Given that the last two GG episodes have been beyond brutal, I was in a bit of a redemptive mood for this one. Because those two need a bit of work in my opinion. Anyway, hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Prompt 4
Shot Gun
She'd gotten what she deserved. She can honestly say it. Because blatant stupidity was a side effect of involvement. Punishment for a crime she'd long stopped feeling guilty for. It's not like she hadn't known what she was getting into. There were so many options, so many ways to stop herself from reaching this point.
Sitting in a doctor's office getting told she was four weeks along. Which meant something so dizzying she was beginning to think that along with being knocked up, she was going blind. She makes the alleged MD repeat the words five times, because it's the only way it will sink in. Baby is not a word she planned to employ this early in her life.
At twenty five she's on the verge of having it all together. Except for the casual sex she can't seem to stop having with her best friend's step brother, she's pretty respectable. Good job. Better penthouse. A standing invitation to join the board of any charity she damn well pleases.
For a split second she considers her options. Abortion. Adoption. Acceptance. Her decision is immediate and certain.
She could pretend it's because of belief or propriety or fear. But there is only one thing that enters her mind as she contemplates choices in that bare and sterile room. A terrifyingly small, pink bundle with dark hair and darker eyes. Fresh to the world and full of promise. Hope to parents who have so little.
After her appointment, brunch with Serena is predictably terrible. The girl chokes on her mimosa when Blair finally manages to spit out her news. Her blue eyes grow as wide as saucers as she whispers the proverbial insult to unwed mothers everywhere, "Whose the father?"
Blair wants to reach across the table and mar her best friend's face with a red handprint. Because that's the last thing she wants to talk about. Although, her promiscuity and Chuck Bass have always been unmistakably connected. She swallows her violent impulses and instead manages sarcastic control, "I'm devastated. So who do you think?"
Serena cuts it close again when her face falls, "Oh B, I thought you were really over him this time." She reaches over and laces their fingers together and in an instant Blair veers from pissed to trembling with relief. She has Serena, will always have Serena. And that is so much better then nothing.
She takes a cab to his building next. She figures she's going to be a mom, better at least start pretending to be an adult.
His office is predictably chic, steel and leather everywhere. She's ready to leave before she even arrives. Her skin crawls with nerves. There have always been so many variables with Chuck. For a man who claims to be untouchable, he's always had so many very pressable buttons.
She supposes all she can hope is that one of his family members hasn't fucked with him this week. And that is her wish when his secretary, who knows her by name, ushers her into his sprawling rooms. Where he sits at his desk with a newspaper and a steaming cup of something. She hopes not booze, as it's only noon.
She remembers very distinctively crawling out of his bed in the morning only a week ago, and knows that he's remembering it too when he smirks and asks what he can do for her.
She doesn't have the energy for small talk. And they'd ceased with pleasantries pretty much five minutes after being introduced. "I'm pregnant," she hates that her voice is soft and low, as light and inconsistent as a feather tangling in the wind.
She should start anticipating beverages when making this announcement. Chuck makes a similar sound to Serena as he struggles to swallow his (hopefully) coffee, "That's not funny." But there's pleading in his eyes. They both want her to be joking.
But she's not. So serious it's making her hands shake. And she looks him straight in the eye and retorts calmly, "Good, because I wasn't kidding." She takes a breath, "It's yours obliviously. If there was any doubt I would have most certainly spared myself this indignity."
He blinks. Several times. In fact she figures it's at least three minutes before he ceases to stare at her blankly. Then he is back with a vengeance, perfectly controlled when he answers her statement with an, "Okay."
Of all the scenarios she's been running in her head, immediate acceptance had never been one of them. She'd at least expected to be questioned on paternity. It's her opportunity to be wide eyed, "Okay?"
He shrugs, like it's nothing. Like she'd just told him the sun was shining or the sky was blue. "It's not an ideal time," he pauses, considering, "but a life with you, kids with you, it's always been apart of the plan."
