A/N: This story has slightly changed its focus. No longer a one-shot, this is the prelude to the story – the jumping off point for there relationship. It doesn't entirely follow the season (Chuck and Serena find out differently) but this first part was written during the long hiatus.
prelude.
…
Because they're not – absolutely not – where they are (there).
She likes to believe the world had an affinity for playing cruel tricks on her, that it viewed her life as some sort of cosmic joke. She'd scream if she could, but she's tried before and damn if doesn't do a thing. The world or whatever is up there playing chess with her life has mistakenly played the queen too close one of the rooks – and now she's kissing it.
She can tell you with absolute certainly where she isn't. She can tell you with absolute certainty where she shouldn't be. She can tell you with only slight certainty where she can't be. But she won't tell you with any certainty – or even at all – where she is. Or who she seems to be pressed quite tightly against right now.
Her brain will reel back later that night to figure out exactly how everything seemed to wind so out dreadfully of control, so off kilter with her life spinning around her in slow motion, like she was trapped in one of those montages they didn't watch together, until she spun so softly into the arms of none other than Dan Humphrey. Of specifics, she doesn't remember much, just some smooth words tumbling out of his mouth speaking things she dared not even think and then – woosh – the world flew away. There he was (not, no he definitely was not) in ensnared in her slow-motion and then – did she just do that?
If she ever had to give a testimony about the incident, with her tongue barred under oath, she'd have admit, rather painfully, that she initiated it – the kiss. She just wanted to pull herself from her slow motion prison, ground herself in his lips, and suddenly the world fell away.
It isn't like Nate, relaxed (stoned) and decidedly young and unknowing; it isn't like Chuck, fiery, forbidden (at the time), and undeniably fleeting. It was something all unto itself: timid yet sure, strong yet soft, innocent yet completely and utterly wrong. It was a conglomeration of oppositions, of sparks and calming waves, all stemming from the simple act of a kiss. If there was one thing she could be sure of in this sea of confusion that was rapidly breaking over her life, one sure thing about this kiss, that it's all consuming. Because his hands are tip-toeing across her skin; because her heart is pounding out of her chest to meet his; because her hands are gripped white around his coat, keeping him all the closer.
They'll stand there for what seems like a lifetime and a half, mouths finding a new battle ground; tongues once so sharp with words seem to dull against each other, trapped in a melodic repartee. She wants to sigh, moan, make every contented sound she can because she hasn't felt this secure in some time, and damn it she's going to let it slip away. So they'll continue to stand there, willing the need for breath away.
Eventually it comes though.
Just as she started it, she shakily pulls away, mere millimeters, with their eyes still padlocked shut against the world and reality most probably crumbling around them. Ragged breaths meet halfway and there's really not enough air in this damn penthouse because she's feeling a slow suffocation gripping her lungs. There is every carnal desire within her to go back to that place (his lips) and permanently die there, but her brain is gaining momentum grasping on to the reality of her (their) situation much, much faster than she would like. And it knocks all of the remaining wind out of her.
She. Kissed. Dan. Humphrey.
She thinks she may have just broken the land-speed record (in heels no less), because her feet are suddenly under the plush carpeting of her bedroom and he's far, far away in the foyer. She could have sworn her name slipped audibly from his lips as her feet flew beneath her, but honestly she's not sure of much of anything right now.
As she stand here (not there - in his arms, under his lips), the world chokes all emotion from her; she wills herself to believe she's always been here, never there.
…
Because they're not – absolutely not – what everyone else sees.
When the queen kissed the rook, the king's soul set ablaze.
The world had always had a funny way of giving him the middle finger in times of trouble or panic, and he swears that that damn finger is waving manically in front of the image that is forming before his eyes. Somewhere some kid is setting his ant heart afire on this sidewalk of a penthouse floor with a magnifying glass masquerading as the midnight moon. Burning, he watches them some mixture of masochism and shock.
