Even Before the Hormones Kicked In
Chuck couldn't remember a time in his life when he wasn't acutely aware of the presence of Blair Waldorf. Even before hormones began to kick in, he had always been impressed with the eloquence and authority with which she commanded a room, and he recalled towing behind her at large charity functions before he realized that social graces frowned upon stalking. Not that Chuck ever stopped stalking Blair Waldorf—he just learned how to do it with a tinge of subtlety. Besides, Blair was always so busy domineering that she never actually realized quite how pathetically enamored with her Chuck truly was.
When Chuck was about eight, one of his endless supplies of nannies and au pairs—a wannabe socialite, Svetlana, or was it Sonja? -- took him along on a day trip to Bergdorf's under the pretense of purchasing for him a new spring wardrobe. (In reality, the poor woman probably just wanted to ogle the resort collections.) Chuck, after being forced to endure endless varieties of silk-blend shorts and hideously crafted cashmere cardigans, seized a chance to slip out of her accented iron grip as she chatted up the Dior make-up counter clerk. He wandered around aimlessly, ducking around and through the myriad of display cases. Chuck was casually examining a blue leather Yves Saint Laurent purse when a familiar, tinkling voice reached his ears. His pulse quickened as he realized the voice belonged to none other than Blair Waldorf. He hurriedly dropped the clutch and ducked behind a luggage display.
Blair sang under her breath as she perused the department store, searching for her live-in, Dorota. She paused to pick up the bag Chuck had just been looking at and smiled. She could just so imagine herself carrying a clutch like the Yves Saint Laurent one someday, when she and Nate got married, and she absentmindedly twirled in front of the mirror, envisioning the scene. Blair put down the bag, and skipped off, remembering Dorota, not even blinking at Chuck, half-concealed within the Prada suitcase.
Chuck extracted himself from the overpriced leather and hurried after Blair. He tracked her through the store, past the men's business area, and through the designer perfumes, stopping to grab a sample card from the one that Blair had tried. He sulked around a corner while she stopped in winter wear, trying on ridiculous hats and giggling at her appearance in the many mirrors. His breath caught in his throat as she wound a blue and brown checkered scarf around her thin throat, the fabric contrasting beautifully against her pale skin and large eyes. She caught sight of her reflection, and sighed, re-arranging her hair to fall perfectly around the soft material.
Blair ran her thumb and forefinger along the length of the gorgeous scarf she had just tried on, trying to remember if anyone she knew had one remotely like it. Even though she was only in third grade, and most kids she knew (herself included) were still dressed by their nannies, she still prided herself on being the most fashion-conscious of everyone at Constance and St. Jude's. She finally decided to purchase the swath of fleece, but figured she'd run it past Serena and Is for final approval when she caught sight of Dorota, who was browsing the cashmere socks across the aisle.
Chuck watched as Blair held her scarf up to a plump brunette woman—(her mother?)—and ask politely if she could perhaps take it home, and keep it. She referred to the woman as Dorota, and the woman called her "Miss Blair" (her nanny, then). He couldn't make out all of the words this Dorota said to Blair, but he saw her face fall, and
she deposited the scarf on the counter as the woman grabbed her hand and pulled her around the store and out through the glass doors to a waiting limo. Chuck consciously picked up the scarf that Blair had been handling. The fabric flowed over his hands, warming them almost instantly. Before he even realized what he was doing, Chuck gripped the item and brought it up to the cash register with the authority that only a third grader with six credit cards can possess. As the lady rung up the total, Chuck impulsively decided—he would give the scarf to Blair, as a gift. Surely then they'd be friends, and he could stop this drug-like effect she seemed to expel onto him.
Four hours later, of course, Chuck realized what a stupid idea giving Blair Waldorf the scarf would be. He sat, cross-legged, on his bed, considering the idea. First off, Blair would certainly know that he saw her at Bergdorf's, and then she would wonder why he was stalking her instead of speaking to her like his cocky attitude would suggest. Secondly, it wasn't her birthday. Chuck may have been a particularly brazen child, but even he knew that gifts to girls with whom one was not friends was barely acceptable on an occasion that merited gift-giving, much less otherwise. Thus, Chuck hung the scarf on his door handle for six days before, on a whim, wrapping it around his own neck one frigid October morning.
Blair noticed Chuck Bass immediately as he stepped out of his limo that morning, casually sipping coffee on the front steps with her friends. She nudged Serena, and pointed out his winter adornment, noting that it was the one she so admired, secretly thankful that she hadn't bought it when Chuck already owned the same.
"Go talk to him, then," Serena whispered. "I know Chuck, it's okay." Blair glanced up at him again, and feeling an unnatural sense of adrenaline rushing through her veins, sauntered up to Chuck, acting with poise she certainly did not feel.
Chuck strolled up to the brick school building, pausing as he saw Blair Waldorf out of the corner of his eye. Instead of brushing past him, like she usually did, she stopped directly in front of his path and smiled. Chuck swallowed, hard.
"Cool scarf," Blair said, and linked her arm through his. Hardly able to believe his luck, Chuck held the door open for her, and unwound the fleece strip from his coat.
"You can have it," he said, and handed the checkered material to her, their fingertips brushing. "I have a bunch more at home." A lie. One that could be easily remedied with another trip to Bergdorf's that afternoon. Blair smiled, genuine and beautiful, and as she walked away through the door into the Constance Billards building, it dawned upon that no one would ever have him as wrapped around their little finger as Blair Cornelia Waldorf. Not like that wasn't completely humiliating or anything.