AN: They say the holidays are a time for good cheer and goodwill. Thus, I am embarking on a 'Twelve days till Christmas' fic, a collection of oneshots written for a few of my favorites - my GG family, so to speak. A little angst, a little humor, and enough CB lovin' to get us through the New Year. Each oneshot takes its title (and perhaps a smidgen of inspiration) from a Christmas carol.

Winter Wonderland was written for The Very Last Valkyrie, writer extraordinaire and fellow Kate Spade aficionado whose Tiffany-frame-worthy reviews are truly the highlights of my day. I'm eagerly awaiting the day we're both accepted into Oxford and take over the university, S&B style. Joyeux Noel, B!

The request was for holiday fluff, and my prompts were: Snow, Sugar, and Shoes.

Special thanks to bethaboo, my amazing, amazing beta.

"In the lane, snow is glistening
A beautiful sight
We're happy tonight
Walking in a winter wonderland"

-Winter Wonderland

"Uh…Blair?" Chuck poked his head tentatively out of the pantry, a look of extreme apprehension on his face.

He had thought Blair vicious when fighting over the last pair of limited edition Manolos in a size six, or perhaps when brutally castigating one of her minions.

This, however, was a new level of Blair-vicious.

Perhaps this was why Dorota had given the job of baking an cranberry pie for Christmas to Chuck this year. The maid had given him an apron, whispered a covert, "Good luck, Mr. Chuck.", and scampered from the penthouse.

Chuck had never known that baking a simple pie could take quite so long. Or require this many steps. Steps that Blair had required to be carried out with the utmost perfection and unwavering excellence.

Blair had nearly fallen to the floor in shock when Chuck had dared suggest they use pre-made dough.

The venomous glare she had sent him for "suggesting they alter her father's recipe" was truly formidable, indeed.

And Chuck now wondered what his punishment was to be when he announced to Blair that they had run out of sugar.

"What?" she snapped, joining him at the entrance to the Waldorf's incredibly oversized pantry.

"You're out of sugar," Chuck answered meekly, showing Blair the empty canister.

"Impossible," Blair seethed, elbowing him out of the way. "You're probably confusing the sugar with something else. I asked Dorota to ensure that we had everything."

Turning the canister towards Blair so the word Sugar could be easily read, Chuck braced himself for an outburst.

Nearly growling, Blair stomped over to her phone and dialed with incredible speed. While Blair tapped her foot impatiently, Chuck returned the canister to its perch amongst others of the height and shape—it had taken him nearly ten minutes to find it in the first place—and stepped out of the pantry.

"Straight to voicemail," Blair growled, slamming her phone onto the marble countertop with unnecessary force.

"Does this mean we won't be making pie?" Chuck asked, the excitement he tried to keep at bay clearly evident in his voice.

"No," Blair said venomously, turning to glare at him before untying her own, lace-trimmed apron. "We'll just have to get some ourselves."

"It's a blizzard, outside, Blair." Chuck gestured towards the windows, and the falling snow outside. While the snow promised a White Christmas, it also promised icy roads and traffic. Among other things.

"Can't we get someone else to deliver some sugar?" Chuck nearly begged, not wanting to brave the snow outside.

Blair shrugged, "What's Preston doing?"

"Nothing that's more important than buying sugar and having it delivered within the hour," Chuck assured her.

But the call, which Chuck had placed all his hopes on, went unanswered. Resolving to fire the imbecile the coming Monday, Chuck turned to Blair, apprehensive.

Within the next twenty minutes, every option had been exhausted. Excuses had been made, and calls had gone unanswered, as if the entire world were pitting Chuck and Blair against the storm currently ravaging New York.

"It's going to take two hours to drive there," Chuck told Blair, frowning slightly. The traffic in New York had gotten worse with the roads covered in snow, and he had not envisioned his afternoon spent in a cab. Truthfully, he'd expected they would be finished with the pie in thirty minutes, and the rest of the afternoon could be spent enjoying—

"Then we'll walk."

Blair's words sounded alien to the both of them, but Chuck's look of incredulity did not match Blair's look of resolve.

