Disclaimer: I own none of this, otherwise it would have been stupid to read the books – I mean, they'd be mine. How cool are they, by the way? They're so heartless, I love them.
Summary: More often than not, Blair and Chuck have conversations that Blair later edits out of the perfect movie that is her life, never to be remembered again. Starts from the Pilot and goes from there.
Pairings: Primarily Chuck\Blair, but all the cannon pairings – which, this show being awesome, would take about three pages and would look like the alphabet gone mad (Example: C\B, C\N, S\N, S\D,)
Spoilers: Up until The Thin Line… and nothing more! I know nothing and I like it.
As always, thanks so much for your reviews? They are beyond the valley of greatness, just past the hill of awesome. What? I don't know, I didn't get that either. Just trying to be original here. Does anyone even read this? God, I hope not. This reflects nothing of my writing style, promise. And forever thanks to gleechild for being the very best beta ever.
Enjoy!
Chapter 4
Bad News on Lost Weekend
Spotted: Chuck Bass making a mysterious call. Girlfriend, perhaps? Well, I'll be damned.
Her mother was crazy.
Blair turned around to examine herself from the back and sighed. She had no ass, it was ridiculous. Her back was stiff and just went on forever and ever without curving in that delicious feminine way she always wished for, like Serena's. Now there was a girl who could wear skinny jeans and get away with it. Blair was sticking to skirts, thank you very much. And her chicken legs, which looked quite scary from the front, looked even worse from behind.
What was her mother thinking? Did she want her business to crash?
She should just approach her right now and give her a chance to salvage her Bendel's deal.
You're her daughter, she doesn't like anyone more than you.
Well, maybe not at the moment, but Blair was pretty sure her mother wouldn't like her that much if she quit the night before the shoot. Her mother hated quitters. She wanted her mother to do well, and the best way for that to happen was Blair doing well in this goddamned shoot tomorrow, so that was that.
It was alright, she could push through. She just had to hide some of the more blunt flaws in her body and hope Photoshop could do the rest. No profiles, no turning around, definitely no jumping and no weird unflattering angles. She could do the 'hand on the hip and pop' thing Serena liked, just as long as it was face forward and without popping too much and exposing her awkward hipbones.
Blair took a deep breath. Everything would be alright as long as she stayed focused, and she invented focused.
Her phone rang, startling her. There was no one she really wanted to talk to right now. Serena had already called to say 'break a leg, B!' (thus freaking her out) and Nate was at Chuck's stupid Display of Testosterone, also known as the Lost Weekend.
Lost Brain Cells, maybe.
She looked at the caller ID and her eyebrows shot up. Whoa. She pressed the 'send' button almost warily. "Hello?"
"What do you mean 'hello'?" Chuck hummed, his voice cutting through the noise in the background. It sounded like breaking bottles and prostitution, in Blair's opinion. "You're supposed to purr my name in greeting," he continued lazily. "That is why caller ID was invented."
Blair smirked, "I'm sorry; I just figured it was probably a stripper who found your phone in some ditch."
"Meaning?" the innocence in his voice would have put lambs to shame.
She sneered, "Duh? Lost Weekend? No communication with the outside world?" God knows she heard enough about Chuck's stupid rules when Nate explained to her why he couldn't call or come by.
"Unless I say so," Chuck reminded her.
"Well," Blair dragged out the word cheekily, "I took that to mean, you know, the fire department, STD clinics, professional cover-ups..."
He chuckled, "You give me way too much credit, Waldorf."
"Wait, I'm not done. You also might be calling me from jail."
Chuck laughed heartily, which meant he was either depressed, drunk, or both. Judging by the suspicious hitch in his breath, Blair suspected there was a good portion of both involved. This was never good.
Still, she had to admit that it was really sort-of kind-of cute. She couldn't help smiling slightly. "So, why did I merit a call on such an important day?"
"Your boyfriend is annoying," he informed her simply.
"Nate? Why?" she frowned absently, examining her bare stomach. If she got drunk every time Nate was annoying, her liver would have turned in its resignation letter years ago. She hardly noticed anymore. She did, however, notice that while her stomach was quite flat (thank God), it seriously lacked some muscle tone and looked… dull. Ugh.
"Carter Baizen came back from some ditch in Thailand," Chuck spat.
