Prompt 7

Dinner

She misses him. And it's like a physical ache. It doesn't matter the length of time, months or minutes. She feels each dragging second in the pit of her stomach, a restlessness that can only be quelled by proximity. It used to be insecurity, a distant fear that he would grow complacent in her absence and forget why he loved her in the first place. But gradually, as their time together extended, it became about a loss of familiarity. No longer having a partner in crime or someone to mock prim debutantes with at her mother's insufferable parties.

But he's building an empire, and most of the time she understands. It's just days like today when she tends to get unjustifiably petty. Resents the business trips and meetings that are constantly conspiring to drag them apart.

He is in Paris now and she is standing in Bergdorf's with Serena, trying to pick out a suitable dress for dinner tonight with her mother. Eleanor's in from Milan, and he was supposed to be there as her defense. But duty called. And she's flying solo tonight.

Her cellphone rings while she's in the dressing room, and she answers without looking. Shimmying into a black D&G bandage dress with one hand.

"Good morning," he murmurs into her ear, and she attempts to calculate exactly what time it is in France. Their conversations vary depending on where the sun is situated. But she can't be nice to him right now. Just can't deal with that along with the fake enjoyment she's going to have to feign during dinner.

"I'm busy," she snaps quickly as she assesses herself in the mirror. She's not in the mood for any of his whims. She's stressed and cranky and only half done with her latte. Pleasantries are currently beyond her abilities.

"Sorry to bother you," his voice has lost has warmth. And she's a little glad, she was looking for a fight and now she's about to get one.

Her voice is clear, calm. But she doesn't know what she's going to say until it's coming out of her mouth, "Business comes first for you. I get that right now it has to be most important. But excuse me if I don't have the ability to talk every time you're schedule has an opening. I have a life and a job too."

She's gone too far. Realizes it the second she's done speaking. It's not really how she feels. But she's frustrated and lonely and missing him this much after only a day is a little humiliating. His voice is much more careful when he speaks her name, he understands the line she's crossed too, "Blair-"

But she can't make him apologize for his ambition, because it's a mutual trait and nothing to be ashamed of. So she interrupts, "No," she blurts, staring at her pale and sad face in the dressing room mirror, "I'm sorry about that. I'm in a terrible mood. But I still have to go," she takes a breath, and is ashamed that it is shaky. She doesn't know what's gotten into her. After a moment she adds, "I'll call you sometime tonight."

And the click of the phone as she hangs up on him is the loudest thing she's heard all day.

She emerges in a pale pink sheath and nude pumps, hair flowing down her shoulders and cheeks flushed from her recent outburst. Serena appraises her over the edge of her Cosmo magazine. "Perfect," the blonde concludes.

"Far from it," Blair replies under her breath as she twirls, her reflection blurring on all sides.

"So where's Charles tonight?"

Her mother wastes no time. They've barely taken their seats and already her face is drawn and she stares at her daughter with the ferocity of a lion who's cornered its prey. There will be no mercy, Blair will answer her questions and then suffer the consequences for giving all the wrong answers.

She makes sure to keep her features smooth. She is calm, cool, and collected. And everything else, every bit of disappointment and rage, can be saved for a more appropriate time. The only way to beat a Waldorf woman is to outplay her. And Blair learned from the best. Her smile is bright, her tone carefree, "At a meeting with his French investors in Paris,"

Her mother looks impressed, although she'd probably known Chuck's location all day, "Sounds glamorous." There's a moment of hesitation and then Eleanor leans forward, as if they're gossiping friends, her eyes grasp at intimacy, "Why aren't you with him?"

Blair's grin widens, her first victory. She looks nonchalant as she shrugs, "Because I have to work too."

Her mother's eyes betray a hint of pride, and the woman nods, "Yes you do." She leans back, satisfied. But Blair should know better, there is a beat of silence and then a quick addition, "Is he gone often?"

She's an idiot for letting it take her off guard. Offhandedly she answers honestly, "Yes." Immediately she catches herself, and shakes her head. But it's too late; she's on the defensive immediately, "No." And then, worst of all, a question that will cause nothing but pain, "Why does it matter?"

Her mother reaches forward, hand covering Blair's own gently. Her eyes betray some glimmer of sincerity, however misguided, "I don't want you to live your life lonely. To say that Charles has grown up would be a massive understatement. But he also seems to have traded one extreme for the other, and you seem to constantly be missing him."