"We're walking?" he asked in astonishment.

"Well we can't very well have Daddy show up for dinner and not have pie tonight," Blair explained with a roll of her eyes.

"We could always have one catered with the rest of the dinner," Chuck reasoned, but he knew his argument was futile as Blair slipped on her calfskin gloves.

"We're going to Williams Sonoma, not Gramercy Park," Blair defended. "It's not that bad of a walk."

"In those shoes?" Chuck nodded towards Blair's brand new Loeffler Randall boots. The ones she had forced Chuck to stand in line for, while she and Serena perused Bergdorf's first floor.

"They're gorgeous, aren't they?" Blair said with a sigh, taking a moment to admire her three-inch, camel kidskin boots.

"In this snow? They're a disaster waiting to happen."

"I've been walking in heels since the first grade," Blair snapped, "I'll be fine, Chuck."

"Fine," Chuck conceded. "Just don't expect me to bake the entire pie while you're in the hospital because of an ankle fracture."

"I'll be fine," Blair said with a frustrated sigh, waiting for the elevator doors to open.

Herman, Blair's doorman, looked in surprise as the two, wrapped in wool coats and cashmere scarves, walked through the doors and turned, without waiting for a car.

"This is a terrible idea," Chuck whispered under his breath, as snow fell thickly and a frigid wind bit sharply at their exposed skin.

"I'm making this pie if it kills me," Blair said in return, though she grasped Chuck's hand harder and nearly fell on him as she tripped slightly. Avoiding Chuck's 'see?' look, she straightened and they forged on.

Strains of Christmas music could be heard from nearby shops, and as they walked hand in hand, through the winter storm, Chuck almost found it…pleasant.

Blair seemed to be lost in thought as they continued on, and content to remain in the comfortable silence that had passed between them, Chuck only drew her closer as they walked on.

However, the comfortable silence only lasted a short while, until Blair let out an involuntary squeal, hitting a patch of ice that Chuck had just barely missed.

One of her beloved shoes catching on a divot in the ice, Blair fell backwards, arms flailing as Chuck let go of her hand quickly. The heel of her shoe snapped, and Blair landed with an unceremonious thump, all while passerby looked on with slight amusement.

"Blair?" Chuck edged forward cautiously, careful to avoid the patch of ice that Blair had slipped on.

"You shouldn't have let go of me, you idiot," came Blair's voice from within her cashmere scarf and disarray of curls.

"Then we both would have fallen and made a complete fool of ourselves," Chuck countered, as he reached out to the fallen Blair, palm up.

Slapping his hand away, Blair got to her feet awkwardly, one shoe now heel-less, cradling her left wrist in her hand.

Glancing helplessly around her, Blair's gaze fell on the severed heel of her shoe. Tears sprang to her eyes, and Chuck stepped forward, alarmed.

"We can always get another pair," he placated, his voice slightly afraid of Blair's antics.

"I'm not crying over my shoes, you Mother Chucker," Blair snapped. "Although they were limited edition," she teetered slightly, off balance thanks to being three inches taller on her left side.

"I think my wrist is broken," she admitted, attempting to flex her fingers, and winced in pain.

"Let me—" Chuck reached out to her, but Blair recoiled back, glaring at him.

"Blair," Chuck said exasperatedly, and Blair's glare increased in intensity.

"This wouldn't be happening if you had just held onto me," Blair all but growled, though she winced slightly, still cradling her injured hand.

"And this wouldn't have happened if you didn't wear those ridiculous—"

Blair's glare became venomous, and Chuck cut himself off abruptly, knowing that commenting on her choice of footwear was not the best idea.

"Just let me see your wrist," Chuck said gently, and Blair conceded, stretching out her injured wrist.

Removing her leather gloves, Chuck winced at the sight of Blair's tiny wrist, abnormally twisted and already swelled to twice its normal size.

"I think it's broken," Chuck declared, prodding gently with the tips of his own fingers. Letting out a yelp of pain, Blair snatched back her wrist, cradling it in her other hand.