Had Blair cared about either Carter, Nate, or whatever the hell was going on in Chuck's harem of obscenity, she would have realized Chuck's two comments seemed completely unrelated. As it was, she ruffled her hair and wondered aloud, "Really? Thailand? What was he doing there? I thought he was in India."
Chuck huffed in annoyance. "What's the difference? He was rebuilding cities, getting in touch with his inner hobo, stuff like that."
"Ew," she murmured, finally tuning into the conversation.
"That's what I said," he chuckled. "Only in a somewhat more manly way."
She rolled her eyes, "Which, in your case, means pointing, laughing and then pouting in a dark corner?"
"And calling my beautiful partner-in-crime, of course," the smirk was evident in his voice.
Blair grinned slightly, examining her face—perfect skin, proportioned features, plump lips. Her cheeks were a little chubby but she was marginally pleased with her features overall. "Usually flattery will get you nowhere," she said curtly, before breaking into a grin. "But today's kind of special, so thank you."
"Why is today special?" he perked, typically.
"Never you mind," she brushed him off. "So, what about Nate?"
Chuck was more than happy to return to his original tirade, though he was evidently curious. "The way he's drooling over Carter, you'd think he cracked the lottery system," he muttered bitterly.
"Didn't he use to be your idol, Chuck Bass?" Blair drawled, teasing him. "I thought he taught you the basics of being a scoundrel."
"Yeah, back when he was cool," he sighed. "You should see him, Blair. He's wearing one of those striped, filthy wool jackets that backpackers wear."
Dissing the clothes, how very manly indeed. Blair shook her head, "He's probably on acid."
"Probably," Chuck agreed with a chuckle, indulging her. What acid had to do with anything was beyond him.
"Nate's just star-struck; he'll get over it," she assured him, well versed in being ignored by Nate for someone more glamorous. "You know you're his one true boy-crush. Just ignore it; it'll go away."
Well, that certainly explained a lot about Nate and Blair's relationship, but Chuck was not the kind of guy who took a number and stood in line. "Whatever," he spat, slouching further in his seat. He glanced at the rest of the party, his lip curling in distaste at the crowd around Carter. Losers. "And it's not just him," he almost whined. "Everyone's practically bowing at his feet. Are they blind?"
"Depends. Is there wood alcohol involved in this shindig of yours?"
He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. Priss. "Now that you mention it… no. despite what you may think, a Bass Bash does not end in the hospital."
"Says you. I think history would disagree."
She may have had a point, if he thought about it. A small point, concerning a certain glue incident neither Chuck nor Nate were happy to talk about. He glanced at the party again, and now Carter was actually standing in the middle of a circle of wide-eyes idiots. Nate was on his right, practically leaning over him as he listened eagerly to Carter's tales or whatever communistic sermons he was spewing. It was becoming more pathetic by the minute.
"He can have his fun tonight," Chuck snarled suddenly. "But tomorrow's a new day."
"Need me to pull out my knuckle busters?" Blair teased.
"Knuckle busters?" he practically doubled over, laughing and coughing simultaneously.
"I also do a killer tiger impression, apparently." She tried it in front of the mirror and was horrified to discover that it looked even stupider than it felt when she did it with Serena. What they must have thought of her when she did it. The photographer seemed to like it, but he was probably looking mostly at Serena. It looked good when she did it, of course.
"And why did you have to test that particular talent?" he hummed, interest piqued to a maximum.
"Stop being nosy, Chuck," she scolded without any vigor. "Don't you have debauchery to attend to?"
"Debauchery will wait. I'm curious."
"It'll kill you," she chirped.
Chuck ignored her warning, as he would. "What did you do today?" he drawled.
Blair was about to brush him off, firmly, she swore. She wanted to tell him to go to hell and leave her alone; this was embarrassing enough without his lewd comments cheapening the whole ordeal. Why on earth, then, did she find herself smiling proudly, almost to the point where her lips felt uncomfortably stretched? "You'll know in a few months," she whispered, as if sharing a precious secret.
Chuck's face fell. She couldn't be talking about… no. No way. As far as he knew, Nate still hadn't sealed the deal with Blair, the idiot. Had Blair Waldorf gone all naughty while his best friend's back was turned? "Months?" he asked tentatively, bracing himself. "As in… nine?"