"What plan have you been following?" She asks incredulously, an eyebrow cocked with amusement and annoyance. She's childish but, given their history, her question drips with validity.
He rolls his eyes at her. And after that they fall into an old routine. A study in veiled insults and false indifference. She's keeping it but she doesn't want anything from him. Doesn't expect a thing. But he's not willing to be shut out so easily. Details are exchanged and she consents to discuss the situation further. Dinner on a Tuesday. Which as much an insult as she can manage under the circumstances. By the time she leaves she's ready to tear her hair out with frustration.
She slams the door. And it's good for him because its been hard to suppress his smile. To stop the shock and excitement. Blair with a baby. Blair with his baby. He had never thought about it before. But now he couldn't seem to stop.
The smiling is equally hard to control.
"We should get married."
They're at lunch. Platonic. Because no matter how many meals, nights, or doctor's appointments they share she refuses to classify them as dating.
She doesn't hesitate, spearing a piece of pineapple as she answers with a definitive, "No."
He doesn't respond, but his eyes tell her she needs to elaborate. So she does, in an organized fashion. She's all about lists theses days. "One, there's not enough time to plan a suitable wedding before I balloon to whale proportions. And two," she hesitates, because breaking hearts is his specialty, "This baby is overwhelming enough. I can't be responsible for you too right now."
She knew it would bruise, that he would hurt. But of course it's worse then expected, he always prides himself on his flawless restraint. But she knows better. Their control is a sham. Underneath the ice and intelligence they are equally broken and bleeding. Jagged pieces ready to cut themselves out at a moments notice.
His eyes blaze, "Responsible?"
She's getting better at this. Staring him straight in the eye and telling the truth. And for the life of her she can't remember why she'd ever been so afraid to do it before. She refuses to back down, "I don't know if you're capable of what this would require Chuck. If you could be satisfied with coming home at five every day and spending the night with me and a child. No drinks. No drugs. No girls. Just you, me, and a screaming baby."
"You paint such a pretty picture," his voice is soft. He hardly expected a rude awakening to follow his proposal. But she makes more sense then he's willing to admit.
"I'm being practical," she amends, "It's time to face reality. This can't be like before, we can't be like before. Games, lies, drama. This baby deserves better, and I want to give it better. So I think it'd be easier for all involved if we just went slow. If you were here as much as you want to be, as much as you can be. Just take it a step at time and see where we are when the baby's born."
They finish the meal in silence. He's pissed. But he's also a little proud. Because he's a fuck up, but she's not. And he can't help but realize that the words "deserves better" applies to both baby and mother.
The nursery in her penthouse is baby boy blue. And there is nothing more terrifying then it's crib and all of the implications the piece of furniture carries. She knows nothing about little boys. Couldn't understand despite infinite hours of agonizing. Boys destroyed her, broke her heart, left her again and again. And she can't help but fear that her son will leave her with similar scars.
Serena finds Blair sitting in the mahogany rocking chair in the middle of the night. The blonde is living there. Because she's single and practical. But also because Blair's wary of playing house with Chuck but still can't bare to go through any of this alone.
S is in a glittering gold party dress and sways under the effects of just a bit too much Cristal. She's sober enough to be concerned though. She's found Blair spacing out in this room one too many times.
She slips out of her heels and walks over to kneel in front of her best friend, gold fabric falling in front of her like a glinting waterfall, "B, what's wrong?"
Blair doesn't answer for a long time, eyes wet and mouth dry, her voice cracks when she finally manages, "Were you relieved, Serena? When your parents got divorced? Was it so much easier to have them apart then together and miserable? Or was it worse? To know that they loved you and loved each other, but that it just wasn't enough?'
Serena is smart enough to know that Blair's questions don't always need answers. She's continuing after only a brief second of contemplation, "He comes to every appointment, every birthing class. He's sweet and kind and there. And every single day when my mother calls or a woman looks at me sideways at lunch I think about how much easier it would be to just say yes. To marry him and figure every thing else out later." She runs a violent hand over her face, because sorrow and terror is the last thing she wants to feel in this room, in this body now built for two.
