Author's Note: This is my response to the prompt for Day One of Chair Week on tumblr, pregnancy.
The doorman of the Empire springs ahead of her and greets her by name as he holds the heavy door open for her. She verbally acknowledges his presence and bids him good morning as she pulls on her leather gloves and steps into the frosty air. The cold nips at her nose and cheeks, pulls at her hair until it sways in the wind despite the headband serving as her crown. Her red coat and black scarf shield her from the frigid wind, but she still walks quickly towards the awaiting town car in anticipation of being back in the warmth afforded to her by private transportation.
The driver from the service slides out of the black town car at her approach and jogs around the hood in order to reach the back door of the car before her. He too greets her by name as he tugs on the silver handle and opens the back door for her. She glances at him briefly, acknowledges him with the nod of her head when she realizes that this particular driver is one she has never before, and informs him that she is in a hurry to get to the atelier.
The service already informed him of where to go, and he knows a shortcut through the city that will get her there quickly. He nods his own head, keeps his eyes trained on the building rather than her backside as she starts to move into the car. The windows reflect her movements, and he watches as she pauses with one foot in the town car and one foot still on the curb. He cannot see her face, though, and turns his head to watch her with curious eyes. Her own eyes are shut and, despite the layers, he can see the way she is struggling to steady her breathing.
She stumbles back away from him and the car. He reaches out to steady her, to make sure she does not slip in the snow and ice on the sidewalk, but she shakes off his hand as her eyes flash towards his. For the briefest of moments her eyes are filled with panic and worry until her features harden, until her well-worn mask returns and smothers the emotions she will not allow anyone – least of all the help – see.
"Thank you," she replies firmly, "but I think I will walk."
"Are you sure, ma'am?" The driver asks her earnestly. "Your destination is pretty far. It would be quite the walk."
"I'm sure," she snaps. "And I don't need to justify myself to you. You may go."
"Yes, ma'am," he replies monotonously.
Used to such treatment, he wordless shuts the door and returns to the driver's seat as she turns on her heels and begins her long walk to the atelier. He waits until she is out of sight, until he is sure that she will not change her mind before pulling out his cell phone and dialing dispatch to report that his services were unwanted.
"Hey, Joe," he greets into the mouthpiece. "Yeah. No dice. She still wouldn't get in."
The atelier is nearly empty. Most of the employees have called it a night; packed away their materials and their sewing kits in preparation of the maid service arriving to clean and tidy the place overnight. The light from her office casts a soft glow into the reception and meeting rooms, and the last of the seamstresses ducks past the open door without bidding her employer goodnight. The demanding woman has been especially on edge the last two weeks, and the seamstress knows better than to interrupt her employer's intense concentration with a superfluous salutation.
The retreating footsteps followed by the soft click of the door remind her that she too should be heading home, and she scrawls the last of her comments on the latest sketches for the spring line in haste. Her pen deposited in the cup in front of her, the sketches moved into their folder and placed under lock and key in her top desk drawer, she glances out the window to appraise the weather.
The soft trickle of snow causes her to curse. She knows she should call the car service, and she moves to pick her BlackBerry up off her desk. Yet her stomach clinches at the idea and she physically recoils away. She tries to tell herself that she is being ridiculous, tries to smooth away the fear and anxiety by commanding herself to get over this.
Her phone buzzes, vibrates, and clatters across her desk. She jumps slightly at the intrusion afraid that the car service might be calling her to know what time she wants to be picked up. She glances at the caller ID, cannot help but smile when she reads the name flashing on the screen. She clicks the green answer button without hesitation and holds the phone up her to ear.
"Hi," she greets softly.
"Are you home?" He cuts right to the chase, never one for formalities and polite greetings.
"No, I'm still at the atelier."
"I'll have Arthur take a detour," he replies. "I'll come pick you up."
Her stomach lurches at the decision he has made, and she begins to inform him that it is not necessary for him to do so because she will just call the car service. But he cuts her off, tells her to be downstairs in ten minutes, and hangs up the phone.
The ten minutes pass in a slow torture in the form of a rolling stomach and horrific heartburn. She tries to thwart her symptoms by remaining stock still in her chair and only moves to pull on her coat when she cannot delay any longer. Still, she takes her time buttoning her coat, tying her scarf, and affixing her hair that by the time she reaches the front door of the atelier, she opens it to find him stomping up the steps towards the door.
He breaks out in a sly grin when he sees her, mutters something about thinking he was going to have to pry her away from her work with his talented fingers as he clambers up the last two steps towards her. His hand touches the back of her waist and her covered breasts touch his chest as he pulls her towards him. The thumb of his other hand tips her head back as he lowers his and, for a heartbeat, his lips hover above hers. His brown eyes gleam from beneath his lashes as though he is searching for something in her eyes before he swoops in and captures her lips with his own.
