Author's Note: This is my response to the prompt for Day Four of Chair Week on tumblr, family.
A bubble floats on the surface of the warmed water, and she watches it drift across the expanse of the tub until it meets and clings to the skin of his knee. He dips his knee back under the water; pops the cluster of bubbles have accumulated against his skin. His knee presses against hers as he shifts around his weight and tries to submerge more of his body into the water.
She lulls her head backwards, rests it against the broad expanse of his chest, and exposes her neck to him in the process. His head drops, moves so he can plant kisses against the exposed skin because he cannot resist her. She sighs at the sensation, drags her hand from where it was resting against his calf to his knee and then up her side to the place where their child grows inside her.
"A boy," she mummers aloud in stunned amazement. Her husband stops himself with lips still puckered against her skin, stops himself in order to register her announcement. He slides his own hand around her waist and nuzzles the space just below her earlobe with his nose.
"I told you, Mrs. Bass," he reminds her with words spoken directly into her ear. "Basses make boys."
She scowls at the reminder that she has lost the bet, softens when his hand softly strokes her stretched skin.
"You must be thrilled. After all, every father wants a son," she knowingly replies. "Someone to carry on the name and pass on the –"
His hand stops mid-stroke, and she winces as the weight of her words are fully comprehended mid-sentence. A moment passes in silence, and she shivers because all of the sudden the water has gone from warm to tepid to cold.
"I'm not going to be my father," he informs her sharply. Both hands wrap around her rounded frame, nearly engulf the promise she carries with his own. His thumbs trace circles in her skin, sooth away the worry that has knotted inside the pit of her stomach.
"I'm going to be so good to him," he promises with a hitch in his voice. "I'm going to be so good to both of you."
She shifts against him, wants to turn around and wrap her arms around him. But the weight of his arms still her movements, and she finds that all she can do is twist her head up and look at him from below. His features are tight and betray no emotions, but his eyes – the tiny parts she can see – give him away.
"You already are," she swears. "You're the best man I know."
She reaches up with an outstretched palm, places it against his cheek as tiny droplets of water fall back into her eyes. They mix and mingle with the salty water already there.
"He's the luckiest little boy because he gets to have you as his daddy," she informs him as she gently strokes his cheek. She pauses, offers him a knowing smile. "And me as his mother."
She expects him to laugh, expects him to smirk at the way she has such confidence about herself. But instead he rapidly drops his head and captures her lips with his. There is hunger and desire yet an undercurrent of need almost as though he is trying to assure himself that what she says is real, that what she is offering is his to take.
"Thank you," he whispers softly when they break away from one another.
She raises an eyebrow in question, in an attempt to get him to elaborate, but he stays mum as he presses his forehead against her temple with a sigh. His fingers go back to trailing across her frame, and she shivers against him one more time.
"We're going to be a family," he whispers so softly that she almost misses the words.
"We already are," she replies.
"No." He shakes his head softly, sadly. "Not like this."
She shifts away from him, splashes the water over the edge of the tub as she turns to face him. Her breasts rise and dip back into the water as she moves to her knees, and his eyes watched in fascination because her beauty will rob him of every thought in his head until the day he dies.
"We're a family," she snaps. "We've been once since before we even got married."
His jaw clinches, locks at the words she speaks. She curls her hands into fists under the water, prepares to stop her feet in frustration when he refuses to confirm or deny what she is saying. And then his words come out soft and low.
"This is different."
"How?"
"He's mine," he offers firmly. "And nobody – not my father, not some other man – can take him away from me."
Her heart lurches in her throat at his words, at the reminders of all he has been through. His mother died or left him or was sent away by his father. His uncle had stolen his hotel, manipulated him into handing it over to the woman he thought was his mother. Even Lily had left him, chosen his father over the son she swore to love. And she – she had promised to always be his family and then she hadn't even managed to be his friend.
The tears that had welled up in her eyes begin to fall freely now, and she can do nothing to stop their arrival. Hands reach out and touch her, pull her towards him until she is wrapped up in his embrace.
"I – I," he stutters and stammers in panic. "I'm not threatening to take him from you."
She nods her head, presses her face into the crook of his neck as she struggles to find the words to convey the sentiments she is feeling.
"I know," she assures him. "I – I'm sorry, Chuck."
His fingers run around the tail of her spin, settle in her lower back in an attempt to sooth her. She blubbers and bumbles, curses the hormones cursing through her body.
"I wanted to be your family, but I was a stupid child," she concedes. "I was selfish and – I'm sorry."
"Stop," he bites out harshly. She swallows her words, fails to swallow back the accompanying tears as her body shakes against his.
"We are a family, Blair," he assures her because the words he speaks are true. A hand travels from her back to her front, presses against the rounded portion of her frame. "This is my son."
He flexes his fingers against her before reaching his free hand up to the back of her head. Her hair is pinned up, held out of the water so as to not get wet during their bubble bath. He unclips the pins, causes her hair to cascade down her back in soft waves.
"And you are my wife," he reminds her as he runs his fingers through the curls because only her husband gets to touch her hair.
"We agreed. The past is the past, and the stupid children we were will stay there."
The firmly stated words are a reminder to both her and him of what they decided nearly a year ago in Monte Carlo. That the pain and heartache of selfish interferences and words thrown around as a way to protect themselves from possible hurt will be left behind in the ashes of their former selves, retired so that they could finally get what they both really wanted. And then he speaks the mantra that has become a part of what it means to be Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck.
"We're going forward, building our future together as a family."