AN: Thank you all for your lovely reviews! I'll admit, I didn't realize how time consuming a o/s a day would be (and being the procrastinator I am, I left them all till the last minute), but your reviews are motivating, inspiring, and hilarious:) Here's some adorable young CB during the holidays for you all to enjoy!

Over the River and Through the Woods was written for two of my favorite twitter-friends, NarcissistMas and itsolgatime. Between the three of us, we've forged a friendship that's spanned three countries, planned a CB party, started up a nailpolish blog (randomnails[dot]wordpress[dot]com), and talked for hours on end about Tiffany's, CB, GG, nail polish, and just everything and anything. I love both of you so very, very much, and Merry Christmas to the both of you!

Thanks to bethaboo, my super-hardworking beta, who, despite my last-minute request, got this back to me lightning fast.

"Over the river and through the woods

And straight through the barnyard gate.

It seems that we go so dreadfully slow;

It is so hard to wait."

-Over the River and Through the Woods

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea."

Seven-year-old Blair Waldorf turned to Chuck Bass, gloved hands on her hips as he admitted his reluctance. Dressed in her favorite red coat, the one with the black buttons her father had bought in Paris, she looked especially fearsome.

"It was your idea, not mine," Blair reminded him.

"But—" Chuck bit his lip, hand curled around the thermos Blair bade him carry. She herself carried a picnic basket, which looked far too large for her, though she managed it with grace as only Blair Waldorf could. They had previously filled the basket with sandwiches and desserts, which Oliver had prepared for them with an indulgent smile.

Slipping one gloved hand into his, Blair shot him a confident smile. "I'm sure he'll love it, Chuck."

Finding himself unable to speak past the odd feeling in his chest, Chuck only nodded.

"Now," Blair frowned at her neat, even letters that spelled out an address, "where are we going anyways?"

Chuck shrugged, "I'm not sure. Father never took me to his office."

A cloud passed over Chuck's features, and Blair found an odd feeling of compassion towards this boy, who had called Blair timidly that morning with an unusual request.

"Chuck?"Blair rubbed her eyes sleepily as she sat up in bed, taking the phone from Dorota. "It's early."

"Sorry," she heard, and a trace of nervousness was apparent in his voice. Curious, Blair sat up straighter, attempting to wake up quickly.

"I need your help," Chuck admitted, and Blair swelled with pride. Having people come to her for help had always been one of her favorite things.

"Father's been at the office all week, and it's almost Christmas," Chuck was explaining, the nervousness becoming more apparent as he spoke, "and you were talking about how you brought a picnic to your Dad last week. I was wondering if…."

"Oh." Blair smiled slightly at the memory, of her hand in Dorota's as they visited her Daddy at his office. There had been lots of people there, many of whom commented on her pretty headband. And just like Eleanor had taught her, she had thanked them graciously.

"I would love to!" Blair squealed with unnecessary enthusiasm. It was enthusiasm for a few things—holiday baking, a picnic, and a visit to Bass Industries. Blair had always had a certain sort of charm around adults. And perhaps it was due to her sweetly innocent smile, or her perfect manners and hair—but Blair had always found herself most in her element when winning over adults.

"I don't know what to—" Chuck began sheepishly, but Blair cut him off quickly.

"Dorota makes the best hot chocolate. And I bet we can get Oliver to make sandwiches for us. I'll bring my picnic basket."

At the seriousness of Blair's voice, Chuck cracked a small smile. He knew that picnics were Blair's forte, and though he had been wary of the idea at first, he found himself warming to the idea of bringing his father a picnic lunch.

"I told Dorota we were having a picnic at your suite," Blair whispered conspiratorially, glancing around the lobby as if the Polish maid was about to jump out from behind a column and ambush the pair. "She almost didn't allow me to pack the raspberry passionfruit jam bars."

"Arthur promised he'd take us there," Chuck said confidently, though the worried set of his features betrayed his fear. "But maybe—"

Blair smiled brightly, "I'm sure your Daddy will like it, too."

