Author's Note: First of all, I decided to rename this story. I grew to hate the original title and feel that "Repetition" more accurately reflects what this story is about. My apologies for any confusion and/or inconvenience.
Also, "C'est toi que je veux, ma chérie, tu ne veux pas venir avec moi?" translates to "I want you, baby. Won't you come to me?", which is reportedly what Chuck whispers in Blair's ear in 2x03. Thank you to eddieredbabe and chairfan for the translation help. My French can't even been called rudimentary so any mistakes made are my own.
Five years later
Upstairs, seated at her dressing table, she watches idly as Dorota twists and coffers her hair into a complicated knot atop her head. The dress for this evening is draped across her bed, and the decision of what to wear is weighing heavily on her mind. The gown of pale gold silk is an old favorite, selected by Dorota in an attempt to sooth her into this transition. Yet the safety of the black gowns in her wardrobe beckons to her, and she struggles to set the idea of wearing black aside, particularly given the nature of tonight's event.
"There, Miss Blair," Dorota hums excitedly with the trace of an accent as she threads the band of pearls across her employer's head through the complicated hairstyle. She tries to offer Dorota an appreciative smile – the woman has simply outdone herself yet again – yet falters when her beloved lady's maid offers her own smile in return.
"Maybe the black—"
Dorota shakes her head, informs Miss Blair that Miss Eleanor said no more black. Blair shifts uncomfortably in her seat, stares at her reflection in the mirror. Despite occurring within her childhood home, tonight's dinner will include those outside of the family – her first since donning her widow's weeds.
"Lady Serena coming," Dorota offers helpfully, mentioning the woman Blair has not seen since her own wedding as she helps lace Blair into the gown.
They had exchanged letters, of course, but Serena's flightiness coupled with the unreliable nature of mail delivery made conversing in their usual manner difficult. Still, it would be nice to see her childhood best friend again, and Blair moves towards the door with a twinge of excitement.
Dorota gives her an encouraging smile, watches as Blair sweeps out of her room towards the small party downstairs. She bites her lip when the well-bred lady leaves her behind, hopes her decision to not mention the Archibalds' attendance or Mister Bass' unanswered invitation will not be reprimanded too harshly when Blair returns.
Blair's dress sweeps behind her as she enters into the drawing room, and she cannot help but notice the look of relief cross her mother's face when she spies Blair sans black. Blair sweeps her eyes across the room, falters when she sees her childhood best friend talking to a pair of blondes on the opposite side of the room. She does not need the pair to turn to know who they are, and she inwardly scowls at the recognition.
Decorum dictates that she should greet the Lord and his whore, but thankfully Serena moves across the room without care for etiquette and immediately sweeps Blair into a tender hug.
"Oh, Blair," Serena breathes against her cheek. "I'm so glad to see you."
Serena pulls away, crinkles her beautiful features in worry before stammering out an apology. Her comment could possibly be construed as tasteless, but Blair waves her worry away when she replies that she, too, is happy to see her. Her gaze flicks to the couple Serena had been talking to in an unspoken question, in a reminder of Serena's traitorous actions.
Nearly six years ago, the pair had made a pact not to speak to the new Duke and Duchess. Not after the couple were found in flagrante at the van der Bilt's ball. Not after Nathaniel Archibald had married the former Miss Jenny Humphrey rather than the young lady he had been betrothed to since they were both in cradles, crushing Blair's – and her mother's – dreams of her becoming Blair Archibald, Duchess of Constance.
"It has been a long time," Serena offers quietly. Blair's features harden against the poor explanation, harden against the idea that Serena has decided to accept a tradesman's daughter into their ranks.
"I guess so," Blair replies testily.
She searches the room for someone else she can greet, catches the twinkling eye of her stepfather. Lord Rose silently beckons her over, and she tersely excuses herself in order to join him near the pianoforte. He is talking rather enthusiastically – although Cyrus never does anything without a large dose of animation – with a brown-haired man much taller than himself.
She appears at Lord Rose's side, basks in the warmth of his greeting before sweeping her eyes up to the man currently engaged in conversation with her stepfather. Her eyes widen and her chest tightens inexplicitly when she sees the other man's face.
"Mister Bass," she exhales in greeting, ignoring the way her stepfather views her quizzically when she interrupts his introductions.
"Miss Waldorf," Chuck replies with a stiff bow. Her eyes narrow in abhorrence, particularly when she spies the way his eyes twinkle and his lips have pulled into a self-satisfied smirk when his head rises and his eyes meet hers.
"Mrs. Grimaldi," she snaps in correction.
Her stepfather offers her a small, supportive smile and waits patiently for the man to apologize for his mistake. Yet Chuck does nothing of the sort, allows the butler's announcement that dinner is served to smooth over his gaffe.