She thanks God she wasn't' drinking water, because she has a hard enough time not choking on air. Her eyes are wide as she pleads for silence. She's too old for boy advice. Especially about this boy. Who is so beyond Eleanor's range of comprehension they may as well be in different solar systems. Her voice is high, all breath, "Mother-"

But Eleanor's not done. Not even close, "I know you love him darling, you've proven your loyalty at your own expense. But sometimes it's better to surrender then to fight a battle that's not worth winning. Have you ever thought that what you sacrifice for Charles outweighs what you receive in return?"

Her eyes blaze, catching the candlelight in the dimly lit restaurant, and she wants to cause something physical harm. It's costing her so much control just to sit rigid in her chair, knuckles turning white on her armrests, "Did you invite me to dinner just to attack me?"

"I want to voice my opinion before it's too late. You're twenty five Blair; soon you're going to go from playing house to building a house. And I don't want you to make my mistakes. I don't want you to marry a man who won't be able to love you the way you deserve. Who isn't capable."

Harold and Roman holding hands when she visited them last Christmas. Her mother's sobs behind a locked bedroom door. Her own tears on the night her father decided to stop living his lie. She wants to be deaf. To scream. To be anywhere else. But the memories flash past, they always do. All her worst fears bubbling to the surface in one nauseating surge.

And still Eleanor continues, "You've been entangled with Charles in some way or another since you were a child. And I can't help but wonder how you would have flourished if you'd managed to escape him. Or if you'd grown up in a different environment."

Because that was the problem wasn't it? Her environment. The sickly sweet fakeness of everyone she's ever known. The flawless masks they all have hidden in their back pockets, ready to employ at a moment's notice. She'd been raised to fake it, to hide in plain sight and she'd become exceedingly good at it. The master of her class.

And maybe that is the explanation for her Chuck habit. He had known her without having to ask. Had discovered all the darkest facets of her personality without forcing her to admit to them. In front of him she wasn't ashamed to be plotting or manipulative or afraid, never felt the urge to hide any of it. Because he knew. Had always known. And that, the unquestioning acceptance, the eventual admission that they were in it together, for better or worse, was the most comfort she had ever felt in her false world.

But her mother doesn't know that. Has never really seen her, Blair in true form. Blair for everything she is, the bad and the ugly. But Chuck has, has been there for her best and for her mortifying. And he always will be. She is as sure of that as she is of her mother's permanent displeasure. Because someone who had never been inside her relationship will never be able to view correctly. To understand that the sacrifice is always worth it, when unconditional and indestructible love was the reward.

She has been entangled since childhood. That much is true. And it had taken years for her to understand that embracing didn't mean loss, didn't have to mean pain. It had been difficult. It had been intricate. But she had learned. And so had he. And she wouldn't trade the lessons for the world. Wouldn't give up a single second of her past to secure a new future. Because her life is combustible, it is complicated, but it is genuine. Real enough to hurt and real enough to enjoy without fear. He loves her, another thing her mother doesn't understand. That such a man was capable of so intense an attachment confused so many people. He is always so different when he isn't around her. But she knows, on some level had always known, and that is the only thing that matters.

Her hand is loud against the glass table. The emerald encrusted ring she wears on her right ring finger clangs sharply, and silences her mother just as Eleanor is opening her mouth to continue. "Enough mother," Blair snaps, a demure smile gracing her cherry lips, mask slipping firmly in place, "That's enough."

Her hand is on her bag and her legs flex, pushing her chair back a few inches before her mother reaches forward to grab her hand. Eyes a moment from embarrassment, Eleanor's voice is low, "Blair, we haven't even ordered drinks. Don't make a scene."

Blair rolls her eyes. She'll do cartwheels in this dump if she wants to, "You don't want to spend time with me, mother. You want to indulge in your favorite sport, critiquing my life with the eyes of an indifferent spectator. You have no idea what you're talking about."

There's shock in Eleanor's eyes, but no genuine hurt, "I'm merely stating my opinion-"

Blair cuts her off immediately. She's done with other people's opinions. There are two people in her relationship, and neither of them is Eleanor Waldorf, "No, you're attempting to relive your life through me. You've been trying since I was a child."

She continues immediately, eyes starting to gleam, "I'm happy mother. Genuinely, indescribably happy. And I know you don't understand, that you don't respect my relationship or the man I've chosen to spend my life with. But it doesn't change the fact that I've made my decision. That I've chosen Chuck, that I will always choose him, and that I don't regret the past because it brought me to this present. And this, this is where I want to be."

This time she reaches out, gripping her mother's hand tightly, "I love you mother, I always will. No matter if you agree with my life or not. But I need to make it clear, that it is my life. That these are my decisions and my mistakes. And you can accept them, or you can stop calling."

Her heels click on the marble as she escapes. Face blank and eyes raging, she manages to hold the tears in until she falls into the limo. She wants to go home. Their home. It may be empty now, but he'll get there eventually.