Chuck didn't voice his concerns—that his father wasn't like Blair's. He had seen Blair's father before, and though Harold Waldorf wore the same Burberry suits and Charvet ties as the other UES fathers, he was different. There had been many times when Harold could be seen waiting outside of Constance for Blair, who would run to her father excitedly and jump into his arms, babbling about her day.

Bart had visited Chuck's school twice in the past week—but not for the same reasons as Harold had. The first time, it had been because Chuck had ruined Blair's dress and stolen her carefully chosen headband—again. The second time, Chuck had punched Elliot Sheere—something the headmaster had claimed as schoolyard violence. But the students knew better. Elliot had been teasing Blair for the thousandth time about her father's nickname for her, Blair Bear. Chuck had snapped, punching the shorter, if stockier, boy in the nose.

He had been rather proud when Elliot had run from the courtyard, hands attempting to still the flow of blood.

Blair's smile of thanks was something he couldn't quite comprehend yet, but he grinned back, a toothy, a rare front-tooth-missing grin.

"Arthur will know where to go," Chuck decided, and they set off towards the grand double doors of the lobby, hand-in-hand.

…

Glancing warily back at the two children in the back seat, Arthur considered his options. How the two had managed to escape from their nannies, he didn't know. He only knew that his job required him to drive the young Bass to-and-from school, playdates, and soccer practices.

There was nothing in his job description that entailed driving two incredibly bossy seven year-olds around Manhattan. Seven year-olds who were now having a heated discussion over the picnic basket between them.

"—won't miss it if we have just one," Chuck was saying, his voice plaintive.

"No!" Blair cried, slapping Chuck's hand away as he tried to open the picnic basket once more. "Not until we get to your Daddy's office."

"But it's so far away," Chuck pouted, then turned towards Arthur.

"How long till we're at Bass Industries?" Chuck inquired, with the same commanding tone that he had seen his father use countless times.

"Another twenty minutes," Arthur called back nervously. Bart's instructions to follow Chuck's—or his nanny's—orders had been explicit, and he needed the job. With a weary sigh, he continued on to Bass Industries, hoping for the best.

…

"Are we almost there?" An impatient Chuck inquired—or rather, whined—from his place by Blair.

"Chuck!" Blair reprimanded, then turned to Arthur with a sweet smile.

"Mr. Dunsmuir," she said politely, with manners befitting one ten years her senior, "how long till we arrive at Bass Industries?"

The childish voice threw him off when coupled with the perfect articulation, but Arthur had long since grown to realize that the UES was truly a world of its own.

"Traffic is rather bad, miss," Arthur said with an apologetic smile. Indeed, New York's Financial District was crowded as always, though the holiday season meant for a surplus of cars—and traffic. "It's only a few blocks down, but with this gridlock—"

"We can walk!" Blair announced, shrugging back into her red coat. Arthur looked back, alarmed. To allow two seven-year-olds, no matter how mature, loose into New York was begging for a lawsuit.

"You can't possibly—"

"I can walk faster," Chuck declared, and he too buttoned up his coat. Between them, they managed to carry the thermos and picnic basket, all while Arthur sputtered from his place at the wheel.

"Mr. Bass! Miss Waldorf! You can't—"

"Don't worry," came Blair's voice, "I know where I am. Daddy took me to his office once, I know my way around."

"Come on, Blair!" Chuck said, opening the door. Arthur watched in abject fear as the two exited the car, and onto the busy sidewalk. Within moments, the door had been closed with a quiet thump, and the two disappeared into the hustle & bustle of the New York crowd.

Swearing under his breath, Arthur searched for an empty space—impossible at this hour—or perhaps an alley where he could park the limo.

He had just sent two seven-year-olds into the midst of a busy New York street with only a thermos and picnic basket.

Sweating profusely, Arthur managed to find an underground parking lot, all while silently praying that he would merely lose his job, and not his entire livelihood.

