Disclaimer: Gossip Girl is the property of the CW & some dialogue is borrowed from episode 1x7
Spoilers: Through Victor, Victrola
Summary: Blair, Chuck and that night at Victrola -- this is the first in a series of loosely related vignettes based on songs off of The Rolling Stones’ Exile on Main Street and Liz Phair’s Exile in Guyville
He runs to tell her first, newspaper review in hand and an impish grin on his face. It’s an impulsive move, one of many that make his days blend to nights seamlessly, but he masks it by telling himself it’s because she’s the most likely to find it repugnant. But for whatever reason, her full lips don’t thin into a frown, and she agrees to accompany him to Victrola.
The ride is filled with snide comments and awkward pauses, a fitting substitute for what he assumes, would be small talk. They don’t dare cross that invisible line in the proverbial sand that would make them friends instead of acquaintances, it’s all about keeping up appearances, and they’re two of the best. But in one of the many pregnant pauses that follow the stop and start of traffic at early rush hour, he finds himself reflecting on one of the many stories that Nate has woven about her -- where she's reckless, angry, unhinged, and not the poster child for the junior league. It's a private moment in time he’s only privy to second hand.
As he sips on his rum and coke, mildly embarrassed that he enjoys the sweet taste of such a pedestrian drink -- something he blames on his father’s middle class beginnings, Chuck gives her a wry smile. It’s strange to know someone as well as he knows Blair, without truly knowing her at all.
Blair feels out of place the second that she steps inside. She’s been to a number of tawdry places back when the only D in S’s life was drinking, but this is the first time that she feels that her inexperience is on display. It’s a cacophony of sight and sound that screams virgin at her from every angle. But she’s not one to back down from a challenge, so she puts on her best Holly Golightly and follows Chuck down the hallway.
“You want your dad to invest in a strip joint? How Midtown,” she scoffs, a coy smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she watches emotions play across Chuck’s face. It’s much easier to deal with her own discomfort by inflicting the same treatment on someone else, and the fact that she’s succeeded makes Blair extremely satisfied.
“A burlesque club,” he corrects, his exuberance betraying the annoyed look he shoots her. “A respectable place where people can be transported to another time. Where they can feel free to let loose with no judgement. Pure escape. What happens at Victrola stays at Victrola.”
It’s a sales pitch, and she knows it. But it’s rare that Chuck gets excited about anything other than tainting the freshmen girls at Constance Billard’s so she’s willing to indulge him. If nothing else, it’s another thing to add to the growing list of things that Nate owes her for, since he failed to show up this afternoon.
“Well, it does have franchise potential,” she drawls, like she’s appraising something that Isabel and Kati have put together. “Chuck Bass I do believe all your years of underage boozing and womanizing have paid off! I’m proud.” She’s laughing now and he smirks at her in appreciation, this is what they do best, sarcastic banter that passes the time between events that their parents force them to attend.
“And you are my toughest critic, well, second toughest,” Chuck states, and she feels her cheeks redden slightly from what, she expects, is the closest to a compliment she’ll ever get from him. It’s in these rare moments that Chuck Bass seems entirely human and not at all like the asshole he makes himself out to be, when everyone is watching.
“So you think your father will go with it?” She already knows what his answer will be, but Blair needs something to distract her from her current train of thought and this is the easiest way to accomplish that.
Appearances may be deceiving, but each of them have their roles to play.
“It is exactly the kind of innovative thinking upon which the Bass empire was built. It’s perfect. I’ve been waiting for this.” His cockiness breaks the moment and she lets out a breath that she doesn’t know she’s holding. With a single look at her watch, she realizes the time and blanches. They both have a dinner to get to, and if the elusive Gossip Girl has taught her one thing, it’s that the masses can’t be kept waiting.
“Where’s Nate?” he asks the moment she steps out of the town car all alone, wrapped in strings of pearls, both real and cheap imitations, but an equal mixture of white and black. It’s a nod to the 90’s monochromatism that would look dull on anyone other than her, but he doesn’t bother to compliment her. Even if it’s his night of triumph, he would never dare -- it’s not his way.
“I think we just broke up,” she explains, as if it’s something that she can rush through without pause.
“What?” He’s unable to keep the shock from his voice as he stares at her, wide eyed in disbelief. He knows their problems, and has witnessed more than one first hand, but it’s never occurred to him that they would be anything other than a fucked up version of happily ever after.
“I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to escape.” There’s a desperation in Blair’s voice that he can’t quite touch. A hitch in her voice that masks her tears with the coolness of determination, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He’s never been the shoulder to cry on, and he doesn’t want to be -- Chuck knows that most of the time, his sex is comfort enough.
“That’s what this place is for, right?” She questions and he hopes that he doesn’t look as stunned as he feels. Blair looks at him for a moment like a six year old in her mother’s Chanel, broken and unsure before burying her little girl lost under an accusatory smirk and a glint in her eye.
For a moment, he’s sure her lips look as red as the apple he's sure Adam got from Eve, but he brushes away the thought as he leads her to his table and motions for another bottle of Dom.