Blair let out a surprised hitch of laughter. "What? No, you freak!"
Thank heaven, he exhaled. Wiping his memory clean of the very notion of Blair Waldorf like that, his smirk resurfaced full-force. "Then what?" At her soft unyielding hum, he insisted, "Come on, Blair, months? I don't have that long to live. Tell me."
Blair giggled. "No way, I don't wanna jinx it. Besides, you'll laugh at me."
If possible, Chuck slipped further into the shadows, where he was sure they couldn't be interrupted or overheard. Nate seemed too busy to notice his absence anyway, but Chuck didn't really care about that right now. This new exciting intrigue had pushed everything else aside. What did Miss Prim-and-Proper do that had her so audibly blushing?
"This is sounding better and better by the minute," he mused. "I swear I won't laugh… externally."
Blair rolled her eyes, more at herself than at Chuck, who couldn't see her anyway. Why did she have to open her big mouth, anyway? Oh, if he only saw her today, acting like a tiger and Cyborg Spice and Britney and repulsive. How did Serena always coax her into doing these stupid things? Would Audrey humiliate herself like that? No. Tomorrow would be all about dignity, she decided.
"You know," Chuck's voice interrupted her reverie. "I'm not going to forget about this just because you're ignoring me. Over the phone, I might add."
"I think I'm gonna hang up now," she said.
He took a contemplative sip of brandy and decided to start slow. "Are you releasing an album?"
Blair laughed heartily at this. If there was anything worse than Blair Waldorf roaring like a tiger and imposing that disconcerting image upon the world, it was Blair Waldorf singing, and then distributing it to people who weren't lucky enough to be deaf. Chuck was off his rocker, and obviously needed to cut down on the alcohol. "Have a nice weekend," she started to say.
He smirked. "Playboy cover?"
There was a silence, and then Blair said, somewhat bashfully: "Getting warmer."
Chuck almost sputtered his drink all over the carpet. There were little spots of colors at the corners of his sight and his knees felt eerily unsteady. "What?" he choked, barely breathing. "How am I getting warmer?"
"Less porn, more pose," she assured him.
"What is this now?" he chuckled. He wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved. He refused to let his thoughts wonder anywhere that was in the vicinity of… there ('there' being the Constance little tie and headband and nothing else). He was definitely not thinking about any of that. 'Boundaries' was the name of the game here, and he followed the rules religiously.
Well, he tried, anyway.
Blair bit her lip, tried to keep it in, and failed. "My mom's going public with Bendel's," she blurted.
"Really?" he asked, much more interested than he would usually be. But he would be interested in pretty much anything that distracted his thoughts from… there. He would gladly discuss politics right now, or global warming. Or, hell, even boy bands. Whatever happened to those, anyway?
"And they need a new face for the company," she continued so joyfully that he had to smile. "Something fresh, exciting…"
"And elegant," he finished, smiling proudly. Blair, modeling? Why, he never thought he'd see the day. That girl, with those insecurities? Maybe she finally realized she was gorgeous, only not in the stupid Barbie way she always tried to be. Still, now that it was no longer an option, he could admit that he would have preferred the Playboy Cover. "By any chance, is it lingerie?"
Please, like Eleanor Waldorf would ever.
As confirmed by Blair's snort. "Yeah, right."
Yeah, he didn't think so. Still, a guy could hope: "Are there Polaroids?"
"Chuck! Will you stop being a perv for one minute?" she scolded. "This is a big thing for me."
Aw. "Okay, okay. Did you shoot already?"
Blair hopped on the bed, finally relieving the poor mirror of duty. It was too depressing anyway. They must have seen something if they picked her. There were a lot of models that were awkward and gangly. And her mother picked her! Her! Serena was right next to her, but Blair was her first choice! Colossal mistake or not, Blair was still happy to have been picked first. So sue her.
Her face broke into a smile. "Tonight was just the make-up test; I'm shooting tomorrow morning. Which is why, incidentally, I need my beauty rest."
"You really don't," he assured her. "You'll do great, as always."
Her cheeks reddened involuntarily. "Thanks, Chuck."
Aw, again. She was so cute with her blatant cries for attention. This was the bitch who made retail workers cry for her (and his) sheer amusement? He kind of wished he could see her in this rare bashful and humble state. "No chance I can persuade you to come down for a celebratory drink?"
