Gossip Girl Fic: leaving your leather boots
leaving your leather boots
god, he shudders to think - the world surviving on diet coke. in the event of nuclear holocausts, world famine, and mass insanity, chuck bass is still not fox mulder. gossip girl. chuck/serena. general spoilers: apocalypse!fic. 1929 words, r.
note: this is really not my fault. i blame whatever special sauce was in the red bull. but for falseeeyelashes. ‘cause she’s fabulous. but now i go to the gym.
-
His room is dark.
It’ll be the last day before the family is suddenly extended, before Lily will sell Eric to the Swiss, where Serena and Dan will grow up and take a little break for a couple years.
Chuck Bass lights a cigarette. And he laughs.
-
The news says something like a severe drought and in effect like this is a John Wayne film and the law matters. But by then it’s already started, in between water conservation and world hunger; they always said the city would be the first to go and New York summers always make the people a little crazy. See Son of Sam.
“How did this happen?”
It’ll be Lily, not Bart, at the window first as she wears her memories across her eyes and mouth, a little scotch apparently going more than along way. Although, he’s a Republican and really tends to ignore these things - it is what it is, the front page of the business section and still telling what girls are left in the business that they’re dancers, not whores.
“I don’t know,” he shrugs.
And as an afterthought, he makes Mommy-dearest a new glass.
-
People don’t listen.
Dan is the first to leave - or maybe it’s Lily, Lily selling Eric to the Swiss for safety tips and clandestine love affairs because she’s with the band.
Serena doesn’t talk about either or, standing in the rim of the bedroom that should be their parents and not just his. Shoulder to shoulder, he can almost imagine summer dress and suitcases for fingers, like mother like daughter and leaving his father’s capitalist cock behind without a glance over her shoulder.
“It’s a democracy,” he mutters.
She frowns. “You’re not stupid, Chuck.”
But she’s that transparent and he almost blames her because it’s fun to see her blame herself - he imagines Humphrey throwing up Wordsworth to split and say goodbye, his lips to her forehead with a maybe, it’ll be okay because those are things that he did.
“He went to Dartmouth,” she says quietly.
“Of course, he did.”
He’ll make them both drinks.
(Later, Serena will hum and sigh, under vodka tonics, and explain to him lightly: families are always fucked up anyway.)
-
His father yells capitalism at the both of them as if he still cares.
Oh, so the world’s sort of ending and Wall Street is hanging itself with a shiny new tie from Barney’s. But Bart Bass is still Bart Bass and business is still business like anything else.
“He’s not going to come home one day,” he shrugs to someone - maybe, maybe someone that’ll be kind enough to rip his throat out.
He thinks he’s sort of prepared for that anyway. Sad as it is, it was the way things always were; mommy and daddy and the nuclear family only look better when he’s drunk.
But on the last day, when he sees his old man between newspapers and rising temperatures and warnings stay inside! because the universe is melting and global warming keeps on laughing -
“How’s Lily?”
Chuck shrugs. “You mean, Serena?”
His father nods, his hand over eyes to duck under the sun.
-
“Maybe, it’ll all work out.”
He’s watching S on her back, in the middle of her bed, as she clutches her phone like the Virgin Mary. It’s a good look for her, he wants to say, but then again, he can save his breath for other things.
“You’re still an idiot, Chuck,” she breathes.
And he wants to reminder that they can’t exactly go anywhere anyways with curfew bridges and a generator - his flashlight clashes too. The news is still saying things like laws, laws, laws and for your safety and really cramping on his life style, those bitches. But panic is sort of pointless and he can only watch things unfold, people dropping like flies under the heat and doing crazy things like - well, wait, he’s been watching too many disaster films anyway.
“What would Blair do?”
He really isn’t sure if she’s talking to him or not, his eyes over the way her hair sort of fans out behind her. If he listens, he might understand the pieces of what Nate saw or why Humphrey is the moron that he is.
But he shrugs. “Laugh, most likely.”
He doesn’t have much use for this conversation. He wants to talk about something practical, like breakfast; the spread is something liquid, something burning, and maybe toast, if they have to subsidize something else that week. It’s easier, in most ways, to hide himself behind what he knows and what he can still say.
There are small memories too. If he’s drunk enough, maybe there’s Blair and Nate and the promise of actual unity. He keeps those slices to himself, packed away and thin in his head. He’s already ready to forget them, in the spirit of population anxiety. He’s a Bass, he’ll take what he can get.
“We need toilet paper,” Serena passes lightly.
He gives her the finger.
-
It doesn’t get better. It doesn’t get worse.
Everyone has an opinion on nuclear holocausts when really, it’s not where the problem is. They say that food is going to be the first to go, even though it’s already going, the breadbasket drying under water regulations and government fines.
God, he shudders to think - the world surviving on diet coke.
