This is my take on a potential Dair relationship. Hopefully this illustrates how much I am NOT a fan of them being anymore then friends. Sorry in advance.

Prompt 6

Brooklyn

It's not the first time, and she's sure it won't be the last. He falls into her lap like a child. Bruised but no worse for the wear. He smells like scotch and cigars. And she wishes it didn't make something inside of her clench. But if her wishes were ever granted, she wouldn't be in this part of town, at this time of night, picking up a boy who wasn't hers, but wasn't anyone else's either.

He turns his head, and their lips are only a moment apart, "Don't you have a boyfriend?" He's wasted and the words are slightly slurred but she's so pathetic that she notices every individual eyelash as he looks up at her through them. She has enough propriety to visibly wince. Her internal guilt is quickly squashed though. Dan's in Brooklyn studying, and this lonely boy needs her more tonight anyway.

He started it. The comeback slips out before she can employ a filter. She's always had control issues around him, "If you weren't so talkative they wouldn't have known to call me."

She's sadistic and she regrets the words almost immediately. It's selfish to reveal the part of her that likes that he talks about her when he's drunk. Finally admits to wanting her still after all his inhibitions are stripped away. She shoves him off of her and into the next seat. But he milks the drunk thing and leans his head on her shoulder. She lets him, but has to bite her lip to keep herself from leaning into his touch.

He doesn't respond to her insult and she's grateful. She doesn't want to defend herself, just to take him home and throw him in a shower. Sober him up and send him off. A routine. She was always good with those.

When they reach her building she is infinitely glad that Serena is staying with Nate a lot these days. They'd survived her foray into Brooklyn, but just barely. And most of it had to do with the fact that S had been with Archibald for going on a year now. And after graduation in a few weeks she was pretty much guaranteed to be getting a Vanderbilt diamond.

She just couldn't stand the thought of getting any sort of judgmental look from her best friend when she stumbled in with her Bass yet again. Because it was hard not to laugh whenever Serena decided to mount a high horse. Blair had seen the girl go home with one too many a stockbroker to take anything she said about discretion seriously. Serena knew all about indulgence but nothing about those who cleaned up after it. She liked to have fun but never thought of consequences or ex-boyfriends too drunk to operate their iPhones properly.

And like it or not, and mostly she didn't, he was Blair's burden. And no matter how many other frogs she kissed (whether they turned into princes or published authors) he was one she would never get out of her system. A habit much too hard to quit. And when he called, she would come. Because she detested him most of the time. But he was the biggest part of her world, and a danger to him often felt as much of a threat to her.

"How opposed would you be to some hair of the dog," he drawls on their ride up the elevator.

"You're drunk," she sighs, arms crossed tightly across her chest, "not hung over." She's becoming bored of this act. She's mad and tired and doesn't have the energy to play along tonight.

"But not enough to deal with my hypocritical step sister, judgmental best friend, or your doting hermit," he counters, head tilting to look at her out of the corner of his eye.

"No one's home," she mutters, thanking every God she knows that the elevator releases them at that moment.

"How convenient," he replies lecherously, "Trying to take advantage of me in my vulnerable position Waldorf?" His eyebrow kinks, but he really loses any sort of credibility when he nearly topples over her coffee table.

She snorts, a breach of protocol. She's usually better at embodying detachment. But she can't help herself, its false innocence in her voice as she questions, "What kind of person would I be if I let you choke on your own vomit in the back of your limo?"

"Ruthless," he murmurs back, a hint of accusation in his tone, "you're losing your edge."

"I'm evolving," she snaps, grabbing his jacket lapel and dragging him into her bedroom, "Becoming better. Reaching a higher plane."

"Is that what we're going for this week," he inquires as she unknots his tie, "Personal growth? How bad did Brooklyn make you feel about yourself before he induced that epiphany?"

She ignores him, because a Dan rant is something she can handle, a familiar part of the repetition. But alcohol always makes him bold and before she can retreat into Serena's room he cups her face and forces her to look at him. "You really should wake up Waldorf. Because when picking up your inebriated ex from a dive bar is the highlight of your week, something about your life needs to change."

