Paula Deen's doing.
"I know you like big plans, and grandeur and pretty things," Leighton starts saying, seemingly aware of Blake's stare, "but this is never gonna work."
Blake is surprised she doesn't choke on her own saliva. Leighton turns before she can recompose, and some sort of understanding must pass between them, because then she is the one looking startled.
"The scrapbook," Leighton explains, wide-eyed, and then her smile is slow and indulgent. She doesn't say another word and just moves closer, resting her head against Blake's arm before turning back to the TV once again.
They learn how to make easy, under-fifteen-minutes bruschettas.
-
There is silence on Amber’s end of the line, then, "I think that's called stumbling into a relationship."
"Why am I still talking to you?"
-
The fifth incarnation of the idea is when Ed offers to end it.
Blake is standing behind the kitchen counter, sort of leaning in, her palms flat on black granite for support. Ed never stops toying with his lighter while she explains the rise and fall of the scrapbook. When he does stop, it's to offer the flicker of a tiny flame as a solution.
She only turns it down because she suspects he's drunk enough to set her entire apartment on fire, and she didn’t stay up deciding between multicolored or white Christmas lights to watch it go up in flames.
-
One time, when Blake was ten, Eric had decided they were mature enough for unsupervised gingerbread-making. The end result was their parents coming down to put their presents under the tree and finding the two of them covered in flour and gingerbread-y goo, because maturity and the ability to operate a mixer did not go hand-in-hand.
Blake is twenty one, now, and Chace Crawford has a wardrobe malfunction involving tomato and olive oil.
It's barely a week into December, but as far as she's concerned, this is Christmas.
Blake claims her usual spot behind her black granite fortress, stepping back from hostess duties to just observe everyone interacting. It doesn’t take much before her eyes find Leighton, mingling with her on-screen minions. She's traded jeans, hoodies and headbands for a fitting black dress, smiling as she listens to the other girls talk. Her smile stretches, like she's going to start laughing, and Blake finds herself anticipating the sound even though they're across the room.
When Leighton does laugh, she's transitioned from standing to being perched upon the couch's armrest. Blake has given up any pretense of sharing her watchful gaze with other guests.
This feels nothing like the tension-free air of last Saturday. There's a different sort of anticipation, a knot in Blake's chest waiting to unravel. It only tightens when Leighton bends to scratch at her ankle, where the leather strap of her shoe is fastened.
Blake wets her lips and glances at the empty glass on the counter. She's not even close to being buzzed. Inebriation is so not her bail-out card.
It's a good thing the glass is empty and not in her grasp when she looks back up, otherwise Chace wouldn't be the only one with a klutzy wardrobe malfunction.
"Hey," Leighton says brightly, having somehow materialized on the other side of the counter. "You made bruschettas."
"I made them," Blake says and nearly cringes afterwards. She imagines she's said smarter things that weren't instant conversation-killers. "It seemed appropriate," she amends.
Leighton nods. “Everyone seems to be having fun," she says, casually.
"I hope so."
Silence greets them both, though Blake is surprised neither looks away. There's something in Leighton's eyes she can't quite place, and before she kids herself into trying, Leighton starts laughing.
“Fuck, I invited an elephant to the party.”
“I’m assuming it’ll leave at some point,” Blake says on a light note, then grins. “I don’t want Ed getting frisky with it.”
"It will. I just need to sort things out," Leighton tells her, for once letting a joke pass. "You really didn't have to do this," she says again and gestures around the room, “the party. You don't have to prove anything to me."
"Sure I do," Blake says and feels the ease of Saturday night slowly bloom. "I proved I can be fun."
Leighton drums her fingers on the counter and gives a small smile. "You did," she says and looks oddly contemplative. "Consider yourself redeemed."
Blake breathes an exaggerated sight of relief, touching the back of her hand to her forehead. Leighton laughs at her display of overdramatic skills, then quickly sobers again.
"I can stay and help clean up, if you want."
Blake smiles earnestly. "I'd love it."
-
Throughout the course of the party, Blake learns many things: mistletoe is poisonous -- Leighton tells her, conveniently; Penn's new girl is named Rachel; Taylor smokes; and Chace really, really likes her cooking.
When she's sitting down with Jessica on one side, inquiring about everything and nothing, while Ed sits slumped against the other, drunkenly proclaiming this "the best fucking party ever" and insisting Blake should cook "every fucking year", she does feel redeemed.
-
“D’yknow what I’ve always wondered?”
Blake looks down at the napkin in front of her before answering, “How you can still spell after a bottle of tequila?”
Maybe it's because Blake doesn't go out nearly enough, but it doesn't seem logical that by the time every guest has left and playing hangman on a napkin sounds like a superb idea, Team José Meester Cuervo still scores a 'conscientious'.
“I’m a writer,” Leighton says, by way of explanation. “I write.”
She's entirely serious as she says it, too. Blake covers her mouth, trying to stifle laughter. “Oh my god, you are so gone.”
“Whatever,” Leighton says and reaches across the table, sliding the napkin away from Blake and close to herself. "My turn."
There are words and little stick figures scrawled on most of the white surface, so Leighton flips over the napkin and starts drawing dashes on the other side.
Blake watches quietly from across the table and brings one hand up to hide a smile. Leighton's handwriting is still perfectly readable, but her dashes turn out hilariously irregular.
“Sorry I snapped,” Leighton says, the subject unexpected but her tone genuinely calm.
“It’s okay. I was out of place.” Blake lets her arm down, dropping any pretense of hiding a new, wider smile. “This is an ironic conversation we’re having.”
“I know,” Leighton laughs, though still concentrating on the napkin. “At least the elephant left.”
For a minute, Blake thinks it’s more drunk talk, but then it clicks. “Right. You kissed me.”
“I did.”
“I’m okay with that.”
“Goody," Leighton says, and their exchange has been amusingly quick and somewhat effortless, until she adds, quietly, “'Cause I really don't do complicated.”
Leighton is back to bright in a split-second, but Blake catches the caution in her tone. She nods, almost imperceptibly.
"Here," Leighton then says and slides the napkin back across the table. "Figure it out,” she dares, slapping her hand over the napkin.
“Theme?”
“Reasons Leighton gets mad at Blake for thinking bad things about her,” Leighton says and props one elbow on the table, burying her fist into her cheek. “Not sure if I counted right.”
Blake rolls her eyes as she holds up the napkin and starts counting herself. “Three words, eight letters.”
Oh.
-
The sixth incarnation of the idea is a pillow.
Blake walks back to the sitting room, en-route to the kitchen with empty bottles and plastic cups sticking out of her hands. It occurs to her that the room doesn’t look any cleaner than when she went trash hunting in the rest of the apartment, then she glances at the couch and understands why.