Most days, it’s just too fucking hot and people are still stupid instead, walking around and ripping convenience stores because the world’s ending and you need that goddamn Red Bull. Before it all goes, they say. Before it all goes away.
“Maybe,” Serena breathes, almost sneering, “they’ll even legalize prostitution.”
And he laughs because it’s funny and it’s been awhile since something has been that funny. Maybe, it’s because he’s stuck in this place with her. Maybe, it’s the million dollar walls and the still brand new television. Maybe, it’s the last pack of condoms he bought - always careful and minty fresh.
But he grins really hard, patting her shoulder. “Stop trying to be cute, S.”
She almost smiles.
-
By now, you’ll need to understand that New York City swallowed itself whole.
There’s too much dust and not enough water, foreign policy and oil laughing as the city keeps buckling anyway. They still talk about things like it’s an election year, dumb enough to think they can keep the panic to slow.
Chuck’s still seen enough of these movies to be amused, watching everyone unfold, day by day, and outside the window. Lions and tigers and the old guy on Washington was right, fire and brimstone and we’re all going to die! by flames, of course.
Bart has a heart attack. And Chuck lets the lemmings’ metaphor slip.
It was the Italian leather, he thinks. Go figure.
-
“I miss him.”
It’s just one day that she says it, peeling herself away from the phone and the bedroom. She’s standing in the kitchen, her hands over the sink with her eyes closed.
“I really miss him,” she says.
And he supposes it’s better than the news and watching the window, the frame of glasses that separates them from the rest of world - although, there’s a shelf in front of the door that he swears, he swears he doesn’t know how it got there at all.
But he goes to her because he’s curious and Chuck being curious is enough entertainment for the moment.
He shrugs. “At least, you’re still hot.”
“You’re disgusting.”
She frowns. It’s just the two of them now.
-
So here’s a truth -
He’s still waiting for his moment, his moment where the revelation unfolds and he gets to say: “Well, hey. I’m Chuck Bass.”
He almost laughs at himself.
And says it anyway.
-
The early mornings are Serena hiding in her bedroom, attached to her phone as if she were still waiting for Humphrey to call
He’s tempted to tell that it doesn’t look good because it’s not good and she’s a smart girl; her delusions are faster though and he’s almost disappointed, watching her from time to time at the arch of her bedroom door.
It’s everything and nothing he expected from her, but he’ll leave it at that. The phone in her hand is a first model and that seems to piss him off more, the laughter burning up his throat and calling for his next drink.
“You coming?”
Her mouth is broken and he might hear where, watching as she drops her phone in between her blankets just to pick it up again. Thin and slow, it fits over her palm and under her nail; the pad of her thumb hits speaker and in the hallway of the upstairs floor, he hears the bed start to shift under her weight.
“Dartmouth,” the message breathes, “Dartmouth is unreal - it’s everything that I thought - I don’t even know. Maybe, I’ll be able to show you around and explain it better when I get -”
He sticks to watching. She always stops before home.
-
They start burning bodies.
When he gets her drunk enough for company, they sit on the floor and against the couch because this is as family-oriented as he gets.
The presidential address flickers across CNN and they’re waiting because the news is still talking like it’s an election year. He fingers the remote, giggling as it spins between his fingers and he drops it in her lap.
“Pick it up,” she breathes.
And hey, what the lady says - he’s got to say that enjoys being a sick fuck from time to time, dropping his hand between her legs and sweeping his thumb against her thigh before he actually picks it up.
“There you go!”
She’s grinning though, glassy eyes and bits of vodka on her lips. It’s no time like the present, bad girls with no one to share.
Chuck’s always liked her lips.
-
“Do you miss him?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she snarls. “Do you miss her?”
They’re only one in the same. He can’t say her name and Serena gets lost over Humphrey’s name - although, he’s pretty sure she weeps in her sleep when he passes by.
In the spirit of nothing to do, he decides that he likes her like this. Her eyes are wild, her hands fisting pieces of his shirt. She’s close, too close, and he’s never really thought it through, pushing her harder and harder.
The game’s started without him. She kisses him first.
-
The news laughs -
Keep hope, keep hope.
-
They’ll fuck in the shower, but she blows him first.
He really doesn’t like the sounds she makes. The slow purr against his thigh, his cock puckering against her lips, and really, fucking hell, just suck it already. Because, god, it’s been too long and the last time he’s had someone was at the rehearsal dinner and then, after that, he came all over his fist.
He wants to remind her that she’s not Goldilocks and that he’s not a fucking lollipop, but he can sort of appreciate the way she opens her mouth and her tongue winds around the base of his cock.
“Good food, liquid diets, Bogart and Bacall,” his hands are in her hair, muttering and twisting, “what more could I want?”
He chokes on his laugh. He’s still kind of funny.
-
“I didn’t love her,” he tries. “I’m Chuck Bass.”