"Thank you, Dr. Obvious," Blair said dryly, then glanced around, hoping to see a—

"You have got to be kidding me," she groaned, and Chuck followed her gaze, landing on the only shoe store close by.

"I am not wearing Crocs," Blair declared, still leaning on Chuck for support. She would have removed her boots already, but risking frostbite was not on her agenda.

None of this was, really.

"It won't be that bad," Chuck said, attempting to appease Blair. But the teasing tone of his voice did not go unnoticed by Blair.

"Can we just call a car to take us to the hospital?" Blair pleaded, but Chuck shook his head.

"It'll take hours for a car to reach us," Chuck reasoned. "The hospital is barely two blocks away—"

"I am not walking to the hospital. Have you seen my shoes?"

Chuck nodded towards the Crocs store, barely restraining a smirk. "I guess it's a good idea you decided to fall in front of a shoe store."

"There isn't a chance in hell," Blair proclaimed, then leaning on Chuck, took a few steps forward. "I can make it to the hospital."

"You're missing a heel," Chuck told her. "Blair, you won't be able to make it."

Gritting her teeth and tightening her hold on Chuck's upper arm, Blair attempted an odd gait, one that managed to get her about four steps, before she gave up.

"It's cold," Blair reasoned. "No one wears Crocs, let alone in the cold."

"Looks like they have ones lined in fur," Chuck said, nodding towards the window display.

Suppressing a whimper, Blair ventured forward—still clinging to Chuck—and stepped inside the store.

"I'm going to kill you," she murmured, as a saleslady rushed forward, looking curiously at Blair's missing heel.

"Looking for another pair of shoes, I presume?" she asked with a laugh, only to be cut off by Blair's fiercest glare.

"Something I'd actually wear in public, thanks," Blair replied primly, eyes scanning the walls of brightly colored rubber—ugh—Crocs.

"We have boots, if you're so inclined," the girl said timidly, pointing towards a back wall.

Hobbling over to the wall, still holding her left hand gingerly.

"Those," she pointed towards a pair of dove grey boots, ones that actually looked like something she could conceivably wear.

"Size?" the girl prompted, and Blair sighed. At least in Bergdorf's, they had been so familiar with her they hadn't asked her size in years.

"Six," she replied frostily, sitting down onto a nearby chair.

"The Huliewho's are quite popular," the girl said. "We only have a nine-and-a-half left…"

Scrunching up her nose, Blair figured that three sizes wasn't too much of a stretch, but Chuck interrupted, pointing towards a bright yellow boot, "What about those?"

Ignoring Blair's look of pure venom, the girl brought out a size six, setting it down in front of Blair with a proud smile.

"No."

"Blair."

"There is no way, Bass."

Chuck raised his eyebrows, checking his watch. "We're never going to have this pie done in time unless—"

With some aid from the girl, Blair pulled off her beloved boots and slipped her feet into the yellow…monstrosities.

"Must they be yellow?" Blair asked, wrinkling her nose.

"It's winter," the girl responded, "we can barely keep anything in stock."

"We'll take them," Chuck said, handing over his card before any other protests could be made.

"I could have paid—" Blair piped up, but Chuck merely shrugged.

"Think of it as an apology for letting you fall."

"This isn't an apology," Blair raged, "it's a punishment. You owe me a new pair of boots."

"Look, Blair, I'll buy you a dozen pairs of boots if you'll just wear these so we can get to the hospital."

"I'm fine," Blair said, the slightest of blushes forming at his concern. Since when had Chuck Bass ever thought of anyone but himself?

"Your wrist is broken," Chuck volleyed back, offering his hand.

Without the added height, Blair found herself considerably shorter than Chuck, and as they exited the store, she avoided mirrors at all costs.

The looks from passerby were enough.

…

The waiting was excruciating. The minor fatality of Blair's injury, coupled with the understaffed hospital and numerous holiday-related injuries, made for an extensive waiting time.

Until the hospital finally gave into Chuck's promise of a hefty donation, and conceded to Blair's threats—they knew the names Waldorf and Bass well, and they were loath to anger two people belonging to some of Manhattan's most prominent families.