Leighton’s body is draped over the seat, one arm fallen over to the side and touching the floor, the other hugging the cushion where she’s laid her head. Underneath the cushion is a hint of the scrapbook, which Blake imagines Leighton used to achieve the optimal height for a peaceful drooling.
She sets bottles and cups down on an already crowded coffee table and sits on the very edge of the seat, the only space Leighton has left vacant. On cue, the brunette stirs, and a lock of hair slips in front of her eyes.
Blake pushes it back behind her ear, musing that, possibly, she’d been so used to things coming to her - spoiled, petty, whatever - that it never registered she might’ve been looking for this. And when Leighton mumbles obscenities over a mouthful of cushion, scorning whomever in dream, Blake smiles and strokes the back of her neck. She never thought she’d find it in her foulmouthed, pint-sized co-star, either.
-
“Oh, fuck you,” Amber says the minute she turns around.
Blake halts on the sidewalk, doing her best impression of startled animal. “I just got here.”
“First you have that I-have-a-job glow, now this I’m-newly-in-love one,” Amber says, shaking her head as she pushes through the door of the restaurant. “Jeez, have a meltdown, already.”
Blake just trails along, laughing.
-
"Your dog is asleep on a pair of Louboutins," Blake informs, before lowering herself down to the rug.
Leighton doesn't look up from her notebook. "That's Jack," she says, unaffected. "If it looks uncomfortable, he's game."
Blake chuckles and settles against the couch, peering over Leighton's arm. She's been writing a lot -- poems, songs and stories -- just never on the couch or any sensible place. Blake just watches.
It occurs to her a minute later that maybe she's being rude. Blake starts to scoot back, but Leighton lays a hand on her thigh, the gesture encompassing simplicity, affection and reassurance all at once.
There's maybe a fourth option the gesture hints at.
Blake keeps watching her write, oddly more attentive to Leighton's loopy cursive than the words themselves. Sometimes Leighton will tilt her head, deep in thought, and her hair will slide over her shoulder and smell a light touch of floral.
It's definitely nice, just watching Leighton write, even if it'll occasionally remind Blake that there's a script in her bedroom, waiting to be read.
"Want me to get you the remote?" Leighton asks after a moment. Blake's reply is a shrug -- she'll be entertained either way -- but Leighton puts the pen down, anyway. She uses the hand on Blake's thigh for leverage and lifts herself up, reaching for the remote sitting on the couch.
Blake sees the pen begin to roll off her notebook before Leighton even sits back down. She even means to say something, really -- really -- but the unexpected pressure on her thigh is awfully distracting. Once Leighton sits down it's only to move back up, expletives falling out of full lips as the pen rolls under the couch.
Blake bites her lip. "You're gonna traumatize my dog."
"Fuck your dog," Leighton says and proceeds to curse every generation of maltepoos ever bred, while bending and squirming and trying to retrieve her pen from under the couch. She gives up when it's clear her arms won't reach it.
Leighton kneels back up and tugs at the shirt that's ridden up during her unsuccessful quest. Blake also meant to tell her that. Really. But then Leighton looks at her, with strands of hair falling in front of her eyes and her glasses askew, parting her lips like she's going to say something, and Blake doesn't want to say she lunges, but it's more or less what she does.
She's kissing Leighton before the brunette is even done sitting back down; kissing with ardor she never thought could burn under her skin. Blake slides one hand through dark tresses and realizes Leighton may just have conditioned her, after all, since she's suddenly afraid they'll pull apart and Leighton will be upset all over again.
It's a passing thought, however, once she feels Leighton's fingers dig into her back, trapping the fabric of her top between svelte fingers as she pulls their bodies closer. Leighton tilts her head and kisses back slowly, deliberate in tasting, until she's tamed the fury of Blake's lips.
Blake rests her hand on the curve of Leighton's hip and relinquishes control, lets Leighton draw her in and turn languid kisses into passionate at her own will. The frame of her glasses poses as an obstacle whenever Blake leans in too enthusiastically, so Leighton pulls away just enough to speak.
"Take it off," she says breathlessly.
Blake tries to conjure a proper response. Leighton's words and the subsequent heat between her legs disarm her to a point where she can only widen her eyes.
Leighton sees this and arches one eyebrow, then brings her hand up and removes the glasses herself.
"Oh," Blake says, watching Leighton toss her glasses on the couch. She's pretty sure her cheeks have turned an embarrassed pink, even more so when Leighton smiles knowingly.
"It's okay," she says, stroking Blake's arm, then her brow creases and her hand stills over Blake's bicep. "It is okay, right?"
Blake isn't sure how she manages to smile through the acrobatics in her stomach, but she does. "I don't know. You kissed me first."
Leighton gives her the most incredulous of looks. "That's very mature."
"Not my fault you people keep babying me," Blake replies and finds confidence again, pressing her lips firmly against Leighton's before she has a chance to engage in bickering.
Leighton kisses back with noticeable less patience than before. It's nothing like the brief kiss in their trailer or the shier kisses they'd stolen since the party. Leighton kisses her like a line is being crossed, like those three words on paper enacted, like this is where they've stopped being friends to be something more. Blake thinks she doesn't remember when that moment was with Penn, ultimately decides it was never there.
The rush of realization and Leighton makes her feel lightheaded, makes her feel like she is falling. And then Blake notices she is falling, Leighton's hands firm on her chest as she pushes her down on the rug.
"Leighton." Blake breaks their kiss briefly, but Leighton won't let her. She inches near as Blake pulls back, traps Blake's bottom lip between small teeth and coaxes her into another kiss.
Leighton's weight presses down on Blake's thighs and Blake fears she might actually burn with need, so she pushes more meaningfully at the brunette's shoulders and tries again. "Leighton."
Leighton moves back and hovers above her, tips of dark hair maintaining contact with Blake's shoulders. "Yeah?"
Blake opens her mouth, but quiets at the sight of Leighton's lips, bruised from kissing. She gently traces her bottom lip with one finger, and then meets Leighton's eyes, desire speaking through them.
"Take it off."
The funny thing is she distinctly remembers a "let's take it slow" type of conversation.
Leighton exhales, as if the request itself has sucked the air out of her lungs. It takes a moment, but she snaps back to action and her deft fingers begin working on undressing both of them. Her hands skim over Blake's body in such a rush, Blake genuinely wonders how long she must've wanted to do this.
Leighton's hands only slow down once she's successfully stripped down to her underwear and left Blake in only her jeans. She straddles one of Blake's thighs and there's nothing Blake wants to do more than touch, but as her hands move to do just so, Leighton finds them halfway and pins them above her head.
Leighton lays a tortuously chaste kiss on her lips. "We should hang out on your rug more often," she observes innocently and her hands abandon Blake's to slide down to her chest, palming her breasts.
