Dedicated to the darling comewhatmay.x, who deserves a present after our midnight conversations about shoes in French and that crazy dog ruining her beauty sleep. We Twitter lovies are an odd bunch.
Enjoy.

Asseyez-Vous

He spits blood onto her fingers, and she winces.

"Up, Chuck."

He's never been very good at the 'bend knee, lift foot' part of this equation.

"Where to, Miss Waldorf?"

Or at remembering quite how she managed to stuff, roll and otherwise manoeuvre him into the limo.

"My building, Arthur."

He comes to - insofar as one can come to when already awake, only beaten to a pulp and too drunk to feel it - with his head in her lap, no look of tender concern in the eyes that behold him. She's more inclined to fury in such situations, and rightly so (he really must get around to removing her name as his emergency contact, but truth be told there's no angel of mercilessness he'd rather see more in his hour of need).

"You're awake."

"So it appears."

"Don't be smart."

Her mouth is a petite moue of annoyance, bare out of bed and sugar pink. He'd rather like to lick it.

"You're in my limo again."

"Because some idiot called me to tell me that my boyfriend had been in a bar fight, and before I could tell him that I am no longer your responsible adult he had put the phone down."

"That must have been terrible for you."

"Shut up."

Nonetheless, she still strokes the hair back off his brow, lays her cool fingers gently across a lesion which is thin and fierce. He closes his eyes for a moment, and feels calm - because if he is a savage beast, then she certainly is some form of aria designed to soothe him - stealing through him in a seductive wave.

"I can smell your perfume."

"I can smell the better part of a distillery."

"Why are you taking me home with you?"

She seems too absorbed in what she is doing to reply, and her rage is only multiplied when she realises he's caught her bothering to care.

"I am not planning on taping you up with bowties and half a bottle of scotch poured over your head."

"So you're planning to do it with La Perlas and half a bottle of Dom?"

Thump - they stop, and his head hits the seat.

"Your tender care really is exemplary."

"Walk."

How many times has he staggered with his arm around these slender shoulders, hands that don't look capable of holding up a fly calling his bluff and forcing him into health once again? He doesn't know. She shoots a dark look at the doorman who dared to greet her, continues on her way and they ride the elevator in silence. Once inside the penthouse, he can't help but cast a nostalgic look towards the piano (and the couch, and over by the window, and up the stairs, and on the stairs themselves - basically every surface and/or lack of one) before she drags him up the slow curve which leads to her en suite and dumps him in the bath.

Only Blair Waldorf, however, would be cruel enough to turn the shower on him.

"What the -"

"Sober up, Basshat."

He splutters with his spray in his face, waits for her to pause and then glares. She smiles benignly back (what a bitch) and then starts her work, pouring a variety of unguents over his head and beginning to work them in with deft fingers.

"Why are you -"

"Your hair has half a bar floor in it."

The woman was born to do this (again, what a bitch), these gentle sweeps and tiny pockets of pressure applied and released like acupuncture. The throbbing in his head lessens as she works, even as she pours something which stings and which he doesn't dare open his eyes to see over the cuts on his temple.

"You'll have a beautiful black eye."

"You have beautiful eyes."

"Shush."

She hoses him down eventually, peels off his wet shirt and dangles her legs over the lip of the tub, kicking them lightly back and forth as they examine each other. God, he must be drunk, because there's spray from the shower glittering in her hair and it looks like she's smiling. She holds up one hand.

"How many fingers?"

"Five."

"Good Bass."

Those five brush lightly over the crown of his head as she leaves, bustles about and then returns with a clean towel and her robe.

"You can stay."

And are those choirs of angels he can hear?

"But if you dare try and have sex with me even once, I will murder you slowly with the bluntest implement I can find."

It must just be the ringing in his ears.

They sleep eventually, grudgingly, his larger body set to curve around her smaller one. He admires the nape of her neck for a good few minutes before pressing his face to the dark mass of hair and letting her beguile him, bewitch him, draw him into sleep with the familiarity of her softness, the warmth of each quiet breath.

That night, he lets her sleep.

The next morning, he thanks her properly.

Fin.