So it was merely two hours later when they finally emerged from the hospital, Blair's left wrist clad in a cast, white as the snow outside, and her lamenting over the yellow boots finally ceasing.

En route to Williams Sonoma—"Thank goodness we started early, we may still be able to bake that pie"—Blair had discarded her yellow boots for fur-lined Burberry, which Chuck had been forced to purchase while they were fitting her for her cast.

And three hours later, Chuck and Blair finally arrived at the Waldorf penthouse, weary, tired, and cold, but armed with enough sugar to bake the pie.

"At least we made the pie crust before," Blair grumbled, glancing at the clock. Chuck winced at the memory, and vowed that if the Empire ever failed him, he was not to go into baking.

"You'll have to make the filling," Blair continued, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Chuck, however, froze in his steps, a look of pure horror on his face.

"Blair," he nearly begged, "it was bad enough when I had to help you make the pie. I won't be able to do it on my own."

"My left hand is in a cast," Blair explained drily, "you're on your own with this one, Bass. It's your fault for—"

"If I hadn't let go, I probably would've broken my wrist as well," Chuck reasoned.

Blair flashed him a smile, or rather, a smirk.

"Then I guess it's a good thing you let go," she trilled.

Groaning, Chuck followed Blair into the kitchen, the once immaculate kitchen that now bore the brunt of their efforts. Nearly every surface was covered in some sort of ingredient or dirty bowl, and the egg Chuck had dropped onto the floor was still there—neither of them had wanted to clean it up.

"Alright," Blair said, sitting down on a stool and picking up the recipe card, "we need sugar, cinnamon, flour, salt, and nutmeg in a saucepan."

Blair looked up expectantly, and Chuck looked at her blankly, the only word that had processed was sugar. And that was because he was holding it.

"Cinnamon," Blair enunciated, pointing towards a cupboard. "The jar is labeled."

Chuck trudged wearily to the pantry, and with relative ease, found the spice. Setting it carefully beside one of the few clean bowls, he turned to Blair for the next ingredient.

"Nutmeg," she said, nodding towards the cupboard again, "and salt. You should know where the flour is by now."

This isn't so bad, he thought, lining up the ingredients and looking at Blair expectantly.

"Saucepan," was her next command, and when a blank stare was her only response, hopped off her stool and to another cupboard, managing to extract what Chuck assumed was a saucepan.

Grabbing the measuring cups and spoons—he had never touched one before that afternoon—Chuck brought the ingredients to Blair.

As he measured out the sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt, Chuck found himself actually…enjoying it. There was some sort of odd satisfaction at mixing and measuring the appropriate ingredients together.

"Oranges," Blair murmured, reading from the recipe card. "We need orange juice. Can you squeeze an orange?"

Chuck, being Chuck Bass, found the statement amusing, though he was sure any other normal person wouldn't have inferred an innuendo from a standard culinary phrase.

But Blair's glare stopped his laugh short, and Chuck dutifully retrieved the oranges, looking completely lost as he held them out to Blair.

"Knives are over there," Blair said with a sigh, "and you have to cut the oranges in half Chuck."

"I didn't grow up with a polish maid teaching me to cook," Chuck retorted quietly, but going towards the knives regardless.

"No," Blair returned with a smirk, "you grew up with French au-pairs who taught you how to—"

Her words are cut off by a rather colorful string of swear words from Chuck, who, attempting to cut the orange, sliced his finger instead.

"You cut yourself?" Blair asked, exasperated. "Really, Chuck?"

"Just get me a band-aid," he said, wincing as he applied pressure to the wound.

"Apparently making this pie is more dangerous than we thought," Blair mused out loud, fishing through a drawer for a band-aid.

"I'll say," Chuck agreed. "What do you say we order one from—"

"No," Blair said firmly, throwing the band-aid at him. "We've got this far."

And apparently they didn't have very far to go. With his finger bandaged, Chuck managed to cut and squeeze an orange, without much aid from Blair. As Blair stirred the orange juice into the mixture, he retrieved the cranberries from the refrigerator.

Finally, half an hour and zero accidents later, the pie was in the oven, and Chuck was leaning against the countertop, absolutely exhausted.

"Done," he proclaimed, setting the pink-and-white striped oven mitts aside. The ones Blair had giggled and laughed at, then proceeded to take a picture to send to Serena. Because Chuck, not wanting to get flour on his Dolce & Gabbana, had opted for Dorota's lavender apron, telling Blair that purple suited him anyways.

He made a mental note to buy a more…masculine apron for next time, when Chuck shook his head. There wasn't going to be a next time.

"Not even close," Blair said, pointing to the dirty dishes around the kitchen. "You've got to clean up before everyone arrives."

Chuck looked at Blair, hoping that she was kidding. But the look on her face told him she was completely serious.

"Isn't this why we have staff?" He asked incredulously.

"I gave them the day off, remember? I didn't think making pie would be such a big production," Blair singsonged, and Chuck narrowed his eyes. She was enjoying this.

"Or we could leave it till the caterers get here," Chuck suggested, walking closer to Blair and smirking suggestively, "and you could reward me for—"

"They'll need space for the food, Chuck," Blair said, annoyed as she shoved away his wandering hands.

"You could help," Chuck suggested, and only got a laugh in response.

"Cast, remember? I can't get it wet."

Chuck shot Blair a glare of faux-loathing as he rolled up his sleeves, beginning to pile the dishes beside the sink.

Frowning, Chuck knew that washing the dishes was going to be as big of a production as making the damn pie.

"Just put them in the dishwasher," Blair pointed towards the generously sized dishwasher, "the other stuff you can leave for the others."

Nodding, Chuck began to put plates into the dishwasher at random, until, five minutes in, he found that there was an actual method to placing dishes in the dishwasher.

"And if you're done soon…" Blair's voice trailed off suggestively, and as she slid off the stool with a parting smirk, Chuck hurried to finish the dishes.

Ten minutes later, he had flour in his hair, his six-hundred-dollar pants had been ruined, and he appeared in the doorway of Blair's bedroom with a smirk of what was to come.

And Blair, who had managed to get out of her dress and into a silk negligee even with her cast, made trudging through snowy New York, slicing his finger with a knife, and baking, well worth it.

…

Tilting his head back with a contented sigh, Chuck closed his eyes as Blair snuggled closer, and taking a deep, relaxing breath, smelled—

"Is that smoke?"

Chuck's eyes popped open, and Blair glared at him, rolling over to grab her robe. Together, half-clothed, they rushed down to the kitchen, only to find plumes of dark grey smoke coming from the oven.

It was a miracle the fire alarm hadn't gone off, Chuck thought, but just as he grabbed the oven mitts, a loud blaring filled the penthouse.

A litany of curses went unheard by Blair, who was screaming at Chuck as she stormed upstairs to dress quickly. Chuck, who had managed to turn off the oven and extract the pie, setting it gingerly on the stove, had no such intelligent thoughts.

It was black. Utterly charred and completely inedible.

All he could think of was how Blair would probably withhold sex for a week when she saw the pie—and that was how the firefighters found him when they stormed into the apartment.

In his boxers, pink-and-white oven mitts, and hanging his head dejectedly beside the oven.

Blair, who had appeared in a white shift and tights when she heard the elevator, had barely held in her giggles.

Finally, twenty minutes later, the firefighters finished checking the penthouse, and left with a few parting comments directed Chuck, who was now dressed in his pants and rumpled shirt.

Sighing, Blair picked up her phone, "I suppose we will have to get a pie from Dean & Deluca."

"You're not going to berate me for destroying that one?" Chuck nodded towards the charred pie, which was still smoking slightly.

Blair stifled a laugh, "I think watching that fireman give you his number was gratifying enough."

…

"A lovely dinner, Blair Bear," Harold proclaimed, smiling proudly at Blair. "Though I am disappointed we didn't get to eat that cranberry pie you made."

"It's alright, Daddy," Blair said sweetly, with a not-so-sweet glance Chuck's way. "There's always next year."

It took all of Chuck's willpower not to groan.

fin