Blake whimpers and arches into the touch, feeling Leighton's hips grind against her thigh, and the contact can't possibly enough, but Leighton's smile is one of satisfaction. A whiff of her shampoo tickles Blake's nostrils again when she bends, kissing softly between Blake's breasts.
She kisses a wet trail over to a stiff nipple, teasing it with her tongue until Blake is reduced to incoherence and writhing. She'll counter every insubordinate surge of Blake's body with a thrust of her hips, the scrape of teeth on insufferably sensitive nipples.
Blake regains coordination along with her speech ability, gripping Leighton's back before breathing a "God, Leighton," past her lips.
"I prefer Heavenly American," Leighton says, undoes buttons and zippers with the ease of another joke. It takes a few purposeful tugs and then Blake is bare under her appreciative gaze, their clothes discarded somewhere in the room, maybe as distant as the memory of Leighton asking for a pen while they did the dishes.
Blake can feel the flush of Leighton's cheeks beneath her palms when she cups her face and brings her in for a kiss. They are still kissing when Leighton's hand trails down her body to steal between her legs and slide over slippery flesh, searching.
When the tips of her fingers find what they seek, Blake isn't afraid she'll burn -- she feels it; heating between her legs as Leighton's fingers swirl over her clit and she whispers in her ear. Blake can't make sense of the words, can only moan and buck and beg, so Leighton's mouth finds her neck and speaks in the only language she can still comprehend.
Leighton's fingers wander further down, dip inside, stroke and slip out, pump back in with maddening rhythm. And when Leighton slides down and her mouth is finally on Blake, licking and probing where she needs, Blake can barely comprehend anything other than the rush of desire between her legs, grasping locks of brown hair as her hips jerk and she screams her release.
Maybe it was a “let’s go with the flow” type of conversation.
-
Someone is knocking on her door.
Blake rubs the sleep off her eyes and grabs the doorknob, pausing before turning it. There are several cons to opening the door -- she never really buzzed anyone in, this is a miraculous day off and her hair is probably all over the place, to name a few - but the voice talking on the other side sounds familiar, so she opens it anyway.
And then immediately regrets it.
"It's Team Amberica!" Amber announces brightly, sounding like coffee with an extra shot of caffeine.
Blake leans into the doorframe and rubs her eyes again. "Hey."
"Oh, you just woke up," America says in a regretful tone that quickly turns apologetic. "I got your message that other day and Amber said…"
"Paparazzi just took some fabulous shots of us buying, like, windows," Amber cuts in. "And then America needed to pee."
"I still do," America says sheepishly. "May I use your bathroom? I'm so sorry to drop in like this."
"Sure," Blake says and steps back, clearing the path in wordless invitation. Both girls are familiar with the apartment, so she doesn't really need to give directions as much as wait for America to disappear into the hallway, thus securing no witnesses to Amber's imminent murder.
Amber grins like she's not about to die. "Tell me everything," she whispers.
Blake opens her mouth with every intention to scold her, which is when she remembers there's somebody else in the bathroom and entirely different words slip out of her mouth.
“Oh, nonono.”
-
She really has known Penn since forever.
Either that or Blake knows him well enough to recognize this frown he does, not quite confused, not quite upset, but just wondering. Watching the scowl on Blake's face and their awkward interaction in the fictitious courtyard of Constance Billard’s, he's frowned at least twice, now.
Surprisingly, it's Leighton who speaks. “America saw me naked,” she says, blunt enough to surprise even Blake. And once the shock wears off, Blake entertains the thought of also knowing Leighton well enough to suspect there are hidden purposes in her statement.
Penn hears the unspoken and obediently falls silent. It's not too long after that, when Leighton walks off to chat with the other girls, that he leans closer to Blake and she recognizes mirth in his eyes.
"America?" he begins, and she looks at him like he can't possibly be about to recycle the joke. "As in the whole coun-”
Blake holds up a sharp pencil.
-
A soft breeze blows in and licks her calves, the skin bare where the covers have been lazily thrown. Blake draws one leg up and closer to the rest of her body; soft breeze as it may be, it's still chilly.
Part of herself demands to get up and slide the window the rest of the way shut, but it's an insignificant part compared to the rest, which has decided that extricating herself from Leighton's embrace is presently not an option.
So Blake reaches down and just tugs at the covers -- half-heartedly, she already suspects they won't give in. They're trapped where their legs entwine, little dashes of deep navy against tan and porcelain skin.
Upwards the covers surge with more purpose, covering mostly Leighton -- the hogger -- but where cotton is absent, Blake has body heat. Leighton is curled up beside her, molded to her side like it's only natural, like they just fit.
Leighton is lying on her side, slightly higher than where Blake rests on her back, and she's got one arm draped over Blake's midsection, comfortable in its familiarity. Sometimes she'll stir and tighten her hold, and Blake will feel tempted to kiss her, will feel like the smaller one, for once.
This is their last week of shooting, a reminder that Christmas will soon call for them to part ways. They've spent the day mostly in bed, practicing variations on that theme.
The TV is on mute, and with nightfall comes such delicate quietness, Blake doesn't have to look up to know Leighton is well on her way to falling asleep. She flips through channels with little interest, paying more attention to the rhythmic press of Leighton's chest against her side whenever she breathes in. It's perfect.
That is, until they hear Blake’s neighbor using the microwave and the soft press of Leighton's chest comes more sporadically as she starts laughing.
"Someone likes late night popcorn," Leighton says.
"You should see when he dances," Blake jokes and brings one hand up, trailing the tips of her fingers across the arm thrown over herself, caressing soft skin and fine hairs alike.
"I know the scrapbook is out," she then says, "but you still haven't told me what you want for Christmas."
"A pony," Leighton replies with a laugh. She sobers quickly, offering a more heartfelt request. "My family and no cameras."
"A plane ticket, then."
"First class, I like my comfort."
Blake sneaks a glance at the covers Leighton's stolen mostly for herself. "I can see that."
"Speaking of," Leighton says and shifts slightly on the mattress, then gives the covers a forceful yank, freeing them of their entrapment between their bodies. "I'm starting to freeze."
"Whose idea was it to leave the window open, again?"
Leighton is only mildly defensive as she says, "I like ventilation." She pulls the covers further over themselves and resumes her previous position, throwing one arm over Blake and hugging tighter. Blake feels a kiss on top of her head before Leighton mutters her goodnights.
"Want me to turn off the TV?"
Leighton speaks practically into her hair. "S'okay," she says sleepily, then sighs heavily.
Blake looks back to the TV set. "I wish we'd done 30 Rock."
-
The thing about the implicit is she constantly forgets they're together.
Not because of exceptional secrecy or because she thinks of Leighton any less, but because she's always thought of "being together" as the start of something new, when so much of this is just so familiar. So much of it feels like it had always been there.