As much as temptation ruins him on a regular basis, she’s still the only girl off limits to him. And although he’s asked for details of the event more than once, Chuck doesn’t think he’d find her virginity a welcome trophy in his little black book that isn’t quite so little these days.
So he pours her a glass and sits a respectable distance from her, resigning himself to being the consummate gentleman for the time being. But he’s no Archibald and the curiosity of the fractured fairy tale of Nate and Blair eats at him while the dances grow more and more cliched.
“I know you don’t want to talk about what happened, but,” he doesn’t finish. She doesn’t let him and Chuck knows that he doesn’t have to -- years of conversations held in silence has trained them both to be attuned to the connotation of simple phrases.
“Relief. I feel relief,” she snaps into her champagne. It’s her fourth glass and his fifth, the contrasts of his celebration and her desolation are making for an interesting evening. If this were any other day, and if he were inclined to compare life to art, she’d be the Mona Lisa and he’d be The Scream, but tonight they’re both people. Flawed and bumbling through the end of their adolescence, checklists in hand, and determined to make the most of it.
Fuck, is he really having a moment with Blair Waldorf? Chuck rolls his eyes and muses that his elation and the alcohol running through his veins is making him far drunker than he thought.
“You know I’ve got moves,” Blair says finally, breaking the comfortable silence that has settled between the two of them as the dancers continue to sway to a song that seems more strip joint and less burlesque club.
He doesn’t believe her, but it doesn’t stop him from imagining what it might look like.
“Really, then why don’t you get up there,” he asks, leaning into her, making sure to breathe just so. He’s done this hundreds of times before, and the escapism around him is infectious. So he finds himself eying the soft curls of her perfect locks, wondering if his dark Rapunzel will truly let down her hair and indulge him for the night.
“No, I’m just saying I have moves,” Blair laughs at his proposition, but he doesn’t miss the envy that follows her words.
“Come on you’re ten times hotter than any of those girls,” Chuck purrs, hoping to provoke her enough to get her on stage. She might have been Nate’s but the night is still his, and hadn’t he been the one to say that what happens at Victrola stays there?
“I know what you’re doing Bass,” she stops him with a glare, which he returns with feigned innocence. Somehow between glasses four and five she’s forgotten that he’s not Serena or one of her other minions that she keeps around for scenarios like this.
Of course, he doesn’t remind her of this and instead continues to reflect doubt back at her, because between his fifth and sixth glasses the game has changed and he’s the cat who is about to trap his mouse.
“You really don’t think I’ll go up there,” Blair scoffs, her brazenness masking her annoyance at his doubt.
“I know you won’t do it,” he returns, knowing full well that those six words will have the desired effect. Blair hates being pigeonholed as much as Serena, she’s just much better at hiding it.
“Guard my drink.” It’s a command, not a request and he grins appreciatively and motions toward the stage as she gets up from the sofa. The red heels of her Louboutins that peek out salaciously as she makes her way toward the stage mirror the scarlet of her lips and Chuck realizes that his night of triumph is far from over.
The city lights blur as she continues to ride out the remnants of her Victrola-induced high from the back of Chuck’s limo. She’s still in her ivory slip and far more confident than she felt hours ago. Something, at any other time, she’d blame solely on champagne, but she knows far more now than she did then and for the first time she feels comfortable in her own skin.
“Thanks for the lift home,” she breathes, though her eyes convey so much more than she can express in words. It’s an awkward, ephemeral experience that she doesn’t dare mangle with drunken comprehension of the English language. But as Chuck stares at her, Blair is certain that he understands exactly what she is trying to say.
“You were amazing up there,” Chuck responds, and she finds herself inching closer to him, dark eyes meeting his, and if she couldn’t feel her heart beating wildly in her chest, she’d think she was dreaming. Within seconds, her lips meet his and she shuts her eyes, reveling in the feel of his mouth, which seems much softer than she’d expected.
Chuck pulls away from her and meets her gaze, his lust barely tamed as he looks at her like she’s a precious gift, and not an obligation. While she has no basis for comparison, Blair is almost certain that he’s never looked at another girl quite like he’s looking at her. Her suspicions are confirmed when he gently asks her, “You sure?”
She responses by kissing him again, passionately this time, like the sex kitten she wishes she was and hopes to be, eventually. Chuck responds in kind, possessively raking his hands up and down her body as he shuts the divider, blocking out the city that defines both their lives.
Her mind drifts to her last words to Nate, her brazen declaration that she didn’t quite believe at the time -- I don’t need you. Now, she realizes that she was right all along, she doesn’t need Nate, not really, but she does need to be loved. And while this probably isn’t, he thinks that she’s amazing and right now, that’s enough.
Because, here, in this space, she is just Blair and he is just Chuck, and they’re both two people fumbling toward something that they both need, but can’t quite define.
Like Castle, Supernatural, True Blood, The Vampire Diaries, Harry Potter, Twilight, or any other fandom? Write Fan Fiction for it? Then go ahead and post it here!
1 post • Page 1 of 1
polarattraction.net because I don't go to sleep to dream
Who is online
Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 1 guest