Fic: Who's Going to Save You Now?
Title: Who's Going to Save You Now?
Author: SlimyBunny
Pairing/Character(s): Chuck/Blair
Rating: PG
Word Count:1012
Spoilers: None, this is fictional pre-series
Summary: For a moment time stops;"I've spent my whole life watching you Blair Waldorf."
“Who will save you soul after all the lies that you told,
Who will save your soul if you won't save you own?”
-Jewel
Spotted: The clock ticks down and the Prince is with the wrong Cinderella. Wonder where our lovely Queen is hiding? Who will rescue you now B?
He finds her slumped against the toilet; her hair in disarray, mascara streaming down her face, and small hiccups rattling her frail frame.
He’s no good at cleaning up messes.
He’s Chuck Bass. Most of his life is spent making messes, and afterwards there’s always enough money to make it disappear or a maid to clean it up for him and fuck him later.
He’s no good with messes, so his legs twitch and he’s about to turn around and walk away (flee) because she’s Blair Waldorf. They’re the Non-Judging Breakfast Club and he’ll clean puke off of her face and buy her bagels any time and any day of the week, and he likes her the (in)appropriate amount you like your best friend’s girlfriend, but she’s not his girlfriend, and she’ssonothisproblem and (more importantly) ohgodhecan’thandlethis.
But before he can turn around and pretend he never had to see Blair Waldorf as a human, she turns her big brown eyes towards him, now stretched wide and glistening with tears and something else that eerily resembles vulnerability, hooking into the soul he didn’t know that he had, so that he can’t move without tearing every façade into pieces.
An eternity passes.
Then another.
Finally:
“Chanel lied; the mascara's not waterproof,” she whispers to him, eyes still open wide.
His legs (her eyes) carry him forward, and he slides down next to her, his one of a kind vintage purple vest from Armani rubbing against the grimy bathroom tiles. Someone’s probably had sex on this floor, he thinks, at least three times tonight. Whatever, he’s not going to pretend that he played a main role in two of the three times.
So they sit there together, the devil and the saint, until the lines blur and he can’t quite remember who’s what anymore.
“Is it Nate?” He finally asks, and berates himself immediately; of course it’s Nate.
It’s always Nate.
A beat.
“No.”
Almost imperceptibly a brow un-furrows and a slight sound of suede rubbing against linoleum as shoulders relax is heard.
“It’s my birthday,” she says, turning to him for the first time, eyes glinting like marble with an unnatural light.
“I know Waldorf,” he chuckles softly because this (the bathroom floor, her wet eyes, the slight tremble of her lips as she bites down on them after the word ‘birthday’) has to be funny. “We’re at your party.”
“Oh,” the sound escapes her from her lips involuntarily, “yeah, right.”
She leans forward and a cascade of brown locks that he can tell she had Dorota impeccably curl at least three times prior to the party fall forward, shielding her face from his view.
Instead, Chuck looks up; there are two small cracks in the ceiling. Three tiles to the left there is one sock that is somehow stuck above on the gold rims with some adhesive mixture of mayonnaise and mustard. Five tiles below that there are exactly seventy-six indigo squiggles on it, forming a pattern that, after much observation, looked somewhat like a cupid holding an apple to him.
“My dad’s in Rome visiting Roman’s parents,” she blurts out. “They’re elderly.”
Just as quickly, she turns her head away from him and looks back at the tiles.
“Mom’s in Paris,” (eyes hard and smile fixed), “She wants to be here, but it’s really important for her to go to this meeting if she wants her line to be carried in all the newest stores coming fall.”
Chuck closes his eyes and leans his head against the back of the bathtub.
“Serena’s dancing with Nate.” Her head is bowed forward and her lilting voice raises an octave above hysterical. “The DJ is playing their favorite song, a fast one, and you know how I don’t like to dance to fast songs.”
“You know,” she babbles on, “I’m really glad that there’s no weirdness between them. I was worried when Nate and I got together that Serena would feel left out somehow, and I would somehow have to choose, but I’m so glad that I don’t and that they’re just like before. Really, I’m so glad.”
Chuck remains still.
“He sent me a text message you know?” She says, laughing. “Ten minutes ago-the moment I turned fourteen because he was stuck in the middle of the dance floor with Serena.”
“He sent me a text message,” she sobs.
Her head falls forward with a soft thump.
“I just wanted someone to see me,” she whispers to her knees.
A beat.
Chuck Bass doesn’t clean messes, but wordlessly he reaches for her left hand and captures her wrist in his palm. Deftly, he pulls out to knob of her Cartier watch, stopping the world and turning it back eleven minutes.
“I’ve spent my whole life watching you Blair Waldorf.”
He presses the knob in, and the watch (their world) ticks back to life again.
“Happy Birthday,” he says against her lips.
‘Thank you’ she whispers back into his.
A beat (an eternity).
She leans back first. It’s no real kiss, but Chuck Bass hovers, only for a beat(an eternity) because somehow kissing Blair Waldorf, however chastely, is something a person needs to recover from.
She smiles.
(She doesn’t tell him that it’s her first kiss.)
A slightly clack, and she’s back on her too-high Jimmy Choo’s, fixing her make-up.
“Ugh,” she frowns, “my hair. Do you have a comb?” She looks down, brown eyes stretched wide but now clear of tears (its moments like these that he thinks that maybe one day she’ll own his soul), her hand extended towards his.
Fingers rustle in velvet lined pockets before extracting themselves and pushing the desired object into her hands.
He smiles back.
