This began life as a sexual Draino-fest for Blair set in the future, and along the path to completion it became a star-crossed C/B fic. I would hazard its setting being shortly in the future (or what I assume to be the future), while Blair is dating Dan (much to the chagrin of myself and every other Chair fan girl who spits cravats at them as a pairing) and Chuck is dating Raina (it's such a shame to have to hate someone before you've been properly introduced, but I'm sure I'll bear it somehow). For some reason, this reminded me of 2x08 - and yes, I kind of stole some lines from Country Strong. As Ed once put it, 'leave me alone, I'm English.'
Enjoy.

Should You Wonder, There I'll Be

His eleven o'clock arrives precisely on time, the lace tops of her stockings peeking out from the slit in her perfectly pressed pencil skirt. Her heels are sky high, her hair is swept up to bare her neck, and her white blouse borders on translucent indecency. He runs his tongue over his dry lips and swallows.

"What are you doing here, Blair?"

"I'm your eleven o'clock," she replies chirpily, folding into the couch like a graceful flat-pack. "I have a proposal for you."

"Hence the dossier?"

"Hence the dossier." She crosses her legs, and he's pretty sure he just died. "I have something original; unique. Something that will separate the Empire from the Plaza and the boys –" She sweeps back a stray curl, letting her fingers linger on the delicate flesh of her throat. "From the men."

He is vaguely cognisant of the fact that she makes some kind of business pitch in the hour that follows – something about tailor made packages and deadly sins that could be promising – but he's more focused on the press of her lips as they move, crimson on scarlet, the slide of her thighs as she shifts, the deep V as she leans forward and offers a rabbit hole straight down the front of her shirt. There's certainly something illegal about the line of her clavicle through the thin fabric, the swift dart of tongue between her teeth and her eyes: always dark, always heavy-lidded, always teasing and coaxing with her hand on the red leather file as if to emphasise its exoticism. Some of her plans may have been groundbreaking, and some may not, and he neither knew nor cared.

"So?"

Sixty minutes are all it takes for a carefully constructed world to come crashing down.

"Take down your hair," he asks in a way which is not a question.

'Blow out your candle.'

Her pupils are holes, black; burning. They seem to consume the space around them as she removes the clip, shaking the remainder loose with a coquettish toss of her head and sweeping scent, perfume at him in waves that steal instead of shock and bloom like flowers. Who knows what prompted him to ask and see if she would give; but memory is a driving force, of it in his fingers and his fist, tangled with his own or sweeping his chest. It's hardly sacrilege to imagine doing so now, Lady Godiva in her brazenness with her cheek against his, one more time...one more time.

"What do you want, Blair?"

She looks back at him, her face a mirror of his own, lust mingling with omnipresent calculation. "Nothing."

"You've been playing all morning," he counters. "Don't stop now."

"I'm here to petition you."

"You're here to proposition me."

"You're not worth my time."

"Then why waste it?"

He stands as if to show her out, as if she might follow his lead (ever). She ignores him, pulls on her lip and says nothing.

"It's been too long," he tells her. "And I can't go all the way for you. You have to meet me halfway this time."

Her palms are scalding as she presses them to her face, pulling back her hair, bathing her pale cheeks with warmth as she looks down, silent, shaking her head. Her spine curves as if under a weight, and then she raises her head so slowly that the movement could be documented – frame by frame – and still barely be called motion.

"Is it worth it?" She whispers. "The price we pay?"

"Halfway. That's all I need."

'I have you. That's all I need.'

"Why do I have to say it out loud?"

"To make it real."

"I want you," she says tremulously, lip quivering like a wounded child. "And I can't have you."

Three words, eight letters.

i-w-a-n-t-y-o-u

i-l-o-v-e-y-o-u

Halfway.

"Why did you come?" He asks.

"Because I need to move past you. I have to. I have to."

These words are repeated as they stagger to the bedroom, not kissing – not yet – just foreheads together, breathing slowly, original sin lying glossy on their one skin. He only kisses her after – when all the lipstick and lies have been bitten and smudged away – when she closes her eyes and sighs, because the drums have stopped pounding and ringing in her ears. He can't sleep when she sleeps, so he sits on the edge of the bed and feels the gentle tugging, the seductive and horrible sensation of his heart being pulled open like a stillborn blossom.

"So this is why your cell was off."

He doesn't turn. "Not now."

"When would be more convenient, after round two? The entire living room looks like a yellow brick road pointing straight to your libido, Chuck."

"I can't deal with you now."

"Doesn't she have a boyfriend?"

"Yes."

Her eyes shred his already raw back, raking afresh down the torn lines. "Well, that explains everything, doesn't it?"

He waits until she's gone to crawl into bed himself, half wound in a sheet with myriad body parts sticking out or shared. His hand is grasped haphazardly, half asleep, though both tired beyond measure: of the world, and of each other.

"Do you want to move past me?"

She lays her ear over his beating heart. "I don't have a choice."

Fin.