Entrance into the dining room is a complicated dance of matching hostesses with titles and titles with wealth, and Blair sighs in relief when she finds herself being escorted into the room by Lord Beaton rather than Mister Bass. Her relief is short-lived, however, when she finds herself seated across from the former Miss Humphrey and the devil himself.
"Blair," Jenny greets without a trace of hesitation. Blair raises an eyebrow in surprise, in warning until Jenny shrinks back into her chair. Her eyes narrow further when she spies Chuck's barely covered smirk at her withering glare.
She turns her attention to the man seated at her right, tries to engage Lord Beaton in conversation. Despite her upbringing as the perfect hostess, Blair quickly becomes bored with the Lord and fervently wishes she had remained in mourning for just one more evening. The lack of stimulating conversation allows her eyes to wander, encourages her in her meticulous cataloguing each attendee's appearance.
Five years ago, she would have taken immense pleasure in the round of fat poorly obscured around Jenny's middle, but the reality of the source causes a lump to rise in her throat. She drops her gaze to the flat, angular plane of her own stomach, pulls it back up when her stepfather clears his throat beside her. She focuses on the question he is asking of the Duchess, tries to engage in the conversation occurring around her and ignore the way Mister Bass is blatantly staring at her.
Dinner is a long, tiresome affair, and Blair enters the ladies' drawing room at the end of meal with a pounding headache. She bristles under the elder Lady van der Woodsen's offer of condolences, bristles again when the women begin discussing the latest gossip. Normally, she would thrive in such conversations, but tonight she wants nothing more than to flee to her bedroom. She considers engaging Serena in conversation, shies away from the idea when she sees Serena talking animatingly with Jenny yet again.
Ignoring her mother's sharp glower, she eventually she offers her apologies, begs leave under the guise of a terrible headache. The women cluck in understanding, murmur wishes for good health as they file the incident away for the next party, for the next opportunity to sit and gossip about poor Mrs. Grimaldi.
She sweeps out of the room with the rustle of her skirts, quickly walks past the open dining room where the men are gathered smoking and conversing about topics too delicate for even a married woman. She is just around the corner, just out of the sight of those attending Lord and Lady Rose's dinner party when she runs into a firm, imposing body with a thud.
Hands reach out to steady her, wrap around her arms, and cause an electric jolt to course through her body. She jumps backwards at the feeling, at the recognition of exactly who is touching her, and her eyes widen as they connect with his.
"Miss Waldorf," he intones in greeting with a mocking bow of his head.
"You know you should not call me by my maiden name," she bites out in reply. His eyes darken at her answer, flash dangerously in response, and she cannot help the shiver that runs up her spine. His fingers curl about her arm with every word that he speaks in response.
"And you know I will never call you by his name."
"You," she accuses, "are living proof that money cannot by class."
"Ah, yes," he agrees knowingly. "Because only fluency in French is a sign of class to you."
She huffs, opens her mouth to retort his implication yet is silenced when he pulls her against him, when he leans in and exhales hot breaths against her ear. The sensation tickles, flares the smoldering embers inside her.
"Is that what you require? Sweet nothings whispered in your ear in French?"
He dips his voice even lower, slides his hands until one is settled on her waist and the fingers of the other become entangled in hers. He feels the shudder of her body against his at the next sentence out of his mouth and grins wickedly as her eyes roll in the back of her head.
"C'est toi que je veux, ma chérie. Tu ne veux pas venir avec moi?"
The implication of his words, the final sentence causes her eyes to flare open. She pushes against his chest, pushes her body away from him as she spits out her words in revulsion.
"You are disgusting, and I hate you."
"Then why are you still holding my hand?"
Her eyes flash to the sight of their coupled fingers, yank away from his just as soon as his words ring true in her ears. She stomps away from him, heads towards the gardens rather than up the stairs and misses the hungry look on his face.
She walks out the double doors onto the terrace, walks until she reaches the spot where open arches with low railings supporting the balcony above look out over the pond, the water feature in the middle of the gardens. She halts, tries to steady her breathing, feels it quicken when the sound of his footsteps reverberate in the open air.
She glances over her shoulder to confirm that it is in fact him, watches him hesitate for a brief moment under her gaze. She turns away when he walks – stalks– slowly towards her, turns away when she feels his deep gaze upon her. With every prowling step he takes, her chest tightens further until she feels lightheaded, until she feels like the weak woman she never wanted to be. She tries to muster a severely lecturing tone, abruptly swings around and gestures to the small lake.
"It's a—" she stutters, stammers, "very pleasant view."
She chides herself for such a foolish response, for choosing to deflect rather than reject. Yet she could barely manage to squeeze those words out, and she waits almost quivering as a hot flash runs through her for his response.