Sometimes they'll be on location, rehearsing or waiting for paparazzi to spontaneously combust, and Blake will just hold out her arms. Leighton will step in without a word, basking in the moment until the eventual teasing commenced.
Sometimes they'll be in the middle of take three and Leighton will hold her hand throughout a scene that never asked for such intimacy, and it'll just work.
Sometimes they'll walk by the crafts services tent and Leighton will demand Blake close her eyes, then feed her sweets and dare her to guess them on taste alone.
And sometimes they'll be in their trailer at some ungodly hour, when Blake will suddenly dip her head and kiss Leighton squarely on the mouth. At Leighton's bewildered look, she'll offer a smile and half-shrug. "You yawned."
Okay, maybe that much has changed.
Blake concludes this over a glass of wine she will admit to taking, lounging on the couch while her free hand busily texts Chace about dog food. It's still a mystery how they got to that subject in the first place.
Penny is her sole companion for the night, but she feels far from lonely, isolated. As Blake moves to retrieve the remote control on the coffee table, her eyes flicker over to the scrapbook and she thinks of all the memories it has gathered outside its pages; realizes it’s served its purpose, after all.
And this is the last incarnation of the idea.
-
“See, we did it!”
Blake just holds up her thumbs in a positive sign, smiling through a curtain of blonde hair that won't stop madly whipping around. The wind is graceful enough to give her a thirty seconds truce shortly after that, so her hair interrupts its dance to just fall messily in front of her face.
Leighton starts laughing, loud enough to be a tourist attraction of her own among the moderate crowd gathered on the observation deck, drinking the view from the top of 30 Rockefeller.
Blake finally gets her hair under control, twisting it around her hand and pulling it over her shoulder. "I'm glad you enjoy my torment," she says and glances at Leighton's own hair, harboring diabolical plans to free it from its loose ponytail in retaliation.
“I said we’d do 30 Rock, I didn’t say we’d do it in style,” Leighton replies and sticks out her tongue.
Q hangs back, ensuring their privacy, and when he shakes his head Blake is not sure if it’s at their silliness or overly curious tourists. Still, it’s late and cold enough that it doesn't feel as crowded up there.
Leighton steps closer to the metal railing, staring quietly at the city unfolding seventy floors below. Her serenity is suddenly disturbed by an unexpected bark of laughter.
Blake buries both hands into the pockets of her coat and eyes her curiously.
"I just realized we came all the way to Rockefeller Center, but 30 Rock shoots at Silvercup, too,” Leighton says.
Blake shakes her head, pursing her lips in contempt. "Blondes."
It's hardly the funniest thing she has ever said, but then again, Leighton is hardly the most difficult person to amuse. They're still laughing when Q all but sneaks up on Leighton, looking strangely triumphant.
"About that," he says, surreptitiously, "what was it someone said about hot blonde dates, again?"
Leighton steps back, and in her outrage she's torn between laughter and ineffectively punching his arm through layers of clothing. She ends up doing both, while Blake watches incredulously, twice as much when Q wanders off cackling.
Blake frowns. "Are you sure he wasn't hired to make fun of you?" she asks, then brings a hand up to her own chest and gasps. "Were you hired to make fun of me?"
"Hmm," Leighton's eyes are distant as she pretends to ponder, then looks back at Blake. "Nope. I do it free of charge."
"How charitable of you."
Leighton sneaks one arm under Blake's, wrapping it around her back. "If it helps, you're my favorite charity," she says and pulls them closer, leaning into Blake's side.
Blake lets her off with a smirk, and it's not that she's easy, just compliant.
"Merry Christmas," Leighton mutters.
“It’s not Christmas for another week,” Blake says cheekily. Leighton's knee digs vindictively into her leg and Blake instantly reaches inside her own coat, pulling out a plane ticket.
“Merry Christmas,” she says and pokes Leighton's nose with the ticket, right before the brunette snatches it away.
“Romantic,” Leighton comments jokingly.
“Very.”
They aim for sarcasm, but when Leighton settles against her side again and Blake turns to appreciate the view, it kind of is a bit romantic. The New York skyline ranges from an outburst of bright lights - cars, buildings, street lights and Christmas decorations - to the softer, less visually abusive specks of white on darkening hues of blue.
Blake slips one hand under Leighton's trench and lets it rest over the curve of her lower back, rubbing it softly in soothing motions.
“Does it feel complicated?” Blake asks quietly.
Leighton shakes her head. Another gust of wind blows in when she stands on her toes and presses a discreet kiss to Blake's mouth, kissing lips and hair alike.
"It feels right," she says, tucking her head back against Blake's shoulder. Blake feels it when she inhales deeply and sighs, leaning further into her side. It does.
Author: fivewhatfive
Fandom: Gossip Girl RPF
Pairing: Blake/Leighton
Rating: R (maybe a hard R? I never know)
Summary: Blake thinks scrapbooks are suitable Christmas gifts. Shenanigans ensue.
It’s 1:12 am; something is glowing.
Penny doesn’t scamper away fast enough when Blake rolls over, blindly reaching towards the nightstand. She nearly smothers the teacup pooch in the process of retrieving her Blackberry.
There’s a text from Leighton.
‘Next time decaf for Leigh, yes?’
Blake smiles and rolls onto her back, typing: ‘Plus dinner with Blake?’
She presses ‘send’ and waits, immersed in darkness but the glow of her phone’s screen, which gradually dims with inactivity. Blake is on the verge of accepting it as a pitiful metaphor when the screen suddenly brightens again -- fine, still a metaphor - and signals the arrival of a new message.
‘Deal’
-
Blake gives the phone a highly skeptical look before pushing the call button again and ending a mildly frustrating conversation with clearly-never-took-an-order Sue.
On her way to the living room, frustration metamorphoses into a contented humming. Because even if there's an eighty percent chance their order will turn out wrong, Leighton still showed up at her door, wearing jeans and a long scarf that kind of clashes with her hoodie but is Leighton enough not to be Blair, which is the sort of thought that normally would've made Blake feel schizophrenic instead of relieved.
"Dinner will be here in fifteen," she announces before sinking into the couch.
Leighton frowns. "It's raining."
"That's what I told Sue," Blake replies and the edge in her tone reveals some of her frustration isn’t exactly gone.
Leighton sighs, sympathetic. "It's always a Sue."
"I know," Blake laughs and looks at the TV. She nearly does a double-take when she sees Leighton hasn't changed the channel during her absence. "Oh, look. The Food Network."
Blake spies the corners of Leighton's lips curl, right before she swiftly dodges the subject. "That's some efficient party planning we're not doing."
Blake nudges her playfully. "Stop making fun of my incredibly transparent attempts to redeem myself."