His lips move on hers – searching and confident – and she responds by parting her lips for him and beckoning him to slide his tongue between and find hers. He smoothly gathers her in his arms and draws her against him as he angles his head and deepens the kiss. Each press of his lips, each languid thrust of his tongue sends a pulse of desire through her, and she finds himself not just responding but wrapping her arms about his neck and meeting his lips and tongue with a voracious, hungry, and passionate caress of her own.
It is only the sound of door to the atelier slamming shut behind them that causes them to break away from one another, and even then they stand there entwined in each other's embrace on the steps of the building without concern for what passersby might think.
"Let's take another honeymoon."
"We just got back three weeks ago," she reminds him with a laugh.
He snorts at her reply, accepts a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth in apology before chasing after her lips with his own when she tries to pull away. He probes with his tongue, tries to take it deeper but she holds firm against him and he finds himself growling against her lips in frustration.
She breaks away and laughs against his cheek before slipping out his arms and stepping away from him. She tugs on the black leather gloves in her hands, shields her exposed extremities against the failing snow and nipping cold. He grabs her gloved hand in his own, tucks her arm under his, and wraps her hand around his bicep as he guides her down the steps towards the waiting limo. He reaches for the door handle, but pauses when he feels her still against him and he glances at her in question.
"Let's walk," she says as she slips his hand off his arm and steps away.
"It's freezing out," he replies with a gesture towards the falling snow and the way their breath is visible in the air. He wrenches open the door and gestures for her to climb in. "The limo would be much warmer."
"We'll walk quickly," she informs him.
He shakes his head in disagreement, tells her that the ride home would be much quicker than walking as he places his hand against the small of her back and guides her towards the open door. She follows his guidance yet balks as she steps into the car. She turns on her heels, searches his eyes for understanding.
"Get in the car."
She mummers his name, tries to bid him to stop forcing her into the limo, but he will have none of it tonight as he repeats his directive. She slides into the vehicle, glares at him when he follows her into the limo and slams the door behind them. He reaches for her hand yet she yanks it away and turns her head away from him so her gaze is fixated on the scenery outside the window.
He slides across the bench seat, reaches out with soft fingers, and turns her head so that she is looking at him with misty eyes. She blinks away the tears, tries to wish them away as the car pulls away from the curb.
"Arthur is a good driver," he reminds her. "This isn't going to be like before."
"Don't say that," she snaps as she recoils away from him. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
He sighs, struggles to find the right words to belay her fears. With shaky yet tender fingers, he skillfully undoes the bottom two button of her red coat and pushes aside the fabric until he can press fingers to the flat contour of her stomach. She closes her eyes at the feeling, reaches up to wipe away the single tear that has fallen.
"You're pregnant, Blair," he informs her. Her breath hitches at the reminder. "With my baby. I'm going to do everything in my power to protect you two."
"Then let me walk, Chuck," she cries out in frustration.
"And let you wear yourself out? And let you catch pneumonia?"
The questions fall around them, fall and settle around the subject neither of them wants to bring up. He presses his fingers against her again, drags her attention towards where they are forever connected. She places her hand against his, presses it closer to her, and holds it in place.
"If something happened, I – I won't…"
"Shh," he interrupts. With his free hand, he reaches up and pushes the down button for the divider. "Arthur, drive slowly."
"Yes, Mister Bass."
"And no shortcuts through Central Park."
"Yes, Mister Bass."
With a satisfied smile, he raises the divider again and turns his attention back to his wife. He reaches up, gingerly cups her cheek in his palm, and wipes away the stray tear rolling down her cheek with the pad of his thumb.
"I'm scared," she confesses softly.
"Me, too."
Her eyes widen at the confession. He was so excited when the faint pink line developed into a dark pink plus sign. He had lavished her with kisses in thanks and scheduled an appointment with her doctor before she could truly comprehend the results.
"A man takes care of his family," he informs her. "I wouldn't put my family in a situation where your safety is threatened."
She nods her head in quiet acquiescence at his words, files the reminder that they are finally, officially a family in the back of her mind. It is her turn to raise her free hand, to cup his cheek and smooth away the worried wrinkle around his eye.
"You can have Arthur for however long it takes you to get comfortable riding in town cars and limos again. If that takes two days or until the baby is born, you can have the limo."
She cannot help the small laugh that escapes at the suggestion that Chuck Bass will be seen without his trademark limo. But he shakes his head in response, quietly reminds her that he'd rather live without his limo than without her.
"I love you."
"I love you, too," he informs her and then presses his fingers against her firm belly. "And I love our baby."
She offers him a soft smile, purses her lips together and moves to place a quick kiss against his cheek. But he turns his head and captures her lips with his own. The melding of their mouths, the twining of their tongues is hungry and ravenous as though neither of them will ever get their fill of the other.
He breaks away from her first, moves his hand from her cheek to tug at her scarf and expose her neck to his lips. She gasps when he finds that particular spot, when he nibbles gently on her skin, and she barely manages to choke out the words before her eyes roll to the back of her head.
"You're going to be a wonderful father, Chuck."