…

For a moment, Chuck lost Blair amongst the throngs of people, and he had spun around, looking for the flash of red.

"Chuck!" He heard, and he saw that Blair had been shuffled along, farther down the block. Rushing towards her while managing the basket as best he could, the two eventually managed to extract themselves from the crowd, ducking into the entryway of an upscale coffeeshop.

"Do you have the picnic basket?" Blair asked, breathless. The cold had turned her cheeks rather pink, and her eyes were wide as she took in the buildings around them.

Chuck nodded, pointing towards the basket he had set at his feet.

"Where do we go now?" he asked timidly, and for the first time, Blair bit her lip, looking apprehensive.

"I'm not sure," she admitted, glancing around at their unfamiliar surroundings. "This doesn't look like Daddy's office."

"Arthur said Bass Industries was close," Chuck reminded her, and Blair nodded in confirmation.

"We could try going down the street," Blair suggested, holding out her hand towards Chuck again.

"I know what Bass Industries looks like," Chuck told her proudly. "I saw a picture of father in front of the office. It's big."

"There's a lot of big buildings," Blair remarked with a frown, taking in the numerous buildings around them, none of which had less than ten floors.

"It's really big," Chuck explained, opening his arms wide, as if to demonstrate exactly how large the building was. "And there are glass doors, and it says Bass Industries."

"Then we can find it," Blair said, smiling happily. She picked up the thermos and handed the picnic basket to Chuck. "But we better get going. Dorota will worry."

The two set off down the street, a striking pair, what with Blair's red coat and black Mary Janes, and Chuck's mini wool peacoat and red scarf. Passerby turned to look at the pair, not so much for their sartorial choices, but their lack of guardians.

Chuck and Blair, however, had grown up independently, and as they ventured down the street, they saw no wrong in their situation.

But being seven, and smartly dressed to boot, meant that it was only a matter of time till they caught the attention of certain people, who pointed at the two children, recognizing them from prominent New York families.

And just as they rushed forward, slipping between other passerby as best they could, Arthur appeared from nowhere, barreling towards the children.

"Miss Waldorf! Mr. Bass!" they heard, and bitterly, they shrunk back into the shadows, eyes following the portly driver as he caught up with the pair.

The two looked at him, eyes innocently wide as he held onto their shoulders, red-faced and panting.

"Are you alright, Mr. Dunsmuir?" Blair asked, polite as ever. Arthur wheezed his assent, and Chuck frowned at him.

"Why were you running?" Chuck inquired, his little brow furrowed, and Arthur knew that the two had absolutely no concept of danger. Sure, they had been told by their nannies not to go with strangers and the like, but their sheltered upbringing had also meant they were oblivious to danger.

"Let's get you to Bass Industries," Arthur rasped instead, still trying to catch his breath.

Arthur took the two by the hand, but Chuck, who didn't seem to be content with holding Arthur's hand, moved to Blair's side, taking her other hand.

And Arthur watched the two, who had no clue of the danger they had just evaded, chatting merrily and exchanging smiles and smirks, he smiled himself.

There was just something about the way they acted around each other, the childlike innocence that permeated their every conversation, that, combined with their oddly devious natures, made him smile.

…

"We're here!" Chuck announced, as if he had been leading them along the entire time. He recognized the building from the pictures he had seen of his father, severe and imposing in front of a tall, impressive building.

"Not quite," Arthur replied, ushering the children into the lobby. "We need to get to your father's office. Are you sure he's expecting you?"

Both children turned to him guiltily, and Arthur sighed, his suspicions confirmed.

"No matter," he said briskly, turning to the receptionist, who wore a look of utter bafflement, "I'm sure he'll be overjoyed to see you."

"Excuse me," the receptionist said anxiously, as if the sight of children unnerved her, "but children are not—"

"This is Charles Bass," Arthur interrupted promptly, and the receptionist's eyes widened, though her smile remained frozen in place.

