DREAM AWAKE
author: Sky Samuelle
summary: A scene lost from 1.18 "Much I Do About Nothing." Blair awakes in the Chuck's bed.
Ship: CB
Spoilers: up to 1.18
Words: 783
"You
don't belong with Nate, never have, never will."
"You
don't belong with anyone."
She awakes in his bed with those words in her mind and the almost forgotten sensation of her naked skin against silk sheets.
She overhears—from the deepest pit of her mind—a bolder version of herself whispering a saucy taunt:
"Kiss me now, Bass, and I promise I won't respect you any less, limo or no limo."
Blair keeps her eyes closed as memories rush back to her.
Making out with him in the limo, after daring Chuck to kiss her. His mouth leaving a burning trail of wet, lingering kisses along the curve of her neck.
Biting his shoulder as she came undone underneath him, in his room, in his bed. Dozing off almost without noticing, warmed all over by an intense, deeply satisfying awareness of his arms snaking around her waist and drawing her back, holding her possessively against his chest as his breath tickled her nape.
She opens her eyes and sits slowly up, holding the sheets to her breast, to find that, somewhere during the night, Chuck has rolled away from her and slept on the opposite side of the bed, turning his back to her.
It's the first time they have allowed themselves to fall sleep in the same bed and she has to remind herself that she has nothing to fear and no reason to run.
Not after all that he has said to her at Lily and Bart's wedding. Not after all she has seen in his eyes while they were dancing…such a soft, tentative intensity that nobody else had ever directed at her. A warmth not laced with lust that she wouldn't have suspected him capable of.
You don't belong with anyone.
Eyes glued to his back, Blair wonders if he has even suspected the significance behind that line of hers.
Probably not.
Even if he should know that 'Breakfast at Tiffany's' basically lives inside her mind. That she was subconsciously citing her favorite movie while comparing him to Humphrey Bogart and thus their relationship to the star-crossed romance of her dreams.
In Blair Waldorf's book is tantamount to admitting so much. Too much.
How much she has missed him, how his desire always makes her conflicting perceptions about her body fall away.
How similar they really are, under the deceiving veneers of her poise and his crudity, of his promiscuity and her self-consciousness, her caution and his bravado.
How vulnerable this makes her to him and how she wouldn't have realized it until he deliberately, utterly crushed her.
How little it mattered to her anymore, playing it smart or safe on that dance floor, while his eyes were claiming she was the only thing he could truly see, when she was too lightheaded and breathless to deny that all what she wanted it was him.
She watches Chuck rolling on his stomach brusquely and when his head turns toward her and her gaze meets his, she knows it's just appropriate to mock him a little.
I guess we took it really slow, huh?
The quip's ready on her lips but it dies there, because her body is growing hot all over and his eyes are so dark, so unreadable.
It feels still mind-blowing to remember Chuck Bass has all but admitted he's in love. With her, Blair Waldorf.
It's all so different from last time they fooled around that she's a bit too afraid to abandon yesterday's glowing perfection and fish for answers to and definitions for tomorrow's questions. They have yet to define their level of commitment to…this thing between them.
But then Chuck smiles and she slides back under his sheets, content to not be disappointed when he pulls her against his body, unwilling to wonder if he has been awake all along.
"Morning."
Chuck greets her before he kisses her deeply, his hand flat and warm on her thigh.
His voice, groggy and deepened by sleep, sends pleasant shivers along her spine.
The faint but needy, completely involuntary groan which escapes her mouth before his tongue meets hers surprises her as much it does him.
So she kisses him back roughly and forgets everything but his taste.
Forgets even that this might be love, that kind of true love which is never in fairy tales, scary and messy and dirty and real, but all-enduring and everlasting all the same. The kind she has never imagined for herself.
That kind she fears as much as she wants it.