There are some things they haven't discussed yet -- namely the ones that involve lips touching -- but it feels like they could, if she wanted to. If she hadn't been wary of crossing another line and having them tread on eggshells for the rest of the week.
"You know, you don't have to throw a party for the cast," Leighton says, disrupting her reverie.
“I do, I want to make Vitamin Water feel sorry for themselves,” Blake argues. “And spend time with everyone, and be fun again,” she goes on, gesticulating at each new item.
Leighton turns her head, one cheek pressed against the backrest of the couch while her eyebrows rise dubiously. “It’s Saturday night and we’re watching the Food Network while takeout doesn't get here."
“Are you implying I’m not fun?”
“I was gonna say quirky.” Leighton smirks and turns her head back to the TV, resting both feet on the coffee table. It's then that she notices the scrapbook, buried under a pile of magazines. “This is still here?”
“Yeah.” Blake gazes at it and a fleeting thought almost makes her reach for it. “Maybe I should just finish it.”
Leighton murmurs something that could be an agreement or denial, reaching for the scrapbook herself. She thumbs haphazardly through the album, until she happens upon a dry leaf.
Blake sits upright, a bulk of explanations rising to her throat, which she ultimately swallows back down and settles for waiting.
She doesn't realize she's expecting Leighton to say something until she doesn’t.
Leighton softly closes the scrapbook and pushes it aside, onto the empty space on the couch, before sitting back herself and focusing on the TV set. Blake follows the example. She's the one who practically had to wrestle the remote away from Leighton in order to watch the Food Network, anyway.
She's not sure how much time has passed when the sound of rain softly pounding on the windows starts somehow filtering past the voices on TV. It makes her oddly sleepy, though Blake won't dare yawn and supply Leighton with legitimate reasons to change the channel.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees Leighton move. Blake steals a sideways glance, finding the brunette with a cushion on her lap and both hands on top of it. Leighton's head is slightly tilted - by now Blake supposes her sideways glance has crossed over into openly staring -- and there's a thoughtful look on her features that can't be Paula Deen's doing.
"I know you like big plans, and grandeur and pretty things," Leighton starts saying, seemingly aware of Blake's stare, "but this is never gonna work."
Blake is surprised she doesn't choke on her own saliva. Leighton turns before she can recompose, and some sort of understanding must pass between them, because then she is the one looking startled.
"The scrapbook," Leighton explains, wide-eyed, and then her smile is slow and indulgent. She doesn't say another word and just moves closer, resting her head against Blake's arm before turning back to the TV once again.
They learn how to make easy, under-fifteen-minutes bruschettas.
-
There is silence on Amber’s end of the line, then, "I think that's called stumbling into a relationship."
"Why am I still talking to you?"
-
The fifth incarnation of the idea is when Ed offers to end it.
Blake is standing behind the kitchen counter, sort of leaning in, her palms flat on black granite for support. Ed never stops toying with his lighter while she explains the rise and fall of the scrapbook. When he does stop, it's to offer the flicker of a tiny flame as a solution.
She only turns it down because she suspects he's drunk enough to set her entire apartment on fire, and she didn’t stay up deciding between multicolored or white Christmas lights to watch it go up in flames.
-
One time, when Blake was ten, Eric had decided they were mature enough for unsupervised gingerbread-making. The end result was their parents coming down to put their presents under the tree and finding the two of them covered in flour and gingerbread-y goo, because maturity and the ability to operate a mixer did not go hand-in-hand.
Blake is twenty one, now, and Chace Crawford has a wardrobe malfunction involving tomato and olive oil.
It's barely a week into December, but as far as she's concerned, this is Christmas.
Blake claims her usual spot behind her black granite fortress, stepping back from hostess duties to just observe everyone interacting. It doesn’t take much before her eyes find Leighton, mingling with her on-screen minions. She's traded jeans, hoodies and headbands for a fitting black dress, smiling as she listens to the other girls talk. Her smile stretches, like she's going to start laughing, and Blake finds herself anticipating the sound even though they're across the room.
When Leighton does laugh, she's transitioned from standing to being perched upon the couch's armrest. Blake has given up any pretense of sharing her watchful gaze with other guests.
This feels nothing like the tension-free air of last Saturday. There's a different sort of anticipation, a knot in Blake's chest waiting to unravel. It only tightens when Leighton bends to scratch at her ankle, where the leather strap of her shoe is fastened.
Blake wets her lips and glances at the empty glass on the counter. She's not even close to being buzzed. Inebriation is so not her bail-out card.
It's a good thing the glass is empty and not in her grasp when she looks back up, otherwise Chace wouldn't be the only one with a klutzy wardrobe malfunction.
"Hey," Leighton says brightly, having somehow materialized on the other side of the counter. "You made bruschettas."
"I made them," Blake says and nearly cringes afterwards. She imagines she's said smarter things that weren't instant conversation-killers. "It seemed appropriate," she amends.
Leighton nods. “Everyone seems to be having fun," she says, casually.
"I hope so."
Silence greets them both, though Blake is surprised neither looks away. There's something in Leighton's eyes she can't quite place, and before she kids herself into trying, Leighton starts laughing.
“Fuck, I invited an elephant to the party.”
“I’m assuming it’ll leave at some point,” Blake says on a light note, then grins. “I don’t want Ed getting frisky with it.”
"It will. I just need to sort things out," Leighton tells her, for once letting a joke pass. "You really didn't have to do this," she says again and gestures around the room, “the party. You don't have to prove anything to me."
"Sure I do," Blake says and feels the ease of Saturday night slowly bloom. "I proved I can be fun."
Leighton drums her fingers on the counter and gives a small smile. "You did," she says and looks oddly contemplative. "Consider yourself redeemed."
Blake breathes an exaggerated sight of relief, touching the back of her hand to her forehead. Leighton laughs at her display of overdramatic skills, then quickly sobers again.
"I can stay and help clean up, if you want."
Blake smiles earnestly. "I'd love it."
-
Throughout the course of the party, Blake learns many things: mistletoe is poisonous -- Leighton tells her, conveniently; Penn's new girl is named Rachel; Taylor smokes; and Chace really, really likes her cooking.
When she's sitting down with Jessica on one side, inquiring about everything and nothing, while Ed sits slumped against the other, drunkenly proclaiming this "the best fucking party ever" and insisting Blake should cook "every fucking year", she does feel redeemed.
-
“D’yknow what I’ve always wondered?”
Blake looks down at the napkin in front of her before answering, “How you can still spell after a bottle of tequila?”
Maybe it's because Blake doesn't go out nearly enough, but it doesn't seem logical that by the time every guest has left and playing hangman on a napkin sounds like a superb idea, Team José Meester Cuervo still scores a 'conscientious'.