"You don't have to do anything you don't want to B," Serena declares, her voice low.
"Oh but I do," Blair's voice is loud in the muted room, but it doesn't stop her, "I have to gain twenty pounds and buy all new clothes. I have to deal with swollen ankles and breasts pumps. With Lamaze and no caffeine. And I have to deal with the unreliable father of my baby proposing every other week."
Deep breath, "I love him so much. But I hate him too. And I'm just so confused S. And so, so scared."
Serena's eyes are puppy dog big when she promises, "You have time to figure it out."
But she doesn't.
Christian Nathanial Bass is born two months premature, weighing in at just under four pounds. And it is the most frightening thing Blair's ever gone through. They'd warned her about complications, about soreness and pain and medication. But no one had ever told her about the moment she'd see her baby. The tiny, squalling mass of pink skin who blinked and stared and devastated her. Her pregnancy had been abstract, a thought and conviction. Christian was reality, and she was addicted from the very first second.
For the first week he is a mass of tubes. She can only touch him by sticking her sterilized hands through a hole in his plastic incubator. Chuck doesn't enter the nursery for three days, pacing the length of the windows and watching her the whole time.
But on day four Nate takes his godfather duties in his own hands and Chuck dons a gown and takes a seat next to her. "Finally," she whispers softly. It's both an insult and a sigh of relief.
He wants to apologize. But she wouldn't care. It's easy to say sorry after you're done causing destruction. And it would take too much time to list all his sins.
Instead he orders her to go home and sleep. She's been in this room for two days straight and has slept a combined total of six hours since she went into labor. She outright refuses at first. But persistence and Eleanor eventually prevail. And for the first time in his four day life Christian Bass is alone with his father.
He wouldn't call it an epiphany. Only that his son's tiny, helpless form reminds him a little too much of Bart Bass and all the mistakes and anger he represents even now. But Bart had never had a Blair. A woman who'd taught him to feel and would now help him learn to be a parent.
Whatever she asked in return was more then worth the reward. Because being stuck with her and all the screaming kids they could create sounded better then anything he'd ever done is his life. The picture they'd paint wouldn't be pretty, it would be spectacular. Everything she'd earned. Everything this baby, his baby, their baby, deserved.
A year to the day she found out about her son Blair finds herself in another doctor's office. This time clutching a decidedly blue blanket. A flawless, six month old infant staring up at her. His dark hair curling across his forehead and his darker eyes blinking up at his mother.
She holds him tight. He's crawling now and the last thing she needs is him to pick up some horrible germ on the floor of the pediatrician's. Whose just come back with good news. Christian, who'd spent the first three weeks of his life in an incubator, is perfectly on track for development.
Although the doctor doesn't need to tell Blair, who knew he was perfect from the very beginning.
She meets Chuck at the park for lunch, because they do that a lot these days, and relays the good news. He smiles, and it's different. She's an adult, a mother. And now he is too.
He comes home at six, turns his cell phone off on Sundays, and says not a word when formula spills on his designer suits. He spends half his evenings on the floor with Chris (she'd honestly thought she was hallucinating the first time she saw him get on his knees on the hardwood) and the other part talking to her.
He slips up sometimes, gets frustrated or confused. Says the wrong thing. But so does she. And no matter what, he's there. She can call him and know that he'll answer, that he'll come through for her and his son no matter what. And that is so much better then nothing.
She leans back against the park bench, watching the ducks with her head on his shoulder as their son sleeps in his thousand dollar stroller. "Ask me again," she whispers.
He looks down. Because it's been six months and he hasn't prodded once. That's not his style anymore. He's been happy with this, glad enough to watch it all enfold. Now she has to demand more. So she repeats, "Ask me again."
And he does, with a smile, "Marry me?"
Consent slips off her tongue easily. She'd gotten her son from saying yes to him, and now she would seal all of their futures, "Of course."
Thanks to: TriGemini, 88Mary88, lisottina81 (x3), Comet Tail, Temp02