Blair (his Blair) stands pressed against none other than Humphrey; tongues embattled and hands gripping, they are nothing but a hazy nightmare floating before his disbelieving eyes. To his right, out the corner of one of his eyes, a flash of blonde whips away, trailing in waves behind a tear-struck face. He's always been one for conflict, confrontation, but his burning heart is making any words crumble to ashes in his throat and he can't breathe.
His feet stumble backwards towards the open elevator and he feels decidedly young, like a little boy who has just caught his parents together, both confusing and scaring. He turns his face to see a blonde curtain hiding the tears, leaning against the side of the elevator with arms wrapped tightly around herself. He realizes in the short (although it feels like he just lived a lifetime) moments they stood there and watched what could not be happening, the two stood oblivious, enraptured in only each other. It is in that moment when he feels his feet drag him into the elevator, away from her, he realizes fate may have been playing him a fool all this time.
Because honestly, what kind of fate lets the queen and the devil ride off into the sunset together.
Quiet sobs murder the sullen silence as Chuck and Serena lean against the slides of the plummeting elevator.
…
Because they're not – no, absolutely not – going to talk about this.
She knows before his tentative footstep imprints itself in the plush carpet of her bedroom that he wants to talk. He is a man of words; explaining, creating, thinking, he does it all with copious syllables and melodic phrases, but right now, the words that always flow off his tongue like a literary Niagara Falls fall dead and current slows to a stop. He wants to steady himself for battle, for their verbal sparring to which he become so accustomed, because damn it he needs to figure out what the hell is going on, but he finds his mind is only thinking a battle of a different manner, one involving just as much tongue but far less words.
His feet have lead footprints to her as she sits perched on the edge of her bed. He opens his mouth to say something, what he's not sure but the oppressive silence is becoming too much to bear. They're never silent; it's never been a characteristic of their – well he's not sure what to call it. But before his muddled brain can form at least one coherent syllable, she beats him to the punch (just like she always does).
"Not now Humphrey, just not now." It's a exasperated plea, and one he probably should have listened to, but he's not going to just wander around the city for the rest of the night wondering, thinking. She's already consumed too much of his brain tonight as he walked up and down the blackened streets, illuminated with bright, sparkling lights, waiting for some sort of ah-ha moment. Instead he found himself in the foyer of her penthouse losing his mind.
He's convinced his mouth is both a gift and a curse, that his words will help make him (literarily) and break him (emotionally).
"Blair." Her name feels funny on his lips, like he's not sure it's supposed to be there. "Look about downstairs, earlier – I mean, I just think we need to, you know, talk about this – well that I mean – and…." It's rambling and broken but he's starting to get somewhere before she interrupts (like nothing else is new).
"Humphrey, let me get one thing straight, we are, under no circumstances, going to talk about this- er, that – incident. You and I are going to go back to exactly what we were before, two separate individuals who just happen to have people in common. You will march back over the bridge and out of my life. Do you understand Humphrey?" She's staring at him, using her commanding queen tone as if he's just something she can dismiss at a whim. He wants to yell at her, scream, because that just one kiss was anything but that, and she needs to stop living in her bubble of plausible deniability. But he finds himself saying no such thing, because here in front of his Brooklyn eyes is a tear stricken Blair Waldorf.
There's no un-ladylike sobbing or sniffling, no emotional hysterics or screaming, just her sitting very small on the edge of her bed, with tears sliding gracefully down her cheeks.
"Humphrey, did you become deaf in the last two minutes? I said leave." She's conveying as much control as she can, but he can see her breaking in front of his softening eyes. Before he can register, he's in front of her kneeling awkwardly. "Humphrey, leave!" she's pleading softly but all of her fight has drained away leaving nothing but a scared little girl, with watery eyes.
"Dan, please…" And he kissed her, again.
She honestly should have slapped him immediately because he really is a terrible listener, but she's lost somewhere in his mouth and down the rabbit hole she falls.
Her fingertips are softly grazing his cheeks and the nape of his neck. Her sharp tongue has found refuge with his as his lips move in melodic rhythm with hers, and they are far (far, far) away in an oblivion of their own creation. Where they need no explanations.