They're all alone in her bedroom. And he's more than a little drunk. But he'd never hurt her, and she's knows it. So she's sarcastic as she answers, "Sage wisdom from a Bass? Just because you're miserable doesn't mean everyone else is."

"No," one hand brushes a piece of hair from her face, "Just you."

"I'm happy with Dan," she asserts, but she's flustered and they both notice the weakness.

"Liar," he hisses as she slides his coat of his shoulders.

"I know it's easier to pretend I'm miserable then admit I could be happier with someone else," she's done with his clothes. He can take off his own shoes. Now she's just pushing it cause he's pissed her off, "Dan understands me."

"Yes, but only the pieces that aren't important. That don't even come close to equaling the sum of the whole," he argues. And she opens her mouth to say more but it's a lost effort. Because his lips are already on hers. Hands in her hair and body taking a step forward to pin her against the wall. She gives as good as she gets, a reflex from countless past encounters. And something else too, an ache that grows with each passing second as the blind heat of their skin remains in contact.

He hasn't kissed her like this in years. And he knows he's only got this one chance. Because he used up his second, third, and fourth years ago. His voice is hoarse when she finally pulls away, "Marry me."

It's not the reaction he expects. But then he supposes if anyone had dreamed about flowers and lights and bended knees it would be Blair. Fury flames in her eyes immediately. He's too hazy to understand the details. But she's firm as she states disgustedly, "You're drunk."

"As if it wasn't obvious," he counters.

"Sleep it off Chuck," she practically spits, "And stop asking me questions you don't mean."

She almost reaches the door, but he's surprisingly strong for someone so trashed. And he stops her right before she can close the barrier in his face, "Just because you can't handle the request, doesn't mean I don't mean it."

And then he slams the door for her.

It's the middle of the night. And the full moon falls through her curtains and lights his face in an eerie glow. It is mesmerizing, and she finds herself transfixed. Staring at him with tired eyes so exhausted from the same routine.

He wants to marry her. And it would stupid to try and fool herself into thinking she'd never known. That his intentions hadn't been clear since she was nineteen, standing destroyed in the middle of a hotel lobby. She'd known he'd fought for their ring. Almost died for it. The stupid jewel he'd thought would make it all better.

But it never had. And they'd given up years ago. When she'd fled and found safety in a lesser borough. When she'd discovered a kindred spirit, a man who liked all of her dead poets and artists and filmmakers. Who dreamed in old movie sequences and quoted obscure Shakespeare in his sleep.

Chuck had been disgusted. But she had hardly cared. Status stopped mattering to her when she saw how it tainted even the best of men. How power, and the desire for it, turned people cruel. Twisted and broke them down. And she was one of its victims. There was no denying that.

But with the freedom of Dan, also comes the responsibility. The inevitability of the con for the pro. Because he may understand her love of Audrey Hepburn but he has no idea how to tie a bow tie or speak with authority to a staff member. He doesn't understand the complex relationship she has with her parents or how to tell a good breeding smile from a genuine one. In his eyes she will always be a poor little rich girl. Complaining about problems that are never genuinely important. Because she has money. And people who don't assume it can solve all the world's problems.

She's frustrated. With each of her boys. Each so perfect in polar opposite ways. And loving them both simultaneously is exhausting. No one wins in the equation. Especially her. Because there is always a decision to make. A heart to break.

There can only be one winner. But she doesn't know. She spends her days with Dan and her nights cleaning up Chuck. Pleasure. Pain. She's so screwed up she can't figure out which is which.

So she goes on impulse. And the sheets are cool as she slides into bed next to him. Fully clothed. And planning on staying that way. But when his arms slip around her waist it's exactly like a sigh of relief. Her body relaxes like a rubber band released from tension. She'd forgotten, or maybe repressed, how completely safe she feels wrapped up next to him. Still and warm. Invincible as long as he keeps holding on.

So later, when his mouth is hot against her neck and his hand slides up her night gown, all she can do is let it happen. Grip his back and try not to melt into the mattress. Because he's always been so good at this. A perfect rhythm to match the beat of her heart. A fit so flawless they might as well be puzzle pieces.

She has a boyfriend, but maybe she shouldn't. And she used to know better, could list the reasons why this is the stupidest thing she's ever done. But right now she can't think of any of them. Not a single reason to say no. So she doesn't.