This is the only time where she knows he’s lying.
god, he shudders to think - the world surviving on diet coke. in the event of nuclear holocausts, world famine, and mass insanity, chuck bass is still not fox mulder. gossip girl. chuck/serena. general spoilers: apocalypse!fic. 1929 words, r.
note: this is really not my fault. i blame whatever special sauce was in the red bull. but for falseeeyelashes. ‘cause she’s fabulous. but now i go to the gym.
-
His room is dark.
It’ll be the last day before the family is suddenly extended, before Lily will sell Eric to the Swiss, where Serena and Dan will grow up and take a little break for a couple years.
Chuck Bass lights a cigarette. And he laughs.
-
The news says something like a severe drought and in effect like this is a John Wayne film and the law matters. But by then it’s already started, in between water conservation and world hunger; they always said the city would be the first to go and New York summers always make the people a little crazy. See Son of Sam.
“How did this happen?”
It’ll be Lily, not Bart, at the window first as she wears her memories across her eyes and mouth, a little scotch apparently going more than along way. Although, he’s a Republican and really tends to ignore these things - it is what it is, the front page of the business section and still telling what girls are left in the business that they’re dancers, not whores.
“I don’t know,” he shrugs.
And as an afterthought, he makes Mommy-dearest a new glass.
-
People don’t listen.
Dan is the first to leave - or maybe it’s Lily, Lily selling Eric to the Swiss for safety tips and clandestine love affairs because she’s with the band.
Serena doesn’t talk about either or, standing in the rim of the bedroom that should be their parents and not just his. Shoulder to shoulder, he can almost imagine summer dress and suitcases for fingers, like mother like daughter and leaving his father’s capitalist cock behind without a glance over her shoulder.
“It’s a democracy,” he mutters.
She frowns. “You’re not stupid, Chuck.”
But she’s that transparent and he almost blames her because it’s fun to see her blame herself - he imagines Humphrey throwing up Wordsworth to split and say goodbye, his lips to her forehead with a maybe, it’ll be okay because those are things that he did.
“He went to Dartmouth,” she says quietly.
“Of course, he did.”
He’ll make them both drinks.
(Later, Serena will hum and sigh, under vodka tonics, and explain to him lightly: families are always fucked up anyway.)
-
His father yells capitalism at the both of them as if he still cares.
Oh, so the world’s sort of ending and Wall Street is hanging itself with a shiny new tie from Barney’s. But Bart Bass is still Bart Bass and business is still business like anything else.
“He’s not going to come home one day,” he shrugs to someone - maybe, maybe someone that’ll be kind enough to rip his throat out.
He thinks he’s sort of prepared for that anyway. Sad as it is, it was the way things always were; mommy and daddy and the nuclear family only look better when he’s drunk.
But on the last day, when he sees his old man between newspapers and rising temperatures and warnings stay inside! because the universe is melting and global warming keeps on laughing -
“How’s Lily?”
Chuck shrugs. “You mean, Serena?”
His father nods, his hand over eyes to duck under the sun.
-
“Maybe, it’ll all work out.”
He’s watching S on her back, in the middle of her bed, as she clutches her phone like the Virgin Mary. It’s a good look for her, he wants to say, but then again, he can save his breath for other things.
“You’re still an idiot, Chuck,” she breathes.
And he wants to reminder that they can’t exactly go anywhere anyways with curfew bridges and a generator - his flashlight clashes too. The news is still saying things like laws, laws, laws and for your safety and really cramping on his life style, those bitches. But panic is sort of pointless and he can only watch things unfold, people dropping like flies under the heat and doing crazy things like - well, wait, he’s been watching too many disaster films anyway.
“What would Blair do?”
He really isn’t sure if she’s talking to him or not, his eyes over the way her hair sort of fans out behind her. If he listens, he might understand the pieces of what Nate saw or why Humphrey is the moron that he is.
But he shrugs. “Laugh, most likely.”
He doesn’t have much use for this conversation. He wants to talk about something practical, like breakfast; the spread is something liquid, something burning, and maybe toast, if they have to subsidize something else that week. It’s easier, in most ways, to hide himself behind what he knows and what he can still say.
There are small memories too. If he’s drunk enough, maybe there’s Blair and Nate and the promise of actual unity. He keeps those slices to himself, packed away and thin in his head. He’s already ready to forget them, in the spirit of population anxiety. He’s a Bass, he’ll take what he can get.
“We need toilet paper,” Serena passes lightly.
He gives her the finger.
-
It doesn’t get better. It doesn’t get worse.
Everyone has an opinion on nuclear holocausts when really, it’s not where the problem is. They say that food is going to be the first to go, even though it’s already going, the breadbasket drying under water regulations and government fines.
God, he shudders to think - the world surviving on diet coke.