“I’m a writer,” Leighton says, by way of explanation. “I write.”
She's entirely serious as she says it, too. Blake covers her mouth, trying to stifle laughter. “Oh my god, you are so gone.”
“Whatever,” Leighton says and reaches across the table, sliding the napkin away from Blake and close to herself. "My turn."
There are words and little stick figures scrawled on most of the white surface, so Leighton flips over the napkin and starts drawing dashes on the other side.
Blake watches quietly from across the table and brings one hand up to hide a smile. Leighton's handwriting is still perfectly readable, but her dashes turn out hilariously irregular.
“Sorry I snapped,” Leighton says, the subject unexpected but her tone genuinely calm.
“It’s okay. I was out of place.” Blake lets her arm down, dropping any pretense of hiding a new, wider smile. “This is an ironic conversation we’re having.”
“I know,” Leighton laughs, though still concentrating on the napkin. “At least the elephant left.”
For a minute, Blake thinks it’s more drunk talk, but then it clicks. “Right. You kissed me.”
“I did.”
“I’m okay with that.”
“Goody," Leighton says, and their exchange has been amusingly quick and somewhat effortless, until she adds, quietly, “'Cause I really don't do complicated.”
Leighton is back to bright in a split-second, but Blake catches the caution in her tone. She nods, almost imperceptibly.
"Here," Leighton then says and slides the napkin back across the table. "Figure it out,” she dares, slapping her hand over the napkin.
“Theme?”
“Reasons Leighton gets mad at Blake for thinking bad things about her,” Leighton says and props one elbow on the table, burying her fist into her cheek. “Not sure if I counted right.”
Blake rolls her eyes as she holds up the napkin and starts counting herself. “Three words, eight letters.”
Oh.
-
The sixth incarnation of the idea is a pillow.
Blake walks back to the sitting room, en-route to the kitchen with empty bottles and plastic cups sticking out of her hands. It occurs to her that the room doesn’t look any cleaner than when she went trash hunting in the rest of the apartment, then she glances at the couch and understands why.
Leighton’s body is draped over the seat, one arm fallen over to the side and touching the floor, the other hugging the cushion where she’s laid her head. Underneath the cushion is a hint of the scrapbook, which Blake imagines Leighton used to achieve the optimal height for a peaceful drooling.
She sets bottles and cups down on an already crowded coffee table and sits on the very edge of the seat, the only space Leighton has left vacant. On cue, the brunette stirs, and a lock of hair slips in front of her eyes.
Blake pushes it back behind her ear, musing that, possibly, she’d been so used to things coming to her - spoiled, petty, whatever - that it never registered she might’ve been looking for this. And when Leighton mumbles obscenities over a mouthful of cushion, scorning whomever in dream, Blake smiles and strokes the back of her neck. She never thought she’d find it in her foulmouthed, pint-sized co-star, either.
-
“Oh, fuck you,” Amber says the minute she turns around.
Blake halts on the sidewalk, doing her best impression of startled animal. “I just got here.”
“First you have that I-have-a-job glow, now this I’m-newly-in-love one,” Amber says, shaking her head as she pushes through the door of the restaurant. “Jeez, have a meltdown, already.”
Blake just trails along, laughing.
-
"Your dog is asleep on a pair of Louboutins," Blake informs, before lowering herself down to the rug.
Leighton doesn't look up from her notebook. "That's Jack," she says, unaffected. "If it looks uncomfortable, he's game."
Blake chuckles and settles against the couch, peering over Leighton's arm. She's been writing a lot -- poems, songs and stories -- just never on the couch or any sensible place. Blake just watches.
It occurs to her a minute later that maybe she's being rude. Blake starts to scoot back, but Leighton lays a hand on her thigh, the gesture encompassing simplicity, affection and reassurance all at once.
There's maybe a fourth option the gesture hints at.
Blake keeps watching her write, oddly more attentive to Leighton's loopy cursive than the words themselves. Sometimes Leighton will tilt her head, deep in thought, and her hair will slide over her shoulder and smell a light touch of floral.
It's definitely nice, just watching Leighton write, even if it'll occasionally remind Blake that there's a script in her bedroom, waiting to be read.
"Want me to get you the remote?" Leighton asks after a moment. Blake's reply is a shrug -- she'll be entertained either way -- but Leighton puts the pen down, anyway. She uses the hand on Blake's thigh for leverage and lifts herself up, reaching for the remote sitting on the couch.
Blake sees the pen begin to roll off her notebook before Leighton even sits back down. She even means to say something, really -- really -- but the unexpected pressure on her thigh is awfully distracting. Once Leighton sits down it's only to move back up, expletives falling out of full lips as the pen rolls under the couch.
Blake bites her lip. "You're gonna traumatize my dog."
"Fuck your dog," Leighton says and proceeds to curse every generation of maltepoos ever bred, while bending and squirming and trying to retrieve her pen from under the couch. She gives up when it's clear her arms won't reach it.
Leighton kneels back up and tugs at the shirt that's ridden up during her unsuccessful quest. Blake also meant to tell her that. Really. But then Leighton looks at her, with strands of hair falling in front of her eyes and her glasses askew, parting her lips like she's going to say something, and Blake doesn't want to say she lunges, but it's more or less what she does.
She's kissing Leighton before the brunette is even done sitting back down; kissing with ardor she never thought could burn under her skin. Blake slides one hand through dark tresses and realizes Leighton may just have conditioned her, after all, since she's suddenly afraid they'll pull apart and Leighton will be upset all over again.
It's a passing thought, however, once she feels Leighton's fingers dig into her back, trapping the fabric of her top between svelte fingers as she pulls their bodies closer. Leighton tilts her head and kisses back slowly, deliberate in tasting, until she's tamed the fury of Blake's lips.
Blake rests her hand on the curve of Leighton's hip and relinquishes control, lets Leighton draw her in and turn languid kisses into passionate at her own will. The frame of her glasses poses as an obstacle whenever Blake leans in too enthusiastically, so Leighton pulls away just enough to speak.
"Take it off," she says breathlessly.
Blake tries to conjure a proper response. Leighton's words and the subsequent heat between her legs disarm her to a point where she can only widen her eyes.
Leighton sees this and arches one eyebrow, then brings her hand up and removes the glasses herself.
"Oh," Blake says, watching Leighton toss her glasses on the couch. She's pretty sure her cheeks have turned an embarrassed pink, even more so when Leighton smiles knowingly.
"It's okay," she says, stroking Blake's arm, then her brow creases and her hand stills over Blake's bicep. "It is okay, right?"
Blake isn't sure how she manages to smile through the acrobatics in her stomach, but she does. "I don't know. You kissed me first."
Leighton gives her the most incredulous of looks. "That's very mature."