"Indeed," the deep murmur, the chiding tone causes the fine hairs at the nape of her neck to stir. He moves behind her, moves to take in the view from her location and causes her senses to flare. The flames licks at her heels, threatens to reach out and engulf her, to trap her yet again.
"Ah," she says as she steps quickly to her right, walks to the far side of the next arch. "If you stand over here, you can see to where—"
She falters; unsure of the name of the vegetation growing down by the pond yet doesn't dare look his way. Thankfully, even in the dead of the night, her eyesight is sharp enough to spy her saving grace.
"There's a family of ducks," she points out, pauses to count. "T—three ducklings."
She waits with eyes trained on the ducklings, watches for movement on her left out of her periphery vision. She nearly shrieks when she realizes he has circled to her right.
"Blair."
The whispering of her name nearly sends her over the edge, causes her to become so tense that she feels dizzy. His is beside her, just behind her. She whirls away, steps to her left until her back is pressed to the other side of the arch, and stares at him.
"Just what do you think you're doing?"
The question is a hissed whisper, spoken harshly yet meekly in recognition that just on the other side of the windows at either end of the terrace is her mother and her friends, her stepfather and his. Her eyes widen in panic at the realization that history is repeating itself, that he is trying this yet again.
Her manufactured scowl falters as puzzlement and a certain hurt fills her eyes beyond her control. He halts, stands perfectly still with his gaze fixated on her face searching and studying. He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as she drags in another breath and manages to repeat her question.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Her tone carries her real question: Why? Why here? Why now? His lashes flicker as he sighs, and, abruptly, she realizes he is as tense as she is.
"I was, as it happens, trying to get you to stand still long enough to kiss you."
The response is unsurprising; even after all these years he is still the same man he was when she first knew him, when she first allowed him to place his hands upon her. She blinks at him, manages to summon the icy tone she desperately needs.
"I do not play those games," she replies, allowing the rest of her sentence to remain unspoken between them. Her firm tone, her bolstered courage at the words causes her to lift her chin and stare at him directly. "Not with you. Not with any man."
"Liar."
The scoffing reply, the frown in his eyes causes her to stumble. Chuck takes advantage of her confusion, takes a single short step to stand directly before her. She opens her mouth to reply, closes it when she feels his hands close about her waist. Anchoring her before him with the frame of the arch against her back, he locks his eyes with her
"What made you think I was interested in games?"
She scoffs at his answer, turns her head so she no longer has to look into his eyes. They may be nearly six years older now, but she knows him, knows how much he enjoys the thrill of the chase and the sweet victory of a conquest. His fingers trace her chin, caress until she quivers against him as his next words are breathed against her cheek.
"I have no interest whatsoever in playing any games with you."
She lifts her hands, presumably to hold him off, and allows them to flutter passively to rest on his chest as she fights the astonishment coursing through her. He ignores the touch of her hands against him, zeros in on the way her tongue darts out to lick her lips evocatively. He stifles a groan and tries to give her time to study his face, time to accept that she cannot presume to know his motive.
"What, then?"
He grins, slowly bends closer and lowers his head. She notices immediately, sucks in a hesitant breath, and looks up from a distance of mere inches to meet his gaze. The gap between them closes as his lips are pressed to hers. Fully expecting to overcome some degree of chilly resistance, he raises his eyebrows in surprise when he finds that although she freezes, that although she does not immediately respond, there is no resistance on her part either.
He moves his lips gently, teasingly over hers, and tries through that simple touch to make her burn for more, for him the way he burns for her. He teases and cajoles, presses his lips against hers until her hands shift against his chest and grip his lapels, until she abruptly kiss him back.
Chuck immediately returns the caress, quickly engages her in a real exchange. Kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke until she is distracted, until he can ease his fingers and carefully take her further into his arms. She sinks into him, moans as his tongue traces the softness of her lips. He probes further, finds her tongue and caresses the warmth seeping through her.
And then he pulls away from her, smiles at the indignant harrumph that escapes her lips over the loss of contact. Her eyes open, harshly questions him as he steps away from her. She can barely catch her breath, loses it completely when he raises her fingers to his lips and feathers a soft kiss against her knuckles.
"Sleep well, Miss Waldorf."
He turns away from her, heads back into the house, and does not stop to bid his hostess goodnight. The breach in etiquette is certainly a much more minor offense than returning to the dining room for cigars and port with a distinct bulge courtesy of Lord Rose's stepdaughter.
She watches him exit curiously, watches him leave the house before darting up the staircase towards her bedroom. It is only when she reaches the landing of the second floor, when the tingling of her lips begins to subside that she realizes he once again addressed her by her maiden name.
"Dorota!"
The barking command causes the lady's maid to jump, to exit the dressing room with particular haste. She finds her charge yanking at the laces of her dress, tugging at the golden fabric she is currently cloaked in.
"I don't care what my mother says," Blair informs her maid harshly. "Only black."