They are not a definition, but an open-ended question.
He breaks out of their oblivion this time, pressing his forehead against her as to cement her to him, but it's not like she could go anywhere seeing that at some point in last minute or so (when he was lost) they had found their way fully on to her bed. He can feel her choking out sobs underneath him, tiny body trembling because, really, this (them) was too much to handle. He should run – avoid all crying women a mantra of most men – but he just remains.
For a man of so many words, he cannot find one that could calm her, reassure her, heal her; instead he holds her in their oblivion, safe from the world around. In the wake of all of the drama surrounding the rest of his family, their situation seems trivial, but here was this strong woman – a queen – crying her soul out. Out of everyone else on this godforsaken island, he should be the last one with her.
There's a paralyzing fear that surrounds their oblivion – because dear God this isn't happening.
He'll hold on to her as the sun wades in, illuminating all. And there on top of silken sheets sleep the queen and a rook, as fate's hand slowly slips away.
…
Because they're not – absolutely not – in her bed.
She sits with her back pressed against one of her thousand dollar pillows in a rumpled couture dress staring at the equally rumpled man haphazardly lying across her bed. Her face has dried of tears, as has her heart, and now she finds herself at a dangerous precipice with only this man to catch her should she choose to fall.
"Dan," she whispers, as if his supposed super sonic hearing will be wakened by this feeble call. Sighing, she sips her coffee. "Dan." It's more audible this time, since she doesn't hear Serena banging around the bathroom she can only assume she's with Ben or someone, and therefore doesn't fear her blond friend walking in on this unexplainable situation.
"Dan!" She's getting quite exasperated with this and she's seriously considering implanting her foot upon his head. "Humphrey!", the last syllable punctuated with (some what) light tap on the head by her foot.
"Ahhh, what was that for?" he groans as his sleepy eyes rise to meet her intimidating ones.
"I'm sorry, I just was making sure you weren't dead or something. Honestly, I'm beginning to worry you may have some kind of hearing problem."
"Yes of course, nothing a little early morning concussion can't fix."
"Oh I didn't kick you that hard, really I thought over-dramatics was strictly an Upper East Side disease but apparently it's now spread across the bridge." She's smirking at him a little, lips pulled up slightly as she sips her coffee again.
"What?" Her expression is more than puzzling, and this hour of the morning only permitted minimal cerebral functioning.
"What do you mean what?"
"Your expression. You look – well I'm not really sure…"
"Oh, it's just, this feels normal…" and her eyes flicker downwards.
"Me sleeping on your bed?"
"Uh no, like usual you miss the point. I meant us, you know…"
"You think us being here, like this, is normal?"
"No! I just…I don't know just forget it."
"No, no I get it. You mean we aren't acting strange after what – you know last night with the – oh okay maybe you were right, maybe we should never, ever bring it up."
"That's probably the best decision."
"So there's nothing here…"
"Nothing…" she breathes out the last word, eyes locked on his. And then silence befalls them.
She can hear the rustle of the sheets as she shift uncomfortably and he struggles to sit up. He can hear her sipping her coffee from the porcelain cup balanced delicately in her hands. Neither can hear the other's heart breaking as their decision takes a hammer to it.
"Would you like some…"
"No, no I should probably go. After the whole Lily thing last night, I just think that my dad probably needs me right now."
"Of course."
He slips himself off the bed, grabbing his coat and scarf that he took off at some (unknown) point. As he turns to say goodbye, he finds her standing barefoot behind him in that same pink dress, looking so, so innocent.
"Well, goodbye." She tries her damn hardest to sound nonchalant, but the words tumble out in a broken rhythm that sings sadness.
"Goodbye, Waldorf…" and he thinks he's possessed because when he speaks to her it's like his brain disconnects from his body and he suddenly fins his mouth doing something other than talking.
It's not like the first. It's not like the second. It's something of pure sadness as he leans down and presses his lips softly against her.
It's short, but just as terrifying.
The queen stands alone watching the rook disappear across the chessboard.
…
A/N: review review review if you will.