Most days, it’s just too fucking hot and people are still stupid instead, walking around and ripping convenience stores because the world’s ending and you need that goddamn Red Bull. Before it all goes, they say. Before it all goes away.
“Maybe,” Serena breathes, almost sneering, “they’ll even legalize prostitution.”
And he laughs because it’s funny and it’s been awhile since something has been that funny. Maybe, it’s because he’s stuck in this place with her. Maybe, it’s the million dollar walls and the still brand new television. Maybe, it’s the last pack of condoms he bought - always careful and minty fresh.
But he grins really hard, patting her shoulder. “Stop trying to be cute, S.”
She almost smiles.
-
By now, you’ll need to understand that New York City swallowed itself whole.
There’s too much dust and not enough water, foreign policy and oil laughing as the city keeps buckling anyway. They still talk about things like it’s an election year, dumb enough to think they can keep the panic to slow.
Chuck’s still seen enough of these movies to be amused, watching everyone unfold, day by day, and outside the window. Lions and tigers and the old guy on Washington was right, fire and brimstone and we’re all going to die! by flames, of course.
Bart has a heart attack. And Chuck lets the lemmings’ metaphor slip.
It was the Italian leather, he thinks. Go figure.
-
“I miss him.”
It’s just one day that she says it, peeling herself away from the phone and the bedroom. She’s standing in the kitchen, her hands over the sink with her eyes closed.
“I really miss him,” she says.
And he supposes it’s better than the news and watching the window, the frame of glasses that separates them from the rest of world - although, there’s a shelf in front of the door that he swears, he swears he doesn’t know how it got there at all.
But he goes to her because he’s curious and Chuck being curious is enough entertainment for the moment.
He shrugs. “At least, you’re still hot.”
“You’re disgusting.”
She frowns. It’s just the two of them now.
-
So here’s a truth -
He’s still waiting for his moment, his moment where the revelation unfolds and he gets to say: “Well, hey. I’m Chuck Bass.”
He almost laughs at himself.
And says it anyway.
-
The early mornings are Serena hiding in her bedroom, attached to her phone as if she were still waiting for Humphrey to call
He’s tempted to tell that it doesn’t look good because it’s not good and she’s a smart girl; her delusions are faster though and he’s almost disappointed, watching her from time to time at the arch of her bedroom door.
It’s everything and nothing he expected from her, but he’ll leave it at that. The phone in her hand is a first model and that seems to piss him off more, the laughter burning up his throat and calling for his next drink.
“You coming?”
Her mouth is broken and he might hear where, watching as she drops her phone in between her blankets just to pick it up again. Thin and slow, it fits over her palm and under her nail; the pad of her thumb hits speaker and in the hallway of the upstairs floor, he hears the bed start to shift under her weight.
“Dartmouth,” the message breathes, “Dartmouth is unreal - it’s everything that I thought - I don’t even know. Maybe, I’ll be able to show you around and explain it better when I get -”
He sticks to watching. She always stops before home.
-
They start burning bodies.
When he gets her drunk enough for company, they sit on the floor and against the couch because this is as family-oriented as he gets.
The presidential address flickers across CNN and they’re waiting because the news is still talking like it’s an election year. He fingers the remote, giggling as it spins between his fingers and he drops it in her lap.
“Pick it up,” she breathes.
And hey, what the lady says - he’s got to say that enjoys being a sick fuck from time to time, dropping his hand between her legs and sweeping his thumb against her thigh before he actually picks it up.
“There you go!”
She’s grinning though, glassy eyes and bits of vodka on her lips. It’s no time like the present, bad girls with no one to share.
Chuck’s always liked her lips.
-
“Do you miss him?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she snarls. “Do you miss her?”
They’re only one in the same. He can’t say her name and Serena gets lost over Humphrey’s name - although, he’s pretty sure she weeps in her sleep when he passes by.
In the spirit of nothing to do, he decides that he likes her like this. Her eyes are wild, her hands fisting pieces of his shirt. She’s close, too close, and he’s never really thought it through, pushing her harder and harder.
The game’s started without him. She kisses him first.
-
The news laughs -
Keep hope, keep hope.
-
They’ll fuck in the shower, but she blows him first.
He really doesn’t like the sounds she makes. The slow purr against his thigh, his cock puckering against her lips, and really, fucking hell, just suck it already. Because, god, it’s been too long and the last time he’s had someone was at the rehearsal dinner and then, after that, he came all over his fist.
He wants to remind her that she’s not Goldilocks and that he’s not a fucking lollipop, but he can sort of appreciate the way she opens her mouth and her tongue winds around the base of his cock.
“Good food, liquid diets, Bogart and Bacall,” his hands are in her hair, muttering and twisting, “what more could I want?”
He chokes on his laugh. He’s still kind of funny.
-
“I didn’t love her,” he tries. “I’m Chuck Bass.”
This is the only time where she knows he’s lying.