"The elevators are over there," she nodded towards a bank of elevators with a polite smile, "Mr. Bass' office is on the twenty-seventh floor."

They nodded, continuing on their way, Blair tossing out a polite, "Merry Christmas!" as she swung the thermos in her hands.

On the elevator ride, Chuck remained oddly silent, twisting and fiddling with his scarf and gloves in his small hands. Blair, noting his silence, covered his hand with her own, giving him a reassuring smile.

When the elevator doors opened, and the two filed out, they were greeted by another receptionist, who, having received the call from the lobby receptionist, greeted them with more grace.

"I'm afraid Mr. Bass is in a meeting," she said timidly, after taking Chuck and Blair's coats, "but I'm sure he'd be more than happy to cancel his lunch plans. Your daddy is a very important man," she added to Chuck, who looked at her blankly as she led them into Bart's office.

"I know," he replied haughtily, and the receptionist shrunk back, slightly offended.

"Chuck," Blair chided quietly, remembering Eleanor's lessons on propriety.

"He won't want to see me," Chuck responded dejectedly, climbing into a leather armchair, his feet nearly a foot from the ground.

"But he's your Daddy," Blair reminded him gently, and Chuck shook his head.

"He's not like your father, Blair," Chuck said, frowning as he tried to find the right words. "He never makes cookies with me like your father does. He doesn't take me to Central Park. He's never at our school plays and—"

"That doesn't mean he doesn't love you," Blair said quickly. "Just because he isn't around all the time doesn't mean he doesn't love you. That's what my daddy told me. Even if him and mother leave me for a long time, he said he still loves me."

"He's never around on my birthday," Chuck said, remembering the elaborate presents and gorgeous cakes. "Or on Christmas."

Blair frowned, wondering where a parent could be on their son's birthday—or any holiday, for that matter. "Maybe," Blair paused, looking thoughtfully out the floor-to-ceiling windows, "maybe he's got another job. Maybe," and here, Blair's eyes lit up, as her imagination ran wild, as it was prone to doing, "your daddy helps Santa during Christmas. He helps him deliver all the toys, and that's why he can't be around. He makes sure you get extra-special toys, though."

Chuck watched Blair as she continued her theory, her eyes sparkling, her face animated. And he couldn't help but be drawn into her story, which she weaved so easily from thin air.

"Charles?" A booming voice interrupted them, and they both turned to see Bart, walking towards them, his expression displeased.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Bass," Blair said politely, smoothing out the creases in her cream dress. Bart looked at her in surprise, as if he hadn't realized that she was there as well. A flicker of recognition crossed his features, and he looked between the two, trying to understand if—

"Father," Chuck said stiffly, cutting off his train of thought.

"Chuck wanted to bring you a picnic," Blair explained quickly, looking from father to son, an expression of confusion clear on her small features. "And he asked me to help."

A look of surprise crossed Bart's features, and Chuck looked up at him with a hopeful smile.

"I'm sorry, Chuck, Blair."

And at those words, Chuck's smile instantly reverted to a frown, and he shot Blair a look, as if to say, 'Told you so'.

"I have a business lunch with important associates, and I don't have time for—"

Before Bart could finish his sentence, Chuck had hopped off the couch, striding towards the door without another look back. Blair rushed after him immediately, but upon reaching the door, turned back, her expression one of childish anger.

"Mr. Bass," she began in a tone that he had never heard from a seven-year-old before, "Chuck really wanted to spend time with you. He asked me to bring Dorota's hot chocolate and raspberry passionfruit jam bars because he knows they're your favorite. And we got Oliver to make sandwiches, too."

The look of shock on Bart's face was a rarity, one that Blair herself had never seen before.

"You're lucky to have someone like Chuck," Blair said with finality, and she walked down the hallway with more confidence than a twenty-seven year old intern after telling off Bart Bass.