It's a much shorter wait than originally expected. He's sitting on the couch when the elevator doors separate and reveal their penthouse. Three days early.

He has a glass of scotch in one hand, probably not his first, though he's far from drunk. His dark eyes watch her as she steps across the threshold. But she's not letting him brood. She crosses the room silently, taking a seat across from him on the coffee table, so close their knees touch. She takes the glass from his hands and downs the amber liquid in one gulp. His eyebrow quirks but he doesn't comment.

"What are you doing home," she asks quietly, voice raw from the strong alcohol and fifteen minutes of crying in the car.

He watches her for another long length of time, mouth hard and eyes blank, and then suddenly, "I didn't like what you said over the phone today," he states, reaching forward to touch her face, tilt her chin so she has nowhere to hide, "about the business. It's not first and it's not most."

It's the wrong thing. She doesn't know why. Normally it would make her melt to a puddle at his feet. But she's mentally exhausted from sparring with her mother. And she's had enough of people telling her what she feels, how she's supposed to see things. She twists out of his grasp and stands, heading to the bedroom. She answers over her shoulder dejectedly, "I only meant that it's important to you. And it should be. My emotional needs pale in comparison to your corporate achievement."

She's attempting to unclasp her bracelet when his arms wrap around her waist, trapping her in place again. His mouth is hot against her neck, and she is torn between crying again or moaning. He's relentless, and they both know he won't stop until he gets what he wants. But he tries the subtle, sweet way one more time; his voice is soft and flutters her hair, "What happened tonight?"

She is tense for the longest time. And the old fear creeps back into his heart. She is the only one capable of hurting him so enormously with the simplest of slights. And every time he waits with baited breath, expecting the inevitable rejection. The loss of her just as he has lost everyone he had formerly held dear.

But she proves him wrong. Has been doing so for years. And with a deep, shuddering breath she leans into him, her whole body relaxing against his hold in a single moment, "Just, my mother." And she does cry then. Again. Because unlike him, she is constantly willing to step back into the line of fire, to expect different results from a woman incapable of change. And she is always ashamed with herself for being surprised at the rejection, a betrayal of the worst kind.

One hand stays against her waist, the other turns her head so he can wipe away her tears. His eyes gleam while hers shimmer, a building fury hiding just underneath the surface. He'll snuff it out though, be content enough to pick up her pieces, "I'm sorry. Fucking Eleanor, I should have known."

"I'm fine," she murmurs, eyes fluttering closed so he can't analyze and order her to tell the truth. And that is that she will be fine. She really will. It just takes time. A few days of recovery.

But he knows her better then she thinks, "Liar."

She leans her head forward, so they are inches apart, a breath from touching, "She doesn't understand," he can feel every word against his cheek as she whispers, "She never has."

He takes a deep breath, resolved. Scared shitless but willing to take the leap. The ring slips from his pocket and into her palm in barely a second. And then suddenly his whole world slows, lost in suspension as she gasps, his voice is confident, "Well this should make things clearer."

She holds the ring between them. Eye scrutinizing both of them, their cuts and worth, with an open mouth. "What are you doing?" She murmurs, mind a million miles away. All her worst fears, suddenly nowhere to be found.

"I was planning to ask at dinner when I got back," he shrugs, eyes watching every shifting emotion on her face carefully, "But I miss your smile. So marry me and let's be happy and never talk to your bitter mother ever again."

She sighs. Because there will always be her mother. And his mother. And her father. And his uncle. A million people who think they would be so much better apart. Who will try and try again to make them miserable. To force them to their knees. She twists, arms engulfing him as she buries her face in his chest, "You really think it's that easy?"

His hands twist in her hair nervously. A million different futures dancing in his eyes. He will do anything, be anyone, "We can make it that easy. We can do whatever we want Blair. Name it and you'll have it. Eloping in Paris. Eight hundred at the Plaza. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I want you to be my wife. And I'll do it however you want, as long as you say yes."

She closes her eyes. Pictures her life. Miles and miles of distance, hours and days spent apart. He will never be a fixed point. But he can't build his empire without her. Wouldn't want to even if he could. He is her truth. But she is his home. Sooner or later he will always come back.

She traces the hard line of his jaw, and then the soft contours of his eyes, "For better or worse it is."

Thanks to tiff xoxo, cb4evr345, TriGemini, tinamarie333, City Lights Agleam, nonnie3201, fiction by cereza, Abelard, Temp02, anabella-chair, pty, Krazy007, louboutinlove, lisottina81, thegoodgossipgirl, and loopingread