(He doesn’t tell her that he knows.)
Author: SlimyBunny
Pairing/Character(s): Chuck/Blair
Rating: PG
Word Count:1012
Spoilers: None, this is fictional pre-series
Summary: For a moment time stops;"I've spent my whole life watching you Blair Waldorf."
“Who will save you soul after all the lies that you told,
Who will save your soul if you won't save you own?”
-Jewel
Spotted: The clock ticks down and the Prince is with the wrong Cinderella. Wonder where our lovely Queen is hiding? Who will rescue you now B?
He finds her slumped against the toilet; her hair in disarray, mascara streaming down her face, and small hiccups rattling her frail frame.
He’s no good at cleaning up messes.
He’s Chuck Bass. Most of his life is spent making messes, and afterwards there’s always enough money to make it disappear or a maid to clean it up for him and fuck him later.
He’s no good with messes, so his legs twitch and he’s about to turn around and walk away (flee) because she’s Blair Waldorf. They’re the Non-Judging Breakfast Club and he’ll clean puke off of her face and buy her bagels any time and any day of the week, and he likes her the (in)appropriate amount you like your best friend’s girlfriend, but she’s not his girlfriend, and she’ssonothisproblem and (more importantly) ohgodhecan’thandlethis.
But before he can turn around and pretend he never had to see Blair Waldorf as a human, she turns her big brown eyes towards him, now stretched wide and glistening with tears and something else that eerily resembles vulnerability, hooking into the soul he didn’t know that he had, so that he can’t move without tearing every façade into pieces.
An eternity passes.
Then another.
Finally:
“Chanel lied; the mascara's not waterproof,” she whispers to him, eyes still open wide.
His legs (her eyes) carry him forward, and he slides down next to her, his one of a kind vintage purple vest from Armani rubbing against the grimy bathroom tiles. Someone’s probably had sex on this floor, he thinks, at least three times tonight. Whatever, he’s not going to pretend that he played a main role in two of the three times.
So they sit there together, the devil and the saint, until the lines blur and he can’t quite remember who’s what anymore.
“Is it Nate?” He finally asks, and berates himself immediately; of course it’s Nate.
It’s always Nate.
A beat.
“No.”
Almost imperceptibly a brow un-furrows and a slight sound of suede rubbing against linoleum as shoulders relax is heard.
“It’s my birthday,” she says, turning to him for the first time, eyes glinting like marble with an unnatural light.
“I know Waldorf,” he chuckles softly because this (the bathroom floor, her wet eyes, the slight tremble of her lips as she bites down on them after the word ‘birthday’) has to be funny. “We’re at your party.”
“Oh,” the sound escapes her from her lips involuntarily, “yeah, right.”
She leans forward and a cascade of brown locks that he can tell she had Dorota impeccably curl at least three times prior to the party fall forward, shielding her face from his view.
Instead, Chuck looks up; there are two small cracks in the ceiling. Three tiles to the left there is one sock that is somehow stuck above on the gold rims with some adhesive mixture of mayonnaise and mustard. Five tiles below that there are exactly seventy-six indigo squiggles on it, forming a pattern that, after much observation, looked somewhat like a cupid holding an apple to him.
“My dad’s in Rome visiting Roman’s parents,” she blurts out. “They’re elderly.”
Just as quickly, she turns her head away from him and looks back at the tiles.
“Mom’s in Paris,” (eyes hard and smile fixed), “She wants to be here, but it’s really important for her to go to this meeting if she wants her line to be carried in all the newest stores coming fall.”
Chuck closes his eyes and leans his head against the back of the bathtub.
“Serena’s dancing with Nate.” Her head is bowed forward and her lilting voice raises an octave above hysterical. “The DJ is playing their favorite song, a fast one, and you know how I don’t like to dance to fast songs.”
“You know,” she babbles on, “I’m really glad that there’s no weirdness between them. I was worried when Nate and I got together that Serena would feel left out somehow, and I would somehow have to choose, but I’m so glad that I don’t and that they’re just like before. Really, I’m so glad.”
Chuck remains still.
“He sent me a text message you know?” She says, laughing. “Ten minutes ago-the moment I turned fourteen because he was stuck in the middle of the dance floor with Serena.”
“He sent me a text message,” she sobs.
Her head falls forward with a soft thump.
“I just wanted someone to see me,” she whispers to her knees.
A beat.
Chuck Bass doesn’t clean messes, but wordlessly he reaches for her left hand and captures her wrist in his palm. Deftly, he pulls out to knob of her Cartier watch, stopping the world and turning it back eleven minutes.
“I’ve spent my whole life watching you Blair Waldorf.”
He presses the knob in, and the watch (their world) ticks back to life again.
“Happy Birthday,” he says against her lips.
‘Thank you’ she whispers back into his.
A beat (an eternity).
She leans back first. It’s no real kiss, but Chuck Bass hovers, only for a beat(an eternity) because somehow kissing Blair Waldorf, however chastely, is something a person needs to recover from.
She smiles.
(She doesn’t tell him that it’s her first kiss.)
A slightly clack, and she’s back on her too-high Jimmy Choo’s, fixing her make-up.
“Ugh,” she frowns, “my hair. Do you have a comb?” She looks down, brown eyes stretched wide but now clear of tears (its moments like these that he thinks that maybe one day she’ll own his soul), her hand extended towards his.
Fingers rustle in velvet lined pockets before extracting themselves and pushing the desired object into her hands.
He smiles back.
(He doesn’t tell her that he knows.)