Chuck wandered out of the bathroom, rubbing his wet hair, now in a bath robe. Bathtime with Blair, he decided, was his new favourite activity.

He glanced up as he heard her phone ringing.

"Blair," he called over his shoulder.

She was still in the bathroom.

He checked the screen; DADDY.

Smiling, he picked it up. "Evening, Harold."

Blair's father was as warm and bubbly as ever, and obviously pleased to speak to Chuck.

Blair appeared just as he was asking after her.

"She's fine," Chuck grinned, glancing at her. She was dressed in a silk nightslip, hair drying in chocolate waves.

Her eyes had lit up. "Is it daddy?" she asked eagerly.

But before he could respond, she'd bounced forwards, stretching on tiptoes to curl her fingers round the phone, bringing it to her own ear.

"Daddy!"

She danced off, clutching the phone, and dropped onto the sofa, already chattering away.

Shaking his head - though, in truth, there was something about that smile on Blair's face and her shining eyes that almost melted his heart - Chuck came and stretched out on the sofa beside her.

He pulled her into his lap, and she went happily, still rapt in conversation, snuggling into him.

He didn't really need to listen to their conversation; the sound of Blair's laughter, the scent of her shampoo in her damp hair, lulled him and he was quite comfortable.

But then he was instantly awake when he heard, "Oh."

Blair sat up, ever so slightly, and he did too, as a reflex.

Her shoulders had risen, just a fraction.

"Oh. I see."

He frowned, watching Blair's face. He had a nasty feeling he could guess what Harold might have said.

"No, that's fine!"

That light, false laugh.

"No, no. I understand. Of course."

Chuck was almost certain he knew what this was about.

When the conversation had ended, Blair slowly lowered her phone. She was still holding it, still sitting up.

But she smiled. "Apparently Roman's shoot got delayed." Her tone was very careful, very casual. She shrugged.

In other words, Harold and his boyfriend wouldn't make Thanksgiving. Chuck had been right.

He tugged her phone out of her hands, dropping it, and his grip tightened as he pulled her back into him. Stroked her hair, though he was suddenly furious. Much as he liked Harold - mainly because Blair loved him - the guy hadn't visited for nearly a year. He couldn't make it over for her favourite holiday?

Blair knew she was being stupid. She hadn't seen her father since the Yale fiasco. Since he'd told her he was disappointed in her; that he didn't like this 'new' side of her that he was finally seeing. He knew nothing about her little meltdown, of course. She assumed her mother had told him about NYU, and he'd rang her eventually. He'd made it obvious from phone conversations since that he'd forgiven her. Things had gone back to normal. But it didn't change the fact that the last time she'd actually seen him, all she could remember was the sheer disappointment in his eyes. Like she'd let him down.

And until she saw him again, face to face, she couldn't fully erase that memory. Not yet, anyway.

And she'd got over losing Yale. But she still couldn't quite help the deep, secret feeling - one that she'd voiced to no one, not even herself - that she'd let her father down because she hadn't got in. She knew it was irrational. But Yale was their thing; had always been their thing.

That, and Thanksgiving.

She buried her face in Chuck's chest. It wasn't the end of the world.

"I'm sorry," Chuck murmured into her hair. His thumb traced her back, and he was still angry. Blair just held on to him.

Harold may have been one of the nicest people Chuck knew. But he was also one of the most clueless.

And he had just reminded Chuck why he'd always hated family holidays. Abandonment. Let down.

"It's overrated," he muttered. "Fathers and thanksgiving."

He sensed Blair pause, and suddenly realised his words had come out far more bitterly than intended.

He hesitated, planning to amend them, but Blair had already sat up. Her legs were wrapped round him as she curled her hands on his shoulders, gazing straight into his eyes.

She'd already seen the flicker of a shadow, though he was trying to brush it off now.

She smiled, very gently. Her eyes never left his, searching them. Reassuring.

"This is your first real Thanksgiving, Bass," she murmured firmly. "And it's going to be perfect."

His mouth twitched; her tone left no room for argument.

She softly traced his cheek, fingers running through his hair, eyes still locked on his. She leant down and kissed him, softly. He kissed back harder. She pressed her small body into his, and he held her as close as he could, hand sliding round to the small of her back as they moulded together; because together, finally, they were exactly where they wanted to be; together they were exactly where they belonged.