"Not my fault you people keep babying me," Blake replies and finds confidence again, pressing her lips firmly against Leighton's before she has a chance to engage in bickering.
Leighton kisses back with noticeable less patience than before. It's nothing like the brief kiss in their trailer or the shier kisses they'd stolen since the party. Leighton kisses her like a line is being crossed, like those three words on paper enacted, like this is where they've stopped being friends to be something more. Blake thinks she doesn't remember when that moment was with Penn, ultimately decides it was never there.
The rush of realization and Leighton makes her feel lightheaded, makes her feel like she is falling. And then Blake notices she is falling, Leighton's hands firm on her chest as she pushes her down on the rug.
"Leighton." Blake breaks their kiss briefly, but Leighton won't let her. She inches near as Blake pulls back, traps Blake's bottom lip between small teeth and coaxes her into another kiss.
Leighton's weight presses down on Blake's thighs and Blake fears she might actually burn with need, so she pushes more meaningfully at the brunette's shoulders and tries again. "Leighton."
Leighton moves back and hovers above her, tips of dark hair maintaining contact with Blake's shoulders. "Yeah?"
Blake opens her mouth, but quiets at the sight of Leighton's lips, bruised from kissing. She gently traces her bottom lip with one finger, and then meets Leighton's eyes, desire speaking through them.
"Take it off."
The funny thing is she distinctly remembers a "let's take it slow" type of conversation.
Leighton exhales, as if the request itself has sucked the air out of her lungs. It takes a moment, but she snaps back to action and her deft fingers begin working on undressing both of them. Her hands skim over Blake's body in such a rush, Blake genuinely wonders how long she must've wanted to do this.
Leighton's hands only slow down once she's successfully stripped down to her underwear and left Blake in only her jeans. She straddles one of Blake's thighs and there's nothing Blake wants to do more than touch, but as her hands move to do just so, Leighton finds them halfway and pins them above her head.
Leighton lays a tortuously chaste kiss on her lips. "We should hang out on your rug more often," she observes innocently and her hands abandon Blake's to slide down to her chest, palming her breasts.
Blake whimpers and arches into the touch, feeling Leighton's hips grind against her thigh, and the contact can't possibly enough, but Leighton's smile is one of satisfaction. A whiff of her shampoo tickles Blake's nostrils again when she bends, kissing softly between Blake's breasts.
She kisses a wet trail over to a stiff nipple, teasing it with her tongue until Blake is reduced to incoherence and writhing. She'll counter every insubordinate surge of Blake's body with a thrust of her hips, the scrape of teeth on insufferably sensitive nipples.
Blake regains coordination along with her speech ability, gripping Leighton's back before breathing a "God, Leighton," past her lips.
"I prefer Heavenly American," Leighton says, undoes buttons and zippers with the ease of another joke. It takes a few purposeful tugs and then Blake is bare under her appreciative gaze, their clothes discarded somewhere in the room, maybe as distant as the memory of Leighton asking for a pen while they did the dishes.
Blake can feel the flush of Leighton's cheeks beneath her palms when she cups her face and brings her in for a kiss. They are still kissing when Leighton's hand trails down her body to steal between her legs and slide over slippery flesh, searching.
When the tips of her fingers find what they seek, Blake isn't afraid she'll burn -- she feels it; heating between her legs as Leighton's fingers swirl over her clit and she whispers in her ear. Blake can't make sense of the words, can only moan and buck and beg, so Leighton's mouth finds her neck and speaks in the only language she can still comprehend.
Leighton's fingers wander further down, dip inside, stroke and slip out, pump back in with maddening rhythm. And when Leighton slides down and her mouth is finally on Blake, licking and probing where she needs, Blake can barely comprehend anything other than the rush of desire between her legs, grasping locks of brown hair as her hips jerk and she screams her release.
Maybe it was a “let’s go with the flow” type of conversation.
-
Someone is knocking on her door.
Blake rubs the sleep off her eyes and grabs the doorknob, pausing before turning it. There are several cons to opening the door -- she never really buzzed anyone in, this is a miraculous day off and her hair is probably all over the place, to name a few - but the voice talking on the other side sounds familiar, so she opens it anyway.
And then immediately regrets it.
"It's Team Amberica!" Amber announces brightly, sounding like coffee with an extra shot of caffeine.
Blake leans into the doorframe and rubs her eyes again. "Hey."
"Oh, you just woke up," America says in a regretful tone that quickly turns apologetic. "I got your message that other day and Amber said…"
"Paparazzi just took some fabulous shots of us buying, like, windows," Amber cuts in. "And then America needed to pee."
"I still do," America says sheepishly. "May I use your bathroom? I'm so sorry to drop in like this."
"Sure," Blake says and steps back, clearing the path in wordless invitation. Both girls are familiar with the apartment, so she doesn't really need to give directions as much as wait for America to disappear into the hallway, thus securing no witnesses to Amber's imminent murder.
Amber grins like she's not about to die. "Tell me everything," she whispers.
Blake opens her mouth with every intention to scold her, which is when she remembers there's somebody else in the bathroom and entirely different words slip out of her mouth.
“Oh, nonono.”
-
She really has known Penn since forever.
Either that or Blake knows him well enough to recognize this frown he does, not quite confused, not quite upset, but just wondering. Watching the scowl on Blake's face and their awkward interaction in the fictitious courtyard of Constance Billard’s, he's frowned at least twice, now.
Surprisingly, it's Leighton who speaks. “America saw me naked,” she says, blunt enough to surprise even Blake. And once the shock wears off, Blake entertains the thought of also knowing Leighton well enough to suspect there are hidden purposes in her statement.
Penn hears the unspoken and obediently falls silent. It's not too long after that, when Leighton walks off to chat with the other girls, that he leans closer to Blake and she recognizes mirth in his eyes.
"America?" he begins, and she looks at him like he can't possibly be about to recycle the joke. "As in the whole coun-”
Blake holds up a sharp pencil.
-
A soft breeze blows in and licks her calves, the skin bare where the covers have been lazily thrown. Blake draws one leg up and closer to the rest of her body; soft breeze as it may be, it's still chilly.
Part of herself demands to get up and slide the window the rest of the way shut, but it's an insignificant part compared to the rest, which has decided that extricating herself from Leighton's embrace is presently not an option.
So Blake reaches down and just tugs at the covers -- half-heartedly, she already suspects they won't give in. They're trapped where their legs entwine, little dashes of deep navy against tan and porcelain skin.
Upwards the covers surge with more purpose, covering mostly Leighton -- the hogger -- but where cotton is absent, Blake has body heat. Leighton is curled up beside her, molded to her side like it's only natural, like they just fit.