She sleeps through her alarm clock and wakes up with him spread across her like a blanket. Warm from the rising sun and completely bare. His breath smells like death but his skin is sweet. And she stays perfectly still, face buried in his shoulder, until he begins to stir above her.

He lets her go. Mostly because of the horrid pounding in his head, but also because he's well aware you can't force a Waldorf to do anything. Stubborn in denial, but also stubborn in love. So he can't completely resent her for it.

"You don't think I remember asking," he asserts to her bare back. Appreciating the view before she slips on her delicate silk robe.

She stares at him incredulously over her shoulder for the briefest of seconds. Then crosses the room to assess the damage in her vanity, answering coolly, "I was hoping you didn't remember."

He can't let her off the hook. Not when he's so close. So he decides to go with what's worked in the past. Total and complete honesty. Despite the maddening terror it causes his already very weathered heart.

"Do you how much it takes," he questions up at the ceiling; his fingers blinding tracing the stitching on her thousand thread count sheets, "for me to ask you that? How excruciating it's been to admit everything I have to you over the years?"

His head jerks to face hers in the reflection of mirror. His eyes so bright and clear it's hard to believe he was stumbling around her apartment the night before. "How many people have you loved in your life Blair," his voice isn't accusatory but curious, and he begins to list, "Dorota, Eleanor, Cyrus, Harold, Nate, Serena…"

He pauses but holds eye contact, he's done with subtle. Sometimes she just needs to be blindsided, "There's more. But for me, it's you. Just you. In my whole life I've only ever genuinely loved one single person. And I don't do it right," the admission is soft, because there is so much history and frustration packed into their relationship, "I know that. Maybe I'll never figure it out. But I'll also never try to change you. I'll always understand you. And I'll never make you ashamed. Because you may love me despite my flaws, but I love you for yours."

For a few moments she doesn't know what to do. Still as a statue, leaning precariously with one hand bracing herself on the vanity and the other fluttering undecided at her swollen collarbone. An unthinkable revelation, a declaration she'd thought beyond his capabilities, and all before nine in the morning. He's hungover and she's overtired. But it is also the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to her. And so beautiful she bursts into tears right there in her bedroom. And he looks completely horrified.

She's not a pretty crier and the tears aren't dainty. She sobs with happiness, with hatred, and with immense relief. Because she is constantly confused, but he always seems to understand what she needs to hear. The perfect action necessary to save her from herself. And she'd forgotten how it felt for someone to know her completely. To be aware of every single treacherous, insecure, and spiteful thought in her head and to want her still. All of her and nothing less.

It's too much. Always has been. Overwhelming and inappropriate and just excessive, but it's also not going away. And she's sick of being miserable and misunderstood.

His fingers wrap around her wrists and draw her hands away from her face. His face is tight with grief, with the answer he thinks he's going to hate. He detests making her cry, is ashamed of how often it happens. "I'm sorry," he whispers, wiping the tears off her red, wet face, "I get it now. I'll stop asking."

"You're going to have to," she snaps, wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her cheek against his chest, "Because I'm saying yes."

His body tenses immediately. He'd forgotten this feeling, consigned himself to a life without it. But now the rush of happiness clouds his vision, forces the breath out of his body, and without her to support him he'd fall. "Really," he asks in a voice reminiscent of the night he asked her if she was sure. A boy on the verge of getting everything he'd never deserved.

"God knows why," she sighs, tears ceasing. She knows, but she'll never explain. She needs him just as much as he needs her. And addiction, obsession, and codependence are things she'll never admit to. Her eyes fall shut as she feels the beat of his heart against her skin. Learn its rhythm, memorizes its beat. She'd be lost without its pattern. Without its existence. Without him. And it's a reality it will take her a life time to accept. But it's a truth all the same.

"But yes. Yes."

Thanks to TriGemini, lisottina81, pty, City Lights Agleam, Aliennut, 88Mary88, Just me, Comet Tail, tiff xoxo, AquarianAir, wrighthangal, MrChuck, abelard, Courvoisier, Temp02, fiction by cereza, and jamieerin.