…

"We can go to Central Park," Blair suggested quietly, as Arthur looked at the pair. Chuck was sitting, looking stonily out the window, and Blair, bless her, was attempting to cheer him up.

"It's too cold," Chuck said, his tone brooking no argument.

"Then my place?" Blair suggested. "We can have Dorota warm everything up."

Blair looked at him hopefully, and Chuck sighed. "I don't think I want to do this picnic anymore."

"But—"

Chuck turned to the window, and Blair to hers, and Arthur looked at the two, a small, sad smile on his face.

…

"Arthur," Chuck said, his voice startlingly authoritative for a seven year-old, "why are we here?"

"Miss Waldorf wanted to go to Central Park," Arthur said, not a trace of nervousness in his voice as Blair shot him a grateful smile.

"But I—"

"Come on, Chuck!" Blair said excitedly. "The sandwiches are a bit cold, but we can still have the hot chocolate!"

"I don't want to," Chuck retorted, sitting back and crossing his arms.

"We're not leaving until we have our picnic," Blair instructed, narrowing her eyes. "Right, Arthur?"

"Yes," Arthur agreed, and the two looked at Chuck, who frowned at them both.

"It's cold outside," he argued, and Blair shrugged.

"We have a blanket we can sit on. And we're both wearing coats," she declared.

Chuck looked from Blair, who, determined as she was, would eventually get her way. It seemed she had pulled Arthur over to her side as well, and as Chuck opened the door with a sigh, the two of them exchanged grins.

…

It had been an unseasonably warm Christmas, but there was still traces of snow and frost as they walked through the Park, ultimately deciding on a bench instead of the sodden ground.

Blair regaled Chuck with tales of Christmas Eve dinners and Christmas mornings, her voice animated as she nodded emphatically, recounting tales of laughter, family, and things that made her frown in slight confusion while Arthur chuckled in the background.

The hot chocolate was grown cold since, and with a five dollar bill found in her purse, Blair had persuaded Arthur to buy them hot chocolates from a nearby stand. While he jogged off quickly, keeping one eye on the pair, Chuck turned to Blair, wearing the smallest of smiles.

"Thanks, Blair," he said shyly, and Blair smiled at him, a large, genuine smile that displayed two missing teeth—teeth she had hoped would grow in before Christmas.

"I told you we'd have fun," she said knowingly, then, spotting a figure in the distance, her smile grew wider.

"Chuck!" She exclaimed, pointing towards a figure in a long black wool coat and grey checkered scarf. A very familiar figure. "Look!"

Chuck turned, and Bart Bass stood feet from them, an apprehensive smile on his face.

"What are you two doing out here alone in the cold?" he asked incredulously, just as Arthur returned with the hot chocolate.

"I'm here with them, sir," Arthur said, barely repressing the blame in his voice.

Bart turned to Blair, and he nodded a silent thank-you, one which Blair understood as she smiled, holding out a raspberry passionfruit jam bar to him.

"Father," Chuck said, as if he was still in shock as Bart sat down next to him, accepting the jam bar.

"I'm sorry for being late to the picnic," Bart apologized, then, taking a bite of his jam bar, nodded his approval. "Tell Dorota these are marvelous."

Blair smiled and nodded, and Bart looked at the two children, pink-cheeked and shivering slightly in the cold.

"What do you say we head to L'Express?" Bart suggested lightly. "I'm sure their Croque Monsieurs and the hot chocolate will be more enjoyable if we're warm."

Chuck nodded, and as he hopped off the bench, Bart held out his hand to him, and to Blair.

The three walked towards the limo, Arthur following with the picnic basket, a small, knowing smile on his face as he watched Blair lightly chastise Bart's pronunciation of Croque Monsieur and heard Chuck's laughter, a rare sound, indeed.

…

"Blair?" Chuck whispered, as she stepped out of the limo, and she turned back, looking at him expectantly. Chuck grinned widely.

"That was the best Christmas picnic, ever."

fin