Leighton is lying on her side, slightly higher than where Blake rests on her back, and she's got one arm draped over Blake's midsection, comfortable in its familiarity. Sometimes she'll stir and tighten her hold, and Blake will feel tempted to kiss her, will feel like the smaller one, for once.
This is their last week of shooting, a reminder that Christmas will soon call for them to part ways. They've spent the day mostly in bed, practicing variations on that theme.
The TV is on mute, and with nightfall comes such delicate quietness, Blake doesn't have to look up to know Leighton is well on her way to falling asleep. She flips through channels with little interest, paying more attention to the rhythmic press of Leighton's chest against her side whenever she breathes in. It's perfect.
That is, until they hear Blake’s neighbor using the microwave and the soft press of Leighton's chest comes more sporadically as she starts laughing.
"Someone likes late night popcorn," Leighton says.
"You should see when he dances," Blake jokes and brings one hand up, trailing the tips of her fingers across the arm thrown over herself, caressing soft skin and fine hairs alike.
"I know the scrapbook is out," she then says, "but you still haven't told me what you want for Christmas."
"A pony," Leighton replies with a laugh. She sobers quickly, offering a more heartfelt request. "My family and no cameras."
"A plane ticket, then."
"First class, I like my comfort."
Blake sneaks a glance at the covers Leighton's stolen mostly for herself. "I can see that."
"Speaking of," Leighton says and shifts slightly on the mattress, then gives the covers a forceful yank, freeing them of their entrapment between their bodies. "I'm starting to freeze."
"Whose idea was it to leave the window open, again?"
Leighton is only mildly defensive as she says, "I like ventilation." She pulls the covers further over themselves and resumes her previous position, throwing one arm over Blake and hugging tighter. Blake feels a kiss on top of her head before Leighton mutters her goodnights.
"Want me to turn off the TV?"
Leighton speaks practically into her hair. "S'okay," she says sleepily, then sighs heavily.
Blake looks back to the TV set. "I wish we'd done 30 Rock."
-
The thing about the implicit is she constantly forgets they're together.
Not because of exceptional secrecy or because she thinks of Leighton any less, but because she's always thought of "being together" as the start of something new, when so much of this is just so familiar. So much of it feels like it had always been there.
Sometimes they'll be on location, rehearsing or waiting for paparazzi to spontaneously combust, and Blake will just hold out her arms. Leighton will step in without a word, basking in the moment until the eventual teasing commenced.
Sometimes they'll be in the middle of take three and Leighton will hold her hand throughout a scene that never asked for such intimacy, and it'll just work.
Sometimes they'll walk by the crafts services tent and Leighton will demand Blake close her eyes, then feed her sweets and dare her to guess them on taste alone.
And sometimes they'll be in their trailer at some ungodly hour, when Blake will suddenly dip her head and kiss Leighton squarely on the mouth. At Leighton's bewildered look, she'll offer a smile and half-shrug. "You yawned."
Okay, maybe that much has changed.
Blake concludes this over a glass of wine she will admit to taking, lounging on the couch while her free hand busily texts Chace about dog food. It's still a mystery how they got to that subject in the first place.
Penny is her sole companion for the night, but she feels far from lonely, isolated. As Blake moves to retrieve the remote control on the coffee table, her eyes flicker over to the scrapbook and she thinks of all the memories it has gathered outside its pages; realizes it’s served its purpose, after all.
And this is the last incarnation of the idea.
-
“See, we did it!”
Blake just holds up her thumbs in a positive sign, smiling through a curtain of blonde hair that won't stop madly whipping around. The wind is graceful enough to give her a thirty seconds truce shortly after that, so her hair interrupts its dance to just fall messily in front of her face.
Leighton starts laughing, loud enough to be a tourist attraction of her own among the moderate crowd gathered on the observation deck, drinking the view from the top of 30 Rockefeller.
Blake finally gets her hair under control, twisting it around her hand and pulling it over her shoulder. "I'm glad you enjoy my torment," she says and glances at Leighton's own hair, harboring diabolical plans to free it from its loose ponytail in retaliation.
“I said we’d do 30 Rock, I didn’t say we’d do it in style,” Leighton replies and sticks out her tongue.
Q hangs back, ensuring their privacy, and when he shakes his head Blake is not sure if it’s at their silliness or overly curious tourists. Still, it’s late and cold enough that it doesn't feel as crowded up there.
Leighton steps closer to the metal railing, staring quietly at the city unfolding seventy floors below. Her serenity is suddenly disturbed by an unexpected bark of laughter.
Blake buries both hands into the pockets of her coat and eyes her curiously.
"I just realized we came all the way to Rockefeller Center, but 30 Rock shoots at Silvercup, too,” Leighton says.
Blake shakes her head, pursing her lips in contempt. "Blondes."
It's hardly the funniest thing she has ever said, but then again, Leighton is hardly the most difficult person to amuse. They're still laughing when Q all but sneaks up on Leighton, looking strangely triumphant.
"About that," he says, surreptitiously, "what was it someone said about hot blonde dates, again?"
Leighton steps back, and in her outrage she's torn between laughter and ineffectively punching his arm through layers of clothing. She ends up doing both, while Blake watches incredulously, twice as much when Q wanders off cackling.
Blake frowns. "Are you sure he wasn't hired to make fun of you?" she asks, then brings a hand up to her own chest and gasps. "Were you hired to make fun of me?"
"Hmm," Leighton's eyes are distant as she pretends to ponder, then looks back at Blake. "Nope. I do it free of charge."
"How charitable of you."
Leighton sneaks one arm under Blake's, wrapping it around her back. "If it helps, you're my favorite charity," she says and pulls them closer, leaning into Blake's side.
Blake lets her off with a smirk, and it's not that she's easy, just compliant.
"Merry Christmas," Leighton mutters.
“It’s not Christmas for another week,” Blake says cheekily. Leighton's knee digs vindictively into her leg and Blake instantly reaches inside her own coat, pulling out a plane ticket.
“Merry Christmas,” she says and pokes Leighton's nose with the ticket, right before the brunette snatches it away.
“Romantic,” Leighton comments jokingly.
“Very.”
They aim for sarcasm, but when Leighton settles against her side again and Blake turns to appreciate the view, it kind of is a bit romantic. The New York skyline ranges from an outburst of bright lights - cars, buildings, street lights and Christmas decorations - to the softer, less visually abusive specks of white on darkening hues of blue.
Blake slips one hand under Leighton's trench and lets it rest over the curve of her lower back, rubbing it softly in soothing motions.
“Does it feel complicated?” Blake asks quietly.
Leighton shakes her head. Another gust of wind blows in when she stands on her toes and presses a discreet kiss to Blake's mouth, kissing lips and hair alike.
"It feels right," she says, tucking her head back against Blake's shoulder. Blake feels it when she inhales deeply and sighs, leaning further into her side. It does.