"As if," she snorted, proving that you really can't keep a bad girl down. Gone was Little Bo Peep and back was the Shrew, as he preferred it. "Even if your place wasn't inhabited by a pack of hormonal jackasses, I'd still have to pass. I'm turning in early."
Chuck smirked, "Are you sure? I've known a lot of models; I can give you tips."
"I don't think knowing them biblically qualifies," she remarked dryly. "But I appreciate the thought. I'll see you Monday and we'll both try to get by until then," she sighed dramatically, "difficult as it may be."
His smirk had a suspicious tenderness to it. It was fortunate that no one saw him and that his voice betrayed none of it. "I think maybe we can arrange something tomorrow. 48 hours is too much time in between, I don't think I can handle it."
Blair gasped, "But, Chuck! The cocktail waitresses! The strippers!"
"Will make due without me for an hour," he completed easily. "You know Dave, right?" He didn't even wait for an answer, as Dave was a tawdry, vulgar hellion and, ironically, one of Nate's closest friends. "He'll keep them extra busy while I'm gone."
"Ugh, thanks for that mental image," she blenched. "Now I won't be able to asleep, and tomorrow I'll look like Steve Buscemi."
He chuckled. "Sorry. Would it help if I came to tuck you in?"
"Definitely not."
"A lullaby?"
"Even worse."
His chuckle developed into verging-on-hysterical laughter, which was how he knew this conversation had to end. He was getting too uninhibited for his taste. Time to cut the drinks short. "Okay, okay. Goodnight, you ungrateful bit… I mean, beauty. See you tomorrow. Good lu-" He halted with alarm when Nate was suddenly towering over him.
"Hey, man," he grinned, eyes suspiciously dazed. "What are you doing?"
"Oh, is that Nate?" Blair's voice was immediately – and miraculously – transformed into that sickly sweet, extra-charged, wholesome and accomplished chirp that was reserved for Nate and authority figures. "Send him my love!"
"Sure," Chuck said slowly, trying not to display any emotion whatsoever. Send him her love? Yeah, right.
She didn't seem to notice the change in his demeanor in her desperation to finish the call and not appear like a jealous girlfriend who couldn't stand to have her boyfriend gone for two days. Which she wasn't. Chuck called her, after all. "Gotta go, try not to break any hearts or conceive any children," she blurted and quickly hung up.
Chuck hung up with a slight grin.
"Who were you talking to?" Nate asked, nudging him teasingly.
Chuck pursed his lips. What was he supposed to say? 'Your girlfriend, actually. I called her because I was feeling down. That's not a problem, is it?'
The sad part was it really wasn't a problem as far as Nate was concerned. He had no perception of how one was supposed to behave around his special-someone's best friend, for obvious reasons. In his experience, it was acceptable to take baths together, get drunk, and occasionally find yourself bumping uglies. He would have thought nothing of Blair and Chuck having an amicable conversation.
But what was that old saying about a certain liar whose pants were on fire?
"No one," Chuck said, way too casually.
Nate's smile broadened. "It couldn't have been 'no one' if she pulled you away from the Lost Weekend."
Chuck rose to his feet, practically pouting, "Why would you assume it's a girl?"
"I guess you're right," Nate amended, though the twinkle in his eye remained. "I just didn't realize that was your thing. So… who is he?"
"What happened to Carter?" It was Chuck's equivalent to sticking his tongue out.
Of course, Nate was oblivious. "Nothing, man. Actually, we're gonna play some poker. You in?"
Chuck's lip curled. "Poker?" With that guy? "No, thanks."
Nate rolled his eyes. "Alright," he amended. "Strip poker, with the girls."
"Ah, much better." Chuck smirked like he didn't care that his best friend pushed him aside when something more interesting came along. Maybe Blair had a point about these things. Nate would be back. Honestly, he just couldn't make it on his own, the poor guy.
"But won't the missus mind?" Nate poked his chest playfully, clearly amused.
Chuck placed a hand on Nate's shoulder, perhaps a tad too roughly. "I don't know, man, you tell me."
She's your missus, after all.
So... how'd that purple button work for you last time? Doesn't it just sorta call out to you? In that way cats do when they're in heat? And you say, "Oh my God, I'll review if you just SHUT THE HELL UP!" So... what do you say? :pout:
