Author's Note: This is for Chris, who sent me a request via twitter back in April to see a lazy Sunday afternoon where Blair ponders over her love whilst watching Chuck with his son.

The autumn air – cool and crisp – breezes through her hair picking up the loose curls cascading out from under her black beret and brushing the fine, brunette hairs against her cheek and nose and mouth. Her hand moves up to brush the hairs away, to move the hairs out of her gaze as the breeze carries the laughter she knows intimately to her ears. Her gaze darts to find the source, to land on the little boy waving his scarf behind him as he runs around and around in circles. A tantalizing temptation the aging dog nipping at his heels cannot resist.

Of course, Henry would quickly correct her description of him. He is nine and, therefore, definitely not a little boy. He has his own expense account at Turnbull and Asser and he takes the limo to and from school all by himself. Never mind the fact that Arthur escorts him to gate of his school every morning and that Dorota watches for his arrival after school from the front door of the townhouse. He is most assuredly not a baby. Not anymore.

Moments like these, though, show he is still her little boy. Still runs and shouts and plays and does all the things his parents never did. Blair was too afraid to muss her dress or stain her dainty, white gloves; Chuck was too busy trying not to disappoint his father and doing so anyways. And she smiles at the sight before her because it is happy and light and even though she cannot hear Chuck's laughter over Monkey's barking and Henry's shouts, she can see that soft, happy smile on her husband's lips.

The one that makes the skin around his eyes crinkle, shows just a glimpse of her teeth, and looks almost boyish compared to the rest of his appearance. A moment where he is light and free and happier than he has ever been as he catches Henry and throws him over his shoulder without a second thought to his clothes.

Of course, as the successful CEO of a major fashion house she thinks about the possible stains, but those thoughts are banished as a small hand is thrust into her face. Small fingers curling towards the palm of the hand under her gaze and then splaying outward again in a silent demand for more, more, more. And her own hand – the one currently holding her hair back and keeping it from blowing into her eyes – moves to sweep brown hair off the demander's forehead, to run her finger against his plump cheek.

"What do you say?"

A scowl returns to his lips; her silent and brooding son none too pleased that he is being asked to use his words. A little boy who is four going on fourteen with a flair for the dramatics and possessing an uncanny ability to look exactly like his father when he is sulking about not getting his way.

"Please."

His little lip juts out with his exasperated sigh because he is a Bass and he resents all attempts to turn him into the Golden Boy of the Upper East Side like his namesake. Never mind that he is the first to try to make you smile, the first to pat your cheek and break his silent observations of the world around him to say "I just want you to be happy" when his mother or father or brother or everyone he knows and loves shows even the slightest hint of sadness.

His dark eyes dance with happiness and that expressive smile he inherited from his mother replaces the scowl when his mother places another slice of bread in his outstretched hand, when he toddles off towards the duck pond and eagerly tears off chunks of the ducks with his pudgy fingers. The last sign of babyhood sending a wistful sigh across her lips as he tosses out the bread for the ducks and laughs at how they move ungracefully and eagerly to catch the pieces.

His step closer to the edge, closer to the water and across the line she set for his safety causes her to rise and push herself up off the bench in a move no more graceful than the antics of the ducks. But her husband is suddenly right there - always the first to catch her and her children from falling, the first to carry them. He snags the belt loop of the little boy's pants and calls out their youngest son's name in a deep, warning tone.

Of course, Nathan doesn't flush with shame over being caught in his transgression against the rules. Neither of their children flush with shame when caught mid-scheme in a plot to get what they want. But Nathan does back up and willingly offers up a chunk of his bread to Henry before he is even prompted into sharing. A giving little boy without all the selfishness she and her husband possessed as children.

The nudge of the aging dog against her leg distracts her for a moment, and she automatically moves to connect the leash to Monkey's leather collar even though the dog is far too tired to go chasing after ducks and squirrels today. She runs her hand through his fur and pats him on the head because although Monkey is her husband's dog and her sons' best friend, it is no secret that the dog adores the alpha female of this pack even though she tells him to get off the bed and the couch multiple times a day. Her distraction and affection for Monkey inadvertently allowing her husband to sit down on the bench beside her without her notice.

Of course, her body immediately notices because the breeze carries the scent of his natural musk to her nose. Because her skin prickles with electricity as his arm drapes over the bench behind her and his fingers move to stroke her neck through the curtain of silky, brown hair in his way.

"I see you're wearing your beret. Who are we spying on today?"

"You," she replies matter-of-factly as her gaze slides from Monkey seated and panting beside her to Henry and Nathan standing and feeding the ducks in front of her and finally to Chuck seated and panting beside her. "Are you getting tired in your old age?"

"Old? You're one to talk. I'm younger than you, cougar."

Her huff of annoyance is her response to his teasing smirk. Her intake of air is her response to his smug smirk, to the fingers of his other hand slipping between the fold of her coat to stroke against her belly through the silky fabric of her blouse.

"I'm thirty-two not fifty," he reminds her, "and I think this shows how young and spry and athletic I am."

"And you didn't even have to remove your scarf," she replies with a roll of her eyes.

"If I recall correctly, you were the one wearing my scarf."

"It was chilly!"

"It wasn't," he corrects smarmily as his fingers continue to stroke against the nape of her neck, as her body shivers under his touch. "You were practically feverish."

"I hate you," she snaps turning her gaze back to Henry and Nathan as she tries to ignore the way his fingers are stroking ever so reverently against her body under her coat. And his teasing words about how she says this every time and yet here they are again are batted away with the flick of her hand.

Chuck's hand slides out from between her coat as Henry runs towards them asking for more bread, and Chuck thrusts the near empty bag into his son's hand because who is he to deny the ducks their dinner? He sits in quiet contemplation, quite amazement beside his way as they watch the perfect blends of Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck joke and laugh. Henry feeds the ducks and Nathan tries to steal his older brother's scarf to wrap it around his neck and slants his eyes as he pretends to choke himself. And Chuck smiles softly when Blair flushes with love over the sight before them, when she tangles her fingers with his in his lap – a squeeze of hesitation and a squeeze of reassurance in reply.

"Eleven weeks to go," she murmurs as she presses her free hand to the side of her body. "I'm going to miss being surrounded by Bass men."

"Every kingdom needs a princess," her husband reminds her softly turning his head so his words are whispers in her ear. And she breaks out into a small smile as her head drops, as her hair falls like a curtain over her eyes and her hand moves reverently across the swell of her belly. "And don't tell me you're not excited. I saw that box of headbands on your dressing table."

Of course, Blair is excited about having a little girl. It is an opportunity to drown herself in headbands and bows and dresses in both her private and her professional life; an opportunity to be the supportive, loving mother that Eleanor couldn't always be.

"Well, she's going to need a crown if she is to rule the Upper East Side," she informs her husband as Chuck's hand moves to rest her belly beside her own. The skin around his eyes crinkling when a smile spreads across his lips as his little girl kicks her parents' palms through the bulk of her mother's clothing almost as though she is agreeing with her mother's words.

"Madeline is a Waldorf-Bass," Chuck reminds Blair as he moves her hand from her stomach to his lips. A soft kiss against her skin expressing all the adoration he feels for her and sending another jolt of electricity to her heart as a wide, content smile spreads across her lips. "Of course, she will be the best of the best just like her mother."