Well, this is just about as AU as it comes. Think Hellboy and Stalker!Chuck, think Liz and Needy!Blair (think Bruce Wayne and Edward Cullen on crack). Think bizarre thoughts involving either Chuck or Blair or both of them. Eat ice cream. Don't ask about the ending, it was always that weird.
Enjoy.
You Know My Name
He owns the world, but has nothing - nothing - of his own.
He wants her.
He wants November.
He traces the line of her cheek on the monitor, the indistinct pucker that marks her mouth. Her lips are soft in his mind, cherry red and begging to be kissed. He doesn't know her name, but he doesn't really care; she's November, pulled from a list of 'on this day' birthday pages and idolised. The monitors scream her name at him, his wallpaper a spy camera shot of a laughing girl in a blue coat with half her pretty friend's face cropped to make it all about her: November.
Most days, he watches her. Sometimes, he follows her as she goes about her day. She's in her freshman year at Columbia, friends who are more like handmaidens trailing in her wake. They don't matter because they're moths, and she's a butterfly - dark hair and dark eyes like he's never seen, and he's never seen her mouth painted like it is in his dreams, parted and waiting and wanting: him. Oh, November, no love for he who has a name but chooses not to disclose it. Other women are nothing though they are attracted to his flame, more moths without her peacock bright beauty to mark her and draw him in. How bright she shines, both day and night, as he languishes with his eyes on her face and her beauty - blazing, bright - before him.
She goes through life almost sure that she's being watched. Things happen that shouldn't: things are paid for and left with her doorman and the perfect dress arrives for the perfect occasion that she might dance out of sight in crowded ballrooms, eyes watching her that she can never quite identify.
"May I have this dance?"
She's wearing red, bright as her painted lips.
"It's you, isn't it." Her heart races, and her tongue is dry. "You're the one."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I know you," he tells her. "There is no one else for me...no one but you."
Why license him to kiss her, when she can do all alone; the slight press of her lips to the side of his mouth, gentle and half a kiss, and then bolder, fusing her bloody mouth with his: November coming unto May, heavy and light like oil in water.
"Chuck," she whispers.
"Blair," he breathes.
They freeze.
Fin.